Jackie and Maria

by Gill Paul

  A statuesque woman in a black headscarf came around a corner just as she reached it, and they collided.

  “Je suis désolé,” the woman said.

  Jackie looked at the dark eyes rimmed with kohl, with a Cleopatra-style flip at the corners, and recognized her straightaway. “Hello, Miss Callas,” she said.

  “Mrs. Kennedy.” Maria gave a slight nod.

  Neither spoke for a moment, then Jackie said, “He’s alone. Christina’s gone for dinner.”

  Maria nodded her thanks.

  “I wasn’t sure if someone was updating you about his progress,” Jackie said. “I’d be happy to arrange that if you like. You should be kept in the loop.”

  “Ari himself is telling me of his progress,” Maria said with dignity; then her voice cracked. “But perhaps you would be so good as to have someone call me when . . . if . . .” She couldn’t say the words.

  “Of course. Do you want to give me your telephone number?”

  Maria wrote it down for her and whispered “Thank you” as she handed it over.

  She had aged in the decade since they’d talked backstage at the Met, Jackie noted: there was a fan of wrinkles around each eye, but she was still a beautiful woman, with a real presence about her. How awful it must feel to be an outsider when the man she loved was dying. She too felt like an outsider, with the Onassis clan speaking Greek to one another around his bedside and excluding her from medical decisions, but at least she didn’t have to sneak in to visit him.

  For a moment she considered embracing Maria and took a step forward, but she got the impression from a slight twitch under the other woman’s eye that it wouldn’t be welcomed. Instead, Jackie slipped the telephone number into her handbag, gave a polite smile, and went off to join her sister.

  Chapter 75

  Paris

  March 15, 1975

  The weather in Paris was gray and somber, with low clouds overhead and torrential rain lashing the streets. Maria stood at her window, watching black treetops swaying, and thought the weather matched her mood.

  She could sense Ari slowing down a little more each day, like an old clock. She kept trying to jolt him back to life, the way you jump-started a car with a dead battery, but she couldn’t find a way.

  During one of her visits, she had tried to provoke him: “Are you really going to let Niarchos outlive you?” she challenged. “You’ll give him free rein to dismantle your empire. Christina won’t be able to outwit him, but you still could.”

  “I thought you said I had enough money,” he replied, his voice husky.

  “And you said it’s not about money; it’s about the game. Are you giving up the game?”

  He closed his eyes.

  He usually got a nurse to bring him a telephone around six in the evening—their traditional time—pushing aside the plastic oxygen tent that had been erected around him, and speaking in short, breathless sentences. So when the phone rang at 6:15 on March 15, Maria rushed to pick it up.

  “Ari?”

  “It’s Jacqueline,” the familiar voice said. “He’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

  Maria sat down hard and covered her mouth with her hand. She had been expecting this for some time but realized she was not ready for it at all. Once she had composed herself enough to speak, she asked, “Were you with him?”

  “No, I’m calling from New York. Christina was with him and she assures me it was peaceful. He didn’t wake all day. His breathing grew fainter until it finally stopped less than an hour ago.”

  Tears slid from Maria’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks. “It’s all over,” she said. “Nothing will be the same.”

  It felt cataclysmic. How could it be that she would never hear Ari’s voice again? Never hold him in her arms?

  “Would you like to come to the funeral?” Jackie asked. “It will be on Skorpios. I’ll let you know when.”

  “Thank you, but no. My grieving will be private. I don’t want to give the press any fodder. We had already said our goodbyes.”

  When she hung up, she sat still, staring at the telephone. There was a vast silence around her. The air itself felt different, because Ari was no longer breathing it.

  She wondered where his body was. Would they prepare him for burial in the hospital mortuary? If only she could slip in to kiss him one last time. But she had no rights. She wasn’t family, wasn’t his wife.

  Suddenly she couldn’t bear to stay in Paris, to be so close and yet so far away.

  “Bruna?” she called. “We’re going to Palm Beach. I’ll call the travel agent; you pack our suitcases.”

