Jackie and Maria

by Gill Paul

  Christina couldn’t resist her gift from Maria: a Barbie doll and a dozen different outfits. Launched in America the year before, Barbie had become the most desirable toy for young girls, and Maria had gotten Mary Carter to send this one over from Texas. Christina pulled her from the box, squeaking with excitement, and began dressing her in a nurse’s uniform.

  “Thank you, Maria,” she recited when prompted.

  Maria was pleased with her gifts. One way or another, she would win these children over. Who knew? They might even grow to love her.

  After lunch, Ari and Alexander went out in the garden to fly the model plane, while Maria sat playing dolls with Christina. Suddenly she heard Ari shouting and rushed out to see what had happened. The plane had crash-landed against a rock and one wing was smashed.

  “You did that deliberately,” Ari accused Alexander, who stood with his arms folded, looking sullen.

  The boy caught Maria’s eye for a split second, and she spotted a glint of triumph. She realized Ari was right and felt a burst of fury at this intransigent child, but she quelled it quickly. He was only twelve.

  “I’ll ask the shop if it can be fixed.” She forced herself to smile at Alexander, and he turned his back with a scowl, arms still firmly crossed.

  I will be patient, Maria vowed to herself. If only she could have a child of her own, perhaps it would bridge the gap between them. If only.

  ONE NIGHT, ARI said he had something he needed to discuss with her, his tone serious. “I’ve had a message from a man who was working as a hospital porter in Milan last June. He is no longer employed there, but he knows about Omero’s birth and says if I don’t pay him, he will leak it to the press.”

  Maria gasped. “No! Please, no!” She couldn’t bear that.

  “Don’t worry. I have ways of dealing with blackmailers. I just had to tell you in case he tries to get in touch with you directly.”

  His expression frightened her. “You sound like the Mafia. What kind of ways?”

  He shrugged. “I pay them or scare them, or both at once. It happens when you’re in my position. Every port my ships dock in, there’s someone wanting protection money or an official whose palm has to be greased.”

  After her initial shock, Maria felt fury. “I suppose we should go to the police. He shouldn’t get away with this.”

  “Then the story would come out. Leave it with me. But if you ever receive a letter or call from a man by the name of Gallo, ignore it. I’ll tell Bruna to destroy any correspondence, the way she does with your mother’s. Promise me you won’t worry.” He stroked her hair, kissed her cheek.

  “I promise.” It was reassuring to be with someone who took such good care of her, whom she knew she could trust implicitly.

  Chapter 28

  Washington, D.C.

  January 1961

  January brought a glittering round of inauguration events: a party hosted by Frank Sinatra and attended by all the top names in showbiz, Jack’s inaugural address and parade, then the all-important inaugural ball, where she and Jack would dance in front of the world’s press. Jackie was dog tired after childbirth but determined to find the right outfits for each occasion so that Jack would be proud of her.

  She had always loved fashion. As a young girl, when she hadn’t felt like going to church her mother would tempt her with clothes—“But you could wear your new cherry-red coat with the white fur muff”—and that would do the trick.

  Diana Vreeland, the fashion editor of Harper’s Bazaar, became a behind-the-scenes advisor, and the inauguration outfits were split between American designer Oleg Cassini and the team at Bergdorf’s so no one could accuse her of being unpatriotic. With Diana’s help, Jackie designed her own gown for the ball: ivory silk chiffon with silver embroidery and seed pearls, overlaid by a sheer sleeveless blouse. This stunning outfit, along with a Dexedrine energy pill supplied by Jack’s doctor, soon helped get her into the party spirit.

  As she and Jack ascended the steps of the Armory, huge flakes of snow started to fall. So many flashbulbs were exploding around them, it was as if the entire atmosphere were sparking with electricity. In his inaugural address, Jack had spoken of a new dawn, and she felt thrilled, as if she were quite literally stepping into it.

