by Gill Paul
The mail had brought condolence letters from friends. “He is a madman,” Zeffirelli wrote. “No other woman will do all that you did for him.” Princess Grace wrote, “You are a beautiful woman and I know that life has another great love in store for you.” Her sister, Jacinthy, wrote, saying that she would always be welcome at her home in Athens. Maggie van Zuylen called to say, “He has lost his mind. I no longer recognize him.” Even Costa Gratsos, Ari’s oldest friend, called, saying, “I warned him not to do this. He is making the biggest mistake of his life. It should have been you.” Her friends invited her to dinners, lunches, parties, and other gatherings. She was touched by the affection showered on her.
The following day, there were more letters in a similar vein, and a package. She slit open the latter and gasped: inside was her Madonna icon, the one she used to pray to before performing. She hugged it to her chest, then read the note that accompanied it, recognizing Battista’s writing straightaway.
“My dear Maria, I am glad that you must by now have realized Mr. Onassis’s true colors but at the same time I am sorry for your very public humiliation.” Maria exhaled loudly as her eyes skimmed the page, then she turned it over. “I recognize my own part in the failure of our marriage,” he wrote. “I should have appreciated you more and not allowed the flame of romance to be extinguished by the demands of business.” Near the end of the letter, he said, “I still love you, Maria. I am here for you should you want to get in touch.” She had to laugh out loud at that.
“Bruna?” she called, wanting to share her mirth.
Bruna hurried into the room.
“Battista wants me to return to him now that Ari has married someone else. Can you believe the arrogance of the man?”
Bruna’s eyebrows shot up. “How long has it been? Nine years?”
Maria shook her head in disbelief. “I’m glad to have my Madonna icon returned, but I don’t think I will dignify his letter with a reply.”
She would never forgive him for selling his story to the press. In her book, that was the death knell for a relationship. At least Ari hadn’t done that.
ON NOVEMBER 15, the buzzer rang in the apartment and Bruna answered, then came into the salon, looking worried.
“Madame, it is Mr. Onassis. What shall I tell him?”
Maria’s heart lurched and her mouth felt dry. “Tell him to go away. I have nothing to say to him.”
She stood in the doorway to listen as Bruna passed on the message. Ari was clearly arguing with her, because she had to repeat her refusal several times.
When Bruna hung up the intercom, Maria hurried to the window and hid behind the shutter, planning to watch him walk away—but he didn’t. Instead, he stood in the street and began whistling a simple four-note tune that all the boys in Athens used to whistle when they wanted to attract the attention of the girls. He whistled, then called, “Ma-ri-a!,” then started whistling again.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Maria grumbled. “This is a polite neighborhood. He can’t do that.”
Far from giving up, Ari was increasing the volume of his shouting. “Ma-ria, I need to talk to you! Let me in!”
She tutted. He was stubborn and wouldn’t give up when he knew she was there. She would have to see him.
She checked her appearance. Fortunately, she was dressed, coiffed, and made up for going out to dine later. She added a slick of lipstick and patted her hair, then called to Bruna: “You had better press the buzzer or he’ll turn the entire 16th arrondissement against me.”
She sat in an armchair in the salon, where the light was flattering. He hesitated in the doorway, unsure of whether to embrace her, so she spoke first to make it clear that was not an option.
“It’s only three weeks since your wedding. I thought you’d be on your honeymoon. Or has the Widow given you time off for good behavior?”
Ari sat on the sofa opposite. “I need to explain why I got married, and why I couldn’t tell you before. Please, will you listen?”
Maria looked at her watch. “Make it quick. I have dinner plans.”
“You know me, Maria. You know better than anyone that I had no desire to marry again. The Kennedys trapped me into it.”
Maria shook her head in disgust. “That’s nonsense. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“It’s true! I confess that I wanted to sleep with Jacqueline.” He spoke quickly, in Greek. “But she wouldn’t consider it unless we were married . . .”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Maria interrupted, with sarcasm. “So you kept me around to satisfy your carnal urges while you were trying and failing to seduce her?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. I never meant to lose you, Maria. I . . .”
At least he seemed upset, she thought. Good.
“I admit I miscalculated. I thought I could persuade you to accept me having an affair with Jacqueline and we could carry on as we were.” His expression was pleading. “It’s true I asked her to marry me but I never meant it to go ahead. I thought she would sleep with me once we were engaged and I could keep delaying the wedding indefinitely. But when I tried to pull out of marrying her, the Kennedys forced my hand by announcing it to the press. Do you remember that day I phoned you and asked you to save me? If you had come then, I swear I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”
“Don’t you dare blame me for this,” Maria blazed. “You’ve made your bed and chosen as bedfellow a woman who only wants you for your money. You’ve behaved with hubris and we both know what plans the gods have in these circumstances.”
Ari jumped up from the sofa and came to kneel at her feet, hands clasped in prayer. “I am begging you . . . please try to understand. You know my weakness. You know I can’t resist a conquest. I thought you loved me despite that.”
