Jackie and Maria

by Gill Paul

  Maria slept more soundly than she had in years, lulled by the gentle motion of the yacht and drowsy from the expensive brandy she drank with Ari late every evening. On the second night at sea, they began to talk about the war years, and Maria told him she had lived in occupied Athens.

  “Mother never thought the war would reach us, and when it did, we were too late to board any ships leaving town,” she told him. “I was training at the Conservatoire by day, then in the evenings Mother forced me to date German soldiers and beg them for food and money. It was humiliating. Horrible.”

  Ari was aghast. “How could she? You were only a teenager. Anything could have happened.”

  Maria grimaced, remembering one soldier who’d wrestled her to the ground and tried to rape her. She had fought tooth and nail, scratching and biting, until at last he gave up. “A big girl like you should be grateful,” he’d said. “No one else will want you.” And when she got home, her skirt torn and knees bleeding, her mother assumed she had been raped. There was no maternal sympathy, no words of comfort, just the cold demand: “How much did you get?”

  Ari was listening with a compassionate expression. “I don’t understand how she could put you in such danger.”

  Maria shrugged. “I drew the short straw when mothers were handed out. Mine never warmed to me. She had been hoping for a boy and was so disappointed when I emerged from the womb that she couldn’t bear to look at me for four days. My sister was the pretty, charming one, and I was a huge disappointment.” She smiled as if to brush it off, although it still hurt to say the words.

  “But she must be proud of you now? How could any mother not be?”

  Maria shook her head. “When my talent was discovered I became her cash cow.” She used the phrase in English, unable to think of a Greek equivalent. “As a child I was dragged to radio-station competitions and forced to sing on command for the paltry prizes. Then she brought me to Athens for training at the Conservatoire and as soon as they started paying me a salary she commandeered it.”

  “I suppose she did you a favor in getting proper voice training,” Ari said.

  Maria wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps, but it was in her own interest so I would make more money. After I got married, she still demanded half my earnings and I paid up for years, like a good Greek girl. Eventually Battista put his foot down and cut back her allowance, but in retaliation she sold her story to Time magazine, telling them what an ungrateful daughter I am.”

  Ari shook his head. “She sounds appalling. Are you still in touch with her?”

  “God, no; not since the Time article. I have washed my hands of her at last. It was long overdue. Once in a blue moon I get a letter from my father or sister but I haven’t seen them for many years.”

  “I’m amazed you succeeded despite all those odds stacked against you. I’m sure it’s not just your voice; it’s your character that got you to the top.”

  Maria smiled her thanks for the compliment. “I think you and I both know it’s working harder than everyone else that counts. I believe in destiny, but you can’t relax and wait for success to happen.”

  “A woman after my heart. We share the same philosophy.”

  “So, tell me about you,” she said. “I read that you are a self-made man but I don’t know anything of your background.”

  “In my case, my difficult relationship was with my father.” He drained his glass before continuing. “He had a tobacco-import business in Smyrna—until September 1922 when the Turkish army came to drive the Greeks out.”

  Maria knew about this; it was a brutal campaign that quickly turned into a massacre.

  “I lost several relatives. My uncle Alexander was hung in the public square in Kasaba.” His tone was neutral but a flicker in his eyes betrayed emotion. “My aunt Marie was burned to death with her husband and child in the church in Akhisar. Then my father was jailed and my three sisters sent to evacuation camps. I was just sixteen and entirely alone in a city where the Turks were shooting civilians on sight.”

  “What about your mother?” Maria asked, aghast.

  “She died when I was three. I was raised by a grandmother.”

  Maria felt a surge of compassion. Ari seemed invulnerable, but his past was filled with so much pain. She’d had no idea that his seemingly charmed life had been built out of such sorrow, and it made her feel close to him. They both shared something—a tragic childhood—and had both succeeded in spite of it.

  He signaled for the barman to top up their glasses, but she placed three fingers across the top of hers. She couldn’t possibly drink any more.

