Marianthi reappeared with two cups of coffee on a silver tray also laden with paper-thin pastries floating in an indulgence of rose syrup. She put the tray down and gestured towards the sea blue sofa. “Please, sit down, make yourself comfortable.” Kivelli didn’t think this would be possible, but sat anyway, though she chose one of the balloon-backed chairs at the table.
Kivelli watched her hostess more than she listened. From across the table, Marianthi’s eager eyes travelled over her with such speed they seemed to be making a sketch, and her hands fluttered around her coffee cup, which never quite made it to her mouth. She spoke in rapid sentences, most of which remained unfinished and simply ran into the next with no sense or logic. A few sounded like questions, but she answered them herself. Kivelli glanced towards the door a few times, hoping the Smyrniot would show up and save her from his frivolous wife. Was she drunk or half-witted like Aspasia? Kivelli couldn’t decide, though she too had once been capable of such pretty, harmless noise: strolling with girlfriends along Smyrna’s Quai, ogling furniture for their dowries or Parisian dresses for balls in the opulent showcases on rue Franque, unconcerned with the state of the world outside their elegantly behatted little heads. But how had Marianthi remained so unscathed by the devastation that had extinguished their city? Kivelli fiddled with her empty cup, and when her hostess paused long enough to take a sip of coffee, she managed to slip the question in while Marianthi’s mouth was full. Her answer was ready, as if she’d delivered it a thousand times before.
“We left about six months before those dreadful fires. Columbia Phonograph offered the Smyrniot a job in Athens, and we settled in Piraeus because he knew a few musicians who already lived here.” There was pride in her voice, as if her talent and cunning were responsible for her lot. Kivelli felt a flash of hatred toward this woman who never called her husband by his first name, and was not ashamed that her quaint little house was filled with treasures acquired over the dead bodies of their true owners. She felt her cheeks redden, her eyes fill.
“What’s wrong?” Marianthi asked, a look of panic in her eyes. “I’m suddenly not feeling very well …” Kivelli jumped to her feet, and her knee banged against the china cabinet as she bolted towards the hallway. The Smyrniot’s spry wife ran out behind her and grabbed her arm.
“Please, don’t go,” she pleaded, straining to keep the tears out of her voice. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you dizzy with my babble. I never know when to stop. My husband always says so.” A look of deep regret crept over her face, and there was something so tender and solicitous in Marianthi’s grip that Kivelli resisted the urge to shake her off. “Forgive me. I’m just so happy to finally meet you.” She dabbed her moist eyes with a handkerchief, and Kivelli, fanning away her own tears, let herself be led back to the dining room.
“Sit … please.” Marianthi’s tone was part consolation, part appeal. “I’ll make some more coffee and we can have some sweets — I made them especially for you.” She pushed the tray towards Kivelli. “I was certain you would come. The Smyrniot will be here soon, I promise. And it will be worth it, I promise that too.” She gave her an apologetic grin and left with the empty cups. From the next room Kivelli heard water running, the clatter of dishes in the sink, then the unmistakable sound of china breaking.
Why was Marianthi so anxious, so insistent she stay? Were there no neighbours or wives of her husband’s colleagues whom she might have charmed with her pretty face and singsong? Kivelli looked around the room again. It had the remoteness of a museum display, as if it were seldom used. And there were no children’s toys scattered, no rhymes or games echoing through the hallway. She decided Marianthi was lonely: she wasn’t a mainland Greek and was separated from her own kind by her good fortune. Dispossessed, part of nothing. It was the one thing they had in common. When she returned, the Smyrniot’s wife looked a little wilted. The immaculate waves in her hair were separating, losing their authority, and even the bright red flowers on her dress seemed to droop slightly. Kivelli was sorry she had judged her so harshly. It wasn’t Marianthi’s fault that luck had worked so well in her favour. Perhaps it was just her turn.