  MARIA READ THE newspaper accounts of Ari’s death, and the many obituaries, while on a plane to Florida. Most journalists focused on his great wealth, estimating figures in the hundreds of millions, some claiming he was worth as much as a billion. They wrote about his love life: his affair with her, his marriage to Mrs. Kennedy; and his children. They employed an entire lexicon of superlatives—biggest, richest, most famous—but none of them came close to capturing the devilish charm of the man.

  Several papers printed a photograph of Mrs. Kennedy arriving at Charles de Gaulle Airport the day after his death, with a peculiar frozen smile on her face, which they interpreted as uncaring. Maria knew how easy it was to be caught mid-expression by paparazzi and did not judge. Mrs. Kennedy gave a statement to the press, saying that Aristotle had rescued her “at a moment when my life was engulfed with shadows.” She claimed that she would be “eternally grateful” to him but did not mention love. At least she wasn’t hypocritical.

  Soon the stories turned to the wrangling over Ari’s will. Someone leaked that he had been planning to divorce Jackie and had tricked her into signing a waiver that robbed her of the widow’s right to the quarter of his wealth that she would have been due under Greek law. The Kennedys hired lawyers to help her contest it, while the Onassis family, led by Christina, was adamant that Ari’s wishes must be respected.

  Maria was glad not to be part of the fray. Some jewelry that Ari had given her was still locked in a safe on the Christina, but she didn’t plan to claim it. Nor would she give any more interviews about her life with Ari. She was no longer a public figure. It was no one’s business but hers.

  SHE THOUGHT HER life would get easier after the initial hammer blow of the bereavement, but in fact it got harder as the months passed. The focus of her life for the past sixteen years had been Ari, and now there was nothing. She cried uncontrollably on the twenty-sixth of June when she visited Omero’s grave without him. Some days she didn’t get out of bed at all.

  There seemed to be no point in worrying about her weight anymore, so she indulged in the foods she had always loved: pasta with heaps of Parmesan cheese, ice cream, Toblerone bars, and the divine cream cornets made by a patisserie just around the corner from Avenue Georges Mandel.

  She drank a bottle of champagne most evenings and took pills to calm her nerves, and pills to sleep, because she couldn’t bear to be awake in the still hours when she was haunted by bitterness and loss. When her doctor refused to prescribe any more pills, she wrote to Jacinthy in Athens and asked her to buy some. They were available over the counter in Greek pharmacies.

  Jacinthy sent several boxes and a letter, in which she said that Maria’s mother would very much like to see her. She lived in Athens now and, according to Jacinthy, was a reformed character.

  Maria crumpled the letter and threw it into the fire.

  Chapter 76

  New York City

  Summer 1975

  Jackie was stunned and hurt when her legal team told her quite how far Ari had gotten in his scheme to divorce her. He had first briefed a divorce lawyer back in 1970, after less than two years of marriage, and it appeared he had been working to get rid of her since then. How could he still make love to her if that were the case? What about all the good times?

  Further surprises were to come. It seemed she had been appointed the CEO of a company based in the States that was illegally shi
pping oil to Cuba via Haiti, and her lawyer warned that she could face arrest and a lengthy investigation.

  “Did you sign everything he put in front of you?” the lawyer asked, incredulous.

  “Pretty much,” she admitted. “He was my husband. I trusted him.”

  “We’ll do our best to keep it out of the press,” the lawyer said, “but be ready to talk to prosecutors.”

  When she told her mother and stepfather about it, Hughdie confessed that Onassis had caused him great embarrassment by buying a large holding in Standard Oil days before the announcement of a merger with British Petroleum, thus making an outrageous profit. That was also in Jackie’s name, but he had transferred it to one of his shell companies shortly afterward.

  “It’s my own fault,” Hughdie said. “I shouldn’t have told him about the merger, but I assumed he was a gentleman and wouldn’t take advantage.”

  They were cut from quite different cloth, Jackie realized. Hughdie was a gentleman through and through. Ari had the surface polish, but deep down he was a crook. Bobby had been right all along.

