Ariana

by Edward Stewart

  “When’s then?” Boyd asked.

  “Any time. And meanwhile, please make yourselves at home.”

  “Mi ship, tu ship?”

  “Precisely.” With a smile, Nikos was gone.

  “Our zillionaire host has got a good body,” Boyd said. “And he seems quite touchingly impressed that some classical musicians have fallen into his web of rock stars and rickety nobility.”

  Ariana put her head out the window and sniffed the view of Nice harbor.

  “He must work out,” Boyd said. “He probably has a gym on the ship.”

  It was a soft, sweet May evening, with pleasure craft moored neatly like flowers in a formal garden. “The sky seems higher here,” Ariana said.

  Boyd had found the liquor on the sideboard. With a comfortable sigh and a full highball glass he sank back onto an enormous velvet sofa. “Sweetums, everything is higher here.”

  Ariana went into the bathroom. The bath was an immense black marble tub with seashell fluting. The spigot was a craning swan.

  A moment later Boyd heard her scream. “What is it, didja fall in?”

  She came back to the door. “The toilet seat—it’s gold. And the faucets too.”

  Boyd shook his head. “Gilded bronze, love. Gold would be vulgar. And these people are jamais vulgar.”

  “I can’t believe any of this.”

  “You’re not supposed to believe it. Just love it. Like opera.”

  She bathed and their luggage arrived and she asked Boyd to help her select a dress.

  “The beige organdy. It’ll be perfect. Now straighten your hair.”

  She sat at the dressing table. She brushed a moment, then let her finger run across the carved walnut surface inlaid with marble and tulip-wood.

  “It’s French,” Boyd said. “Sixteenth century.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, one develops an eye for these things.”

  “I never have.” She was silent a moment, pensive. “I don’t think I could ever get used to it.”

  “You’ll be used to it in three hours and in four you’ll have forgotten there’s any other way to live.”

  She checked her cocktail dress one last time in the mirror. What an ordinary dress, and what a spotless reflection.

  A uniformed steward opened the huge cypress doors of the salon to them. The room was mobbed, but there was not even a moment to feel orphaned or lost. Nikos was there, making introductions.

  British titles, a television talk-show host, an ambassador, and politicians sped past Ariana like the view from a train. No musicians, thank God.

  And then a change came into Nikos’s voice. “And may I present a dear friend and collaborator—Egidio DiBuono.”

  The man who stood before them was tall and well-built, with chiseled features and dark hair. He was wearing designer camouflage overalls. Boyd had been in the act of lighting a cigarette. His lighter stopped in mid-air. Ariana sensed shock and then a sudden, hushed politeness whooshing like air into a vacuum.

  “How do you do,” she said.

  “I am honored to meet such an artist.” Egidio DiBuono’s eyes glued themselves to hers.

  During the instant of silent appraisal, she sensed not the elegance of a yacht’s drawing room but the savvy of the Naples waterfront. DiBuono took the hand she offered and bent slightly. The tip of a tattooed palm tree peeked out from under one of his overall straps.

  “Egidio advises me on books,” Nikos said. “In fact he helped me put together the little library on B deck.”

  “Books?” Ariana had never seen a librarian with such a tan. It suggested months spent sleeping on beaches and decks.

  DiBuono smiled and his teeth looked almost unnaturally clean. “Yes, I am what you call a real worm of the books.”

  Boyd threw back his head and laughed.

  “Forgive my English,” DiBuono said. “It is grotesque, yes?”

  Boyd clapped DiBuono on the back. Ariana had never seen her husband clap another man on the back, friend or stranger.

  “Not at all. It’s like the Rossini translations they sell at English opera houses. Isn’t it, sweetums?” Boyd turned to Ariana. If ever a smile was too loud, it was the smile he gave her at that moment.

  Why is he forcing? she wondered. She sensed something not quite genuine going on but before she could home in on it there were more introductions: a Lord Tony, a Dame Giselle Something-or-other, a Royal Ballet prima ballerina with her arm in a sling, a British film director who’d won his second Oscar that year.