“And I thought you loved me too,” she retorted. “But you clearly don’t or you wouldn’t treat me with such callousness. Do you really think you can discard me, then woo me back? Would you discard me again as soon as the Widow beckoned?” She was gesticulating for emphasis. It’s almost like the plot in an opera, she thought. But in real life Ari would find there was no encore.
“I can’t bear to think how much I have hurt you.” He leaned his forehead on her knees, but she shoved him away.
“Don’t touch me!”
“If you could find it in your heart to forgive me, I swear I will make it up to you.”
Maria shook her head. “How? By buying me diamonds? Another fur coat? It’s too late for that. I want you to leave now. Please don’t come here again.”
He argued hard. He talked of all they had gone through together, the son they had lost, the illnesses and setbacks they had supported each other through.
“We are family, Maria. I want us to be family forever. Why let a simple marriage certificate get in the way when you are the one I love?”
Maria willed herself to turn to stone. La Callas would never return to Ari and neither would she.
“I am leaving for my dinner engagement now,” she said, standing up and stepping around him. “Let yourself out. And please don’t contact me anymore.”
She walked through to her bathroom and locked the door, listening until she could hear the click of the front door closing behind him.
What it boiled down to was that she could have him back if she was prepared to be his mistress—but Jackie would always take precedence as the wife. She had already been through that before, when he was married to Tina. No matter how much she missed him, she could never accept a subordinate position in the hierarchy of his women. She couldn’t believe he had asked her to. She was Maria Callas. She had far too much pride.
Chapter 62
Skorpios
November 15, 1968
Although summer had turned to autumn and there was a chill in the air, Jackie continued to swim each morning in the warm waters off Skorpios. She had found a local Greek-language tutor, and arranged for him to come over on a launch from the mainland at eleven in the morning every secon
d day. She had also hired a team of interior designers to redesign the main villa, and they visited once a week for discussions.
She liked the pale pink exterior walls, whose color changed throughout the day as the sun moved through the sky; they were pale and silvery at dawn but by dusk they would catch the last rays and take on a warm salmon hue. The interior was decorated in traditional style, with white walls, and she planned to have them repainted in pastel shades that would enhance the light in each of the rooms. She also decided to expand the guesthouses, so she could invite plenty of visitors, and she designed a little one-story cottage that she called the “taverna,” where lunch could be served at the beach.
Caroline and John had flown back to New York two days after the wedding and were staying in her apartment, looked after by her mother, so they did not miss too much school. No decision had yet been made about where they would be educated the following year; there was time for that. For now, she called them every day, but their physical absence caused a sense of loss and disorientation, a feeling of being permanently out of sorts.
On top of that, less than three weeks after the wedding, Ari announced he was going on a business trip, so she was left entirely alone on Skorpios, apart from the staff. She had understood that he would sometimes commute to Athens for the day, but now he announced that he’d be absent for almost a week, and the island was lonely.
This is the life I chose, she told herself. I have to find ways to occupy myself. Several boxes of her books had arrived from New York, and she spent hours reading every day, but she still had too much time on her hands—too much time to think.
Ari had been furious at the newspaper coverage of their wedding. She had overheard him on the telephone with his American lawyer, asking if there were grounds to sue. He warned her not to look, but she knew he kept a pile of the offending newspapers in his office. Once he was gone, she peeked at the headlines, and they were worse than she had imagined. “How Could You, Jackie?” one read. “Jack Kennedy Dies for a Second Time Today,” read another. “Jackie Marries Blank Check,” said a third.
She could see why Ari was angry at the implication that he had nothing to offer but money, like a sad old sugar daddy. It was insulting to her too, but nothing the press could say surprised her.
She wandered around the villa, pausing in each room, deciding how she wanted to rearrange things. Her clothes were still hanging in the guest room she had occupied before the wedding, but she planned to move them into the master bedroom, so she opened the closets to check the space. At the back of one, she found a dressing gown of pearly silk, the lightest, flimsiest, softest gown ever. There was delicate floral embroidery on the back and a sash around the waist.
She took it out, frowning. Whose could this be?
And then the answer came to her: Maria Callas. She was the previous female occupant of that room.
Jackie searched the pockets and found a lace-trimmed handkerchief with the letter M embroidered at the corner.
Finding such an intimate item in Ari’s bedroom brought home to Jackie how big a part of his life Maria had been—and how recent. It seemed he hadn’t been telling the truth when he assured her the affair was long over. If she was “just a close friend,” why was her robe in his closet? There were echoes of Maria everywhere. Jackie had tried to throw out the seashells cluttering the fireplace, only to have Ari admonish her: “Leave them alone. That was Maria’s collection.” There was a crate of Dom Pérignon in the cellar, which he said was Maria’s favorite. It was disconcerting to find the footprints of a woman she had met only once, briefly, but who had put her stamp throughout what was now supposed to be her home.
She wondered what to do with the dressing gown. She didn’t want to give Ari an excuse to get in touch with Maria. Sending it herself was out of the question, and anyway she suspected Maria would find the act patronizing. In truth, she felt intimidated by the world-renowned soprano who had been her predecessor, and nervous about inviting any contact.
