The Goodtime Girl (25 page)

“Too dark in here,” she mumbled, and picked up a candle from the table, its flame licking Kivelli's skin. She tried to pull away, but the old woman had a firm grip, and the few drops of wax that fell into her palm stung pleasantly. Kyra Xanthi blew on the dollops of wax then peeled them away, making noises of surprise and understanding every time one was lifted. She didn't bother enlightening Kivelli at all, but stared at her with ambivalent eyes — one showing compassion, the other reprimand.

“Is there something I need to know?” Kivelli rubbed her palm hard to erase its secrets.

“You'll know very soon,” she replied conspiratorially. “But if you need any hints or help, come see me in Piraeus. It's too far for me to travel here to tell you things you maybe don't want to hear.” And with that she turned her palm over and kissed her knuckles, then left without another word.

Kivelli sat at the table for a little while, put the last dolma into her mouth and emptied the dregs of red wine into a glass that no one had touched. For all of his tightfistedness, Manos had forgotten the sheets of paper he'd brought for the Smyrniot. She glanced at the neat, childish script and wondered if he'd written the words himself. Maybe Narella was more than the muse, and Manos and the Smyrniot would become the best of friends. The lyrics themselves weren't so bad, simple but sweet in a rough way, and nowhere near as vulgar as she'd expected. She smoothed out the papers, then folded them and put them into her handbag next to Marianthi's letter.

Once in her dressing room, with the door locked behind her and her new fancy frocks as witnesses, she tore open the blue envelope with the nail of her index finger and suffered a deep and painful cut that spotted the first page with blood.

34

Marjori has taken flight
Beat it in the dead of night
Oh, oh, Barba Nikoli
Oh, oh, where is Marjori?

My dear Kivelli,

By the time this letter reaches you, I will have left Piraeus forever. I was going to disappear without telling anyone, let the Smyrniot discover my absence through the dust on the furniture and the silence in the house. After all I have given him, I don't feel I owe him any explanations. But I couldn't convince myself to leave without a final word to you. For many weeks after our trip to the hammam, I waited for you in vain, perched on the edge of my seat, dressed as if I were expecting a guest. I went through the motions, believing the effort would produce you like magic. It took me a long time to accept you were not coming. When I finally did, I was as heartbroken as if a baby had died in my belly, and I stopped hearing your voice in my head. To stay on in Piraeus with my husband now seemed entirely pointless.

The greatest mistake of my life other than marrying Panayotis was introducing you to Diamantis. Of course, you could have met him anywhere, a hundred times before, a thousand times after, but I still can't forgive myself for lighting the fire. Let me clarify something about that fateful afternoon in the square. It was never my intention to hand you my beautiful mangha on a silver platter like the rose pastries you always refused to eat, no matter how good they looked and smelled. Despite what you tell yourself to justify your actions, I was not looking for a substitute: this was a song I could sing if I chose to. What I wanted was to prove you wrong, to puncture your smugness, your airs of superiority (it is the only thing you Smyrneans haven't lost), and to put an end to your mockery of my visits with Kyra Xanthi. You would see that I was not just some foolish village girl who believed in fairy tales and superstitions, who craved the leftovers you so easily shunned. What a luxury to have had everything in the world and to want it no more — dresses made of silk fine enough for an empress, leisurely afternoons sipping lemonade at the Jardin des Fleurs. You told me some of it in your sleep, and I read the rest in your haughty gaze. When I saw Diamantis sitting by himself in the square, I thought I'd show you up, but that's not exactly how it worked out.

