The Goodtime Girl

by Tess Fragoulis

  After he’d enlightened her with his reasons, she had to admit they made sense; unfortunately, she was no longer particularly interested in sense. The invitation to come to Egypt was an honour, but the opportunity to bring some of his musician friends from Piraeus to the Bella Vista, to combine their rhythms and sounds with that of the Smyrniot’s orchestra, was too big to pass up for a ten day tour, no matter how tempting. He squeezed her hand, then kissed it. It wasn’t that he was unhappy playing at Argiropoulos’s. (The old Greek had very reluctantly given him leave to go to Egypt in the first place — what he would do when he heard that his bandleader was playing down the street instead was another story.) But this was his chance to leave a mark, right here, to change the flavour and direction of things, to bring the two Greeces together at last and make them one. The brightness came back to his eyes, and his face glowed with excitement. Kivelli could almost smell it: Smyrna roses and Piraeus hashish. It was a fine perfume, one she was sure would be a hit. Hadn’t she and Marianthi already created it at the picnic?

  “And what about us?” She pronounced the words as clearly as possible so she wouldn’t be forced to repeat them.

  “What about us? You’ll drive all of Egypt crazy, and if I’m very lucky you’ll come back to me ten days later.” His confidence faltered slightly on the word lucky.

  “It will have nothing to do with luck, Diamantis.” And with that she left him with the scraps of her dinner and the dregs of her wine and took her seat on stage. She was in no mood to sing but forced herself to be animated and passionate, despite the loneliness in her belly. Isavella joined him at the table and tried to engage him in conversation, but he shushed her, so she resorted to eating Kivelli’s leftovers — the eggplant she wouldn’t touch, and the bread that had gone stale while she’d waited for Diamantis to say something that might have convinced her to change her plans.

  As always, singing managed to soothe her nerves, assuage her resentments and spark up her desires. What Diamantis’s luck would be once she stepped onto that ship and sailed away from Greece was not yet clear to him, though Kyra Xanthi might be able to toss a clue or two his way. He would, however, be lucky enough to spend three final nights and days in her bed as if nothing would ever change, though it already had. There were no questions, no confusion, no past or future when they let their bodies speak for them. Kivelli’s parting gift would be to give him something both bitter and sweet to remember her by, something to pine for while lying in the arms of the woman who would come to replace her. One of the Isavellas. One of the Marianthis. Or one of Kyria Eugenia’s pretty virgins.

  39

  The morning of her departure, Kivelli’s suitcase was packed and bound with string, and her room at the Hotel Xenos would soon be as empty of her as if she’d never been there. Her ticket and passport were in her handbag, but she’d pinned her satin money pouch to the inside of her skirt. With the looser styles, there was plenty of room for it, and unless someone was fresh with her on the ship, it was not likely to be detected. She’d filled a twine basket with all her baubles and toiletries, which she intended to drop off at Kyra Xanthi’s on her way to the port. The old woman could distribute the trinkets to whomever she deemed worthy or most in need amongst the ladies who came to her looking for solace. Kivelli’s only request would be that the lavender soap find its way to Aspasia.

  Diamantis had left a few hours earlier, promising to come down to the docks to see everyone off. He was glad, he said, that she finally saw things his way and had forgiven him for not coming on the tour. There was no reason for him to believe otherwise; Kivelli’s behaviour over the last few days had been as sweet, bright and seductive as their first days together. Once again he assured her that nothing would change between them while she was away. She smiled and kissed him, and he leaned in close to her ear and whispered: first a few lubricious nothings, then the three words that both of them had avoided, words she had swallowed on more than one occasion because she wasn’t sure they were true or even hers, and she was afraid of their consequences. In Marianthi’s case, they’d forced her to choose. Now they’d come too late, after a choice had already been made. If she responded in kind, to his face, in his ear, she would not be able to leave him. But to stay was now impossible. Instead, Kivelli filled the gap in their dialogue with last minute nonsense.

  “It’s a good thing you’re not coming, Diamantis,” she began.