After serving the coffee, Marianthi picked up a pastry and ate it in two bites, licking the rose syrup from her fingertips. Kivelli took one too, and lifted it towards her mouth while her hostess watched nervously. As her teeth sank into the crisp layers, the room began to spin and Kivelli was transported through the tall mirror into her father’s salon in Smyrna. Her hair was twisted in a loose chignon, her dress was made of salmon coloured silk, and she smiled demurely as she served tea and cake to a pert-faced young man who was now bones in the ground. She spat the pastry into her hand, and Marianthi emitted a small cry of distress, as if someone had pinched her under the table.
“I’m so sorry. Is it really awful? I thought you’d like it, that it would remind you of home.”
“I don’t want to remember home.” Kivelli snapped, her cheeks flushing, her voice louder and angrier with every word. “And I don’t understand what it is you want from me. We don’t know each other, and if it weren’t for …” The tears she swallowed made it hard to breathe, and she was afraid she might faint at this ridiculous woman’s feet. “… And you sit here acting like it never happened and we’re already best friends. So why don’t you just tell me what you’re after, and then we’ll see if you can afford it.”
For the first time since Kivelli had stepped through the door, Marianthi was at a loss for words. She stared into her coffee cup, and twisted and pulled her wedding band as if she couldn’t get it off. “Your voice,” she replied meekly. “I want your voice.”
Before Kivelli had a chance to absorb this or respond, she heard someone clear his throat. The Smyrniot stood in the doorway, a guitar tucked under his arm. Marianthi started when she saw him and her face tightened. He stepped into the dining room without addressing the women and took the chair at the head of the table. Marianthi jumped to her feet and hovered behind her husband for a moment before clearing away the plates and scuttling into the kitchen. When she returned, she loitered by the door as if awaiting an invitation. The Smyrniot paid no attention. He was so absorbed in tuning his guitar he might have been alone in the room. Kivelli peeked at Marianthi out of the corner of her eye. Her arms were crossed over her belly and her lips moved in what looked like a silent prayer. If Kivelli still prayed, she would have asked to disappear, but the best she could do was hope that her stay at the Smyrniots’ would pass quickly.
After what seemed an eternity filled with nothing but the twang and pull of strings, the Smyrniot finally spoke, his tone as cold and reticent as it had been at Barba Yannis’s: “I don’t have much time,” he said, and pushed a sheet of lyrics towards Kivelli. “So let’s get on with it.” Marianthi had not budged from her spot by the door and was still mouthing words no one else could hear. But her eyes were now closed, and she was tapping her foot softly, like a mangha, stoned and lost in his own world. At first glance, the song didn’t seem so different than the usual fare at the taverna — it had drugs and tough guys and heartbreak. But to Kivelli’s surprise, it gave the woman’s side of things. This was becoming more common, though the guys at Barba Yannis’s still preferred hearing their own stories sung back to them. She moved her lips over the words as soundlessly as Marianthi’s prayer, her mouth forming them, her tongue tasting them so they wouldn’t stumble out like a drunk’s proposal: stilted, awkward and worthless.
“Whenever you’re ready …,” the Smyrniot mumbled and began playing his guitar. Though the lyrics were lowdown, the music conjured calliopes, operas and Arab charmers with their dancing snakes. They filled Kivelli’s veins with ice; she sat frozen, burning at the same time, unable to cry for help, let alone sing. But when the notes circled back to where they’d begun, she opened her mouth and the words came out as if they were her own:
I am the girl, that goodtime girl, who all the manghes crave
But my heart swells for only one, I’ll take my
secret to the grave
Marianthi took a step closer, her lips forming the same words as Kivelli’s, praying to a god of love who lived down the hill and over the bridge in Drapetsona. For some reason this gave Kivelli confidence, and she sang the rest of the song to the Smyrniot’s wife in the same way she picked the mangha with the kindest eyes to focus on at Barba Yannis’s.
He doesn’t know I want him, doesn’t see that he’s the one
This man who plays bouzouki, like others shoot their guns
To Piraeus I came with no jewels, no clothes, no name
And now I’m going to lose my mind, mangha’s driving me insane
Both women’s eyes welled with tears, but not for the same reason. The tow of the Smyrniot’s music carried Kivelli back to summer fairs, boat races and cafés along the Quai, reminding her of the person she no longer was and would never be again. She’d been created by Smyrna to adorn its lovely streets, and one could not exist without the other. Now she was something like this song: a hybrid of beauty and beast. The gap between the two was cruel, and the pain of that cruelty flooded her voice.
