The Goodtime Girl (27 page)

37

Kivelli's “illness” lasted for three days and three nights. When she was hungry at all, she took her meals in her room and informed Giorgos, the front desk clerk, that she was not to be disturbed by anyone. “Pretend I'm not even here, except when you bring me lunch.” Though Margarita and Aspasia never took her requests for solitude seriously, Giorgos did his best, which wasn't that difficult since no one but the Smyrniot — on his way to the fourth floor studio — came looking for her. He knocked on her door emphatically, calling her the worst names he could think of. He rattled the knob and threatened to sack her if she didn't open up “Right now!”

When she heard him stomping down the hall and up the stairs, she got out of bed, sat by the dresser and tried to answer Marianthi's letter, not in her head, as she'd been doing since she'd received it, but on paper. In Smyrna she'd taken great pleasure in writing out her most intimate thoughts, sealing them in an envelope, and walking to the post office on rue Franque to send them off. Now she struggled with her words, crossing them out and beginning on a new sheet of paper several times until she gave up in frustration. Not only was she unable to open her heart, to tell Marianthi that she loved and missed her and was sorry things had gotten so difficult between them, she had no idea where she might send such a declaration. She couldn't just put her name on an envelope with New York written underneath and hope it would find her, like she'd done the first time she'd written to her cousin Amalia. Papa laughed when he saw the address and filled in the details himself, but she still wasn't convinced. How could there have been more than one Amalia awaiting her letter in Constantinople? There was certainly only one Marianthi in New York as far as she was concerned — she just didn't know where.

It had been so long since Kivelli had thought about Amalia that her cousin had become as intangible as all her dreams and memories. How had she fared after those terrible days that destroyed everything they'd known? If she'd survived, she was surely married to a man her father had chosen and was raising a brood of wellbehaved, pretty children. She was the good girl and Kivelli was the adventuress, at least those were the roles they'd agreed upon. But Amalia not only enjoyed hearing about her cousin's escapades, she encouraged them. In this she was not so different from Marianthi.

If she wrote to Amalia now, how could she explain what she'd witnessed and who she'd become? Her cousin would never believe it, nor was she sure she'd have the heart to repeat it, even if there were words poignant and clear enough to do it justice. She might be tempted to turn it into a romance or a comedy with a happy ending, since a sheltered girl like Amalia would never understand the indignities of the Attikon Theatre, Kyria Effie's and Barba Yannis's, let alone the horrors of Smyrna's final hours. When the fires finally died out because there was nothing left to consume, she'd probably braided black ribbons into her hair, lit a candle and burned all Kivelli's letters, fulfilling a pact made in a fit of youthful melancholy and self-importance. Though her cousin's address was still branded in her memory, receiving a letter from the dead would be enough to turn Amalia's pretty brown hair white as marble. And Kivelli somehow doubted that she and her family had stayed in the City, accepting the changes, living in constant fear of expulsion, of retaliation.

Perhaps Amalia had also gone to America, to New York, and was living in the same neighbourhood as Marianthi. Kivelli knew immigrants liked to create their own cities within cities, preserving their customs, speaking their own language — just like her compatriots who frequented the Bella Vista. Sooner or later they would meet in a dress shop or bakery that sold trays of rose pastries, and Marianthi would say, “Ah, you're from Anatolia? I was from Aivali, but lived in Piraeus when all the troubles began.” And Amalia would respond, “I'm from the City, but had a cousin in Smyrna. Her name was Kivelli Fotiathi, and we used to write letters all the time, but she disappeared and I assume she perished in the fires.” “I knew a Kivelli Fotiathi in Piraeus,” Marianthi would exclaim, her hands and lips trembling, her eyes filling with tears. Two and two would be put together, and the women would laugh when the link was finally made: Amalia thrilled that her cousin had survived, Marianthi overjoyed to find a key to her friend's past, to have her curiosities and suspicions finally satisfied. But as they continued to exchange stories, details and personal anecdotes, they would conclude they were not talking about the same person after all. This would disappoint them, but they would continue to be friendly, preserving their separate memories of Kivelli intact, and eventually replacing them with each other's company and confidences.

What surprised her most about this improbable scenario was how jealous she felt that her two greatest friends might give each other all the things she most cherished about them: their loyalty, their attention, their absolute devotion — things that were scarce in Piraeus and Athens. She tore up the pages of her letter to Marianthi with its crossed out words and half-finished sentences and began again, this time addressing Amalia, but with no greater success.