  She began to wonder if she had ever really known her husband. It was disconcerting to think of all the parties they’d attended and vacations they’d taken together while he was secretly stabbing her in the back. Yet they’d had fun as well. And he had rescued her at the lowest point of her life. She had to hang on to that. Now, no matter what happened, she would never be poor.

  The first time Jackie had been widowed, she was thirty-four; the second time, she was forty-five. She wouldn’t marry again—on that she was clear. The psychiatrist, whom she still visited regularly, suggested that she find a way to forge her own identity.

  “You’ve been a daughter, a wife, a sister, and a mother, but I’m not sure you know who you are,” the shrink told her. “The compulsive shopping habit you describe is a symptom I’ve often seen in those who lack self-esteem. Buying things you don’t need is an attempt to exert control over your surroundings and make you feel better about yourself. I want you to think about what you could do over the next few decades that will bring you a genuine sense of fulfillment. What do you like doing?”

  Jackie was stumped. She’d enjoyed her brief stint as a journalist in her early twenties, but couldn’t envision returning to that, given her treatment by the press over the years. She couldn’t think of what skills she had to bring to a workplace—until a friend suggested she might become an editor in a publishing house. Books had been her constant companion through life; it felt so obvious she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it herself. In September 1976, with great trepidation, she began work as an editor at Viking Press, reading manuscripts and making suggestions on how they could be improved. Straightaway she loved it.

  The psychiatrist suggested that Lee’s drinking could also come from a lack of self-esteem rooted in childhood, and made some suggestions about ways in which Jackie could confront her.

  The first few times she tried, Lee reacted with fury. “You think I’m the one who’s an alcoholic? Look at yourself, all high and mighty. Don’t forget I’ve seen you lying in your own vomit on the bathroom floor.”

  It was true; that had been during the year after Jack died. Jackie explained that she had controlled her drinking since then but Lee wouldn’t listen. She was cross that she hadn’t been invited to Ari’s funeral, furious that she hadn’t been mentioned in his will, and resentful that Jackie was raising her children, even though she loved the freedom it gave her to come and go with her bohemian friends and her artist lover.

  By the end of the year, though, Lee was running out of money and had no choice but to come to her sister for a handout.

  “I’ll gladly pay off your debts,” Jackie said, “but I want you to think again about how much you’re drinking. It can’t be fun; not really.”

  Once again, she was rebuffed. It was only the following year, when she caught Lee at a particularly low point, that her sister admitted she had a problem with alcohol.

  “I know I need help,” she said, “but I’m scared. What would I do without a drink?”

  That fall Jackie accompanied her to her first AA meeting, and sat in the car outside so she could drive her home afterward. They still weren’t close, the way they had been as children, but it was a start.

  THE LEGAL DISPUTES over Ari’s estate rumbled on, with an astonishing number of people coming forward to claim a share. Some said that he had owed them money or that they were part owners of one of his companies, and there were at least a dozen who claimed to be his illegitimate children by different partners. Jackie was briefed about them in a meeting with her New York lawyer. Some were easily disproved: a cocktail waitress at a bar in Monte Carlo claimed that she had sex with Ari on a date in 1964 when he was demonstrably in New York with Maria Callas; another claimant had “mislaid” the vital documents that would prove his entitlement.

  One day in the spring of 1976, her mail included a letter with her name and address written in block capitals on the envelope. Jackie had long received letters from people across the country who felt as if they knew her and wanted to offer their advice. They wrote to her about Jack, about Ari, about the way she was raising her children, and always about her hair—some hating it and others wanting to know how she styled it. The letters had tailed off somewhat since she’d stepped out of the limelight, but occasionally some still filtered through. She tore this one open and saw that it was in Italian. She began to read it in the elevator.

  “Dear Mrs. Kennedy Onassis,” it began. “I wish to introduce myself. My name is Omero, and I’m the son of Maria Callas and your late husband Mr. Aristotle Onassis . . .”

