by Gill Paul
“How are your feet?” he asked.
“They’re okay.” She searched his face, looking for some compassion, but it was a closed book. There was a brandy bottle beside him and a near-empty glass. It wasn’t like him to drink in the morning.
“The seaplane is ready. It will take you to Athens as soon as you have packed.” He was slurring his words, with sibilant s’s, and she knew he was drunker than she had seen him in a long time. Had he stayed up drinking all night?
Part of her wanted to take care of him, and part of her wanted to smash that bottle over his stupid, stubborn head. But she had her pride, so she turned and swept upstairs to start packing. She threw clothes into cases any old way, her heart hammering, hot tears trying to squeeze out of the corners of her eyes. What else could she do? No fresh ideas came to her.
She charged noisily through the villa’s main rooms, picking up books and records that were hers and throwing them into bags. In an opera, there would have been drumrolls, cymbals crashing. The door to Ari’s study was open, and she knew he could hear. She hesitated over her seashells but decided they would likely break in transit, so she wrapped just a few favorites and put them in her handbag.
Next, she applied makeup, drawing her trademark black Cleopatra lines around her eyes. Now she couldn’t cry or they would smudge. She was determined not to cry. She fixed her hair, called for the gardener to carry her suitcases, and walked downstairs, head held high.
Ari rose and came toward her but she held up her hand to stop him. She couldn’t bear his embrace, one of goodbye. If he did that, she would break down.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “I hate you.” She walked out to the jeep in which she would be driven down to the jetty without once looking back.
THE JOURNEY WAS agony, but Maria kept her composure, tipping porters, smiling at stewardesses, asking her Paris taxi driver about the aftermath of the riots. When she got to Avenue Georges Mandel, Bruna was out.
Maria took a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator, found her favorite crystal glass, and retreated to the bathroom. The sun was setting outside as she popped the champagne cork and poured herself a glass, using it to wash down a Nembutal sleeping pill. Then she drank another glass, and another. She wanted to reach a state in which it didn’t hurt anymore.
At one point she tried to call Maggie van Zuylen but there was no reply. She must be on vacation. Next she got the operator to place a call to Mary Carter in Texas.
“It’s all over,” she lisped when Mary answered. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. “Ari and me. Finished. Almost nine years down the drain.”
“What are you talking about?” Mary asked. “What happened?”
“He chose Mrs. Kennedy. That’s what happened.” Tears came, and great sobs that tore at her throat.
“Oh, my dahlin’, I’m so, so sorry.”
Maria couldn’t bear her sympathy. It made things worse. “I can’t talk about it,” she said. “I thought I could but I can’t. I’ll phone back tomorrow.”
She hung up and refilled her glass. If only she could sleep. The Nembutal wasn’t working, but the doctor had warned her not to take more than one. Maybe if she had a couple of Valium as well, that would do the trick. She tipped them into her hand and swallowed them. The phone was ringing but she ignored it. Instead she lay on her rose velvet sofa, drinking and crying until she drifted into unconsciousness.
Chapter 58
The Greek Islands
August 1968
Jackie lay on a lounge chair on the deck of the Christina, as if in a trance. Fierce sun was roasting her shins but she couldn’t find the energy to move. Her bones had sunk into the cushions like dead weights.
She could hear shrieks of excitement coming from the sea alongside. Ari was teaching John to water-ski, patiently demonstrating how to position his skis, bending his knees as if sitting on a chair and keeping his arms straight as he held the towrope. Every time he fell over with a yell of frustration, Ari turned the launch to help him try again. He was kind to her children; that was reassuring.
When he had swept into town after Bobby died, offering to marry her, she said yes straightaway. What else could she do? She wasn’t safe, her children weren’t safe, and he was the only person who could protect them.