Outside, the gardener was burning some eucalyptus branches he had pruned. Pungent woodsmoke rose in a spiraling column and the smell permeated the house. Jackie crumpled the gown into a ball, hurried outside, and tossed it onto the fire. It was consumed by flames, and soon all that was left was a pale powdery ash.
THE DAY BEFORE Ari was due back from his business trip, Jackie had nothing planned. The endless hours stretched in front of her and she was too restless to read. She asked Konstantinos, the long-haired Greek boy who drove the launch, if he would take her to the nearest town for some shopping.
“Lefkada Town is nearest,” he said. “I will prepare the launch.”
The day was cloudy but the sea was flat calm, and it wasn’t long before she was disembarking in a harbor where fishing boats tugged at their moorings, their masts clanking. Jackie set off along the shopping street that Konstantinos pointed out. Many of the stores were boarded up for winter, but she spotted a bookshop and went inside to browse. All the books were in Greek, but she found one illustrated with images of Greek antiquities and bought it, thinking she could use it to help her learn the language. The shopkeeper regarded her with interest, and she could tell he recognized her despite her oversized sunglasses.
In another shop she bought a length of lace—reticella, the shopkeeper told her, pointing to the ornate geometric pattern, and miming sewing to indicate that it was handmade.
“You made it?” Jackie asked, pointing at her.
The woman nodded, with a proud smile, and Jackie kissed her fingertips to show how much she loved it.
The lace shop was at the edge of a town square, and she stopped to watch the locals going about their business: women carrying baskets bulging with vegetables, a priest in black robes, a three-legged dog.
Suddenly a hunched old woman appeared directly in front of her. Jackie took a step back. The woman’s expression appeared hostile, but perhaps that was because her face drooped on one side, as if from a stroke. The left eye was filmed with a cataract, and only the right moved.
The woman began to say something in Greek, but Jackie couldn’t catch a word of it. She was speaking rapidly, leaning close, jabbing the air with her finger, her breath reeking of stale garlic.
“Den katalavaíno,” Jackie said—“I don’t understand.”
The woman was angry about something. She kept repeating an emphatic phrase that sounded like “kako mati.”
Jackie looked around to see the shopkeeper watching, an expression of horror on her face. Something wasn’t right. Clutching her roll of lace, Jackie turned and sprinted down the street toward the harbor. Konstantinos was outside a café, talking to a friend, and he rushed to intercept her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Jackie was trembling in panic, her heart hammering. She bent double to catch her breath. “There was an old woman yelling at me. I don’t know what she said. Something like ‘kako mati.’ She was clearly deranged.”
Konstantinos was alarmed. “Are you sure she said ‘kako mati’?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh, God, the boss is going to kill me. I should have stayed with you. Please don’t tell him I left you alone.”
“What does it mean?”
He didn’t want to say, and it took some persuasion before he finally admitted, “It’s the evil eye.”
“What? Has she put a curse on me? For crying out loud, why would she do that?” It was terrifying to think a stranger bore her so much ill will.
He shook his head unhappily. “I don’t know.”
“The lace seller heard everything. Can you ask her, please?”
They walked back to the lace shop. Jackie peered around, scared in case the old woman was still nearby. Konstantinos spoke to the shopkeeper in rapid Greek, and translated her reply for Jackie.
“She says that old woman doesn’t like Americans. She was saying you should not have taken Onassis from Maria Callas, who is revered by Greek people. That’s why she put a curse on you.”
Jackie clutched her throat. It felt as if there was no air.
The shopkeeper said something else and Konstantinos translated. “She advises you to see a priest as soon as possible to get the curse overturned.”
The woman reached under the counter and handed Jackie a tiny ceramic medallion with concentric circles on it: dark blue on the outside, then white, then pale blue, and a black dot in the middle, like an eerie kind of eye. It was strung on a leather cord, and she indicated that Jackie should wear it around her neck.
“This will protect you until you see the priest,” Konstantinos explained.
Jackie slipped it over her hair and opened her purse to offer money, but the woman shook her head.
As she sat in the launch motoring back to Skorpios, Jackie fingered the medallion, shivering, trying to still the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. Would all Greeks blame her for taking Ari from Maria? Was this the kind of reception she could expect elsewhere? She was a stranger in their country, and had hoped to find a safe haven. Now she realized she could try to assimilate by learning the language and customs, but she would never be one of them.
What would Ari think about the curse? She imagined he would laugh and call it an ignorant peasant superstition, then tease her for giving it a second thought. She should banish it from her mind.
But instead she decided that she would consult the priest who had married them at the next opportunity. And she would keep the medallion with her—just in case.
Chapter 63
Paris
November 30, 1968
Whenever Maria set foot in a public place that month, photographers and journalists yelled the same question: How did she feel about Ari marrying Mrs. Kennedy? She kept a smile pinned to her face, because she didn’t want them to catch her with an expression their caption writers could interpret as angry or jealous. Only once did she reply, hinting at the twenty-three-year age difference between the newlyweds: “It’s nice that Mrs. Kennedy has found a new grandfather for her children.” Words she knew would annoy Ari if he read them.