By the second day the Smyrniot was threatening to get the key from the front desk “because I'm paying for that room.” Kivelli was quite confident that Giorgos would never permit such an intrusion, no matter how splenetic the Smyrniot became or how many guests he woke up with his shouting. There was a tinge of Spiros in his threats and curses, that
mélange
of desperation and entitlement. But what was he desperate about? There were half a dozen girls hanging around the Bella Vista every night now, eager to replace her. They came by themselves or in groups, young women who'd strayed far from home, claiming her records had inspired them to take the stage and sing. Might they come to her dressing room to look at her dresses? Could she talk to the Smyrniot for them? Did she have any advice? Kivelli was always friendly to these young women, so much like her in some ways, yet entirely different. They'd made a choice, no matter how wrong-headed. This was not the life she would have chosen for herself, she said. It found her and saved her, but that was not always the way. Fantasies were rarely fulfilled, and if they were, they lost their lustre. The only advice she could give them was to go home if they still had one. But these were tough girls, not easily dissuaded. If one of them was in the right place at the right time, the Smyrniot would surely take advantage of her eagerness. Kivelli suspected it would be Eva, the little blonde with the big brown eyes who flirted and fawned over him at the end of every night. With Marianthi out of the way, there was no reason for them not to exchange favours.

On the third day the Smyrniot didn't waste his time knocking or yelling. Instead, he slipped her boat ticket to Egypt under the door with a note attached that said, “Are you still coming?” That it was a question rather than a demand told Kivelli he was worried she wouldn't. Who could blame him? She put the ticket on her dresser, weighting it down with a hair brush to keep the wind from snatching it and any choice she might exercise in the matter. It wasn't only that Diamantis hadn't come looking for her that was affecting her enthusiasm for the voyage. Their agreement left room for her own whims as much as his, and perhaps he was simply respecting her retreat without needing reasons for it. Her hesitation had a deeper source.

Although getting on a ship and leaving Piraeus might very well provide respite from her recent dilemmas and regrets, give her some perspective on the last year, it was the return trip that she did not think she'd be able to bear. When she'd lived in Smyrna, even after travelling short distances for a few days, she was always happy to come home, to walk along her street and look up at the Byzantine fortress on Mount Pagus, especially when it was drenched in the moon's aqueous light. In Piraeus, a life had created itself around her by chance and necessity, and coming back to it would be a final acceptance of its meagreness. Without Marianthi or Diamantis, the return had even less appeal.

Kivelli put on her white cotton dress and walked the single flight up to the studio. Waiting for neither an invitation nor a rebuff, she let herself in without knocking. The Smyrniot was alone, smoking a cigarette and polishing his guitar with a sock that he wore over his hand. He turned his inscrutable face up at her for a moment, then focused his attention on the instrument.

“And to what twist of fortune do we owe this honour, Miss Fotiathi?” Kivelli stepped around the empty bottles, full ashtrays, and a bucket whose contents emitted a sharp ammoniac smell. A bouzouki lay on three chairs lined up against the wall, and she picked it up and sat with it in her lap. She stroked its round polished back but did not dare pluck its strings, though she ran her fingertips along them.

“I'm coming to sing tonight. I thought you'd want to know.”

“Oh, thank you kindly for informing me so I can arrange for white doves and champagne and a horse drawn carriage for you to ride in on.” He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray by his feet and immediately lit another. “Who says I need you to come tonight? Did you expect us to hold our breaths waiting for you?”

“If you don't want me to come, just say so and spare me the sarcasm.” Her fingers flicked against each other, hitting the bouzouki strings by mistake. The sound that came out was that of a cat whose tail had been trod upon. She expected a rebuke, but it was as if he hadn't heard.

“Are you coming to Egypt or not?” His voice was cold, indifferent, but his eyes shifted back and forth rapidly. Kivelli tried to keep her tone equally phlegmatic.

“I have my ticket.”

“Know that if you don't show up, you're finished here, no matter how many people line up to hear you wail or drink to your health when your records play.
Finita la musica
. Do you understand?” He pitched the sock into the bucket and began tuning the guitar.

“I understand,” she replied, taking a deep breath and holding it in her belly, trying to find Marianthi's encouragement, but failing. Without it, the Smyrniot was almost intolerable. Kivelli began inspecting the bouzouki as if she'd never seen one before, though in truth this was the first one she'd ever held in her arms. It was much lighter than she'd imagined, its roundness asking to be cradled like a baby, like a sleeping lover's head. She stood up and put the instrument back where she'd found it, then moved carefully through the obstacle course towards the door. When she reached it, the Smyrniot spoke again.

“Come early tonight, just to prove to me that you will.”

