The Goodtime Girl (19 page)

By the time the Smyrniot came back with his proposals, neither Kivelli nor Diamantis was interested in anything other than the way out the door and back to Piraeus. “Can you come back here on Thursday,” the Smyrniot asked Kivelli, sounding prickly, though not more so than usual. A full week she would be happy to turn into a year if she could spend it with Diamantis, but she knew enough to say, “Yes sir, most certainly. I'll be back with bells on my toes and gold on my tongue. I'll spit gold at everyone's feet.”

On the ride home, in a cab driven by no one she knew, Kivelli forgot to tell Diamantis that he shouldn't plan on spending the whole night. Instead, they sang songs they both knew. Sometimes he took the female role and she the male, much to the amusement of the driver, who would tell the story of his two giddy passengers over and over, without knowing who they were or who they might one day be. He took the long way back and charged them full fare, though they were too drunk on wine and song and the salt smell of the Piraeus port and each other to care.

Outside Margarita's house Diamantis lit a cigarette and asked Kivelli if she was certain she wanted him to come up. She placed a hand over his mouth, held a finger to her lips and eased open the front door. Aspasia was sound asleep on the divan, and Margarita's snores echoed through the hallway. Taking Diamantis's hand, she led him to her room, knowing that once they stepped through the door, all would be lost. She accepted this outcome in the same way she accepted all the things that had happened to her since her arrival in Piraeus. Inevitable, and unstoppable as fire. If she'd had a moment, she might have thought of old Xanthi, or Marianthi, or the ashes that flew out the window bearing Diamantis's name after the first time they met. But once the door shut behind them, her mind surrendered to her body as it surrendered to him.

26

After the first night Diamantis spent in her bed, Kivelli could not imagine a time when his face and voice did not exist in her mind. Before running into him at the Bella Vista, watching him on stage as he conquered the crowd, she had nearly perfected her methods of disposal. There'd been enough men in her life since she'd arrived in Piraeus, bringing her fresh fish or silk stockings or bottles of wine. She tried to be clear with them from the outset, to leave no loose threads from which to hang themselves. Whether it was Stavros or Dimitris or Memetis, he'd been invited into her bed because he was handsome, or she liked the way he danced, or because he had made her laugh when she sat at his table between sets — nothing more. She also indicated that he would have to hit the road after they were done. It had nothing to do with the quality of the performance, the smoothness or roughness of his hands. She sent her favourites away as readily as those who pleased her less. Most of her Piraeus suitors had no problem with this condition, welcomed it like a strange miracle, though the incidence of narcolepsy after their exertions was high. She was often forced to shake Stavros or Dimitris or Memetis awake, hand him his shoes and watch as he stumbled, bewildered, down the street.

With Diamantis, it never occurred to her to lay down the law on that first night. The moment his fingertips brushed her knuckles, she forgot about everything that existed outside the back seat of the taxi. After they'd made love, she fell asleep, without a word, without a doubt, as if she'd swallowed a sweet and gentle potion. Kivelli wasn't certain whether his presence calmed her so that the nightmares stopped, the past temporarily receding into its dark closet, or whether she raved like a lunatic all night long and he was too much of a gentleman to say anything about it in the morning.

What he knew of her past had to do with where she came from and under what conditions. This was general knowledge, the story of her people and their pitiful end. There was no point in showing him the dead twin she carried on her back. It was possible, of course, that Diamantis put his ear to hers in the middle of the night and listened to her like the ocean, or that she put her lips to his ear to confess her worst secrets and fears.

What she learned of his past revolved around his life in Piraeus, the capers he'd pulled to prove himself worthy, and the reverence he had for the old man who taught him to play the bouzouki, who left him the instrument when he died. It was the same bouzouki Diamantis played to this day, and he was more faithful to it than he was to anyone and anything else. He also regaled her with the strange and wonderful things the manghes did when no one was watching, without sparing the horrible. It was from Diamantis that she first heard the tale of the Cucumber's favourite woman, Rubini — pretty as a freshly picked peach, but with the temper of a Fury. One night after a particularly violent argument, she took off while he was sound asleep and installed herself in a brothel on the outskirts of Athens — somewhere she hoped no one would think to look for her. But the Cucumber had his ways, and when he learned of her whereabouts, he gathered a group of buddies, loaded his Colt .45 and hijacked a taxi. “Made the poor sop drive all the way to the countryside at gunpoint. The place was down a dirt road, hidden by trees, and when they finally found it, the Cucumber asked the cabbie to keep track of the time, then to calculate what the whole ride would cost him, including the return trip to Piraeus.”

