The Goodtime Girl (26 page)

KYRIA EUGENIA LIVED IN A tidy little house, fifteen minutes walking distance from Kyra Xanthi's. Diamantis's mother was considered a living saint by the manghes of Drapetsona because she had sheltered all manner of pimps, thieves and murderers in her time without a word of judgment or reprimand. If a friend of Diamantis's needed to hide out for a few days, he knew whose door to knock on. There was always a bed and a hot meal, and her forgiveness meant more than a priest's absolution. But that “saintly woman” disapproved loudly and vehemently of the female company Diamantis kept — especially of Kivelli, who she'd heard about through the neighbourhood gossips. She'd brought up three sons on her own, and had assembled a matrimonial lineup of pink-cheeked virgins who went to church dances instead of nightclubs. Any one of them would make a good little wife for her Diamantis, and would serve her hand and foot when she got too old to cut her own toenails. She'd managed to find such specimens for Diamantis's older brothers without too much trouble, but her youngest son was resistant.

Kivelli had never set foot in Kyria Eugenia's house and did not expect to be invited to her table any time soon. Diamantis insisted that some things were better kept separate — oil and fire, mothers and lovers. But now desperation had led Kivelli to the only person who could enlighten her as to his whereabouts, but who was also the least likely to do so. She stood before the closed door for a long time before she found the courage to knock. When she finally did, it was only because she felt she had nothing more to lose. Kyria Eugenia came to the door and asked who she was, though her searing look belied her ignorance. Kivelli did not smile obsequiously or apologize for her unannounced visit, nor did she tell the white-haired dowager why she was there. It was perhaps this defiance that convinced Diamantis's mother to let her in without questions, out of curiosity and a certain pride. A woman who had fed murderers skordalia on New Year's Day had nothing to fear from the tart her son was trifling with, no matter how wild-eyed or brazen.

“Sit in here,” she said in an aggravated whisper, pushing Kivelli into a parlour filled with immaculate, red velvet furniture. “And don't make any noise. My son is sleeping.” She flashed a triumphant smile, then toddled off to the kitchen. Kivelli's heart was still racing, but she was relieved. Now that she knew where he was, she could just leave and wait for him to come back to her when he was ready. But what would his mother say to him if she ran out? That she'd stolen something or insulted her, and then that would be the end of it. Though he rarely spoke of her, Kivelli knew Diamantis was blindly devoted to his mother in the way only a late-born son could be to the woman who had given him her whole life.

Kyria Eugenia returned with two glasses of water and two small dishes of apricot spoon sweets on a silver tray. It was the proper thing to do for a guest, welcomed or not. She sat on the opposite side of the room and watched Kivelli silently, her eyes cold and disapproving. There was nothing of Diamantis in this plump, taciturn woman with the grape-sized birthmark on her cheek, who was continuously smoothing out the white doily on her armrest. It was what she did instead of standing up and leaving the room, or lurching forward and slapping Kivelli's face. In such situations, it was better to strike first.

“What is it you need to say to me?” Kivelli's question was abrupt, and she could tell the old woman was caught off guard. But Diamantis's mother swallowed whatever she might have spat back and glued her mouth shut with a spoonful of sticky apricots. “You don't like me very much,” Kivelli continued, and gave her a half-smile knowing that, as much as she'd like to, she could neither accept nor deny this. Direct confrontation was not the way the Kyria Eugenias of the world aired their disapproval, preferring to disseminate it through gossip that took the responsibility away from them personally and made it the neighbourhood's verdict. Though Kivelli could well imagine what calumny she'd already spread, there was no one to pass on this information to her in Athens.

It took Kyria Eugenia a little while to answer, to gather the nerve and the words she needed to defend herself, and to clear her palate of the gummy sweet. But she did not back away from the challenge, this widow who'd lived in Piraeus all her life and raised her sons while her husband was out making trouble, carousing with women who were much like Kivelli. “You have some nerve coming here, Miss,” she said in a flat tone. “I know your kind and the bad influence you have on decent men. Turn their heads, empty their pockets and lead them astray from their families.” Her hand had stopped smoothing the doily, but she was now tapping her spoon against her water glass as if she were summoning a servant to remove Kivelli from her presence. It wasn't a particularly loud noise, but it was piercing.

