Maria, who had no trouble identifying with most of Aristo’s rivalries and enmities, never really understood this one. It was too personal, too irrational, too paranoid, and it threw a shadow over his life right to the end. A month before he died, knowing he was dying, he made Tryfon Koutalidis, Olympic’s lawyer, swear that the fight against Niarchos would go on after his death. Maria, who knew Onassis as only love can know, could see how destructive this obsession was and begged him to put an end to it. Even his children, and especially Alexander, had been infected by it. They had been brought up to think of Niarchos as “the other side,” and, considering that he was married to Eugenia, their mother’s elder sister, this made things emotionally rather confusing for them.
At the time of the breakup of their parents’ marriage, Alexander Onassis was twelve and Christina nine. They had instantly and instinctively turned against Maria. She was “the other woman,” “the singer” as Alexander would call her to the end, who stole their father from their mother. They would not forgive her, and even after Tina had remarried they went on hoping their parents would reunite. In their minds “the singer” was always the obstacle. Maria, who had no problem conquering a hostile audience, was quite lost when it came to winning over Aristo’s children, even though she knew how much it meant to him. The first time she was in London after the beginning of their relationship she went to Harrods and spent a long time choosing cashmere sweaters and scarves for the children. Scornfully, Alexander and Christina left the presents unopened. Maria went on trying, but nothing changed. Christina was merely cold with her, but Alexander went out of his way to upset her, irritate her, if possible provoke an explosion. Zeffirelli remembers one hot August afternoon on the Christina: “We had finished lunch and most people were getting ready to have a siesta. Maria always had an hour’s siesta and all guests on the boat were expected either to do the same or to make sure they made no noise. Then suddenly in the middle of this marvelously peaceful afternoon there came a thundering noise and the boat began to rock. Alexander had chosen this moment not only to water-ski around the Christina, but also to create an artificial storm with his speed boat.”
It was only one of a series of practical jokes played on Maria by Alexander. Ari thought them all very funny, and not once did he take her side against the children. At first Maria complained, but gradually she stopped, feeling that more might be achieved if she said nothing. Onassis, far from reconciling the children and Maria, used their dislike of her to his advantage; for at least as long as it was necessary to go on providing reasons and explanations, he would put forward the emotional upheaval it would cause the children as the main reason for not going ahead with their marriage.
His children, and especially his son and heir, were extremely important to Onassis, even though he often treated Alexander as an extension of his own outsized ego rather than as his child. There was equally no doubt in anyone who saw them together that the children had closed their hearts to Maria long before, and had determined to dislike and resist everything about her—especially her clumsy attempts to win them over. Of course, if Onassis had really wanted to marry Maria, his children’s wishes would have been firmly set aside, which is exactly what happened when he decided to marry Jackie, even though by then the children were of an age to make their wishes much more clearly understood. Christina referred to her stepmother as “my father’s unhappy compulsion,” and the kindest thing that Alexander had to say about Jackie was: “My father needs a wife, but I don’t need a mother.” In 1962 he did need a second mother, but he did not need and certainly did not want “the singer” in this role.
Meanwhile, on February 27, the singer was singing again, at the Royal Festival Hall in London. Included in the program was “Ocean! thou mighty monster” from Oberon. It was the first time Maria had sung in English in public and it was also the first time that the English musical press turned against her. There were the complaints about the atmosphere that night, with the fancy lighting and so many fancy unmusical people—an atmosphere reminiscent of pop singers and nightclubs and, according to The Times, “unworthy of Miss Callas.” Then there were the comments on her voice, which rankled for days afterward. “It has been clear for some time that her voice has been sinking in pitch,” said the Sunday Telegraph. “Her voice is now quite ugly, and even out of tune,” said The Times. But the audience was ecstatic. The orchestra stood up and joined in the applause and the social press gushed endlessly: “Her voice is the magnet that has inexorably attracted a high-society audience from their planes, trains and cars which normally on the Friday before Whitsun would be rushing them out of the capital,” wrote the Daily Express. Some magnet had certainly attracted them, but it had very little to do with Maria’s voice. At the intermission there were many more references to the absence of Onassis than to Maria’s middle register. After the concert Vergottis gave a supper party for Maria at the Savoy. The table was decorated with flowers shaped into an M and the guests around it included a fair proportion of the entries in Debrett: a duke and his duchess (Bedford), two marquesses and their marchionesses (Camden and Tavistock), a knight and his lady (Renwick), Dame Margot Fonteyn and assorted esquires and their wives.
