Jackie and Maria

by Gill Paul

  They flew to Skorpios for the long summer vacation, taking Jackie’s and Lee’s children—Lee was too busy to join them, she claimed—but none of his usual pursuits interested him. He had bought a Jet Ski and the children took turns on it, but Ari, who usually loved new toys, sat watching from a deck chair on the beach, his expression inscrutable behind dark glasses.

  Previously he used to spend hours in his office, making deals over international telephone calls, but now the only thing that motivated him was hiring private investigators to prove that Alexander’s plane had been sabotaged. The first inquiry ruled that the cause of the crash had been mechanical failure, but Ari refused to accept it, offering a reward of $20 million to anyone who could prove that his son had been murdered. It became an obsession. He paced around the villa, muttering to himself about it.

  Every night after dinner he took a bottle of ouzo and two glasses to Alexander’s tomb, by the chapel in which he and Jackie had been married, and sat, drinking himself into a stupor. He poured a glass for himself and a glass for Alex, and sat in the dark, talking to his son as if he were there. A stray dog that he had adopted always lay on the grass nearby. Jackie crept up to watch sometimes but did not intervene, for fear of sparking his temper.

  She often overheard him on the telephone to Maria. He was invariably in a calmer mood after the calls, so she never interrupted. She could look after his physical needs and, if Maria was the person he chose to confide in, she was glad that at least he had someone.

  By late summer, Jackie was beginning to wonder if the drooping around Ari’s eyes was caused by something other than weeping. She persuaded him to consult a private doctor in Athens, and he was sent for a battery of tests, after which he was diagnosed with a rare condition called myasthenia gravis.

  “It’s a neurological disorder that causes weakening of the muscles,” his doctor told him. “It can usually be arrested by taking steroids, but you’ll need to come for regular checkups so we can adjust the dose and watch for side effects.”

  “What caused it?” Ari asked.

  “No one knows for sure,” the doctor said, “but grief can weaken the immune system so that it malfunctions. That’s one theory.”

  Jackie reached over to grip Ari’s hand.

  SHE CONSIDERED STAYING in Europe that winter to look after him, but he insisted that she fly home to New York with Caroline and John. Life there had become easier since a three-year legal battle with Ron Gallela had finally led to an order that he stay twenty-five feet away from her and thirty feet away from her children. Ari was furious at the astronomical lawyers’ bills that arrived in Olympic Airways’ New York office. He had maintained all along that Jackie should either learn to ignore the man or stay away from New York.

  “Congratulations!” he mocked. “You’ve made Mr. Gallela a household name. He’ll get much better rates for his photos now.”

  “I had no choice,” she argued. “You weren’t there. It wasn’t just me; the kids were petrified too.”

  Her spending remained a flashpoint, so she tried to be careful. She couldn’t seem to curtail her shopping habit, but a store on the Upper West Side bought designer outfits that had been worn only once or twice, sometimes not at all, and paid cash for them. It gave her an extra income stream that Ari knew nothing about.

  She knew he was having business worries. The price of oil had gone through the roof because of war in the Middle East, making it more expensive to run his ships; the deal he had been trying to make with the Greek colonels was never mentioned now; and she knew he was negotiating to hand over control of Olympic Airways to the government. Since his son’s death, he couldn’t bear to have anything to do with it.

  October 1973 brought another crashing blow, when his first wife, Tina, died under suspicious circumstances at the home of her new husband, Stavros Niarchos. The autopsy ruled that she had suffered acute edema of the lung, but Ari didn’t believe it.

  “He wooed her, then murdered her to get at me,” he raged. “I want that man locked up. Or dead. Preferably dead.”

  The loss of Tina so soon after that of their son devastated him so completely that Jackie began to fear for his sanity. She discussed him with her psychiatrist, who suggested that Ari would benefit from some professional help of his own, but there was no chance of him agreeing to that. His indomitable pride stopped him from admitting weakness. In many ways, he was his own worst enemy.