  IT TOOK JACKIE awhile to learn her way around the White House—which bell to ring if she wanted a cup of coffee, and where all the corridors led—but from the start she had a clear vision of the kind of First Lady she wanted to be. She felt the gaze of previous occupants upon her as she began to restore the décor. The White House had been neglected for so long, it looked as if it had been furnished from discount stores. She planned dinners and soirées to entertain the country’s artists and intellectuals, as well as foreign ambassadors and visiting dignitaries.

  Her dream was to be at the heart of a hub of creative enterprise and inspiration, such as had existed around enlightened monarchs and rulers in history. There were the masterpieces created during the Italian Renaissance, when Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci had popes as their patrons; the Shakespearean era in England, when literature flourished under Elizabeth I; the burgeoning of all the arts in the court of the Sun King, Louis XIV. Now she was in a position to bring creative people together, to introduce them to potential patrons, and she was determined to put her personal cultural stamp on the Kennedy White House years.

  Jackie knew from experience that when attending the Eisenhowers’ receptions guests first had to line up in unheated rooms, without so much as a drink to ease the tedium, until they were formally greeted by the presidential couple. One of the first changes she initiated was to have cozy fires burning, a fully stocked bar, and ashtrays for smokers on all the tables. At dinner, she made sure there were abundant flower arrangements, and she hired a French chef to improve the quality of the food dramatically, from diner-style fare to Michelin-standard cuisine. Champagne would even be served, for the first time in White House history.

  Before Jack became president, they hadn’t entertained much as a couple, so he hadn’t appreciated the hostessing skills that she had imbibed with the rest of her mother’s teachings. She relished the challenge of inviting and seating guests who would get along with one another, choosing menus and themed décor, and guiding the conversation so that everyone was inspired to contribute.

  “How come I didn’t know you were such a party queen?” Jack asked as they got ready for a dinner in honor of the governor of Puerto Rico. “I thought I was marrying a studious, bookish kind of a gal.”

  Jackie was sitting at her dressing table, applying lipstick, and she smiled at him in her reflection. “One doesn’t preclude the other. But I’m glad you approve.”

  Jack watched as she placed a tissue between her lips to blot them, then checked her teeth quickly. “So, who’s coming tonight apart from the governor?”

  Jackie always gave him a rundown before the party began and would step in with prompts if he was introduced to someone and she could tell he had forgotten who they were. “Pablo Casals, the Spanish cellist, is playing Mendelssohn. He’s in his eighties now, but still the best in the world. Leonard Bernstein will be there—remember, we went to the premiere of West Side Story on Broadway?” She ran through the list of prominent guests, giving him a quick profile of each.

  “Are Lee and Stas coming?” he asked. As soon as Lee had recovered from the difficult birth of her second child, she had jumped on a flight to D.C. to check out her sister’s new home.

  Jackie gave him a loaded look. “Our persistent house guests? Of course. We’re going to need a crowbar to lever Lee out of the guest suite. She’s fallen in love with the razzmatazz of power.”

  “Stas wants to get her back to London. He says at least there she doesn’t demand a new frock for every single dinner.”

  Jackie laughed. “Lee’s never liked to be seen in the same outfit twice. He’d better step up and earn more if he’s to keep her in Chanel.”

  Jack leaned past her to peer in the mirror. “I look pasty.
Can you touch me up?”

  She pulled a Max Factor Creme Puff compact from her makeup drawer, where she kept one in a shade of tan that suited Jack’s skin tone. “Who are you trying to impress tonight?” she asked as she dabbed foundation on his face, careful to avoid the starched white collar of his shirt.

  “You, as always,” he murmured.

  “I saw you without makeup and I still married you.” She tilted his chin so she could blend the color and make sure there was no tideline. “It’s supposed to be women who take hours getting ready for parties, but I swear you’re vainer than me.”

  “Nature needs more help in my case.” He held out his gold cuff links: “Can you fasten these? And my tie? I have no idea how bachelors manage.”

  “Poor things, all weak and helpless,” Jackie cooed, as she clipped the cuff links into place, tied his bow tie, and brushed a stray hair from his shoulder. “You’re all done.”