I can't really blame you. In your shoes I might have done the same thing: chosen the man over everything and everyone else, and damn the consequences. It is a thing that women do all the time, and not just in stories and songs. Though if I'd won his heart, you surely would have found a reason to pronounce him unappealing, second rate, like my furniture and my dresses that always gave you a headache. Don't think too hard about how many times I almost risked everything for Diamantis, especially after you claimed him and banished me. I wrote dozens of letters that began, “My dear Diamantis, I can stand it no longer,” or “My love, I throw myself at your mercy,” or “I will be waiting for you at such and such address. Come to me, come to me lover, see what I have for your hunger …” My words in your mouth, so I signed your name at the bottom of the last one and resolved to confess everything when he got there. Given my circumstances, I never dared send it. But today, with nothing more to lose, I almost delivered one to his mother's house, asking him to meet me down at the docks. I could have said it was from the Smyrniot, and the old lady would have handed it to Diamantis the moment he walked in. But I've waited too long, and it is too late for me now. So I choose instead to vanish, to leave nothing behind but wonder and regret.

You can tell Diamantis whatever you please about me, laugh at my expense or reveal that the words that come out of the mouth he has kissed a thousand times are mine. Half of what he loves about you was created by me. That's why I kissed you in the hammam. To thank the lips that turned my words into spells, and to taste Diamantis, even second-hand, to take some of him back.

Those songs are yours now, Kivelli, as if you'd written them yourself and I was an anonymous member of your adoring audience. There will be no more words exchanged between us. We both knew that when you rejected the last song I sent you. It was based on a dream, so vivid I could not convince myself in the morning that it wasn't real. I never expected you to sing it, but I wanted you to understand how well I know you and how much of what you are now was created by me. It's not always necessary to be a witness when you have an imagination and a few facts. You should be careful, Kivelli. There is no privacy in Greece, especially when you've lost the habit of discretion, like those poor wretches you lived with in the Attikon Theatre. What else have you lost, my dear? Your independence? Your solitude? Your ability to forget? I could almost convince myself that I did you more harm than good that fine afternoon in the square. Then I might feel a tiny bit of satisfaction.

If anyone asks, tell them I've run away to America. You don't believe it? I'll send you a postcard with a kiss for Diamantis, but no return address to send one back. You can show it to the Smyrniot so that he knows I'm alive and well and still a threat. How I'd like to be hiding behind a curtain when you deliver it, to see the look on his miserable face. But it's better that I am on a ship to New York. There is nothing but pain left for me in Piraeus, calling out to me in your voice from open windows and doors of shops and tavernas everywhere I go. Every day of the journey, I will throw one of your records over the railing and watch it drown. This, I hope, will give me some relief.

Should you ever change your mind, or miss me enough to come looking for me, know that my door will be open and I will help you in any way I can. It would be foolish to deny that I love you. That would hurt more than my feelings of dejection. But finding that door will be your labour this time. Maybe Kyra Xanthi can help. She's good at locating lost things.

Marianthi

The letter stunned Kivelli, trapped her between sadness and incredulity. One moment she considered the whole thing a ploy — a trick akin to staging your own death to see what people would say about you at your wake — and expected Marianthi to jump out from behind the rack of dresses, wearing one perhaps, and pointing an accusing finger. There was no date on the letter to indicate when it was written, and the Smyrniot's demeanour had been no different than usual, so either he had not been home for a few days, or Marianthi had not gone anywhere. The next moment she was certain it was true, and her body was wracked with sobs she couldn't release for fear she would be heard. She took off the fancy silver dress and put on the plain white cotton one Aspasia had made. She sat down again, waiting for the Bella Vista to clear out, sucking her finger until the bleeding stopped. The club was the last place on earth she wanted to be. She missed Marianthi terribly, whether she was gone or not, and regretted her inability to be a better friend, to share her enthusiasms like a true sister. Who, after all, had loved her more or had been as kind to her in Piraeus? But if Marianthi had indeed eloped with herself, things would be easier for everyone, especially for her. Kivelli never understood how she'd been able to bear all the lies, the frustration, and had probably not been sympathetic enough of her friend's plight. If only she'd read the letter before the night began, she could have asked Kyra Xanthi what she knew, what she saw in her palm, and what to do next. After reading it a second time, she still wasn't certain what to believe, so she slipped the letter into her purse and unlocked the door.

The club's main room was empty except for a few waiters cleaning up and the Smyrniot, who was sitting at the bar, staring into his drink, one hand clutching a half-empty bottle of whisky. Kivelli's heels echoed in the music-less room and made it impossible to sneak past him, though part of her could not resist approaching him to see what he knew, if anything, or what she could detect. She remembered Manos's songs, tucked in her purse, and decided to use them as her excuse.