Back in her room, Kivelli studied the ticket. They would be sailing on
The Pharaoh
— departure in three days, return, nine days after that. A whirlwind full of men, music and sand. The Smyrniot had written his note on the receipt, and she wondered whether he was expecting her to pay her own way or if he just wanted her to know what this trip was costing him. It had to be worth it for him, otherwise he would not have organized it in the first place. This was just his way of making her feel properly indebted. The agency that issued the ticket was Terzakis's in Piraeus. She knew Terzakis from both Barba Yannis's and Kyria Effie's. She liked him well enough, even though his relentless advances bored her.

She put the ticket in her handbag and opened the dresser's bottom drawer. From beneath her stockings and underwear, she retrieved the gold bangle Marianthi had given her on the last night they were friends, as well as the black satin wallet Aspasia had made her. It was where she kept her tips, her savings, whatever was left over after her daily expenses. Her insurance in case of an emergency. She didn't count the money; however much or little there was would have to suffice. She wasn't sure what passage to America cost, but she hoped the bangle might make up the difference. Terzakis was bound to accept it if she led him on a little. The thought of leaving Greece forever filled her with nervous exhilaration. It must have been what Marianthi felt when she boarded the ship to New York.

Downstairs, Giorgos was dusting the wooden slots that held the keys and the mail for each room. There was a stack of notes and letters on the front desk, and Kivelli resisted riffling through them to see if any were for her. On the first two days of her retreat, when the clerk delivered her coffee, she'd asked if anyone other than the Smyrniot had tried to reach her, but he shook his head and looked at her with sympathy. Now he beamed when he saw her. “Someone was here looking for you, Miss Kivelli, but I told him you weren't receiving visitors.” He winked, and she didn't have to ask who it was. For the moment she couldn't care. In a few hours she'd have to turn up at the Bella Vista, early enough to appease the Smyrniot. There was just enough time to make it to Piraeus and back, if she hurried.

38

If you don't want or love me
Why do you keep teasing me?
Smiling and making eyes at me?
Coming around to see me?

During Kivelli's absence, the Bella Vista had undergone a few minor cosmetic changes. To celebrate the upcoming trip to Egypt, blue paper pyramids had been hung from the ceiling between the moon lights, and a screen with hieroglyphics and dancing Egyptian gods had been propped against the back wall of the stage. A full hour and a half before it opened, the club was empty. Kivelli went to the kitchen and asked the cook to prepare a plate of mezzedes, then walked across the floor to the dressing room to choose an outfit that neither clashed with nor supported the banal decorations. She'd claimed the small room beside the stage as her own, filling it with her costumes and toiletries, locking the door behind her. No one else ever used it or had the key as far as she knew. But when she let herself in, she was not the only one taken by surprise.

The Smyrniot was sitting with his pants around his ankles, and the eager Eva, her skirts hoisted to her waist, was rocking back and forth on his lap as if he were a hobby horse. She squealed when she saw Kivelli and buried her round face in his neck. “What are you doing here,” the Smyrniot grunted, pushing Eva off. Kivelli turned her face as they both adjusted their clothing.

“You asked me to come in early …”

“Not this early.” He was both embarrassed and angry, and Eva was hiding behind the dress rack, sobbing. When the Smyrniot ordered her to come back out, however, it became obvious that what Kivelli took for chagrin was hilarity. “What are you laughing at, stupid girl?” he snapped. The harder she tried to hold back, the more she sputtered and careened. He grabbed her by the wrist and pushed her out the door. “Go calm yourself,” he ordered, but Eva just kept laughing. “Why do I always mix myself up with crazy women?” He seemed to be talking to himself, so Kivelli didn't offer an opinion, though she had one. What the Smyrniot needed was a woman who was a little bit afraid of him, but what attracted him was ambition. Kivelli was on the verge of her own laughing fit, not only because of what she'd just witnessed, but out of giddiness. “Don't you start too,” he warned, pointing a skinny finger at her face. “And don't be advertising what you saw here. There's enough gossip going around about Marianthi. Some people think I killed her.” He sat back down and looked at her as if he expected a discussion.

“I haven't heard anything like that.” She began sorting through the dresses, unable to look at him while he spoke, though she could hear his feet tapping as if he were running away.

“Someone saw her down at the docks, getting on a ship. At least he thinks it was her. Imagine leaving like that, without a word of warning.” He clicked his tongue a few times. “Where do you think she went?”

“What do you care?” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady though her heart was racing and her cheeks were burning. “You have Eva to do with as you please. And now Marianthi can do as she pleases too, wherever she is.” Kivelli gave the Smyrniot a sidelong glance, but he was staring at the floor, perturbed. “Panayotis, I need to change, so if you don't mind …”

He stood up slowly, as if his legs had fallen asleep and he wasn't sure they would hold him. “Of course, of course. But please don't tell anyone what you saw here. It would give Eva an excuse to make my life hell.”