  “Are you ready? Shall we make our entrance?” He glanced at his watch.

  She pulled a guilty face. “I’ll have a quick cigarette, then I’ll be right with you.”

  Jack hated her smoking. He was forever nagging her about it. “Are you sticking to five a day? That was our deal.”

  “Round about five,” she lied. “I’ve cut down a lot. Give me two minutes.”

  She smoked her cigarette and slipped a peppermint into her mouth before joining Jack to walk along the hall and down the stairs. There was a large mirror over the staircase and Jackie almost didn’t recognize them as she glanced into it. Frozen for an instant, their image looked like a movie still. As they came within sight of the waiting crowd, there was a collective gasp.

  This could go to my head if I let it, she thought. But she wouldn’t. It was theirs for eight years at most, and then they would reinvent themselves in a different, much less public life.

  JACK WAS KEEN to snatch time with his children every day, and he fell into a routine of taking Caroline for a swim in the White House pool at six-thirty. She loved the water, loved having daddy time, so when he did not appear one evening in April there were tears. Jackie couldn’t get through on the phone so she decided to walk to the Oval Office to see what was holding him up.

  “Is he alone?” she asked the secretary, who nodded and indicated that she could enter.

  Jack was sitting at the oversized desk with his head in his hands, and he didn’t look up as she crept in. He seemed small against the backdrop of tall windows overlooking the lawn. She could tell from his posture that he was upset. He spoke when she was a couple of feet away.

  “I’ve screwed up,” he told her. “Badly.”

  She walked around the desk, put an arm around him, and kissed his temple. “I’m sure, whatever it is, it won’t turn out as bad as it feels right now.”

  “It will,” he said. “It definitely will.” He paused. “We sent a force of fourteen hundred CIA-trained men to Cuba this morning. It was Eisenhower’s plan to unseat Castro. The generals told me it was infallible—but already it’s falling apart. Some of our ships sank on coral reefs outside Bay of Pigs that for some inexplicable reason no one knew were there; then our paratroopers landed in the wrong place. It was supposed to be a covert operation but now it looks as though the Cubans have been expecting us for days . . .”

  “Christ!” Jackie breathed. “Are there any casualties?”

  “I don’t have figures yet. We used Cuban exiles but Castro knows full well America is behind it. Why did I let my arm be twisted?” He thumped the desk. “This is the last thing I wanted.”

  “Can’t they turn it around? We have the best military in the world.” She tried to hide her mounting horror. Jack didn’t need to see that.

  “It’s been botched from start to finish. I should have followed my instincts and said no.”

  She took a deep breath. “It’s not your fault. You were taking your generals’ advice and they’re the experts. It’s they who’ve failed.”

  He shook his head. “Like Harry Truman said, the buck stops here. That’s the deal with this job.”

  Jackie rubbed his shoulder, trying to find words to comfort him. “People have short memories in politics,” she said. “You’ve told me that many times. Six months from now, no one will remember the name Bay of Pigs. It will be less than a paragraph in the ten-volume history of your presidency.”

  The phone rang, and he picked up straightaway. She heard the secretary’s voice announce someone, then Jack said, wearily, “Go ahead. Put him through.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “This’ll be a long one. Say sorry to Caroline and give John a kiss from his daddy. I’ll come over as soon as I can but don’t wait up.”

  She looked back before closing the door behind her, and her heart twisted to see how very lonely he looked.

  Chapter 29

  New York City

  May 19, 1962

  Maria was surprised and flattered when she was invited to sing at the forty-fifth-birthday gala being thrown for President Kennedy at New York City’s Madison Square Garden. The Kennedys were the golden couple of their era: attractive, articulate, and cultured. Maria had watched the iconic television footage of them during their visit to France, appearing fresh and vibrant alongside Europe’s antiquated top brass, and been intrigued by Mrs. Kennedy. It was said she had even charmed the cantankerous general Charles de Gaulle, president of France, and Nikita Khrushchev, the bullying Russian premier.