Oh pretty boy, oh wicked boy, take pity on this tart
Let me light your narghile with the flames that eat my heart
It took a few moments for Kivelli to regain her composure after the song ended, so she missed what the Smyrniot said on his way out. “He wants you to meet him at the Hotel Xenos in Athens tomorrow morning,” Marianthi repeated after he was gone. “He’s going to record you. I knew it. I’m so happy!” She threw her arms around Kivelli, holding on as if she would never let go, her rose-tainted breath dampening the singer’s ear. “I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew it would be perfect.”
“It’s time for me to go as well.” Kivelli pulled away gently. “I need to rest before work, or I won’t wake up until noon tomorrow.” She didn’t remember the last time she’d seen morning light, except for the sly rays that seeped through her wooden shutters, streaking the floor and licking her eyelids like cats’ tongues.
Marianthi made a disappointed face, but did not protest. “Of course, of course. But you must come back tomorrow, after you’re done,” she insisted. “I want to hear every detail.”
Kivelli kissed her cheeks, then hurried down the hallway and out the front door. When she was sure Marianthi could no longer see her, she began to run, down the hill and towards the waterfront, desperate to get back to Drapetsona to find someone to tell. Someone who could celebrate with her or might try to change her mind.
12
I was getting high at Drosos’s dive one night
When a cop came in and spoiled my flight
He broke the narghile and swiped the hash
So I pulled my knife and he got slashed
Time would not pass at the taverna that night. Every song was a burden. Kivelli forgot lyrics, missed rhythms as if it was her first night on stage. No one mentioned her distractedness except Barba Yannis, who asked if she’d gone to the Smyrniot’s. Kivelli nodded but added nothing. The taverna keeper was accustomed to the company of manghes and knew never to ask a question twice.
The room was packed again, all its air sucked out and replaced with smoke and tension. The devils she knew seemed restless and ready to lash out at the newcomers, who were acting like they owned the place: flashing money, knives, pistols, and pestering the girls in the corner who knew better than to accept or reject prematurely. They were well aware how swiftly a pauper could dethrone a king.
Kivelli felt indifferent. Manghes came, manghes went, and they all wanted to hear the same songs in between. Though she was grateful to Barba Yannis for being decent and helping her escape Kyria Effie’s, she didn’t feel particularly committed to the taverna or the men who frequented it. At best they were friendly enemies who helped pay her way. She sang for her supper, and who the coins came from was of little consequence. Since the appearance of the Smyrniot, she had bigger things to think about than who was pissing on whose turf.
Sometime after one a.m. the band took a break. Kivelli was desperate to escape the swelter and smoke and bombastic voices of men talking of nothing, for nothing other than to be noticed. That no one had been beaten or shot yet was a miracle; if there was one thing a mangha needed it was room to move. The Catastrophe had taught her the mercilessness of crowds, how their small shifts and ripples could grow into a tidal wave that swept away everything in its path. Blood churned in her ears, and her temples felt ready to explode as she squeezed through the crush of bodies and anonymous hands passed over her buttocks, breasts and sex.
Outside, she leaned against a wall and breathed in the damp and fishy air until her heart calmed. Then she plucked a silver cigarette case from her handbag. It was perfectly square and had a zigzag design etched on its lid, the letters L.V. engraved in the bottom left corner. Its back was smooth and polished, and Kivelli watched herself light a cigarette, take a long drag and push the smoke out her nostrils like a mythical beast. Her face was impassive, and if L.V. caught her with his case in hand, his cigarette between her lips, she could easily deny lifting it from his jacket pocket and convince him that she had just that moment found it lying on the ground. Then she’d give it back to him and he’d buy her a drink for the good deed. She certainly had no use or desire for the case, no matter how pretty it was, how heavy and cool in her hands. The tobacco left a stale taste in her mouth, dried it out. She threw the half-smoked cigarette into the dirt, then dropped the case and kicked it away. What she needed was a drink, and she was prepared to brave the mob to get one.