  “I persuaded the Turkish commander who took over my family’s home that they needed me alive because I knew how everything worked in the city. I ran errands for them, found them bottles of raki and ouzo, all the while trying to get my father freed.” He paused. “Would you mind if we step out on deck so I can smoke a cigar? I don’t want to irritate your throat with my smoke.”

  Maria was touched by his thoughtfulness. So often people lit their cigars or cigarettes without any thought for her voice. “Of course,” she said, standing up.

  They settled on cushioned chairs in the stern, where the moon lit a path across the yacht’s wake. Two of the English guests were in the pool, shrieking as they splashed each other.

  Ari continued his story: “The Turks passed a law that meant I would have been sent to a concentration camp as soon as I turned seventeen. That’s when I knew I had to flee. I escaped through the American base and snuck onto a U.S. destroyer that took me to Athens.”

  Maria realized how lucky she had been to survive the wartime occupation with nothing worse than cuts and bruises from the soldier who’d tried to rape her.

  He took a cigar from his breast pocket, cut off the tip, then toasted it with the flame from his lighter before putting it to his mouth to take short puffs until the tip was glowing. Maria could smell the smoke although they were outside; it was fragrant, like freshly cut grass drying in the sun.

  “I borrowed money from all my father’s friends and business associates and managed to buy his freedom from jail. It seemed the only thing to do. But when he arrived in Athens, he was furious.” He was gazing at the horizon as he spoke. “He said he would have won his release anyway and I had thrown good money down the drain.”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t really cross,” Maria sympathized.

  “He definitely was,” Ari insisted. “Our relationship broke down. It’s then I decided to sail for Buenos Aires and make my own way in the world. I set off with just sixty dollars in my pocket, and four years later I had made my first million. So you and I both know what it is to struggle in a foreign land. One of many things we have in common.”

  He reached across to squeeze her hand, just quickly. His skin was warm. She squeezed back, feeling their relationship deepen with the revelations they had shared.

  EVERY MORNING, THE Christina was moored in a deserted cove and the younger guests leapt into the water to swim. Ari’s son, Alexander, who was eleven, and his daughter, Christina, aged eight, got the lion’s share of his attention. Although they were the only children on the cruise, no one seemed to mind their antics. Tina, Ari, and his sister, Artemis, who had joined the cruise party, doted on those youngsters. Maria stayed in bed till noon most days but she heard Ari shouting encouragement as he drove a launch so Alexander could water-ski or lifted Christina in the air and tossed her into the water.

  “Throw me higher!” she shrieked. “Do it again!”

  In the afternoons Maria sunbathed on deck, watching the pride in Ari’s eyes as his son executed a perfect dive or Christina did a silly dance in her pink mermaid swimsuit with its frilled skirt. He clearly adored his children, but she never saw him spend time with Tina. Maria saw no intimate conversations or hugs, no eye contact between them.

  Surreptitiously she checked out Ari’s figure and saw that he was fit and well muscled. His skin was very tan but it appeared soft, not at all leathery. His chest was covere
d with a mane of soft, fine hair, and his waist was trim. She realized how strong he must be when Alexander cut his leg during a trip ashore and Ari carried him on his back for the rest of the afternoon, making it look effortless.

  Privately, Maria found the children a little spoiled; they ran around on deck, splashing water on the fully clothed elderly guests, but she never heard Tina or Ari chastise them. They beamed with pride at each minor achievement and ignored misdemeanors. Maria envied those children; she had never experienced love like that from a parent.

  AS THE FIRST week came to an end, Maria began to relax more fully. She had daily massages in the yacht’s beauty salon, she read books and swam; then in the late afternoons she and Tina often went ashore to explore tiny Greek villages and buy souvenirs, along with some of the English women. Only one thing niggled at her: Battista. He wandered around on his own unless either she or one of the Onassises was available to converse with him in Italian. It irked Maria that he had never taken the trouble to learn another language. He was clever enough; it was sheer laziness that had stopped him.