  “Who else is appearing?” Ari asked.

  “I’m the only opera singer, but the lineup includes Jack Benny, Judy Garland, Jimmy Durante, and Ella Fitzgerald. And guess what? Marilyn Monroe will appear—although goodness knows what she will do!”

  “The Kennedys like to surround themselves with celebrities, so the glamour rubs off,” he commented.

  She winked at him. “The pot’s calling the kettle black. I’ve never known a man as obsessed with celebrity friends as you are.”

  He laughed. “I suppose that’s true. And I am the luckiest man in the world because I wake up every morning with the biggest star of them all.”

  President Kennedy had requested that she sing a couple of arias from Carmen—“Habanera” and “Seguidilla.” She was accepting very few singing commitments now, because her voice had become unpredictable in its top notes, but Carmen’s mezzo-soprano range would be fine. Perhaps with regular practice she could return to form, but it was hard to find the motivation. She had reached the peak of her singing career and was tempted to perform only if it was music she loved, if there was a great director and orchestra involved, and if it was at an opera house where she felt comfortable. She decided she would say yes to President Kennedy, though. The occasion sounded like fun.

  Three months earlier, she had started receiving hormone injections from her fertility doctor. A calendar hung in her bathroom with circles around the dates when she and Ari must make love to give her the best chance of conception. Looking back on all the occasions when she had failed to seduce Battista, she felt cross. Ari was willing to give her a child because he loved her; Battista had lost her because he wouldn’t even try.

  The treatments had unpleasant side effects. Her stomach was permanently bloated, the headaches to which she was prone became more frequent, and she sometimes awoke feeling irritable for no reason—but it would be worthwhile if it worked. Her doctor told her there was a risk of twins or triplets, and she replied that would be wonderful, but she’d be deliriously happy with just one healthy child.

  On the first anniversary of Omero’s death, she and Ari drove to the cemetery where his little body was buried beneath a white marble gravestone with a carved angel on top. Their names did not appear on it—a decision Maria had made with heavy heart. She couldn’t risk a passing journalist spotting it and making inquiries. They brought a lavish bouquet of white roses, a Greek cake called revani with a single candle on top, and some champagne to toast his short life. He would have been crawling by the age of one, and speaking baby words. Maria cried, and Ari comf
orted her.

  “Can we come every year on this date?” she asked. “No matter what is going on, I want us to spend time with our son on his birthday.”

  “Of course we will,” he said. “Of course.”

  MARIA FLEW TO New York two weeks before the Madison Square Garden concert and checked into a suite Ari kept at the Pierre Hotel, overlooking Central Park. She shopped for a new gown, choosing a full-skirted, metallic-sheened one that seemed sufficiently ostentatious for a president’s birthday.

  Ten days before the concert, her manager called the suite.

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he told Maria, “but it seems your mother is in Roosevelt Hospital after trying to kill herself. I’ve got the hospital number for you.”

  Maria was stunned. Suicide? That didn’t sound like Evangelia’s style, unless it was attention-seeking behavior or a new bid to get money from Maria, who she must have realized was in New York.

  She wrote down the number, then phoned Ari. “I’d better call,” she told him, a sudden heaviness descending.

  “Let me do it,” he offered. “I don’t want her upsetting you.”

  She shook her head. “I should make the call. But I won’t talk to her directly.”

  “Be sure you don’t,” he cautioned.

  She was put through to a doctor, who explained that her mother had taken an overdose of sleeping pills.

  “She keeps asking for you,” the doctor said. “She’s not entirely coherent, though. Sometimes she claims that men have threatened to kill her if she contacts you.”

  “That’s odd.” Maria frowned. “Could the overdose have caused delusions?”

  “It’s hard to say, but she will need extended psychiatric care as she recovers.”

  “Is my father with her?” She couldn’t remember when she’d last heard from him.

  “She says your father has gone back to Athens. I don’t know if that’s true, but she certainly hasn’t had any visitors since she’s been here.”