  Chapter 77

  Paris

  Spring 1976

  Maria was astonished when Mrs. Kennedy called to ask if they could meet, saying there was something she needed to discuss face-to-face.

  “I’ll be in Paris next week on business,” Jackie said. “Perhaps we could go for lunch.”

  Maria rarely left the apartment these days. She didn’t want to be photographed at her current weight. Besides, her health was poor. She suffered from dizzy spells and didn’t want to risk passing out in a public place.

  “Would you like to come to my apartment?” she asked, not without misgivings. She’d seen Mrs. Kennedy as “the enemy” for too long to feel entirely comfortable inviting her into her home—but at the same time she was intrigued about what she wanted to discuss.

  Jackie agreed and a time was set.

  Maria couldn’t decide what to wear; she wanted to look her best when meeting her rival. Eventually she selected a regal green-and-gold embroidered kaftan, accessorized with gold jewelry, and she put her hair up, taking special care with her makeup. It was time to pull herself together and be La Callas once more.

  When Jackie arrived, Bruna showed her into the salon, and Maria rose to greet her with a handshake.

  “What a beautiful room,” Jackie said, looking around. “I love the way you’ve decorated it. It’s so dramatic.”

  Her voice had a nervous tremor; that was odd. Bruna offered her a drink, and she asked for vodka and tonic, so Maria had a glass of champagne.

  “Congratulations on your publishing job,” Maria said, once they were seated. “Are you enjoying it?” She studied her rival and noted that she dyed her hair now; there were gray roots visible at the hairline. She was dressed casually in slim black trousers and a black turtleneck with a long, multicolored silk scarf.

  “I love it,” Jackie said with an instinctive grin. “I’ve never earned my own living before, and it’s a great feeling.”

  “We are in opposite camps: I’ve had to earn my keep since childhood and now I’m enjoying my leisure.” She sipped her drink, rolling it around her mouth, savoring it.

  “I hope you will sing again,” Jackie said, but Maria was shaking her head before she finished the sentence.

  “Those days are gone. I can’t bear the sound of my own voice anymore.”

  Jackie’s regr
et seemed genuine. “That’s a huge loss for the world. Does it not feel like a loss to you?”

  “It does sometimes—but I had a longer career than most first sopranos, and for that I am very grateful. I know not to flog a dead donkey.”

  Jackie mentioned an opera she had recently heard at the Met; then the talk turned to current theatrical productions on Broadway.

  “How is your sister?” Maria asked. “I read about her acting debut.”

  Jackie pursed her lips, with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “She’s turned her attention to interior décor now. I hope that will be more successful. Lee is rather a butterfly, flitting from one adventure to the next.”

  Bruna called them for lunch in the dining room: a cheese soufflé with a green salad and fresh-baked bread. After they ate, Jackie got around to the purpose of her visit.

  “I’m sure you will not be surprised to hear that many people have come forward trying to claim part of the Onassis fortune,” she began. “Among them, several dozen have claimed to be his illegitimate children.” She locked eyes with Maria. “My lawyers have so far not found any of the claims to be credible, but I received a letter that concerns you.” She screwed up her mouth. “I’m so sorry if this is awkward, but I have to ask: Did you and Ari ever have a child?”

  Maria’s hand knocked against her fork, and it clattered to the floor. “Why do you ask?”

  “I got a letter from an Italian boy saying that he is the son of you and Ari. I’ve brought it with me.” She reached for her handbag and pulled out the envelope, handing it to Maria. “It may be rather distressing for you.”

  She read the first line and gasped. “We had a son called Omero, but he died at birth. This can’t be true . . . yet how else could this boy have known the name?”

  Jackie stayed silent as Maria read the rest of the letter. The author claimed that Mr. Onassis had not wanted another child and had bribed someone to swap Maria’s newborn baby with one that had died in the hospital that morning. Hers went to a childless couple, and Mr. Onassis sent them a money order every month to pay for his care. That income had stopped with his death, and they were now seeking their rightful share of his estate.