Since then she hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours a night. Her body was exhausted, but when she lay down in bed her brain stayed on full alert, memories of Jack’s and Bobby’s murders playing like gruesome silent-movie footage in her head. The piece of skull arcing through the air; Jack’s unseeing eyes in the hospital emergency room; the blank expression on Bobby’s face that told her he was no longer there. How many days could a human being survive without sleep? It was hard to concentrate now. Her brain felt like a television set stuck between channels, full of zigzag lines and emitting a buzzing sound.
Teddy was talking to someone on the telephone, his tone impatient. He was annoyed with her. Suddenly the job of being head of the Kennedy clan had landed in his lap, while he was still floored by grief for his brother. There were legal issues, financial issues, political issues to deal with. The last thing he needed was to be here, cruising in the Greek islands, negotiating the terms of her marriage to a man he didn’t like or trust. He’d made his views very plain: he thought Jackie had gone stark, staring mad.
“What do you have in common? Nothing. You’re an intellectual and he’s a heathen. He doesn’t even read books.”
“He has a broad general knowledge,” Jackie replied. “Besides, there are different kinds of intelligence.”
“You haven’t even thought about where you will live. It’s not fair to take your children out of school to attend some backwater establishment in Athens.”
“We’ll work it out.”
In truth, Jackie couldn’t envisage how it would work.
“Have you thought about what the American press will say?” Teddy closed his eyes and shook his head briefly.
“I don’t give a damn. I’m fed up being their sacred widow. I can’t wait to be toppled from that particular pedestal.” She yearned to leave America and be a stranger in a strange land. She wanted to leave the Kennedys too; she’d had enough of them telling her whom to talk to and how to act.
She’d gotten support, though, from an unexpected source: Rose Kennedy had taken to Ari during their Hyannis Port visit. “He has a good sense of humor and a pleasant manner,” she said. “You marry him if you like, dear. I just want you to be happy.”
But Ethel had made her disapproval plain, and Jackie’s mother was strongly against the match. It turned out that Janet Auchincloss had known about his affair with Lee all along. “I walked in on them!” She shuddered. “She was staying with him in Claridge’s a couple of years ago. Disgusting little man!” She shook her head as if to expunge the memory. “Does Lee know what you are planning? How do you think she will feel about you jumping into bed with her ex? It’s unsavory, to say the least.”
“That’s ancient history, Mother,” Jackie said uncertainly. She was too fragile to talk to Lee. She couldn’t face conflict. It took all her strength just to get through each day.
Ari had disappeared into her stepfather’s study for over an hour, and the two men emerged only when dinner was served. Jackie hoped that was a good sign. Hugh Auchincloss was tight-lipped when she asked what they had discussed, but she assumed it must have something to do with business. That’s all they had in common.
ONE EVENING, AS Jackie and Ari sat on the deck of the Christina, enjoying a “sundowner”—vodka for her, whiskey for him—she raised the subject of her sister. He was holding her hand loosely, stroking between her fingers.
“I haven’t told Lee about us yet. Do you think she will mind?”
“I’m sure she just wants you to be happy,” Ari replied.
Jackie gave a throaty laugh. “No, she doesn’t. She’s fiercely competitive with me, always has been.”
“Does it matter what she thinks? The only two p
eople who should have a say in our relationship are you and me.”
“I don’t want to alienate her. I want her to come to our wedding.” Her voice trembled. She was worried about Lee but couldn’t face calling her in person.
Ari pulled his hand away and picked up his brandy glass. “Why are women so sentimental about weddings? As far as I’m concerned, it’s just a scrap of paper, nothing more. I’ve agreed with Teddy that I will provide for you and the children. That’s settled. We don’t need a ceremony.”
Jackie took out a cigarette, and Ari leaned over to light it for her.
“I may not be a practicing Catholic, but all that guilt about fornication and sin makes its mark,” she told him. “Don’t you ever worry about your immortal soul?”
He guffawed. “My soul is beyond redemption.”
“Really? Are you as corrupt as they say?”
“Who says I’m corrupt? Give me their names and I’ll sue.” He sat back to watch her.