  Chapter 73

  Paris

  December 1974

  Maria still couldn’t believe she was meeting Ari, after her final vow back in 1970 that she would never see him again. He had begged her, and this time she had given in. Yes, it was for lunch, not dinner, but after her return from a world concert tour that had taken her across the States and over to Japan, they met in a quiet bistro in the 16th arrondissement.

  Huddled together at a corner table, knees touching, they ordered sole meunière with creamy lyonnaise potatoes, accompanied by an ice-cold white Burgundy, but a side effect of the myasthenia gravis was that he had trouble chewing and swallowing solids, and he gave up on the food before long.

  “You once said to me that I had behaved with hubris in marrying Jacqueline, and that the gods would punish me,” Ari said.

  “That was rather cruel.” She gave him a sideways smile. “I suspect I was cross with you at the time.”

  He looked terrible. The illness had withered the muscles of his face, and his eyelids were clumsily taped open with adhesive that splayed out from behind his black-rimmed spectacles. His hair was thin and straggly, and his hands were covered in an old man’s liver spots.

  Oh, Ari, she thought, what has happened to you?

  “I believe you were right,” he continued. “All my misfortunes date back to the day I married that woman. Perhaps it’s hubris, perhaps it’s the curse of the Kennedys, but I need to overcome it. Can you remember your ancient mythology? Was there a way to undo the effects of hubris?”

  Maria cast her mind back to the stories she had learned in her youth. “I’m afraid not. Icarus’s wings melted; Arachne was turned into a spider; Salmoneus was struck down by a thunderbolt.” She laughed. “But I know you don’t believe this.”

  He gave a thin smile. “Perhaps not, but I’m convinced my fortunes will change for the better when I divorce my wife.”

  “Not that old line. I’ve heard it so many times.” She mock-sighed and picked up her wineglass.

  “My lawyers are almost ready to make a move. I’ve been collecting evidence of her reckless spending. The judge will be astounded to learn what my wife spends each month on shoes alone! And I got her to sign a waiver some time ago that curtails the amount she can be awarded in the event of my death. Then in June last year I persuaded the colonels to pass a law on foreign nationals that means she will only get what I have left her in my new revised will.”

  “Don’t talk about death!” Maria scolded. “You’re not going to die anytime soon. I forbid it.” He seemed crumpled, she thought: his face was sagging into folds.

  “There are some things I need to say to you about my death,” he said. “Please let me.”

  She swallowed hard. She didn’t want to hear this, but she knew he was declining fast. Perhaps it was only fair to listen. “You have two minutes; that’s all.”

  He drank some wine before he began. “First of all, you might hear from your mother after I am gone.”

  “What do you mean?” Suddenly Maria remembered her mother claiming that some men had threatened her. “Have you been warning her off all this time?”

  “She doesn’t scare easy, does she?” He gave a half smile. “No, since her suicide attempt I’ve been paying her a monthly stipend on condition she doesn’t get in touch with you. I saw how much it upset you when she wrote . . .”

  “Ari!” Maria was touched and indignant at the same time. “You might have discussed it with me. I’m embarrassed you were paying her. She’s my problem, not yours.”

  “It wasn’t much. Just
enough to keep her off your back.”

  Maria wondered what she would do if Evangelia did get in touch again. She had no desire to see her.

  “The other thing I wanted to explain is that I haven’t left you anything in my will. It would cause too many complications. But if you have any problems after I am gone—whether financial, legal, or if anyone is bothering you—you should call Costa Gratsos. He will help, no matter what it is.”

  “I’m sure I won’t need him, and I didn’t expect an inheritance, but thank you. Now, can we get back to enjoying our lunch without all this morbid talk?”

  “Just one more thing: I am hoping to be divorced from Jacqueline before I die. She still has no idea. She plans vacations for us and invites friends for cruises on the Christina as if we were any normal married couple. Yet we hardly see each other from one month to the next.”

