The Goodtime Girl (17 page)

WHEN IT WAS CLEAR KIVELLI had run out of words and tears, Kyra Xanthi stood up and opened the door a crack to allow the young woman's misery to escape. She said if that type of anguish were allowed to stay, it would invade everything in the room like dampness and cover the walls with mould. A ray of sunlight illuminated the dust particles floating in the air, swirling and diving as the old woman's breath displaced them when she spoke. “Now let's find out what the future holds for you and your lovely shoes,” she said, spreading her faded red cards out on the table.

25

My sweet little flirt , my playful doll
You're driving me mad, I'm in your thrall
One glance, my light, and I will fall
One kiss and my heart will be cured of all

On the taxi ride over to the Bella Vista, the driver recognized Kivelli from Barba Yannis's and refused to accept her money as long as she promised never to leave Piraeus for Athens. “They eat up all our best girls in Athens, and then they forget where they came from.” Despite her best efforts, Kivelli clearly hadn't forgotten anything. Telling Kyra Xanthi her sorry tale had done nothing to dislodge the hardened ball of grief behind her ribcage. It had only become more difficult to ignore and made her even more wary of stepping into the Smyrniot's territory, which was, no doubt, filled with happy ghosts pretending they hadn't died. Let the cabby believe she was from Piraeus; it was preferable to haunting the Bella Vista every night. Kivelli didn't promise anything, though she assured him she had no intention of making any drastic moves. This was the truth, at least at the moment, and the free ride was a stroke of luck; she could save her money for the return trip, which was ultimately the greater need. Her time at the club would surely be subsidized by the Smyrniot and whoever else might be there acting as if he owned the world. If it hadn't been so far away, she might have walked to the club, though Kyra Xanthi's shoes pinched her toes, forcing her to count every step and resent it. They were made for sitting with crossed ankles and being driven from place to place, not for traipsing over dust-covered roads to a graveyard.

No one knew when Barba Yannis was going to get out of jail; this was as much a mystery as why he was actually put in jail. He himself had done nothing, but these were strange times, and you had to be careful about the company you kept. Sakis entered her thoughts momentarily — what he was doing in Thessaloniki, and with whom — but she dismissed him almost as quickly as he'd appeared. Kivelli liked Sakis well enough, but there was no point wasting her thoughts on him when he wasn't around. He was doing just fine, she was certain, because that was his way. She searched herself for jealousy but couldn't find any. Not that she expected to, though it sometimes hid in a pocket like a forgotten coin that was now ready to be spent spontaneously on something frivolous.

The taxi stopped at the corner of a busy intersection, in front of a pale yellow and white neoclassical building. “Here we are, Miss Kivelli,” the driver said as she stared out the window at the people milling about the entrance. There was a group of well-dressed men who seemed too fresh-faced and clean-cut to be manghes, though they copied the look with their well-cut dark suits and rakish hats. Two musicians, one holding a clarinet and the other a toumbeleki, were standing around, talking and smoking — probably on a break. She remembered the clarinet player from the picnic, Kosmas and his toumbeleki from the recording session. They looked right at her but showed no sign of recognition. Couples were going inside, the men holding the tall, dark wood doors for their lady companions, who embodied the type of elegance Kivelli believed had been left behind in the ruins across the water. If they were prostitutes, they lived in some sort of Sultan's paradise compared to the Piraeus girls. There was nothing tawdry or desperate about the way they dressed or held themselves. They might not have been prostitutes at all, but consorts or even wives. This was surely the type of place where husbands brought their wives.

The club was right next to a cinema. How much more pleasant it would be to slip into its darkness than to face the Smyrniot and whatever he expected of her behind the carved wooden doors. Kivelli hadn't sent any sort of reply to his invitation and could easily pretend that she'd never received it. Sliding it under a door was hardly foolproof, and who knew what fool he'd employed to deliver it. The cabby came around to her side and helped her out. His thick-skinned hand was rough against hers, but warm and friendly, so she let him hold it for a few seconds longer than was necessary or appropriate. She didn't mind; it was the least she could give him for the free ride.

