The Goodtime Girl (6 page)

10

You strut up to me
with a double-edged blade
Who's your business with wise-guy,
what debts must be paid?

It was early evening and the taverna was empty except for a few members of the band escaping their wives, and a gang of codgers who wouldn't last past eleven. They were playing endless hands of kseri, drinking retsina and reminiscing about the good old days when the taverna was their territory and no one came in without a brick of hashish as an offering. Now they were harmless granddads, coughing with every inhale of the narghile and gossiping about the preening young manghites with as much indulgence as disdain. Kivelli liked the taverna at this time of day, before the atmosphere was choked with grudges and bravado. She sat by herself, drinking coffee and waiting for the air to shift, for the old men to cede their places to the young.

To pass the time, she turned her little white cup onto its saucer and watched the muddy grounds ooze out the side while her future was being etched on the inner walls in lacy patterns. Barba Yannis claimed he could read palms, though everyone knew it was just an excuse to hold women's hands and make predictions that gave him some sort of advantage. He'd already taken turns with Kiki and Lola, as well as several of the other girls because they liked what he saw in their future. He didn't read cups, however, which was the territory of old ladies with black dresses and headscarves, their evil eyes usually aimed in his direction. As Kivelli peered into the cup's miniature abyss at something that might have been a flower or a fallen sun, she sensed someone behind her and looked over her shoulder.

A short, skinny man Kivelli hadn't seen before stood there, erect as a post, his nervous blinking the only sign he was alive. He wore an impeccable grey serge suit with a burgundy bow tie, and a black fedora pulled down over his forehead and ears, which made him look as if he had something to hide. He smelled familiar, however, of lemon verbena and fine tobacco, like her sleek-haired suitors in Smyrna, though he was nowhere near as handsome with his flaccid skin and thin, pale lips. When his mouth began to move, Kivelli couldn't hear his words over the din of old men nattering and musicians fooling around with their instruments. She narrowed her eyes and cupped a hand by her ear.

“I am the Smyrniot,” the man repeated testily and paused a moment, waiting for a reaction. So many guys had adopted that nickname since the Catastrophe — whether they'd come from the city or a nearby village — it had become meaningless. Kivelli studied his grim face, but it told her nothing. He wasn't distinct enough to be remembered. Even now, standing before her, her memory resisted him.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, not impolitely, but not graciously either. He threw her a sharp look that in the past might have frightened her, but now only made her more defiant. She compressed her lips and folded her arms over her chest, her eyes hard as diamonds. If he really wanted trouble, she could call the Cucumber. For a few uncomfortable seconds, they looked each other over with equal doubt. But before either could make a move, Barba Yannis rushed over and slapped the Smyrniot on the back, then shook his hand vigorously. Kivelli had seen that happy dog look on her boss's face before: he was both impressed and slightly unnerved by the presence of the man he called Panayotis.

“What brings you here, my friend?” he asked Panayotis the Smyrniot, who pulled on the brim of his hat until his eyes all but disappeared. With an almost imperceptible tilt of his chin, he pointed in Kivelli's direction. Barba Yannis looked as thrilled as Kyria Effie had on the day he'd arrived with his proposition. “You should be very flattered, girlie.” He then winked at the Smyrniot. “Don't ask about the hole I found her in …” And with that he left, blissfully unaware that his taverna was just a different type of hole.

The Smyrniot looked left and right, as if plotting his escape. He was becoming more agitated by the minute; he fiddled with something in his pocket Kivelli hoped was neither a wedding ring nor a pistol. Barba Yannis was sitting with the old men, whispering and staring and whispering some more. There was a rumble of laughter, and someone began plucking a baglama, yowling between notes.

When the Smyrniot spoke again, he lowered his voice as if he feared being caught in an indiscretion. “Miss Kivelli,” he began, his words tentative, forced. “I have a song for you. Come to my house tomorrow afternoon if you want to try it on for size.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her, then scurried out of the taverna without waiting for her reply, or pulling on the narghile, or talking to anyone else — not even Barba Yannis. His address was outside the neighbourhood, over the bridge and up Castella Hill, in a better part of Piraeus. Kivelli stared at the piece of paper in her hand, then crumpled it and stuffed it in her coffee cup. The place was starting to fill up, and it was time for her to disappear into the storeroom so she could later make her entrance. Barba Yannis hurried over, his eyebrows twitching eagerly.