“I had the great joy,” said Maria later of Vergottis, “of considering him more than my father because I never really had a father or a mother. I was very happy and he knew it, and he considered me his greatest joy. He was very proud to travel around with me and participate in my glory.” In many ways Vergottis was more than a father for Maria; very soon he became a surrogate husband, filling the gaps that Onassis left, frequently traveling with her wherever she was singing, always supportive, always ready to discuss everything with her, whether financial, artistic or personal, and always happy, as Maria put it, to “participate in my glory.” All these were things that Maria needed but that Onassis was prepared to provide only intermittently and on his own terms.
After a ten-day tour of Germany, she was back in London for a recording of mezzo arias. “Is Callas becoming a mezzo?” many critics wondered. Because of the distinct breaks between her three registers, Maria had always sung with three “voices” and even talked of “my three voices.” She had worked hard all her life to produce seamless lines of sound in a constant struggle with technique, an unending battle to overcome the natural limitations of her voice. Now, when her upper register was becoming more difficult to control and the shrillness at the top more pronounced, Maria had to rely on her middle voice, which had always been full and mature. She contemplated the mezzo repertoire that could open in front of her. She saw herself as Dido, as Carmen, as the fiery Eboli; she recorded mezzo arias in London; two years later she even recorded the whole of Carmen. But imprisoned in her legend, and by now afraid of the hard work such a new career would involve, she dared not take the step that might have added years to her artistic life. At that moment she was too full of other hopes and later she would be too beaten.
That spring, while she was in London, Maria heard of her mother’s attempted suicide in New York. On the table in Evangelia’s hotel room were a note to Maria, a note to the public and small gifts for her friends. A few days after she had been admitted to Roosevelt Hospital, the doctor who had treated her wrote to Maria:
Your mother, Mrs Evangelia Callas, was brought to The Roosevelt Hospital on Thursday, April 26, 1962. She stated that she had taken an indefinite amount of hypnotics in an attempt to injure herself. . . . Her hospital course was good, and it was felt that she could be discharged on April 29, 1962. She was seen by a psychiatrist in consultation, Dr. William Boyce, who felt that while she is an unstable personality, it is reasonably safe to return her to her present environment.
Evangelia later spoke of her suicide attempt as another effort “to rouse Maria.” Maria was roused, but even her concern was cold. A year later she was writing to Dr. Lantzounis: “If she is sick (mentally) tell me if it is necessary to put her in some good home—maybe in Europe where things are cheaper. I don’t know—but pleas
e help me.”
In May, Maria was in New York, but her godfather’s attempts to persuade her to go and see her mother were in vain. On May 19, 1962, at New York’s Madison Square Garden, her life touched for the first time that of the woman who, six years later, was to take her place at the side, though never really in the heart, of Aristotle Onassis. The occasion was a star-studded celebration of President Kennedy’s forty-fifth birthday. Maria sang the Habanera and the Sequidilla from Carmen. She was wildly applauded by a packed crowd of 18,000. The next day she left for Milan and one of the greatest ordeals of her career.