“Do you want me to come back and get you later, bring you back home?” There was a look of concern on his face, with nothing shifty lurking underneath. Kivelli squeezed his hand and thanked him, assured him she'd find her way back at the end of the night. “I'll be in the square for a little while, having a drink and a bite to eat. Come find me if you change your mind, Miss Kivelli, if it doesn't suit you in there.” He got into his car and drove off slowly, and she waved at him one last time as he disappeared around the corner.

People jostled past her as she stood in front of the Bella Vista, gathering the courage to walk through the doors by herself with her head up, like it was something she had done a thousand times before. She studied the painted sign above the doors and the glassframed poster on the right side, the Smyrniot's arrogant face glaring back at her. Except for a few faint, high-pitched notes when the doors were suddenly flung open by customers either coming or going, she heard no music from inside. It was the sounds of a laterna being cranked close by, mixed in with the laughter of passersby and with traffic and car horns, that impressed themselves onto the moment.

Had she not been so nervous about walking in, past the welldressed men, the ladies of uncertain provenance, and into the Smyrniot's territory, she might have felt more self-conscious about her clothing. It was so plain that groups of beggars and gypsies selling trinkets and bemoaning their plight passed her over for those who seemed more obviously well-off, though no one seemed to be giving them anything, despite the volume of their wails, the clamour of their tambourines. It was absolute madness to come all this way, invitation in hand, and not take the three short steps up to the doors. She didn't have a dozen other options and engagements set up for herself in Piraeus. In fact, if something didn't happen soon, she might find herself back at Kyria Effie's doing more than just singing. Kivelli edged past the two musicians wrapped up in a whispered argument between puffs of their cigarettes, and a group of young men discussing where to go next, their colognes brash and combative as their voices.

In the foyer her heels clicked against the red marble floor, their echo travelling up the wooden staircase and past portraits of famous singers and composers, some familiar to her, some unknown. She'd forgotten that Columbia's offices were right above the club. Marianthi joked that if the Smyrniot moved his things from the house to the office, he would never have to go anywhere but up and down the three flights, from the musician's union at the top, to the club a the bottom. It might indeed be a better place for him than the house, where he always looked uncomfortable. Kivelli ran her fingers along the dark polished wood of the walls. Someone had lived here once, and in this foyer guests had removed their hats and coats, and anxious suitors had waited. The smell of wood polish tickled her nostrils, as well as faint perfume from the flowers that sat in a large, golden vase on a table in the corner.

This in-between room made her uneasy. Threads of music from inside escaped from under the door, and the indistinct sounds of the audience made her feel very lonely. There was something unsettling about a crowded room, a place she could disappear into but might not be able to escape. The fear of being trampled never left her, and she always felt suffocated by the press of bodies, the smells of sweat, alcohol and cologne. When the exterior doors opened again, a small draft made the overbearing chandelier tinkle prettily, and Kivelli began to move forward along with the people who had just walked in.

A bald man wearing a bowtie and a red carnation in his lapel greeted her at the door. Kivelli thought he might be the owner, the Athenian version of Barba Yannis, though his smile was more condescending than friendly. “Are you alone, Miss, or are you expected?” His words rang like an accusation. Once upon a time, such a tone might have hurt her feelings. “The Smyrniot invited me. Is he here yet?” she answered blithely, and resisted showing him the note. He pointed towards the front of the long and packed room, at the elevated stage that took up its entire width. Among the lute players, accordions and zithers stood the Smyrniot, virtually unrecognizable. His eyes were closed, his lips pressed together in a grin that was almost sweet, and he was playing his violin with a sprightliness that erased his usual sullen demeanour. The piece was a lively instrumental, full of peaks and loops that expressed his spirit alone, divorced from Marianthi's words. Kivelli could almost see how in a crazy moment her friend might have found him attractive, like an unusual insect you took a moment to admire before sweeping out the door. And she also saw clearly for the first time how damaging each was to the other.