“Manos left these for you, Panayotis.” She slapped the sheets of paper onto the bar in front of him, but there was no reaction. The Smyrniot didn't even look up.

“Any good?” he muttered, and took a drink. Kivelli shrugged, picked up the top sheet and began to read a few lines out loud.

I threw out a cat

with eyes of blue

At night when I was asleep

She stuck her nails in deep

“Enough, enough,” the Smyrniot groaned, rubbing his temples as if something had exploded inside them. “This record business will be the end of me.” He grabbed the paper from her hand, crumpled it up and threw it on the floor.

“He'll probably make some trouble for you if you don't take at least one …” Kivelli began, unable to resist goading him.

“They all make trouble for me one way or another. If he decides to shoot me, all my troubles will be over.” What she had mistaken for the Smyrniot's usual sullenness had a different quality tonight. His eyes were rimmed red and watery, his face on the verge of collapse. She might have tried to comfort him but wasn't sure how to put an arm around a crab without getting a finger snipped off. So they sat in their customary silence until he spoke again.

“Have you seen my wife lately?” The words emerged with difficulty, as if he were coughing up rocks. The Smyrniot cleared his throat, then emptied his glass and poured himself another drink without offering her one. That Kivelli hadn't seen Marianthi was separate from where she might be; that answer would come to light in its own time. But she could see from the lines etched across his forehead and the trembling at the edges of his mouth that he was not finished. He didn't look up from his drink. “I think she's left me.”

It felt as if she'd been struck in the back of the head, and Kivelli propped her elbows on the bar, resting her forehead in her hands until she regained her bearings. “What makes you think that?” she asked in the same tone she might offer a guest a glass of water.

“Do you know where she is, Kivelli?” He was looking at her now, his eyes pleading and full of regret, and she felt something for him that she never thought possible: sympathy. But she couldn't bring herself to tell him anything. Because if she started, where would she stop?

“I knew she wasn't happy. But I haven't seen her in weeks.” And with that, Kivelli left him to drown his sorrows at the bar. His sadness surprised her as surely as it would have Marianthi. Maybe her departure would force him to find his words again, to express his gloom and guilt, though it was doubtful that such a song, even if she heard it, would lure his wife back. As for Kivelli, although she'd become used to losing people, suddenly, irrevocably, she couldn't ignore the hollow silence in her belly that Marianthi's words had filled for so long.

At the hotel she fell asleep immediately and deeply, as if she'd been awake for a week. Diamantis was not in her bed in the morning, nor did he come by in the afternoon. This was not unusual, and would not normally cause her to worry. But as she sat alone in the room, tossing pebbles out the window, it occurred to her that Diamantis might have disappeared along with Marianthi. Not as her lover, but as a figment of her friend's imagination.

35

Diamantis did not show his face for the next few days, not at the Bella Vista, not at the Hotel Xenos. No one had seen him at Argiropoulos's or any of his usual haunts — at least that's what they claimed. On the third day of his disappearance, when Kivelli was at her wits end, she dropped in on Kyra Xanthi. Over coffee she shared her problem with the fortune-teller, who concluded that she was looking in the wrong places. “Think about how it is when you've misplaced your gloves, and you look everywhere but the glove drawer. Why wouldn't they be exactly where they're supposed to be?” Kivelli screwed up her face, perplexed.

“I haven't misplaced him, Kyra Xanthi. He's vanished.”

“Think harder, my girl. Where is a son's most natural place? I know you're avoiding it, but that is where you will find what you are seeking.” She took away the coffee cups without reading them. “And what about Marianthi?”

Kivelli's stomach cramped. “You know where she is?” At least one glove might be found.

Xanthi shook her head and raised her hands in resignation. “My powers don't extend over seas. If you want to find her, you'll have to board a ship and employ the help of a local. But your Diamantis is much easier. Now sing me an old song for my troubles, then go find him.”