  And then chitchat: We-love-your-Turandot.

  And then, at long long last, dinner.

  The tables were set for eight, with pale green cloths and hibiscus centerpieces. The place cards put Ariana next to a viscount, and she noticed that Boyd was two tables away next to the Swedish woman, who appeared to be laughing at something that the DiBuono man was whispering to her.

  There were bisque and trout and quail and a dozen other courses, and the viscount told Ariana the majolica dinner service had been made by Patanazzi for the marriage of the Duke of Ferrara in 1597.

  “This salt cellar,” he said, “is also sixteenth century. The plaques are Limoges. You can tell by the blue. It never fades.”

  “How nice that there’s something that never fades. Tell me, Lord Sandly, who is Mr. DiBuono?”

  The viscount’s mustache suddenly seemed perplexed. “Who is who?”

  “Do you see the Swedish woman over there?”

  “Ah yes. She has controlling interest in SAAB.”

  “The man on her left who keeps whispering.”

  “Very rude, all that whispering.”

  “Who is he?” And why is my husband staring at him?

  “Someone told me he’s a book salesman. Doesn’t look the type though, does he?”

  After dinner the party moved to the great lounge.

  “Ariana—cara!”

  She turned. It was Giorgio Montecavallo—Monte. She hadn’t seen him since her three last Adriana Lecouvreurs in Vienna. He snatched her into a quick hug. He’d gained fifty pounds.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” he whispered.

  Surprisingly, he offered her a cigarette. She shook her head.

  “The same as you,” she said, suddenly feeling she’d had too much flying and food and partying. “Enjoying myself.”

  “It’s uphill work having a good time, isn’t it?”

  She smiled, glad he had said it, glad he understood. “Especially after three months jetting around the world performing.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get better at it. Like me.”

  It took her a moment to realize she had said the wrong thing. In the last three years she hadn’t heard of Monte jetting anywhere performing anything. She vaguely remembered hearing of a Pagliacci in Dubrovnik, scathing reviews for his scene-chewing Canio, and since then…silence.

  “Sing with me,” he said suddenly. “Please, Ariana. Just this once.”

  “Monte, you’re not making sense. Sing what?”

  He looked at her. “Don’t you understand? My God, you don’t. You think I’m a guest on this cruise.”

  “Of course you’re a guest, the same as all of us, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?” Monte pointed an unsteady finger. “That man owns all the jute mills in India. That woman owns the largest sapphire in I forget where. That one designs jeans. But I’m Monte. I used to sing opera, and now I sing…after dinner. I’m the entertainment.”

  Ariana was too surprised to answer.

  “Well, cara, ‘Vesti la Giubba.’” Monte bent to kiss her. He smelled of Scotch. His legs took him the wrong way and he banged into the Uruguayan ambassador’s chair.

  There was laughter and an apology and he finally managed to get to the piano. The accompanist awaited eye contact before rolling a three-chord introduction.

  Monte fortified himself with a visible deep breath. Too visible. He began to sing “Granada.” Badly.

  Ariana s
ank deep into her chair, wishing she were in Brussels in the pouring rain.

  The Baroness de Chesney leaned sideways and asked a rock star to light her cigarette. After-dinner mints and coffee and cordials were passed. An Austrian film star loudly said “Scheiss” when there was no apricot liqueur. Joints were passed. There were whispers and jokes and gossip and little explosions of laughter in four languages and a German automobile magnate noisily invited eight companions to his stateroom to snort some truly excellent coke.

  Monte brushed the dampness off his forehead and kept singing.

  Ariana tried to hide behind her brandy snifter of sparkling water. As he approached the F-sharp, the high note in the second chorus, he lunged instead for an A: she had been afraid he might.

  It would have been a good way of recapturing his audience, but his voice cracked and what came out was not a note, not a sob, not even one of those pitchless emotional gasps tenors trade in. It was a clear, unmistakable burp.