After he was gone, she quickly changed into a ruched gown the colour of a conch's inner walls, and clipped a red-beaded necklace that smelled of cinnamon around her throat. When she came out into the main room, a waiter brought her the plate of mezzedes she had ordered and some white wine chilly enough to fog up its glass decanter. The Smyrniot and Eva were sitting in a dark corner at the back. He was scolding her, but she was still laughing. It occurred to Kivelli that the girl was probably stoned, and the Smyrniot, to whom narghiles and manghes were anathema, couldn't tell, so he assumed she was laughing at him. Either way, it was about time someone laughed in his face.

She toasted the musicians as they began to arrive. “Thank God you're back,” whispered Kosmas, his toumbeleki tucked under his arm. “One more day and Eva would have convinced him to let her sing, and that would have been the end of us.” He glanced at the corner table and made a mocking face. “Any time the band leader gets involved with the singer, it's bad news for everyone.”

Kivelli nodded. “Especially for the singer.” Until that moment, she hadn't thought to ask who would be standing in for her and the other musicians who were going to Egypt. The Bella Vista had made do without its star attraction for a few nights, but when half the orchestra, including its leader, was gone for ten days, either the club was going to have to close down or replacements were going to have to be brought in. Kosmas was not coming along because his wife, Elpiniki, wouldn't let him, so she asked him what had been arranged. “Didn't you hear? Diamantis is filling in with this singer named Isavella and a few other Piraeus guys from his company. A real mix of manghes and gentlemen. I'm sure it will be fantastic, just like at the picnic. You were at that picnic, weren't you, Kivelli? Too bad you'll miss it. Marianthi too, apparently.” Kosmas grinned as if nothing were wrong, while Kivelli's veins filled with ice water. “And thanks for saving us from Eva.” He then excused himself to join some other musicians near the stage, beating his toumbeleki to announce his arrival.

Even though Diamantis's plans would not affect hers, Kivelli felt ill. Her throat closed up and her breath was shallow and strained. Blue-grey spots appeared before her eyes, blinding her, and her red-beaded necklace choked her with both its hardness and its smell. She tore it off and brought the glass of wine to her fore- head. She was burning up, though at the same time she shivered with cold. This was what it felt like to be betrayed. She absorbed it for a moment, then tried to expel it, but it refused to go, gaining intensity with every heartbeat. While Marianthi was still in town, trying to wedge her way between them, Kivelli's attention had been focused on her friend as her only rival. But now she saw that there were hundreds just like her with more access to him, fewer obstacles and no qualms. Oh yes, she knew Isavella well enough from Argiropoulos's, always making eyes at Diamantis, throwing herself at him. Once Kivelli sailed, he could do as he wished, but like Marianthi, she was not ready to bless her replacement.

If Diamantis had stopped by the hotel earlier that day to tell her he wasn't coming, it was a good thing Giorgos hadn't let him up. How would she have reacted? Like a rejected woman, ripping out her hair and clawing his face, or throwing dishes and knives at the door he closed behind him? She might have been compelled to stay and fight, though she had no hope of winning and was no longer even sure the prize was worth it. Now at least she had a ticket to New York in her purse, and a little while to gather herself up inside her seashell-coloured dress and practise a dignified exit.

When Diamantis walked into the club half an hour later with Isavella in tow, Kivelli did not leave her seat to greet him and refused to look his way, though the temptation was so strong that resisting it induced nausea. Isavella was flirting with a group of musicians, laughing and soaking up their attentions. Kivelli had always treated them like brothers in order to gain their affection and keep them on her side. The last thing she needed was some other Spiros in the orchestra who she would be forced to contend with every night. Isavella was quite pretty, she had to admit, petite and doll-like — the tallest guy in the orchestra could easily smuggle her out under his jacket without anyone noticing. There were girls who looked like the devil's backside with better voices than all the starlets in Athens and Piraeus combined, but no one would put them on stage, whereas a pretty girl who could almost hold a tune could fill a room to capacity. Men were shallow and fickle, and Diamantis was apparently no exception.

How long had he been in the club already — fifteen minutes or fifty? The longer Kivelli sat at her table alone, trying to ignore him, the angrier she became, and by the time he pulled up a chair across from her, she was unable to look him in the face. He was sure to see the disappointment in her eyes, as well as the rage crouching behind it.

“You're back,” he said casually, as if she'd just returned from the lady's room. “You look well-rested, fully recovered.” He reached for her hand under the table and she let him find it. “My God, Kivelli, you're freezing. Are you still ill?” He looked genuinely concerned, and he rubbed her limp and cold hand between both of his.