“What sort of influence could I possibly have on a man like Diamantis?” Kivelli laughed, both out of nervousness and the absurdity of her statement. Could she be a worse influence on her little boy than the gangsters and murderers Kyria Eugenia welcomed like sons? She did not say this out loud but could feel her dander rising. “I'm only a woman,” she said, and met his mother's accusing gaze. “And a refugee.” This was not meant to garner sympathy but to state a fact. Piraeus was Kyria Eugenia's turf, where Kivelli was powerless, resented and scorned — not only by her grudging hostess but by most Greeks, who called her kind “Turkish seeds” while lamenting the loss of their Anatolian dream. How could they mourn Smyrna yet despise its people? Kivelli tried to keep her voice steady and soft, but was having trouble containing her anger. And she was no longer sure of its target. Kyria Eugenia? Diamantis? All of Greece? Fate? “If I have any real influence on your son, I've yet to see it. He comes and goes as he pleases, and I never demand explanations. I accept him as he is and will never ask him to change his ways for me. On the day he decides to take a little wife to please you, I'm sure I'll have no say, no matter how much I love him.”

Kyria Eugenia's flat tone was now punctured by sharp disdain. “You sit here in my house and talk to me of love for my son with no shame, when I know you go from man to man, encouraging their worst habits instead of settling them down. And then you distract them from nice girls who could make good husbands out of them.” She clutched at her heart and fanned her face as if she were overcome by emotion and ready to faint. With closed eyes she mumbled prayers to the Virgin Mary.

Kivelli looked around the room for the first time and noticed a small shrine in a far corner. It was set on a table covered in a white lace cloth, and the centrepiece was a portrait of Kyria Eugenia's departed husband, Pavlos Skarlatos: fishmonger, loan shark and friend of the Cucumber's. In him she saw Diamantis — the strong chin, the satisfied gaze. He'd been a real lady's-man-about-town, and the manghes still spoke of him with affection and respect. His youngest son, however, never said a word about him. Kyria Eugenia hadn't been able to change her husband and was, in part, responsible for who both he and her son had become. But in her mind, their faults lay in women like Kivelli.

“You're angry at me,” she began, but did not dare complete the sentence out loud, “… for reminding you of your failures.” There was nothing to be gained by insulting Diamantis's mother; that wasn't why she'd come to her door. Instead, Kivelli appealed to her female compassion. “You are angry at me for my weakness, because even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have the power to change your son — not for my benefit, not for yours. He is a man of his own devices. And I am neither that presumptuous, nor do I have any plans or goals. I live for the day and hope to survive to see another. That is all I brought with me from Smyrna.”

The words hung in the air between them like a sour note, long enough for Kivelli to realize they were not completely true. She now wished for Diamantis to be everything that Marianthi had imagined: the perfect gentleman who could sing sweetly and was looking for a wife. And she knew all at once it would never be her. She brought her hands to her face so the old woman wouldn't be able to enjoy her despair or take credit for it. Kyria Eugenia did not offer a comforting word or move from her seat as tears spilled through Kivelli's fingers and streamed over her wrists and into her sleeves. She didn't want pity, but it shocked her that Kyria Eugenia had none at all. Through her stifled sobs and the blood pounding in her ears and chest, she heard Diamantis's sleepy voice.

“What have we here?” Kivelli spread her fingers to look at him. He was still in his pyjamas, his hair dishevelled like a little boy's, and he looked like he'd had a rough night. She could tell by the fierceness in his eyes that this surprise did not please him, though he did his best to remain cool. “I thought I heard laughter,” he yawned, then drank his mother's water. Kivelli quickly dried her face with her hands, then spooned some of the sickeningly sweet apricot into her mouth so she wouldn't be forced to lie.

“You know how we women are, my son. Laughter is always just one step away from tears and neither is to be taken too seriously.” She smiled at him pleasantly and got up, offering him her seat.

“Is something wrong, Kivelli?” he asked casually, as if there were nothing unusual about her presence in his mother's parlour. Kyria Eugenia busied herself picking up the glasses and plates. She took Kivelli's away before she'd finished, depriving her of another mouthful of apricot, which would have at least given her time to choose her words.

“I'll be fine. A little melancholy seized me when I wasn't looking, that's all.” He nodded, but she wondered what he'd understood. “Can you meet me at the square, Diamantis?” she asked after Kyria Eugenia finally left the room, tossing one last scornful look her way. “Of course,” he replied, as if they'd arranged the rendezvous a week ago and he was simply confirming it. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed violently. Diamantis did not react. Nor did he permit Kivelli to kiss him in his mother's parlour before he showed her out, even though Pavlos, watching with amusement from his corner shrine, would have certainly approved.