  He gave her a quizzical look, a little bit pained. “Because we’d drive each other mad?” he asked, trying to make light.

  “Not at all, my love.” This endearment made him blush, a reaction that neither her most provocative requests nor her mischievous hands under tables in public places had ever managed to elicit. “It was my plan to get you drunk on board, then have the captain marry us at sea. Captains have that authority, I’m told.”

  His sang-froid regained, he raised an eyebrow. “I’d have to be so drunk that I could barely stand, and I don’t think a respectable captain would marry an unconscious man. Unless he had something against me.” He laughed to dispel his uneasiness. “Then I’d be forced to shoot him for doing me such a bad turn.” He took Kivelli in his arms, and she breathed in his morning smell, both sharp and sweet. She lay her head against his shoulder, let all her weight fall upon him for a moment, then pulled away.

  “You see, Diamantis, you’ve saved the life of the captain, and yourself from prison, by staying right here.” Afraid to look him in the eye, she busied herself with her suitcase, rearranging its contents and transferring a few small items to the twine basket.

  He glanced around the room, then opened a few drawers in the dresser and the doors of the armoire. “You’re not giving up this room just because you’re going for ten days, are you? Where are you going to stay when you come back?” She’d gathered her belongings when he’d been asleep, on his back, his arm resting over his head, the sheet only covering him up to his waist. More relaxed than a man in his predicament had the right to be.

  “I couldn’t live in a hotel forever, an interloper among other people’s things. Marianthi lived like that; everything she had belonged to someone else’s life. In the end, that’s why she couldn’t stay.” It was the first time she’d spoken Marianthi’s name since she’d told Diamantis her friend loved him. This time she wasn’t looking for any particular reaction or comfort. She was just stating a fact to see what he’d make of it.

  But Diamantis wasn’t picking up on any of her hints today, or at least refused to react. “Poor Panayotis, left by his woman without a word of warning. Why would she do something like that? You were friends, you must have an idea.”

  “There was nothing left to say, so why bother saying anything? It was finished,” she replied in a cavalier fashion.

  He nodded and lit a cigarette. “If that was the case, it’s better that she did it like that. Clean. Spared him the hysterics and the tears.”

  “Yes, he was definitely spared.” For the thousandth time she wanted to tell someone, even Diamantis now, about Marianthi’s gift, her ruse, and the Smyrniot’s shame. But it didn’t matter anymore since she was in America, and exposing her husband would not be a vindication for her but vindictiveness on Kivelli’s part. Besides, it was not her story to tell. Not on their last day together anyway. When she was gone, the only person Kivelli wanted Diamantis wondering about was her.

  He offered to carry her bag down the stairs, but she wanted their goodbyes exchanged in private, without prying eyes, and she wanted to walk out alone. They held each other for a long time, long enough for her to replay their entire relationship in her head, from the first kiss to this last one: tender and unknowing, without the urgency of imminent loss. She shed a few tears, which disappeared into his shoulder before he saw them. “I’ll see you later at the port,” he said as he extracted himself from her embrace and smoothed down the lapels of his suit. She nodded and he pinched her cheek lightly. “I don’t know how I’m going to live without you while you’re away, my heart.” He kis
sed her again and left before she had a chance to respond. She didn’t have an answer for him anyway, but she was sure he would manage.

  Wearing her pale blue jacket and her violet hat with the red silk flower, she took the elevator downstairs for the last time, her small, string-bound suitcase in one hand, the basket of trinkets for Kyra Xanthi in the other. Giorgos wished her a safe journey and a swift return. “We’ll keep your room for you, Miss Kivelli,” he assured. “I’ll even put your name on the door if you like.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Giorgos, but it’s not my room, just somewhere I stayed a while.” She patted his hand as she returned the key. “Don’t lose any money on my account. I haven’t left anything in there except the smell of my perfume.”

  “That alone would be worth preserving,” he replied, kissing her >hand and indulging in a final sniff of her wrist.