“What did he say, what did he want from you?” He wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief edged with pink embroidery.

“Who knows … something about a song … to each his own.” Barba Yannis looked at her as if she'd fallen on her head.

“Are you crazy? The Smyrniot wants to give you a song and you flick him off like lice? What's the matter with you? Don't you know who he is?” This was the first time he'd ever scolded her, and the strain soaked his handkerchief with sweat.

Kivelli admitted she didn't know, and she didn't care either. As far as she was concerned, he was one of a dozen newborn Smyrniots, and nobody to her. Barba Yannis plucked the crumpled, coffeestained paper out of the cup, smoothed its wrinkles against the table. He held it at arm's length to read it, then pressed it into her hand. “You go there and apologize, Miss Kivelli, or don't bother showing up tomorrow night. I have no room here for women who live on the moon.” He then spelled it out for her and walked off to tell the other musicians, who had a good laugh at her expense.

This Smyrniot was Panayotis “The Smyrniot” Doukas, one of the most renowned musicians in Smyrna. Kivelli had heard his name and had danced to his music at balls and private functions where his orchestra played, but had certainly never met him. His were not the circles she travelled in, neither there nor here. The band hardly ever played his songs at the taverna; they weren't raw or hard enough for the regular crowd, even when the lyrics were about hashish and prison and heartbreak. The music raised a different spirit — too happy, too romantic, even in its melancholy. Kivelli knew a few of his hits — “Maria, Stop Your Nagging,” and “Someone's Stolen the Wine” — and sang them on request when one of her compatriots who could afford it was in the audience, which was not very often. They had their own clubs where they tried to recreate what they had lost, places named after Smyrna's richest neighbourhoods — Bella Vista, Cordelio, Bournova. The mere thought of going there made Kivelli as sick as bad wine.

But now that she knew who the Smyrniot was, she was curious to hear what kind of song he thought was cut to her measure, and to find out how he knew, since she'd never seen him at the taverna. Though, admittedly, he could have been lurking in a smoky corner all along, testing and assessing her, or standing right under her nose, unremarkable and easily forgotten.

There was still this night to live through, however, and tomorrow seemed a thousand years away, during which the sun might be extinguished once and for all, if not for her, then for someone else. This had become a given since the Cucumber's gang had taken up residence at the taverna. Notoriety had to be fed with flesh and blood, or it went somewhere else. So incidents of the kind that were never reported to the police escalated, and it was left to the manghes to sort things out, using their own code, imposing their own sentence.

At around two in the morning, a young swag from the neighbourhood sauntered in, high as Jupiter. Crazy Manos dropped in on most nights to flirt with the girls, exchange barbs with the guys. He was lean-faced and handsome, with dark blond hair and the green eyes of a wildcat, wary and always halfway shut. Rumour had it that he slept with ten women a day and stole from them all, which was how he could afford his fine suits and enough hashish to keep him flying most of the time. He collected his allowance throughout the day in exchange for a kiss on the forehead, and blew it all by dawn. Kivelli hoped it was worth it, but she had her doubts.

Crazy Manos was a bit of a show-off. He strutted around the room, glass of wine in hand, laughing uncontrollably and flashing his new double-edged dagger with the polished deer stag handle. He slid it through his fingers, ran it over the insides of his wrists and hefted it between his hands. He was also throwing his weight around with the girls in the corner, but from their scowls and waving hands, Kivelli could tell they were not enjoying his attentions. Narella left the table and went to speak with Barba Yannis, who consulted a few of his buddies and then called over Mortis, the taverna's only waiter.

The older manghes had nothing against Crazy Manos. They admired his looks, his luck with the ladies and his fancy blade. They'd all been young and high and crazy once. He was one of them, but there was no bigger anathema than a guy who called attention to himself for no good reason. If you took out your sword, you'd better be ready to use it. They tried to ignore him at first, but this only encouraged his strutting. When Mortis refused to bring him more wine, Crazy Manos stood on a chair and smashed the empty glass on the floor, then began laughing like a maniac. One by one the instruments stopped playing, Kivelli stopped singing, the men stopped talking and even the girls' gasps were soundless. A group of Barba Yannis's tightest friends surrounded Crazy Manos, who cursed and spat like the devil as they dragged him outside. Barba Yannis signalled the band to start playing again, but Kivelli could still hear the shouting and swearing through the thick wooden door.