“You wouldn't happen to be Kivelli Fotiathi,” the doorman asked in a tone only slightly less disdainful, though she was no longer paying attention to him. She was studying the room with its large round tables draped with blue tablecloths, glass vases of fresh flowers sitting in the centre. Dapper men and stylish women sat around them, laughing and talking above the music, clinking glasses and clapping to the songs while an army of waiters in black pants, vests and white collarless shirts carried immense trays overflowing with food from the kitchen. This room had nothing to hide and was well lit with dozens of white globe lights hanging like small perfect moons from the ceiling, illuminating the tables, the fine clothing of the customers, their happy faces. Piraeus seemed very far away, much farther than a taxi could take her. She would need a ship, or at least a limousine. And although a cloud of blue smoke hovered like a headache around the globe lights, she could not detect the slightest whiff of hashish.

“Yes, I would happen to be Kivelli,” she responded absentmindedly, looking through the crowd to see if, by some chance, it contained anyone she knew.

“The Smyrniot has reserved a seat for you, Miss Fotiathi.” He led her down the centre aisle towards the front and the stage. Three chairs to the right of the Smyrniot, where the singers should have been, sat empty. Her belly contracted. Were the regular singers on a break during this long instrumental number or was something else afoot?

“Where are the singers?” she asked over the music. If the doorman detected the agitation in her voice, his reply did nothing to assuage it.

“The singers aren't here tonight.”

Blood rushed to Kivelli's temples, roiled between her eyes. The Smyrniot might have warned her if he wanted her to replace his singer — one more line in his note telling her to practise a few of his songs instead of throwing her into the middle of his sea to sink or swim. She took a few deep breaths in hopes of slowing her heartbeat, and she placed both hands beneath her navel to calm the cramp that was gathering strength as she approached the unknown stage. But as nervous and irritated as she felt, a part of her was tingling with anticipation, which increased with every step. This was the part that was disappointed when the doorman pointed at a table in the front, facing the row of singers' chairs.

The moment she was seated, a waiter rushed over with a carafe of red wine and three empty glasses, two of which he placed upside down on the table before pouring some wine into her glass. A second waiter brought a platter of mezzedes — olives, slices of salted cucumber, roasted peppers and various dips in pretty little mounds decorated with mint leaves. Kivelli could never eat when she was nervous or upset. Appetite left her immediately, came back grudgingly, sometimes days later.

She picked up her glass of wine, sniffed it and hoped it was strong, then stared over its rim at the two empty glasses — one was no doubt for the Smyrniot, but who was his second guest? Was Marianthi going to turn up after all? This might make things easier, as long as she and her husband stayed on opposite ends of the room. But something told her that her friend was at home and had no idea where she was spending the evening. Otherwise Kivelli surely would have heard from her during the day, and they might have arranged to come together — Marianthi would have insisted. Her cheeks flushed and she suddenly felt devious, though she didn't think she owed Marianthi any explanations. She wasn't having an affair with the Smyrniot; she didn't even like him. The club was overcrowded and she was nervous so far out of her element and on her own, she decided. She placed a slice of cucumber on her tongue, held it there until its coolness was drained and the music came to an end. While everyone was clapping, she discreetly spat it into a white napkin, then joined in the applause. The moment the Smyrniot stopped playing, the pall of his cheerlessness returned and was cast upon her. In his quiet voice he told the audience that the orchestra would return after a short intermission, and he scurried off the stage as if it were the most unnatural place in the world for him to be.

With no music to listen to, nothing to watch and no one to chat with, Kivelli felt self-conscious sitting by herself in the front row, where everyone could study her and pass judgment on who she'd become. The violet hat wasn't doing much to hide her, quite the opposite; its ostentation called attention to her from all sides. The Smyrniot was nowhere to be seen. He had looked directly at her before he got off the stage, and Kivelli hated him all over again for leaving her alone, especially since it was his invitation that had brought her there. After emptying her glass, she asked a waiter to direct her to the powder room, where she'd ask the mirror what to do.

When she entered a room much bigger than the one she lived in, she felt a strong urge to flee, to run out to the square and look for that cabby, who could ferry her back to her neighbourhood, her room and her life before they disappeared and she'd have to start all over again, somewhere else, from scratch. He was right; she was from Piraeus now. She wet her hands, pressed them to her feverish cheeks, then blew her reflection a kiss goodbye. But upon leaving the powder room, she was confronted by the Smyrniot, who was standing near the door. He didn't smile when he saw her, but nodded slightly. Kivelli didn't smile either; he always managed to sap it out of her.