She was due to sing two more performances of Medea, but even at the rehearsals her sinus trouble made singing high or long notes intensely painful. On the first night, nerves and fears meant that she was in agony even before she opened her mouth, and when she did sing her first line, “Io? Medea!” (“I? Medea!”), suddenly, and to the horror of everyone present, her voice cracked. The rest of the performance was a superhuman effort. The next morning the unfavorable reviews were tinged with a note of sadness for a voice in shreds. The second Medea was the last time she ever sang at La Scala, but discussions and negotiations continued on all sorts of fronts and the list of might-have-beens grew with each month that passed: Les Huguenots with Sutherland; the Countess in The Marriage of Figaro; Monteverdi’s Poppea; even Tristan und Isolde. More realistically a new Visconti production of Trovatore for Covent Garden, with Giulini conducting, was discussed again and again.
The mere thought of committing herself to a new production filled Maria with anguish, but it was psychologically important for her to keep the negotiations going and to close no more professional doors. She became the mistress of delaying tactics. “Madame Callas,” wrote Sander Gorlinsky to David Webster, “has pointed out to me that until now her fee at Covent Garden has been very low, considerably less than she receives in other opera houses, and this time she really wants a fee in acccordance with her reputation and box office draw.” Negotiations over her fee would certainly keep the dialogue going for a little longer; then there could be negotiations over the tenor, the conductor or rehearsal time. Only the most loyal opera managers—and David Webster was one of them—would play her game, having sensed that behind it lay anxiety rather than prima donna tactics and tantrums.
After the Scala Medea, Maria, heartbroken and weary, withdrew to the Christina. Ari was her great passion but at moments like that he was more: he was her savior from the slavery to the voice, to reviewers and to the public’s reactions. At the same time Aristo, more than anyone else before or after, could, with a word or even a look, tumble her into a state of self-conscious insecurity. He intensely disliked seeing her with glasses and several times and in the presence of others had told her that they made her look plain. And Maria, who never managed to wear her contact lenses without discomfort, carried her glasses in her hand: putting them on to orient herself and quickly taking them off again. So most of the time the world around her was hidden in a menacing mist—half-seen people and things that, as a result, took on a sinister vagueness. Beauties are traditionally measured by the havoc they cause but Maria never considered herself beautiful. She never liked her body; she was always self-conscious about her legs and she was only really confident about her long, expressive hands. “She is not very beautiful,” Biki said, “but she has that indefinable something that you find in certain animals like the hare, the eagle, the racehorse.”
The indefinable quality was something that Maria recognized and sought in others. “It makes you feel like quicksilver, vibrant, alive,” she said once. “To me it’s a sign of energy and youth, call it what you will. Animals are like that, too—dogs look at you and try to see what is in your mind before you say it. I like to be with quick people, quick thinking, quick talking.” That quickness, that aliveness, was one of the things she most loved about Ari, even though it included the restlessness that she so much wished was not there. It is quite remarkable how little Maria tried to change him. He, on the other hand, could not resist trying to make her different. Having so far failed to persuade her to do a film, he took it on himself to change the way she dressed. His own clothes always suggested that he had several other things on his mind while dressing. Later on they would give rise to one of Jackie’s most constant jibes: “Look at him,” she would say. “He must have four hundred suits. But he wears the same gray one in New York, the same blue one in Paris and the same brown in London.”
Yet his tastes in women’s clothes were very definite and he would often telephone Maria at Biki’s during her fittings to make sure that his instructions were being followed. He loved her in black, and at that time Maria ordered one black dress after another, even though her own favorite colors were red and turquoise. And always plenty of shawls. “Not even the best fashion models,” remembers Biki, “could wear shawls as Maria could. Like the ancient Greeks, she had a long torso and short legs, the exact opposite of a model’s figure. But, what do you want, she wore clothes like no one else.” Onassis also made her change the way she did her hair. He sent her to Alexandre in Paris, who disposed of her long mane and created for her instead a short hairstyle—jollier, younger and more sophisticated. Maria was enjoying the transformation. Her readiness to change the outward appearance was part of her readiness to throw the old Callas away in search of a new identity.