“I need a wedding, Telis,” she said softly, thinking of a conversation she had overheard the previous evening.
Some Greek musicians had been invited on board to play for them. The children were whirling each other in giddy circles. Teddy and Ari were talking quietly halfway down the deck, but somehow their words drifted through the night air, audible over the music.
Ari had said, “Which other market would force me to commit to the purchase without testing the goods first? Especially a purchase that is quite so expensive.”
And Teddy replied, “That’s between you and Jacqueline. I’m not going to negotiate your sex life for you as well.”
It chilled Jackie to the bone, but in the next moment she decided to ignore it. Men would be men. It hadn’t been meant for her ears.
“Is there a rush to get married?” he asked now. “Might it not be seen as distasteful so soon after Bobby’s murder? We could be together discreetly and keep it under the radar so the press doesn’t catch on.”
“Are you kidding?” she asked. “Try walking a day in my shoes. News of this trip has already leaked.”
“Has it?” he asked, acting surprised, but she could tell he knew.
What am I doing? she wondered. She had no touchstone anymore, no moral compass. First there had been her daddy, then Jack, then Bobby, but now there was no one whose opinion she could trust. She was entirely on her own and her brain wasn’t functioning properly. All she could think was that she wasn’t safe, she needed help, and Ari would protect her.
He cared about her. She was sure that was genuine. She loved his thoughtfulness and all the layers of protection his wealth could buy. He was already advising on her personal finances, buying shares and making investments in her name. She would never have to worry about money again.
“I don’t care what anyone else says,” she told him. “I’m looking forward to being your wife, to love and to cherish from this day forward . . .” She stopped, remembering the end of the quotation—“Till death do us part.” Ari was twenty-three years older than she was. She didn’t think she could cope with another bereavement. She was already so smashed up she was barely functioning.
Chapter 59
Paris
August 1968
Maria awoke slowly, aware of a familiar voice saying, “She’s coming round.”
She opened her eyes a slit. Bright sunlight was reflecting off white sheets and white walls, and there, with a halo of light around her head, was Bruna, along with a nurse.
“What happened . . . ?” she croaked, then stopped. Her throat felt raw and she didn’t want to strain it.
Bruna rushed to explain: “I couldn’t rouse you last night and there were open pill bottles on the floor so I rang an ambulance. You’re fine, though. They think you were just in a deep sleep.”
“Please don’t tell Ari,” Maria whispered. She would hate for him to hear of it.
“Of course not,” Bruna promised.
“I didn’t try to kill myself.” Memories filtered back of the night before, and she knew she had just wanted the pain to stop. It hadn’t been a suicide attempt; not like her mother’s.
“Mary Carter rang while I was waiting for the ambulance and I’ve rung back to tell her that you’re fine.”
Maria vaguely recalled telephoning Mary but had no idea what she had said.
“As soon as the doctor discharges you, Mary wants you to pack a case and fly to the States. She is going to take you on a road trip through the American South. An adventure, she said, to take your mind off everything.”
Maria considered this. “What if Ari is trying to find me?”
“If there is anything urgent, I will take a message.” Bruna’s tone was cold, judgmental. She had turned against him.
Maria lay back on her pillows. It sounded like a plan. At least it would be better than sitting in Avenue Georges Mandel waiting for him to call. Anything would be better than that.
ONCE SHE WAS well enough, Maria flew to Kansas City, where Mary Carter met her, and they began a crazy six-week tour in a rented Cadillac DeVille that took them to Colorado Springs, Santa Fe, Las Vegas, L.A., and San Francisco, followed by a flight to Cuernavaca in Mexico, then back to Dallas. They stayed in motels and with friends, ate in diners and fancy restaurants, shopped in dime stores and designer boutiques, and the whole time Maria talked and talked.