  40

  The cab ride to Piraeus was long and bumpy. Kivelli tried to strike up a conversation with the driver to distract herself and pass the time, but he was less than willing. “Listen Miss, no offence, but I have to watch the road. It’s full of holes because of the rain. They’re predicting more for tonight, as if the cats aren’t wet enough,” he grumbled. She looked out the window. The sky was clear, but far out over the water she could see an army of dark clouds approaching. The sea was already choppy. Waves crested and crashed with barely a break in between, one rushing up the back of another as if trying to overtake it. Would ships sail today? There were no fishing boats on the water, and the gulls were circling, panicked and screaming. Perhaps all plans would be altered: Diamantis’s, the Smyrniot’s, hers. Specific dates had been arranged with the club owners in Egypt, and if the band didn’t sail today, everything would be thrown off schedule, at least for the first leg of the tour. This was sure to displease the Smyrniot. But no matter what the weather, how angry and unwelcoming the seas, Kivelli would not be going back to Athens.

  She asked to be let off at the square in Drapetsona, and from there made her way to Kyra Xanthi’s. The front door was slightly ajar, and she could hear the fortune-teller’s cheerful voice from within, laughing and telling someone that everything would work out. She waited for a second voice to reply but heard no one. When she peeked inside, she saw the old woman was alone, tidying up her little house, still laughing, and responding to the silence as if it had expressed an opinion. Kivelli knocked on the doorframe to make her presence known, and Kyra Xanthi spun around, startled and clutching her heart.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, a little out of breath. “I should have known you’d turn up today.” She began rearranging objects in her great, paneless china cabinet, moving things from the top shelf to the bottom and vice versa for no apparent reason.

  “Am I interrupting anything? I heard some voices.” Kivelli looked around again, thinking there might be someone else with her, tucked in a dark corner or in the tiny kitchen.

  “That was just me and Elenitsa. She’s a pretty young thing from your village — died in the fires. She rode the boat over with the refugees and won’t go to heaven because she’s still waiting to be asked to the ball.” Kyra Xanthi shut the doors of the china cabinet, sat down at the table and began to wipe it down with her sleeve. “But she’s the sweetest thing you could ever meet, full of spirit and conceit.” The old woman winked and gestured to her guest to sit, but Kivelli didn’t move or even put her suitcase down.

  Looking around the empty room again, she was not sure what to think. If she hadn’t caught Kyra Xanthi by surprise, she’d suspect she was being teased. She decided to play along. “Does she visit you often?”

  “She turned up right after you tried on those lilac shoes I gave you, and she usually comes back on days when you also appear. Who knows, maybe they were hers and she wants them back. Did you own a pair of lilac shoes, Elenitsa?” she asked the air and nodded at a voiceless reply. Kyra Xanthi was a bit of a joker, but the expression on her face was as calm and guileless as when Kivelli had broken down and confessed everything. “Doesn’t remember. She’s forgotten most things from the past and is now only interested in her future.”

  Kivelli eyed the empty chair, then gave the old woman a look of reproach for bringing up that afternoon when all her nightmares had spilled out. But she wasn’t there to argue; she had come to say goodbye. At least this game was distracting her from her own anxieties and second thoughts. “What sort of future could a ghost possibly have?”

  “Her future is the same as ours, just on a different plane — about half a metre above the ground. Very close by.” Kyra Xanthi paused for a moment, but not for Kivelli’s reply. “Elenitsa says that if there’s anyone you’d like to contact, you can send the message through her.” Before she could stop herself, Kivelli thought of Papa. But what could he possibly suggest about Marianthi, Diamantis, or her upcoming voyage? It didn’t seem like a conversation she could have with him whether alive or dead. He wouldn’t have any answers for her now; he would probably just cry. In the improbable event that the messenger Elenitsa was hovering a metre over her shoulder, Kivelli decided it best to let the dead, wherever they were, go about their business, undisturbed by her problems down on the ground. Just as she had left them to their fates on the other side.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts, Kyra Xanthi. I have enough trouble believing in the living.” She placed the basket of giveaways on the table, and the old woman immediately began to take things out: the cakes of soap, the hair clips, the old magazines. Laid out in a row, the objects had already ceased to belong to Kivelli, and for a moment she wondered if they ever had.