  There was more. She felt embarrassed when he left his shirt hanging open, because his belly was as round as if he were six months pregnant. She cringed at his manners when he reached across his neighbor at dinner to grab the bread basket. These were all minor complaints, but soon he began to get on her nerves no matter what he did. When they were alone in their cabin, she snapped at him for no reason, then felt bad afterward. It had been he who had wanted to come on this cruise, but, as it turned out, he was a fish out of water, while she was in her element.

  Every evening when Battista went to bed, Maria would wander along the deck to Ari’s Bar. Although Tina retired early, Maria was never entirely alone with Ari, because a few younger members of the English crowd stayed up till the early hours. Ari and Maria usually chatted to each other in Greek, and as the evenings passed they shared more confidences.

  One evening he surprised her with a personal question: “Is everything alright with you and Battista? It’s just that—forgive me—I thought I sensed tension earlier.”

  Maria paused, aware she was about to cross a line. “You’re right. He drives me crazy sometimes.” She tried to make light of it, but her tone was harsher than she had intended.

  “I love him, of course,” she added, unconvincingly.

  Ari nodded and waited for her to continue.

  “Marriage is difficult, isn’t it?” She felt tears prick her eyes and blinked them away. “I feel very underappreciated. Because Battista is my manager, our conversations tend to be about contracts and money and I feel as if . . .” She hesitated, took a sip of brandy, then continued. “I feel as if I am the goose that lays the golden eggs, while he just lives off me. He distributes my money to his family as well. It’s like my mother all over again—although, of course, he is much kinder.”

  She bit her lip, feeling that she had gone too far. She should be loyal. He was her husband, after all.

  Ari nodded, his expression concerned. “He doesn’t earn his own money?”

  “He used to when we were first married. He had a brick factory. But he sold it to manage my career. I should be grateful, really.” Maria turned her head away. Money wasn’t the root of the problem; not really. “I am a firm believer that marriage is for life. I’m sure you are too. It’s just that sometimes it feels like a life sentence instead of a love affair.”

  She shouldn’t have drunk so much. The brandy had loosened her tongue. She should stop now.

  “Is he unfaithful?” Ari asked quietly.

  She shook her head. “No, he’s not. But at the same time I don’t think he truly loves me anymore.” She felt like crying now the words were out there. She had never said this to anyone else.

  Ari’s next words surprised her. “Tina is unfaithful to me. Three years ago she had an affair. It got serious and she asked for a divorce but I refused. Same reason as you: because I think marriage should be for life.”

  Maria wasn’t surprised. It explained her earlier observations that Tina never seemed interested in what Ari had to say; there was little communication between them. Instinctively, she reached over and touched his arm in sympathy. He took her hand and squeezed her fingertips.

  “If only we had met first,” he said, his voice so low she could barely hear it.

  Tears sprang to her eyes again. If only.

  Chapter 17

  The Mediterranean

  August 1959

  Maria knew she should avoid being alone with Ari after their night of mutual confessions. At last she’d admitted the unthinkable. Ari wasn’t just an entertaining new friend; she was falling in love with him. She knew she should disembark with Battista at the next port and fly to Lake Garda. Her husband would be pleased, at least; his face showed his unhappiness as he slunk around the deck all day with no one to talk to.

  Yet she didn’t suggest it. She danced cheek to cheek with Ari when the orchestra played after dinner each evening, and later, when most other guests had gone to bed, a kind of fatalism led her steps to his bar. The young English guests would be there, sipping nightcaps, playing board games, or splashing in the pool. But even across the room, she could feel Ari’s desire burning like the rays of the sun. She was hyperaware every time he glanced at her, knew he was listening closely to every word she said and was watching when she crossed and uncrossed her legs.