“He was going to pay the fare?” Kivelli asked, riveted.

“He would do something for the cabbie, as long as he waited for him to come back. The Cucumber is a man of honour.” She nodded and waved her hand for Diamantis to continue.

“His plan was to smoke her out, so he torched the back steps, and Rubini and the rest of the whores came running out the front, naked, coughing and screaming.”

Diamantis imitated the voices of all the characters, mimicking their facial expressions and gestures. The story brought a flush to his cheeks, and his eyes radiated laughter. Kivelli didn't find it particularly funny, but she couldn't help but smile at the way he told it, and forgave him for making a joke out of fire. When he realized his gaffe, he apologized quietly and gravely.

Naturally, the cabbie had sped off by the time they got back, and when the cops caught up with the Cucumber and his crew, they were carrying poor, half-crazed Rubini down the road towards town, hoisted above their heads like an Easter lamb. Having finally understood the extent of his love for her, Rubini visited the Cucumber in prison every Sunday, but he refused to see her; he'd made his point. Diamantis had written a nasty little song about the whole affair that warned men of the dangers of getting involved with pretty, brainless women. The Cucumber loved it, said he was happy to let other men learn from his mistakes.

Another time Diamantis imitated an old mangha who had been stabbed in the backside with a fork, careening around the room like a drunk, howling like a dog. Kivelli laughed so hard she couldn't catch her breath, and Diamantis had to throw cold water in her face to calm her, which she found even funnier. “You would make a great actor,” she said, but he shook his head and frowned. He had no desire to entertain. The antics of clowns and snake charmers and mesmerizers did not interest him; they made him feel ashamed for them.

“They try to fool and humiliate the people who come to see them, or to come out on top by humiliating themselves. It disgusts me.”

There were no tricks up Diamantis's sleeve. He was simply the instrument upon which Piraeus played its life. Getting up on stage, performing for the public, was just an extension of the singing he did up in the caves at Keratsini, or late at night by the waterfront, or in his mother's kitchen when some of his friends dropped by for a chat and a bite. It had nothing to do with make-believe or pretending to be something he was not. When he picked up his bouzouki in a crowded room, he gave the men his stories, which were the same as theirs because they'd all grown up on the same streets, shared the same women and jail cells, got stoned on the same hashish. There was no separation between them, and he felt as satisfied sitting in the audience and listening to someone else tell those same tales in his own way.

Diamantis made Kivelli happy, so happy she often forgot to be frightened or wary or sad. The thought of him could put a smile on her face. She pictured him sitting in the metal tub in her room like Poseidon on his throne. She admired his shoulders and chest as she poured water over his head and worked her fingers through his hair, which curled when it was wet, then down his torso and underwater into the dark place between his thighs. Once, she climbed in and sat on top of him without removing her nightgown but lifting it above her waist, the slow, rhythmic waves of their small sea lapping over the sides. She'd also caught herself singing cheerful little songs from her girlhood while completing some mundane task. This change of humour was attributed to his deep brown eyes and the weight of his cheek against her breast in the morning. Her days were less dismal, the relentlessness of the rising sun less heartbreaking when Diamantis was lying beside her.

Yet in those first moments of consciousness, as rays of light streaked through the shutters, tickling her eyelids, caressing his face, she could not completely forget that this happiness might be temporary, thus could not be fully trusted. Everything could change, without warning or mercy. The world could end, and she might be left on her own once more to watch the sun set on its ruins. Kivelli did not dare allow herself to consider the future — neither one that included him, nor one where he disappeared from the face of the earth. As if it had been tacitly agreed upon the first night, Diamantis too refrained from making any plans that might never be fulfilled and would haunt them like the ghost of a child who had died in its mother's belly. She did not trouble Diamantis with these grim thoughts, rising from the past and staining the present, afraid they would counteract her charm and make her ugly to him. But after he left, she opened the window and reluctantly cleared away any lingering traces of him, of their night together. Kivelli was determined to keep forgetting — the time long past, yesterday's news and this morning's dream. Even Diamantis if it was required.

27

The following Thursday, two hours before Kivelli was to set out for the Bella Vista, there was a soft knock on her door. Not ready to give up the luxurious embrace of half sleep, she tried to ignore it, but a louder knock followed, and then she heard her name whispered with some urgency. She put on her robe and, dragging her feet, went to see who was interrupting her rest. “Oh, it's you,” she muttered, neither pleased nor angry. Marianthi had a huge smile pasted on her face, as if she were waiting for her picture to be taken, and she stepped into the room without being invited — just as she had the first time and every time since.