  “So you’ve decided to make a coquetta out of me.” Kyra Xanthi smiled widely enough for her gold tooth to become visible, and clipped one of the barrettes with pink stones to her kerchief. Kivelli chuckled and might have felt bad had her hostess not laughed along with her.

  “I’m going away today, Kyra Xanthi, and I thought we might visit a bit before I went. But if you’re busy with your … guest …” Her arm was beginning to weaken from the weight of the suitcase. “Put down that bag, silly girl, and sit down. Elenitsa is very pleased to meet you. And she’s dying to know where you’re off to in that pretty hat.”

  “You didn’t tell her I was going to Egypt? I told you all about it at the Bella Vista.”

  “Yes, of course. But she has this crazy idea that you’re going to America instead.” She stared at Kivelli with satisfaction, as if her suspicions were already confirmed.

  She hesitated, but could not bring herself to lie. Had she not come here to tell her of her plans and try to get some information? “I see she’s no crazier than you.” She reached into her handbag and touched her boat ticket. “So does Elenitsa, by any chance, know where Marianthi is?”

  “She has a general idea, but she’s sworn to secrecy.” Now Kyra Xanthi’s look was coy, and Kivelli wasn’t sure what to believe. Perhaps Terzakis had snitched on her.

  “She is or you are?”

  “Doesn’t matter, my girl. I looked into my crystal ball and saw that your paths will cross again. That’s all you need to know right now. But what about the Smyrniot?”

  Kivelli pictured the scowling maestro pacing the dock, cursing her and his wife and all of womankind in a language so vulgar that it would shock even Crazy Manos. Diamantis would try to placate him by asking around discreetly if anyone had seen her in the square, in the shops along the waterfront. He knew her to never be late, even for the most insignificant rendezvous. That morning he’d told her he loved her, and now she had vanished — the reverse of what he’d intended. Would he think to blame himself? Perhaps not during the brouhaha at the port but later, as the hours and days passed, after the Smyrniot returned triumphant or dejected from Egypt, over a drink and a fragrant narghile lit by a girl with bedroom eyes who tried to capture his. Then it might occur to him that he was half the reason Kivelli had left Piraeus and its most famous instrument behind. The other half was waiting for her somewhere in America. Her ship, the SS Excelsior, wo
uld sail two hours later, from a different quay where hopefully no one would recognize her or block her way.

  “The Smyrniot can drown himself in his own bile and deceit.” Marianthi’s story was once again on the tip of her tongue. This might not be a bad place to unload it, where it would have some meaning. Kyra Xanthi could put it in the china cabinet with the mismatched plates and old shoes, turn it into a lesson or a gift for someone else. “I thought I might hide out here with you until they sail. The church is the only other place he wouldn’t think to look for me.”

  “The priest would give you up. Better that you came here. Stay as long as you like.”

  41

  SMYRNA, 1922

  A great British vessel was anchored in the gulf of Smyrna, and small wooden boats festooned with candlelit lanterns, flowers and ribbons ferried passengers from the Quai to the ship. Kivelli waited her turn. The echo of music playing onboard was carried on the wind, and her feet moved involuntarily under her skirts to the steps of the waltz. She was impatient by nature, an unfortunate quality to possess in Smyrna, where time lost itself regularly along winding streets, under canopies of grape leaves and in glasses of clear, cold raki, which it turned cloudy and warm. She would almost rather do nothing at all than wait, and she subtracted each unrecoverable minute wasted on the Quai from the time she would have on the ship, which frustrated her to the point of tears. Papa, by comparison, was patient as stone, and was content to watch the pretty boats full of delightful people in tuxedos and gowns sail to the ship.

  By the time Kivelli’s turn came to make the crossing, her enthusiasm for the ball had waned considerably. Only the surge of people behind her, eager to get off dry land, prevented her from going home. The little boat teetered as she stepped into it, the last one onboard before it pushed off. Those left behind were in good spirits and threw confetti and flower petals in her wake.