  Maria swallowed the rest of her wine, and with the slightest movement of a finger Ari motioned to the waiter to bring them another bottle.

  “Divorce her or don’t divorce her,” she said. “It’s going to be expensive either way. But I think you should do it with dignity rather than vitriol. The eyes of the world will be upon you and history will judge you.”

  “Don’t you want me to divorce her? I promised you we would be married one day and I would like to keep my word while I still can.”

  Her heart gave a little leap, but she spoke pragmatically. She had heard these words so many times before. “I don’t want you to get divorced for my sake. I’ve got no desire to become the third Mrs. Onassis. We’ve already got the best of each other.”

  She wasn’t sure if she believed that. They had a close and easy friendship, but sometimes it was hard not to pine for the passion of their earlier years. And then she remembered the heartache that went with it and changed her mind. She couldn’t go back to waiting and hoping for him to marry her. Not again.

  “Think about it,” he said. “I will ask you properly when I am able to wave the decree nisi in one hand and an engagement ring in the other, just as you requested.”

  The fresh bottle of wine came, and Ari sniffed the cork and tasted it before the waiter poured her a glass.

  “Well, I also have news,” she announced. “I made my own decision. I sang my last-ever concert in Japan. On the eleventh of November in Sapporo. That’s it. Finito.”

  “No!” he protested. “I don’t believe you. If the right offer comes along, you’ll cave in. You’ll miss it too much.”

  “I won’t,” she said, very sure of herself. “I’m fifty years old and it’s time to retire. I can’t be bothered with all the practicing, the diet, the exercises, the discipline. I’m going to enjoy some Brie at the end of this meal, and I will drink wine whenever I feel like it without worrying about my coloratura.”

  “What will you do with your time?”

  She smiled. “Things that make me happy. I’ll visit friends, I’ll travel, I’ll entertain. Singing used to bring me the most profound joy, but I don’t feel that anymore. The magic has gone.” She was too anxious about reaching the notes to feel that divine sensation of the music filling her from top to toe, and she couldn’t bear to listen to her recent recordings, with all their flaws.

  “Congratulations on your retirement, in that case.” He picked up his wineglass and clinked it against hers. “But I hope you will still sing for me.”

  “Of course I will. That is one of the privileges of our long and beautiful friendship.” When she stroked his thigh beneath the tablecloth, she could feel that he was skin and bone. This horrible disease was taking its toll. Someone should ensure he was eating properly. He needed a wife more than ever. But he had married the wrong woman, and as a result he spent most of his days alone.

  Chapter 74

  New York City

  February 1975

  When Artemis phoned Jackie in New York to say that Ari had collapsed and was in an Athens hospital suffering from pneumonia with heart complications, she flew straight over, accompanied by a leading cardiac surgeon. Having money meant she could make one call and these things happened.

  The surgeon advised that Ari be flown to New York for heart surgery, but a French doctor Christina had summoned wanted him to go to Paris for an operation to remove some gallstones that were causing him acute discomfort.

  Ari was weak but he knew his own mind. “I will not die in America,” he croaked, thumping his fist on a red cashmere blanket that was covering his legs. “Take me to Paris.”

  The women around his bed—his sister, his daughter, and his wife—looked at one another in consternation, but no one dared to overrule him. He kept rubbing the red blanket between his thumb and forefinger, as if for comfort. Jackie could see a Hermès label.

  “Where did that blanket come from?” she asked Artemis in a whisper.

  “Maria gave it to him for his birthday last month.”

  Jackie felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t flown over for his birthday because she had been busy with the children. When Lee and Stas finally decided to get divorced, Anthony and Tina had begun spending increasing amounts of time at their auntie Jackie’s apartment, until she had more or less taken over their care completely. The official line was that it was because Lee was away from home so often in her new career as an interior designer, but in truth Jackie had made the offer to protect them from their mother’s drunkenness. She loved them and was happy to look after them, but it meant she was pulled in a lot of different directions at once.