“Aren't you even a little happy to see me?” she asked, a little wounded. “I've come to escort you to the Bella Vista, treat you to a taxi ride. Surprise!” She planted a sticky red kiss on Kivelli's cheek.

“That's very nice of you, Marianthi, but I haven't even begun to think about getting ready.” She sat down on her bed, rubbed her face with her hands.

“I can wait,” she replied, making herself as small as she could by backing into a corner and crossing her arms. “I wouldn't get in your way at all …”

“I love you, Marianthi, but you
would
be in the way. Why don't you just meet me there later tonight? I'll find my way; I always do.” There was a bowl of fruit on the nightstand, and she grabbed a plum, biting through the deep purple skin, grimacing at its sharp flavour. She offered one to Marianthi, who shook her head, then approached the bed and sat next to Kivelli, ankles crossed, feet swinging back and forth.

“But I thought it would be so much more fun if we walked in together.” Though she was trying to sound light and spontaneous, there was a trace of whininess underneath. It was the tone women used on men to get what they wanted; Kivelli was completely immune to it. “And shame on you for letting me hear about it on the streets.”

Marianthi had found out about her friend's debut at the Bella Vista by chance, from the disdained Elpiniki, who she'd bumped into at the dressmaker's. “‘I heard a little Smyrnean burnt down the house last week and is coming back for more tonight. Where does your husband find them?'” She mimicked Elpiniki's pompous schoolmarm voice, exaggerating her innuendo. “Indeed, where does he find them,” she spat, and picked a plum from the fruit bowl, sinking her teeth into its firm flesh. The women sat silently for a moment, sour looks on their faces, as much at the thought of the Smyrniot as from the acidity of the unripened plums. “I didn't have to spend too much time wondering who exactly the new girl might be.”

There'd been a big fight when Marianthi confronted him at home. The Smyrniot's excuse wavered between the fact that he'd summoned Kivelli at the last minute and that it was none of her business anyway. “‘Do I tell you what colour curtains to hang on the windows?' he yelled, as if it were the same thing. So I picked up the creamer from the silver tea set his mother gave us as a wedding gift and threw it at his head. It missed, unfortunately.” The Smyrniot didn't flinch as it hit the doorframe and clanked uselessly onto the floor. He kicked it back at her and walked out. All of their exchanges were like this now, she complained. Marianthi left the creamer where it lay, overturned and dented, and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of strong coffee. Kyra Xanthi had taught her a few tricks, and she was getting good at recognizing the symbols left by the grounds. “They told me that I was going totake a short trip today. To the Bella Vista. By myself. But I thought it would be even better if I went with you. What could Panayotis do then, send us both home?”

“So he doesn't want you there?”

She shrugged and released an exasperated sigh. Luckily Marianthi was so caught up in her battle with the Smyrniot that she didn't question why Kivelli hadn't run over to tell her she'd appeared at the Bella Vista, or why she'd made herself so scarce in the week that followed. In her friend's imagination, Kivelli spent her empty days carousing with manghes in the square and flirting with fishermen and sailors at the docks, doing things and visiting places that were off limits for a married woman of standing. There was no point in disabusing Marianthi of these notions since she seemed to enjoy and even to envy them, though she still wasn't comfortable walking through Drapetsona by herself, no matter how often she stopped by Kyra Xanthi's and then took the opportunity to visit Kivelli.

“He's a greedy and loathsome bastard. Takes my songs as if he owns them and gives me nothing but grief in return.”

Kivelli wanted to be sympathetic, but the story was always the same, and they were both starting to annoy her.

“Leave him, expose him, or stop giving him your songs. It's quite simple, really.”

Marianthi nodded in agreement, though Kivelli knew she didn't dare. She had no means of her own and nowhere to go; to expose him would be to also destroy herself. Her only plans for escape played themselves out inside her head.

“What if he drops dead tonight, or some mangha shoots him because he looked at him the wrong way? With that face it's as likely to happen as anything else.”

“Not at the Bella Vista. It's not like Barba Yannis's.” She sounded a little too superior for Kivelli's liking.

“Who said anything about the Bella Vista? A lot of the guys around here are mad at him because he won't take their songs. Someone is going to get stoned enough one day and when the Smyrniot is leaving your house …” She made her finger into a pistol and pointed it at the other woman's forehead.

Marianthi laughed nervously. “If that's his fate, so be it. But until that fine moment I have to keep giving him my songs so that you can sing them for me.” She was dying to hear her words and Kivelli's voice in public, to see what effect they had on an audience of strangers. “Kyria Effie's was one thing, but this is the Bella Vista!”