She was stopped in her tracks by a noise from inside, like the low rumble in the bowels of a volcano before it erupted. Then manghes shot out the door, cursing and shoving as if the place were on fire, though the only smoke Kivelli smelled was from narghiles and cigarettes. Holding their hats to their heads, they ran like lava towards the water and into the dark, narrow alleyways that led away from the square. No one would stop for even a few seconds to tell her what was going on, until Lola the Redhead pushed her way out. She was followed by the blondes Kiki and Koula, who Kivelli was always mistaking for one another, and Narella, who was laughing at the spectacle of fleeing men. The girls seemed less rattled, though Lola was thoroughly annoyed she’d had to fight her way out and that her new dress had been scarred in the melee. When she stopped bawling out the men who were still pushing and elbowing their way past her, she patted down the pink organza of her skirt and told Kivelli what she’d missed. Lola was a veteran, so it was best to just take her word on most things, even her claim that she was only twenty-two, though she seemed to know Barba Yannis from a long way back.
In the close quarters of the taverna, squeezed between the old boys and the new, an undercover police squad was playing it tough: cursing, slapping each other’s backs, drinking and throwing money around. “Not much money,” Narella added with disdain, “but enough to be noticed.” Before the Cucumber had christened the place, everyone knew everyone else: the manghes from the mystery men, the good cops from the bad. Now it had become so cramped that the big man didn’t come anymore, though the damage had been done. Barba Yannis’s was full of strangers and fakes, and no one could tell the difference.
“The bastard was even cute,” Lola said of the ringleader, who pulled a badge out of the pocket that should have held a flask.
“If they dressed a little better, maybe they wouldn’t look like such bad guys,” Kiki added. “I hate men in uniforms. They think they know something.”
Real manghes would have dealt with the situation quietly, cleanly, and with no leftovers. They were willing to go all the way to the devil, even if it meant being thrown into Syngrou for a night or a year. They’d find some friends there, make the best of it and come out with an even bigger reputation. Not like the posers and wannabes running to save their skins — Kivelli hadn’t recognized one face in the blur of the exodus. The regulars were still inside, standing by Barba Yannis, waiting to see what would happen. Because it was for the fat, happ
y taverna keeper that the cops had come. And whoever else they picked up on the side, stroking a bouzouki or sucking on a narghile, would just be a bonus.
The cigarette case on the ground caught Lola’s eye, and she picked it up and polished it against her skirt. She ran her fingernail over the initials, then opened the case and slipped one of the neatly lined cigarettes between her pouty lips. “Lefteris must have dropped it when he was running home to his wife.” She exhaled arabesques of smoke that looped above the girls’ heads like ambivalent halos before rising into the sky. Kiki and Koula also took a cigarette, but when Lola offered Kivelli one, she shook her head no. “You don’t smoke, eh, Kivelli?” Lola asked, slipping the case into her small leather purse.
“Not much. Bad for my voice.”
“That’s a shame,” she replied. “Helps pass the time.” She blew a smoky kiss and walked off towards the dim light of the docks, accepting Lefteris’s cigarette case as payment for whatever aggravations the night had caused her. Kiki and Koula followed like goslings, squabbling about which one the ringleader liked more. Narella kissed Kivelli’s cheek and went off to find Crazy Manos, who would be sorry he’d missed the excitement.
Things were quiet inside — too quiet. Kivelli knew she should just go home and rest her voice for whatever the morning might bring. She had no particular love of trouble or taste for the type of drama that inspired the most popular songs at the taverna. But she’d managed to buy a new, pale blue linen jacket and a sweet, shortbrimmed, black hat from the market, which were now trapped in the storeroom. She’d worked hard for these small vanities. Who knew when she would be able to replace them? If she got killed on the way in, she hoped they’d bury her in them.
The Goodtime Girl Page 7