  There was a millisecond of shocked silence. An Egyptian minister cried, “Gesundheit, Monte!” and the room broke up in guffaws.

  Suddenly an eardrum-perforating sound drowned the laughter.

  A clear A above the staff rang out, climbing to a ringing high D. Projecting the final line of the song as though she were singing to the galleries in La Scala, Ariana moved through the chairs toward the piano: “De lindas mujeres, de sangre y sol!”

  She took Monte’s hand and together they bowed to screaming applause. “What pigs,” she whispered. “Let’s give these bastards what they deserve. ‘Be My Love’ and ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.’”

  They did.

  And “People Will Say We’re in Love.” And “Wunderbar.” And “Why Do I Love You?” And a dozen others. Monte took melody and Ariana spun fioratura in the stratosphere above him. When his voice cracked or his air ran short she dipped to melody, covering till he caught up.

  “Funny,” she said when the howling jet-setters finally permitted them a break. “I never thought I’d be singing ‘Melancholy Baby.’”

  He kissed her and his eyes were glistening. “You could have a second career, cara.”

  “Thanks. But one career is murder enough.”

  It was three in the morning by the time Ariana found Boyd and got him back to their stateroom. The air was sweet from a bouquet of blue and white arum lilies that a chambermaid had placed on the table.

  There was a little note attached in Greek script. Efcharisto. Ariana recognized the handwriting.

  “You’re sad,” Boyd said.

  “Yes. I suppose I am.” She stood listening to the gentle roar of the Mediterranean. “I wonder if the world is always gaudy. I wonder if it’s always dying.”

  “Come off it, sweetums. What’s the matter?”

  “Monte and me, tonight. Those people. Laughing, and Monte thinking they were applauding.”

  Boyd plopped down on the edge of the bed. His face reddened with the effort of prying his foot out of a patent leather pump. “Oh, stop being operatic. It wasn’t so bad as all that.”

  “But it was. Monte used to be an artist. And now…”

  “Say, lookie here.” A bottle of Mumm’s rested in a silver cooler beside the bed. Boyd popped the bottle open and overpoured two glasses. He offered one. Ariana declined with a headshake and watched her husband drink them both.

  “Boyd, Who’s DiBuono?”

  “Who’s who?”

  “That librarian at your dinner table.”

  Boyd scratched his ear. “Oh, him. He strikes me as a nobody.”

  “What’s a nobody doing on this ship?”

  “Maybe he’s a somebody to somebody.”

  “Did you know him before?”

  “Sweetums, I’m not the bookish type.”

  “Neither is he.”

  “Then you know more about him than I do.”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “I don’t think I can stay awake for this conversation. G’night, sweetums.”

  16

  OVER THE NEXT THREE days Ariana noticed that Boyd spent a great deal of time in the bar drinking with the DiBuono man. She spent most of her time with her little electric piano, reviewing scores; not because she needed to, but because all the chatter and people were beginning to get on her nerves.

  The fourth day, after sunset, she came out of the stateroom in an evening dress. Through the window of the main salon she could see diamonds and tanned shoulders. The roar of a party drifted faintly onto the deck.

  Three smokestacks loomed into the evening. Rolled canvas was lashed to the railings. Nikos Stratiotis stood in evening clothes in the dying light, his image faintly reflected in the droplets of spray that covered the deck. He approached. “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Marvelously, thank you.”

  He looked at her. “Your husband seems to …It’s none of my business, but you’re alone a great deal.”

  She laughed. “We see plenty of each other during working hours. This is our vacation. He goes his way, I go mine.” She gazed down at the Mediterranean, at the wind blowing the water white and moss green.

  “In my opinion your husband goes his own way a little too much.”

  “Boyd has a great deal on his mind.”

  “And you? Is your life all opera and travel and practicing? Isn’t there ever ice cream or dolls or roller coasters?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t have time.”

  “Silly things matter.”

  She looked at him. “Do you have silly things?”

  “I have a collection of over eight thousand World War II comic books. Mint condition. You’ve never wanted anything silly?”