After two or three songs the manghes returned, wiping their hands on their trousers, tucking in their shirttails, looking neither happy nor angry nor proud. They had done what was necessary because they'd been provoked. They took their places at their tables as if nothing had happened, resumed their conversations as if they'd never been interrupted. That was that, Kivelli thought, and after a few more songs she too had forgotten the scuffle, though the broken glass still lay on the floor, twinkling like ice that would never melt.

Then Crazy Manos stumbled back in. Blood running from his nose and mouth stained his white shirt, both his eyes were blackened, swollen, his jacket was ripped and his hat had been crushed. This did not make him look ugly, just wilder. Before anyone could stop him, he ran to the front of the room with his dagger between his teeth and began dancing like a woman, clapping his hands above his head and shimmying his hips. He waggled his tongue at Kivelli as the same group of manghes carried him out again. But within two or three songs, Crazy Manos was back, as defiant as ever, blowing kisses and offering wine to everyone in the house. Those must have been powerful drugs coursing through his body. Corpse-raising drugs. A lesser mangha would have crawled home to die in his mother's lap.

The rest of the night was punctuated by this back and forth, this in and out and in again. When Crazy Manos did not crawl back on his hands and knees after the final bout, Kivelli was sure they'd killed him, and she felt bad for a moment. He was a young guy trying to have some fun, a handsome mangha, just a little bit reckless.

After the taverna closed and the broken glass was swept up, Kivelli searched for Barba Yannis, but he was nowhere to be found. All she wanted was to get paid so she could go home and consider the Smyrniot's invitation, the memory of which had been almost entirely wiped out by the night's main event. If it disappeared by morning, she would be relieved of the decision, though she was not certain how much longer she could bear the brutishness of the taverna. Narella walked over and said she'd seen Barba Yannis leave by himself, and that she too was waiting for him because they had their own bills to settle. “He read my palm and paid me a visit at Kyria Effie's,” she confessed sheepishly. She'd hoped to make Crazy Manos jealous, to get back at him for his philandering, but things had gone too far. She wiped away a tear. Narella had a soft spot for that little butcher.

Just then Barba Yannis returned. He and Mortis were holding Crazy Manos up by the armpits, helping him to a table near the back. Narella ran to him, threw her arms around his neck. Crazy Manos cursed, but didn't push her away. He was a sorry sight, his pretty face puffed up like that of a drowned man, his fine threads dark with blood and dirt. But there he sat, holding hands with Narella and drinking the cup of coffee Barba Yannis himself had brought him, while Mortis dusted off his jacket with a white cloth.

11

The Smyrniot lived an hour from Drapetsona on foot, in a pretty neighbourhood on the slope of Castella Hill, which looked over the harbour. Not far enough to justify the tram fare, especially since last night's brouhaha had left Kivelli's plate a little bare. The houses in Castella were quaint and painted in blue and ochre, with front gardens lush and seductive as jungles. Who knew such places existed in Piraeus? Most of Kivelli's compatriots lived in tar-roofed shanties, with spindly basil plants growing out of oil tins on their front steps and red paper flowers tied to branches of dead trees. Though the Smyrniot house was small compared to others nearby, the garden was smothered in flowers. White lace curtains hung in the windows, and the brass knocker on his door was the typical long-fingered lady's hand that adorned the finer homes in Smyrna, including her own. It seemed sinister here, and Kivelli hesitated before touching it, afraid it might burn. Her inclination was to turn and run down the hill and all the way back to Drapetsona. Instead, she held her breath, then tapped on the door with her fingernails and hoped she hadn't forgotten how to behave in a proper house.

The curtains moved instantly, as if someone had been watching from behind them all along. Almost as quickly, the door was opened by a smiling, handsome woman who grasped Kivelli's hands and pulled her inside before she had a chance to ask whether she was in the right place. “I'm Marianthi, wife of the Smyrniot,” the woman chirped, then laughed as if pleased with herself. “My husband is not here yet, but will join us soon. In the meantime, you and I can get acquainted.” The enthusiasm and satisfaction in Marianthi's large brown eyes told Kivelli she wouldn't have a choice.