“I wasn't sick, Diamantis,” she said, pulling away and pouring herself more wine. “I was thinking.” There wasn't a second glass, so she pushed her plate of mezzedes towards him instead. He picked up a piece of bread and dipped it distractedly into the miniature hill of eggplant puree and offered it to her.

“I don't like eggplant. I keep telling the cook not to give it to me, but because it's his specialty he insists that I'll eventually come to love it. But I'm not like that. When I love something, there's no question, and when there are questions, it's already impossible.” Diamantis put the bread back down onto the plate.

“I came by the hotel today, but Giorgos wouldn't let me go upstairs. He blocked the elevator with his body, even though he looked ready to shit himself.”

“What about the stairs?”

“I didn't need to see you
that
badly.” He laughed, but it wasn't his easy, deep and throaty laugh.

“Obviously not.” She glanced at Isavella, who was now chatting up the Smyrniot. Eva was by his side, absorbing every word and gesture the other woman offered.

“Do you know Isavella? She's a big fan of yours and knows all of your songs by heart, even the one we recorded. Let me introduce you.” He raised his arm to get her attention, but Kivelli grabbed his wrist and slapped his hand onto the table harder than she'd intended.

“We have to talk. Right now.” Her breath was rapid and her heart hammered inside her.

The light in Diamantis's eyes dimmed. “Yes, I suppose there are things that must be said, no matter how sorry I am to say them.” He reached for her wine glass, then changed his mind, signalling the waiter to bring him one. Kivelli let him flounder in silence for the few minutes it took for the empty glass to arrive. The strain on his face satisfied her in a way his smile hadn't. “I can't come to Egypt.” He looked grave with his lips pressed together in a straight line, but his fingers fiddled with the piece of bread. When he finally placed it in his mouth, chewing seemed as painful as grinding chains between his teeth.

“That's a shame,” was Kivelli's clipped reply. “But you're not forgiven.” She stood to leave, though she didn't know where she might go to escape this night, this conversation, and the fire in her head and chest. Because now that he'd confirmed it with barely an apology, she felt as if everything between them, from the time they met until this very moment, was being incinerated.

“I know you're disappointed, Kivelli, but let me explain. I'm sure you'll understand my position. Please sit.” She did, but only so she wouldn't faint.

After he'd enlightened her with his reasons, she had to admit they made sense; unfortunately, she was no longer particularly interested in sense. The invitation to come to Egypt was an honour, but the opportunity to bring some of his musician friends from Piraeus to the Bella Vista, to combine their rhythms and sounds with that of the Smyrniot's orchestra, was too big to pass up for a ten day tour, no matter how tempting. He squeezed her hand, then kissed it. It wasn't that he was unhappy playing at Argiropoulos's. (The old Greek had very reluctantly given him leave to go to Egypt in the first place — what he would do when he heard that his bandleader was playing down the street instead was another story.) But this was his chance to leave a mark, right here, to change the flavour and direction of things, to bring the two Greeces together at last and make them one. The brightness came back to his eyes, and his face glowed with excitement. Kivelli could almost smell it: Smyrna roses and Piraeus hashish. It was a fine perfume, one she was sure would be a hit. Hadn't she and Marianthi already created it at the picnic?

“And what about us?” She pronounced the words as clearly as possible so she wouldn't be forced to repeat them.

“What about us? You'll drive all of Egypt crazy, and if I'm very lucky you'll come back to me ten days later.” His confidence faltered slightly on the word lucky.

“It will have nothing to do with luck, Diamantis.” And with that she left him with the scraps of her dinner and the dregs of her wine and took her seat on stage. She was in no mood to sing but forced herself to be animated and passionate, despite the loneliness in her belly. Isavella joined him at the table and tried to engage him in conversation, but he shushed her, so she resorted to eating Kivelli's leftovers — the eggplant she wouldn't touch, and the bread that had gone stale while she'd waited for Diamantis to say something that might have convinced her to change her plans.

As always, singing managed to soothe her nerves, assuage her resentments and spark up her desires. What Diamantis's luck would be once she stepped onto that ship and sailed away from Greece was not yet clear to him, though Kyra Xanthi might be able to toss a clue or two his way. He would, however, be lucky enough to spend three final nights and days in her bed as if nothing would ever change, though it already had. There were no questions, no confusion, no past or future when they let their bodies speak for them. Kivelli's parting gift would be to give him something both bitter and sweet to remember her by, something to pine for while lying in the arms of the woman who would come to replace her. One of the Isavellas. One of the Marianthis. Or one of Kyria Eugenia's pretty virgins.