“All my life I’ve been undefended,” she told Mary. “My mother didn’t love me, didn’t even like me, and my father was too weak to take my side. Battista was a pimp, only interested in hiring me out for cash. The press turned against me. The audience at La Scala booed me. And now Ari has abandoned me . . . it is my fate. Some people are born to be happy but I was not one of them. I am destined always to be the tragic heroine.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. You have so much going for you,” Mary argued. “You have the greatest voice of our time, and you have dozens of good friends. Loyal friends.”
“I am not loveable. I’m too irascible, and I upset people by speaking home truths.”
“That’s not true. I love you. All your friends love you.”
Maria ignored that. “Nine years I gave him. Nine years! I neglected my career and let my voice deteriorate—all for him! I left my marriage for him. I looked after him better than any wife and put him on a pedestal, even when I knew he was being disloyal. I was always honest with him. He said he loved me so many times, Mary. All lies. I’ve got no child, no ring on my finger, nothing to show for it, nothing to look forward to. Just lonely middle age, and then death.”
A vivid memory came back of their first meeting in the Hotel Danieli, when he had said, “If I make you a promise, I will always keep it.” Had he broken promises to her? He’d said, “When the time is right, we will marry,” but presumably he would argue that the time had never been right. She should have paid more attention to the fine print before committing herself so wholeheartedly.
“You could go back to singing,” Mary suggested. “Directors would jump at the chance to have Maria Callas perform again. You could choose a repertoire that suits you. Promise you’ll think about it.”
Maria felt exhausted at the thought. She would have to practice slavishly for months to get her voice back to performance level. But it would be a way of regaining her dignity. She could show Ari what he was missing. At least she had talent; what did Mrs. Kennedy have except a famous dead husband?
EVERY MORNING, WHEREVER they were staying, Maria called Bruna in Paris to find out if Ari had phoned. Always she replied that there had been no word. Maria agonized. Where was he now? He’d told her Mrs. Kennedy was visiting only for a couple of weeks. She called Maggie and a few other friends in Paris, but no one had any news.
“Forget about him,” Mary urged.
“I’m not going to forget him in a few short weeks . . .”
“But promise me you’ll do your best, honey.”
Maria couldn’t tell her that she fantasized about Ari calling to say he couldn’t live without her and begging
her to come back. It was all she thought about. A love as great as theirs couldn’t simply be over; it was unthinkable. They’d had two passionate months in the Caribbean that spring, and a romantic month on Skorpios in July. How could love evaporate so quickly?
She knew she had made a tactical error. Ari was not the type of man to whom she should have issued an ultimatum. It had driven him away, leaving the field clear for Mrs. Kennedy. If she had not lost her temper, she could have been back on Skorpios with him by the end of August. She bitterly regretted that final argument, but she had reached her limit. She couldn’t continue letting him push her aside every time Mrs. Kennedy lifted her little finger and beckoned. She had to keep some dignity.
Maria did her best to put on a brave face for Mary, to chat gaily with all the friends they visited, to discuss her operatic “comeback,” to paint on her black eyeliner, dress up, and venture into the world, but beneath the mask she was bruised and bloodied. As the days passed, then the weeks, the pain got worse, not better.
Where was he? What was he doing? Did he miss her even a fraction as much as she missed him?
IN MID-SEPTEMBER, THEY returned to Mary’s Dallas home, where Maria learned from a newspaper that Ari was in his Pierre Hotel suite in New York. That was encouraging. Surely if he and Mrs. Kennedy were a couple, he would have stayed at her apartment? It had been over six weeks since she had spoken to him, and she couldn’t tolerate the silence any longer. She had to hear his voice.
She waited until Mary was driving her daughter to school before dialing the number, feeling sick with nerves. She had to give her name before the operator would connect the call. Would he even accept it?
“Hello, Maria,” he said when he picked up. She couldn’t detect any warmth in his tone.
“How are you, Ari?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Also fine.” She told him about her road trip, and of her decision to go back to professional performance.
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad.” That was all.