  Waves made a lapping sound at the hull. “Well, sometimes I’ve thought I’d like to wear the best underwear in the world.”

  “Why don’t you? You can afford it.”

  “Silk and lace aren’t important.”

  “They’re important to you. And aren’t you important?”

  “Oh, I don’t know how important I am. Music is important, and opera is important, but I…”

  “Aren’t you important to yourself? If you’re not, you’ll never matter to anyone else.” Suddenly he gripped her arm. “Let’s go to Monte Carlo right now. Let’s buy you some underwear.”

  She loved the idea and hated herself for loving it. He takes me for a child.

  “But, Nikos, you have guests waiting for dinner.”

  “Let’s insult them.”

  She hesitated only a moment. “All right. Let’s.”

  They took the launch to shore, and Nikos drove them in the Karmann Ghia with the top down. They curved through the bright mile of shops and nightclubs, hotels and casinos, past the villas and mansions of the legendary rich. They slammed to a stop in the parking lot of the Grand Hotel Monte Carlo. He strode into the lobby, pulling her with him.

  “Nikos,” she pleaded, “the shops are all closed.”

  “Don’t worry, I own sixty-six percent of the place.”

  He made the manager open the Hermes lingerie shop. They bought armloads of pink silken underwear, soft and delicious and glistening.

  “We’ll take the nightgown with us,” Nikos told the manager. “Send the rest to my ship.”

  A well-dressed crowd had gathered as they came out of the shop. Jeweled fingers pointed. There were excited whispers: Stratiotis!…La Kavalaris!…A young reporter standing barely three feet away exploded a flashbulb in their faces.

  Nikos’s hands swung up. The camera crashed to the marble floor in a glittering nest of torn wire and chrome. Nikos handed the reporter a 50,000-franc note. “No pictures, please. Madame Kavalaris is on vacation.”

  He took her arm and led her to a table on the terrace. The sound of laughing voices and violins drifted into the cool night. Ariana felt surprisingly safe with him, safe in a way she’d never felt with her father or brother, or even with Boyd.

  He ordered the same delicious fruity drink they’d had in Venice. When she set the glass down
she realized she was giddy.

  “I feel as though I were a little girl again.”

  “Don’t,” he said with surprising firmness. “You had a bad childhood. Like me. We’re very much alike. Life has marked us.”

  “How do you know?” she said. “Have you researched me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you have an advantage. I know nothing about you except what I read in the cover stories in Time and Der Spiegel.”

  “They tell what happened. They don’t tell what it was like.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Prison.”

  She listened, and for the first time she heard the bitterness and the loneliness in his story. He had been born in Armenia, and at age six had moved to an Athens slum, the youngest of five sons and three sisters. “My father wore grease-stained overalls all his life and ended up right where he started, on the bottom. I emigrated to Uruguay at seventeen, to the United States illegally two years later. I was twenty-five before I ever saw the clean side of a dollar, before I even knew there was one.”

  A cloud passed over the moon and there was a silence.

  “What do you make of me?” he said. “Twenty-five words or less.”

  “I admire your grasp of how life really works.” She gazed down at the esplanade planted with palm trees that followed the curve of the bay, wondering how moonlight managed to turn reds and greens to such shimmering pale blue. “But you judge people.”

  “To stay ahead I have to judge and judge quickly.”

  She didn’t answer. There was a warm breeze from the sea.

  “Let’s walk,” he said.

  They took the stairs down to the sea and took off their shoes and walked along the damp sand in their evening clothes.

  “What do you hate most in life?” she asked.

  “I suppose—feeling I’m not needed, feeling there’s no reason.”

  “You feel that too?”

  “Sometimes. It’s a horrible feeling.”

  “What are your hopes?” she asked.

  “Hard to say. Hope is like a horizon. The closer you get to it the farther away it moves. I’ve always hoped to find someone who…” They had reached the parking lot. “You have a smudge on your cheek. Stand still a moment.” He drew out a handkerchief and slid the tip across her cheek. “There. It’s gone now.”