  Maria couldn’t help sneaking glances at him as well, and every day her attraction grew. She adored the musky hint of masculinity that mingled with the smell of his cigars when he leaned over to top up her glass. But, most of all, it was the razor sharpness of his brain she loved—that, combined with the gentleness she saw when he was with his children, or sitting for hours entertaining Churchill. The mixture of flint and honey was irresistible.

  In bed, she lay awake imagining . . . what would it be like with him? Would he leave Tina if she left Battista? But it couldn’t be. It mustn’t be. It was wrong even to think of it.

  Sometimes she wondered what would happen if Battista died. He was sixty-three, after all—a whole decade older than Ari. But Tina would still stand in the way. She couldn’t break up a marriage with two children involved. It was totally against the teachings of her Church. She was committing a sin even by thinking it. There were so many bad thoughts to confess to God: dreaming of having sexual relations with another man, wishing her husband was out of the way, and, worst of all, letting herself fall in love with someone who could never be hers.

  The party went ashore on a remote island one day, and Maria slipped inside a tiny white-painted chapel tucked between tall cypress trees. She knelt at the altar and closed her eyes, praying to God for guidance. You know what’s right. The words came into her head as if direct from the Almighty himself. But when she emerged into daylight, there was Ari standing a few yards away, watching her from behind his dark sunglasses, and her knees trembled.

  They sailed as far as the Turkish coast, and Ari showed them around Smyrna, the town of his youth. He pointed out his family’s old house, then the place where he had slipped under the fence onto the American naval base to escape the Turks. Maria translated for Battista. He was her husband, after all, and she hadn’t been as kind to him as she should have been, so she made an extra effort that morning.

  The next stop was Istanbul, the magnificent city astride the Bosphorus, with glittering minarets rising amid a huddle of multihued buildings. Ari announced that he had arranged for them to have an audience with the Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church, who was based there in St. George’s Cathedral. Maria gazed at him in wonder. The head of her Church? Was there nothing this man couldn’t do?

  The English guests said they would rather go shopping in the Grand Bazaar, but seven of the party went to the cathedral around noon—Battista and Maria, Ari and Tina, Artemis and her husband, and the Christina’s captain. They stopped to light candles to St. George, and Maria couldn’t help noticing that Ari donated a hundred-dollar bill, while Batti
sta only left a few crumpled lire.

  Next they were shown into the Patriarch’s wood-paneled reception rooms, and he emerged from a doorway, dressed in black robes, with a black stovepipe headdress, long white beard, and straggly white hair. Maria was awestruck. This man was the holiest of the holy. Would he see straight into her sinner’s soul?

  He sat on his Ecumenical throne and Ari went up to greet him; then the Patriarch beckoned her too. She slipped forward, bowing her head.

  He spoke, his baritone resonating in his chest: “I am honored to find Greece’s two most famous citizens, the world’s finest singer and the greatest mariner since Odysseus, together in my church. Let me say a prayer of blessing.”

  Ari and Maria knelt side by side in front of him. She clasped her hands in prayer and felt her palms sweating.

  “Glory to the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, now and forever and to ages of ages,” he intoned, and the ancient words of the prayer rang in Maria’s head like the most beautiful music, their rhythm lulling her into a trancelike state. She glanced at Ari, and his expression was deadly serious. Their eyes met. It felt as if the supreme head of their Church was giving his blessing to their union—almost as if he were marrying them to each other.

  Maria still felt in a dream state when they rose and looked around to see Battista and Tina watching in disbelief. She avoided their eyes, incapable of speaking on the way back to the Christina.

  The Patriarch was joining them for lunch on board, and a feast of many courses had been prepared. The English crowd returned, and the Patriarch said he would pray for them too. The Churchills had stayed on board, and Winston looked terrified as this strange man in his black robes approached, murmuring in Greek, his silver cross swinging.

  Maria’s mind was in turmoil. Suddenly, as if a veil had been lifted, she could see where her destiny lay. She had been looking for a sign—from God or from the universe—and nothing could have been clearer than the word of God’s highest representative on earth.