  WHEN THEY ARRIVED in Paris, flown in by private jet, Ari refused to go straight to the hospital but insisted on being taken to his Avenue Foch apartment. A few reporters were waiting outside, and nothing would do but that he walk from the car unaided, giving them a brief wave. Jackie heard him mutter “Vultures!” under his breath.

  Once inside, he went to his office and closed the door; then, seconds later, she heard the sound of his voice and knew he was on the phone with Maria. He only ever used that tone for her. Jackie went to the kitchen to speak to Eleni about making something light and nutritious for dinner.

  “Eleni!” Ari called down the hall. “Bring me a whiskey!”

  Eleni looked at Jackie.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Mr. O?” she called back.

  “Best I’ve had all day,” he replied. “If you don’t quit nagging I’ll light a cigar to go with it.” Just the thought triggered a bout of coughing.

  Later, when they were alone, Jackie tried to ask him about his state of mind. How was he feeling about the operation? Where would he like to recuperate? Did he want her to stay in Paris with him?

  “Suit yourself,” he said, without warmth.

  He was cooking up a scheme—she could sense it—but he wouldn’t tell her what it was. Over the next couple of days, he sat in his office, the red blanket over his knees, and made a string of phone calls, one after another. Jackie heard him switching languages and knew he was talking to his offices, his ship’s captains, and his lawyers around the world. She guessed he was setting his affairs in order so he could go into the hospital without any worries.

  At the appointed time, she and Christina took him to the American Hospital at Neuilly for the gallbladder operation and waited while he was prepped by nurses. Just as they wheeled his bed to the door, Jackie leaned over and kissed him on the lips, then whispered in his ear, “I love you.”

  He closed his eyes tight and didn’t reply.

  THE OPERATION WAS deemed a success, but when he came to, Ari seemed weaker than ever. Christina tried to feed him Eleni’s homemade soups, but he had no appetite and waved her away after a few spoonfuls. The one thing he did still manage was to make telephone calls. He told the nurse to position the phone by his bedside and asked any other visitors to leave the room before he dialed. Jackie assumed he was calling Maria, and maybe Costa Gratsos, but he was too frail to talk business.

  A few days after the operation, his doctors reported that the pneumonia was responding to treatment but that his ki
dneys were not functioning properly and his heart was still very weak.

  Jackie spoke to the chief physician in private, asking if he was in immediate danger. Was it safe for her to fly back to New York to check on her kids?

  “I am not optimistic about a cure,” the doctor told her, “but he’s tough and could linger for some time if we keep treating his symptoms.”

  Jackie told Christina that she was flying home, adding, “I can get here in less than a day if you need me.”

  When she gave her a hug, Christina briefly rested her head on her shoulder. Poor girl: she’d lost her mother and brother within the past two years. No wonder she seemed so distraught at the thought of her father dying. “Will you be alright?” Jackie asked, rubbing her back. “I’ll stay if you want me to.”

  Christina stepped away. “I’ll be fine. My aunt Artemis and I will make sure he’s not left on his own.”

  Was there an accusation in her tone? Jackie wasn’t sure. She felt guilty for leaving, guilty for staying, torn between the needs of her husband and her children, as she had been throughout this marriage.

  OVER THE NEXT three weeks, Jackie returned to Paris twice more. She always flew first class, and booked the seat alongside her own to ensure privacy, but she could never fall asleep on planes for fear of someone snapping a photograph. It was a time when she caught up on reading and correspondence. The sleep deprivation and jet lag meant she was permanently frazzled.

  On March 7, she left Ari’s hospital bed at six-thirty in order to meet Lee for dinner. Her sister had fallen crazily in love with a wildly handsome but utterly penniless artist, and they were in town for an exhibition of his work. Jackie was trying hard not to play the disapproving big sister, but some truths needed to be laid on the line. She was rehearsing her words as she walked along the hospital corridor.