On November 4, 1962, Maria broke her five-month-long silence to take part in a performance televised from the stage of Covent Garden. In her short Alexandre hairstyle, she looked young and radiant. She sang “Tu che le vanità” from Don Carlo, followed by the Habanera and the Seguidilla from Carmen. During the Habanera her heavy diamond bracelet suddenly fell from her wrist. Without for a second stepping out of role, she went on singing and, with her unique sense of dramatic timing, she stooped at an appropriate moment on the stage, picked up the bracelet, put it back on and continued. A potentially embarrassing moment had become part of the performance.
Once again she fell silent—this time for six months. The year closed with a letter from the Welfare Department in New York informing Maria that her mother had applied for public assistance and that, in accordance with the law, she was “responsible for her support to the extent of her ability to contribute.” The letter found Maria in a particularly bitter mood. Through her book, her appearance in a nightclub and her attempted suicide, Evangelia had succeeded in finally making the breach with her daughter irreparable. Yet at that lowest point in their relationship, the daughter was obliged to begin supporting the mother. Afraid that the papers would find out about her mother being on welfare, Maria wrote urgently to her godfather, giving him complete authority to reach a settlement. At the end of January she received a letter from him with the details of the agreement he had reached:
I wrote to your Mother and to Mr. Copeland of the Welfare Department to meet me in my office on Monday, January 28th. I found Mr. Copeland to be a gentleman and a reasonable man and in front of him I told your Mother that if I ever hear that she makes a television or night-club appearance or anything that draws publicity I will stop her allowance the same day. Your Mother reassured me that no such thing will happen and Mr. Copeland agreed that my request is extremely reasonable. Because your Mother’s rent is $130.00 a month I gave her a check for $200.00 and promised her that every 25th to 28th of each month I will send her a check for $200.00. Of course I realize that with such a rent it is not enough, but if she can abstain from publicity for six months to a year I told her, and I am quite sure you will agree, you will increase her allowance. . . . Maria, your Mother left the office in good spirits and I hope she will keep her promise.
But Evangelia found it very difficult to abstain from publicity. When Maria read an interview her mother had given to the Italian magazine Gente, she exploded in a letter to her godfather: “You have got to help me put some sense into her head and make her realize her position and shut her lovely mouth. Anyway that’s like cancer. I’ll never get rid of her and the consequences.” T
he letter was permeated by her fears and doubts: “I have a wonderful friendship with the person you know,” she wrote, as so often in her letters referring to Onassis in the abstract rather than by name, “but I think I have gone through too much and started working too early in life not to feel tired and with no enthusiasm left for anything.”
The year 1963 had begun with mingled hope and doubt and, whenever her relationship with Ari showed signs of flagging, her doubts reawakened. Would she be able to keep him? Was she doing the right thing? Was she good enough? Maria, who wanted the perfect relationship as much as she had wanted the perfect performance, constantly blamed herself whenever real life with Aristo did not match the dream: if only she had planned things differently, surely there would have been no conflicts. At the beginning of their relationship she had found it much easier to relax and accept life as it unfolded, but now, three years later, she began to feel that, because it was only through effort that she had achieved everything she wanted, it was only through effort that she would keep Onassis. However, this meant being and behaving as she thought Aristo wanted her to, instead of as she felt. It was as if she was moving toward an enchanted land that receded as she approached, and, as time passed, her longing for their future together made it much more difficult for her to enjoy their present.
With no professional engagements to distract her, her life had merged with Aristo’s: dinners at Maxim’s, the races, other people’s first nights, waiting for the dawn at Régine’s, a medley of new clothes, new people, new sensations. Prince and Princess Radziwill—Stash and Lee—were among the new people. They had come into Ari’s life shortly after his divorce, and they were becoming an integral part of it. If Maria’s life story were ever turned into opera, the first appearance of Lee Radziwill would be signaled by a hint of prophetic uneasiness in the music. It was Lee who, later in 1963, brought Onassis and her sister Jackie together. For the moment the Radziwills were simply a glamorous addition to the circle.
Maria Callas Page 31