36

Grey clouds hung over the square, threatening and irascible. As Kivelli waited for Diamantis, several old customers from her days at Barba Yannis's stopped by to greet her. Though she longed for company to pass the interminable time, she didn't invite any of them to sit down. She wanted no more awkwardness or small talk when and if Diamantis showed up. He'd never given her reason to doubt his word, but this state of affairs didn't feel like anything that had passed between them before. She thought of all the lovely nights they'd spent together, and the fights they'd had over nothing because one or the other was in bad spirits — it had always been easy to change a mind, a mood then. In the last three days, something had shifted, inexplicably but definitively, and Kivelli was ready to accept the blame. If only she'd been warmer or cooler, more open or less. For a moment she wasn't sure whether this had to do with Diamantis or Marianthi.

It felt as if she'd been waiting for hours when he finally appeared, freshly showered and shaven, smelling like fine tobacco. He sat across her, his fingernails drumming against the table. He had his mother's hands, she noticed, and she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to take the rough fingertips into her mouth again. Diamantis leaned back in his chair and began to play with his behleri, counting the ivory beads, sliding them back and forth along their golden string. It had been a gift from her after their first recording, and the fact that he'd brought it along gave her hope, though she knew that other than his bouzouki objects held no meaning for him. “What's this all about, Kivelli?” he finally said. “My mother seems to think you want to marry me.” He gave a sharp laugh that expressed both disbelief and refusal.

She had no reply for that laugh. Nor was she sure where to begin, how much to reveal, or what she really wanted to say to him, the competing thoughts tying her tongue. Diamantis ordered a coffee and a narghile, then turned his gaze skywards, searching for something to occupy him other than Kivelli's anxious stare. “Don't look at me like that,” he warned in a tone that was uncharacteristically aggressive. “Are you going to spill it or not?”

“Three days ago …” she began, but he cut her off.

“Listen, I told you that I had some things to do with the boys, and they took on a life of their own, so don't be complaining like a wife. Maybe Mama wasn't far off, though I never expected it of you.” He spat on the ground by his chair. He'd never been so crude, so quickly annoyed, and she wondered how else his mother had maligned her after she'd left. “I know you were asking around for me, and then I find you in my mother's parlour …” This was clearly an accusation, and she did not defend herself. In his position she might have said the same things. “You shouldn't have gone there, Kivelli. You know how things are, but you insist on making trouble for both of us anyway.” A sigh hissed through his teeth. Whatever good humour he'd shown in front of his mother had evaporated on his walk to the square. Kivelli hardly recognized the man sitting across her with the icy glare, which assessed her and declared her his enemy.

“I apologize for disturbing your mother, and I don't need to know where you've been the past three days, Diamantis. I have other things on my mind.” He relaxed a little, especially after the waiter brought him the narghile. Kivelli wished she had one too, though the Smyrniot forbade smoking, which only made her defiant. She grabbed the mouthpiece from Diamantis's hand and sucked in a mouthful of smoke, which she kept in her lungs until she was ready to speak. Each word that emerged was laced with the flavour of burnt apple. “The first time we met …” she began, but he cut her off.

“It was here and I was stoned,” he said, stifling a yawn, unwilling to humour her as she retold what until three days ago had been one of his favourite stories. When Marianthi's tale about the first time she'd stepped into Barba Yannis's had ceased to move and amuse her, Kivelli knew they were approaching an unhappy end.

“Yes it was, and you were,” she confirmed and tried a different point of entry. “If you were to have another lover, who would it be?” She flicked her fingers under the table, counting the seconds until he answered.

His grin implied he already had one, and that this was the explanation for his scarcity the past three days. “Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to.” Kivelli's cheeks lit up with embarrassment and she looked away. He was right, she didn't want the answer, but there was no choice now that her hasty words had been uttered. She braced herself and looked him in the eye. Diamantis was still smiling at her. “What exactly are you after? Whether I've been unfaithful?”

Kivelli shook her head, but there was a knot tightening in her stomach, and she could feel the colour leaving her cheeks, and with it her courage. “Something's happened, Diamantis — has been happening — that affects us both,” she blurted. His smile disappeared and his face turned to stone again.

“I know an old lady in Kokkinia who can take care of it,” he offered. Kivelli shook her head again and waved her hand to erase all that had been said so far.

“It's about Marianthi — you know, the Smyrniot's wife? We've broken up.”

“I didn't know you were married,” he quipped, looking instantly relieved and uninterested.

“Because of you,” she whispered, and now she had his full attention. What man didn't like to be fought over? Diamantis was no exception.

“What do I have to do with your little cat fights?” he asked in a tone that betrayed more amusement than boredom.