Kivelli took her hand and noticed her fresh manicure, the stripe of pearly polish in the centre of her nails. “Ok, Marianthaki, we'll go together. But you have to leave me alone for a few hours. My preparations are private, and this room is too small for an audience. Why don't you drop in on Kyra Xanthi? She was asking after you the other day.”

Marianthi pulled her hand away. “You've seen Kyra Xanthi behind my back?” She seemed genuinely offended. Kivelli had seen that accusatory look before on the faces of jealous men, and tried to keep the lingering malaise the last visit to the fortune-teller's had provoked from shading her own face.

“I ran into her in the square the other day. We're neighbours after all. There's nothing very mysterious or exciting about it. She had a pair of shoes for me …” The room was suddenly stifling, and Kivelli got up to open the window.

Marianthi could barely disguise the hurt in her voice. “So that's what you've been up to all week instead of coming to see me. I was sure there was some new man in the picture, and you'd thrown me over.” There was no answer to this, only the empty space Kivelli's apology should have filled.

“Why don't you go sit in the square for a while instead of fish- ing for reasons to be angry with me. I didn't have a chance to come see you this week, but if you come back at eight we'll catch up on everything on the ride to Athens, all right?” She ushered Marianthi towards the door.

“Sit in the square
by myself
? Have you lost your mind? What if someone saw me?”

Kivelli's patience was dwindling and irritation raised her voice. “Then go home and come back later. Or I can stop by and pick you up in a taxi. But right now you need to leave me in peace. In a few hours I have to get up on stage and turn myself inside out in front of all of Athens. Please, Marianthi …”

Crestfallen, she stepped into the hallway. “Forgive me, Kivelli. I just got so excited when I heard, and I missed you all week … I'll come back in two hours exactly. I'll just sit in the square and pray.”

“For what?”

She smiled. “For the two hours to pass as fast as they can.” Marianthi reached into her bag, fishing for something. “You don't have anything for me to write on, do you? If I'm going to play the manghissa in the square, I should take some notes. It will help pass the time.”

“No,” she replied too quickly. “But you can buy some stationary at the kiosk. And don't worry. No one will eat you. Just order a glass of wine to settle your nerves and enjoy yourself.” With that Kivelli closed the door, locked it and breathed a sigh of relief.

She immediately began rummaging through a drawer for the envelope that contained the Smyrniot's invitation. She crossed out her name, then tore a page out of one of Aspasia's old exercise books. She felt bad for not offering it to Marianthi, but she had her own need for it. How she would get a note to Diamantis at this hour, she was not sure, but their date had to be cancelled. As a man who prized discretion, he would understand. They could meet at the Bella Vista, as if by chance — how they arranged matters at the end of the night was a different matter. Aspasia was dispatched to look for him in the square. She had a big crush on Diamantis and helped Kivelli sneak him out in the morning by distracting her mother in the kitchen, dropping a pot or spilling the vegetablesshe'd just washed on the floor. The prospect of standing before him and handing him the note thrilled her, even though she probably wouldn't manage to utter a word or look him in the face.

All week Kivelli had been searching for the right way to tell Marianthi what was going on but had found neither the right words nor the opportunity. She couldn't announce it in the middle of a game of cards, and that very fact kept her from going over to play. She knew she wouldn't be able keep Diamantis from Marianthi forever, but this wasn't the time to explain the whats and the hows, nor did she feel up to fending off her friend's reaction. She needed to concentrate, to review the songs she'd been told to prepare, and to sit quietly with herself before stepping up in front of an audience that would do with her as it wished. Once this night was over, she would be happy to tell her friend all about her new man and answer the inevitable questions. Better yet, Marianthi could sit with Diamantis at the club, and if he wanted to, he could tell her himself.

The Smyrniot had given her half her wages in advance for a new dress, but she compromised by picking something out from a second-hand dealer's cart and saving the rest for her rent. A swatch of mauve fabric had caught her attention from beneath the piles of moth-eaten suits, musty coats and severe blouses that reminded her of Aunt Penelope. The dress was sleeveless, with a low neckline and black beads sewn in a diamond pattern around the hips, and the hem had a sassy flounce that made her feel like a dancing girl in an American movie. She put it on, painted her lips bright red and stepped into Kyra Xanthi's lilac shoes. It was only the second time she'd worn them, which made her think that the only road they knew led to the Bella Vista. She'd ride over with Marianthi, and Diamantis could carry her home in his arms. The Smyrniot was bound to escort his wife back to Piraeus.