“She loves you.” The statement was blunt, simple, but cut through her like Crazy Manos's double-edged blade. Diamantis, on the other hand, didn't react, so Kivelli slapped the tabletop and repeated it, loudly enough to be heard across the square. “She loves you, she's in love with you, you fool.” He still seemed rather unmoved by this statement, not even flattered, while Kivelli's whole being quaked with the realization that she was once again Marianthi's messenger. Was this how she'd planned it from the start? She was certainly smart enough, a genius of secrets and sleight of hand. Kivelli had never told Diamantis she loved him, and now she wasn't even sure it was true or if something else had driven her. He'd never said he loved her either; it was not his style. Men like Diamantis didn't like to talk about matters of the heart. If they had something to say, they wrote a song. As far as Kivelli knew, there hadn't been one written about her yet, and whenever she opened her mouth to sing, it was Marianthi's intentions that came out.

“I could never look at the wife of the Smyrniot in that way,” he stated, as if concluding a series of thoughts and calculations he had not shared with her. “That man hears the voices of the gods in his head. I owe him a lot. We both do.” This was not the answer she was hoping for. Part of her wanted him to laugh derisively and say he found Marianthi unattractive — too plain and prim for his taste. Or that she wore too much perfume and slouched a little when she walked. Then Kivelli might have felt compelled to defend her from these charges like a true friend would. But Diamantis said no such thing, admitted nothing that later could not be denied, and she couldn't bring herself to utter another word for fear of giving away what both she and the Smyrniot owed his wife. Diamantis might certainly look at Marianthi differently then.

“Are we done now? Are you satisfied? Go patch things up with your compatriotissa, and I'll make sure to be extra nice to her next time she comes to Argiropoulos's.” That Marianthi might go to Argiropoulos's on her own had never occurred to Kivelli, but since Diamantis said it, it must have happened, and more than once. She thought again of her letter and the last song and the star-shaped earring left behind on the stage. “The two of you are just like little lovebirds. You should hear the song one of the boys made up about it. But don't you worry, my doll, it's not the kind anyone would dare sing in public.” He smiled and caressed her chin and ears as if she were a cat. “Though I can sing it for you if you want.” She thought of Narella and Crazy Manos, and hoped the song wasn't in the Smyrniot's pocket.

“Not now, Diamantis. Not here.” Kivelli slid her chair closer to his and allowed her hand to find his lap, to caress him under the table. She needed him to stop talking, to stop picturing Marianthi in bed, be it hers or his, and she certainly didn't want to hear the dirty song. Her efforts did nothing to stop the flow of his words.

“You have nothing to worry about from other men's wives. I have no use for married women, but they all fall for me. They come to Argiropoulos's and have a few glasses of wine … You should see the letters they drop off at my mother's house, claiming they're from their husbands. Mama can't read, but she can always tell what they are from their perfume. And what man would send a message in a pink or blue envelope?” He clasped Kivelli's hand, forcing her to stop stroking him. “If I ever received one from the Smyrniot's little woman, it's completely slipped my mind.” She accepted his assurances, though she remembered Marianthi's story about his married mistress, the dead Tatiana. Kivelli didn't bring her up. Why spoil the mood with talk of yet another woman who, in some way, was still her rival?

The rest of their afternoon in the square was light and pleasant, though the tension inside her refused to abate and made her watch every word, every gesture for fear that Diamantis might take something the wrong way. They discussed their trip to Egypt, which was now only a few days away, close enough to feel real. And although the Smyrniot came up several times in the conversation, neither mentioned Marianthi again, except by omission. “No wives allowed,” he informed her, “but a few of the guys are bringing their mistresses. I don't know how they keep it up, trying to please two women at the same time. That's why I'll never marry — so no one will expect anything of me or be disappointed. But let Mama keep looking. It gives her something to live for.”

They said many other things to each other, some of them sweet, others teasing and coy, none of them too serious. Anyone overhearing their conversation would have never guessed that a few hours earlier everything had been on the verge of ruin. Diamantis even forgave her for going to his mother's house, and once forgiven Kivelli swore she would never go there again. For his part, he promised to come to the Bella Vista that night and to do whatever she desired afterwards. There was no question what that would be: they would go back to the Hotel Xenos, make love until neither could move, and she'd try to keep him there as long as possible, preferably for the rest of her life. She didn't tell him the last part; she could barely admit it to herself. But after he returned to his mother's house to eat, and she to her hotel room, all that remained of their conversation was Diamantis's dismissive laughter and the words
I'll never marry
. The compliments, the prospect of ten days together in Egypt, the small promises that would be fulfilled in the next day or two were all but forgotten.

The sky over Athens finally opened up and rain fell steadily for hours, sending dogs and cats and boys and men scrambling for shelter. Kivelli closed her window and hid under the covers from the lightning and violent thunder. After the storm subsided, she sent the Smyrniot a message that said her throat was sore and she would not be coming to the Bella Vista.