The Smyrniot's wife was short, plump and shapely, like good village stock. She wore a white crepe de Chine dress scattered with red roses, and the waves in her dark hair seemed rigid as marble. Her polished appearance, however, belied her demeanour. Marianthi talked loudly and recklessly as if worried she'd run out of time. How did people so obviously ill-suited to each other always seem to get married? Kivelli silently marvelled. Some crafty matchmaker in Smyrna was surely to blame. Marianthi led her through the house, introducing her to the different rooms, pointing out things they'd brought with them when they'd crossed, others they'd acquired more recently in Piraeus. Many refugees, even the ones who were better off, had been forced to sell what they could to survive, and the Smyrniot's wife had seized the opportunity to spruce up her castle on the hill.

“Doesn't it remind you of a house in Smyrna?” Marianthi asked with a hopeful lilt. Kivelli smiled brittlely. “Of course, nowhere near as grand …,” she added, her voice faltering. Deep red kilims of silk and wool hung on the walls, and the windows were sheathed in lace curtains so white they belonged to a world that had never known fire. Every room was filled with heavy wooden furniture from Germany and France, intricately carved monuments of another time and place. Marianthi's house was so clean that Kivelli didn't dare touch anything or look behind her to see if her shoes had left prints on the black marble tiles from the front door to the dining room, where the women now stood, awkward and silent. Kivelli ran her toe over their distorted reflections on the floor. Yes, it reminded her of a house in Smyrna, but she couldn't bear to say so and blinked back a few tears before they gave her away.

“Coffee?” Marianthi asked, then disappeared through a swinging door without waiting for a reply. Left alone for a moment, Kivelli's eyes roamed nervously over the bulky furniture crammed into the too-small dining room. There was a curve-backed sofa along the wall, its velvet blue as the sea; a mahogany china cabinet with a silver tea service gleaming behind its glass doors, its drawers no doubt filled with the same shell-patterned flatware laid out primly on the long wooden table; and a mirror between the windows that went all the way to the ceiling. The room looked even smaller inside its golden frame. Kivelli stole a glance at herself; she too looked distinctly out of place here, wan from not enough sleep or sun, and down-at-heel in the second-hand sailor's dress Aspasia had altered. She was no longer a Smyrnean rose in full blossom, but closer to the red paper flowers fluttering in the shantytowns. There had to be an escape — through the window the cleaning woman had washed so well its glass was invisible, or through the tall mirror. But what awaited her on the other side?

Marianthi reappeared with two cups of coffee on a silver tray also laden with paper-thin pastries floating in an indulgence of rose syrup. She put the tray down and gestured towards the sea blue sofa. “Please, sit down, make yourself comfortable.” Kivelli didn't think this would be possible, but sat anyway, though she chose one of the balloon-backed chairs at the table.

Kivelli watched her hostess more than she listened. From across the table, Marianthi's eager eyes travelled over her with such speed they seemed to be making a sketch, and her hands fluttered around her coffee cup, which never quite made it to her mouth. She spoke in rapid sentences, most of which remained unfinished and simply ran into the next with no sense or logic. A few sounded like questions, but she answered them herself. Kivelli glanced towards the door a few times, hoping the Smyrniot would show up and save her from his frivolous wife. Was she drunk or half-witted like Aspasia? Kivelli couldn't decide, though she too had once been capable of such pretty, harmless noise: strolling with girlfriends along Smyrna's Quai, ogling furniture for their dowries or Parisian dresses for balls in the opulent showcases on rue Franque, unconcerned with the state of the world outside their elegantly behatted little heads. But how had Marianthi remained so unscathed by the devastation that had extinguished their city? Kivelli fiddled with her empty cup, and when her hostess paused long enough to take a sip of coffee, she managed to slip the question in while Marianthi's mouth was full. Her answer was ready, as if she'd delivered it a thousand times before.

“We left about six months before those dreadful fires. Columbia Phonograph offered the Smyrniot a job in Athens, and we settled in Piraeus because he knew a few musicians who already lived here.” There was pride in her voice, as if her talent and cunning were responsible for her lot. Kivelli felt a flash of hatred toward this woman who never called her husband by his first name, and was not ashamed that her quaint little house was filled with treasures acquired over the dead bodies of their true owners. She felt her cheeks redden, her eyes fill.

“What's wrong?” Marianthi asked, a look of panic in her eyes. “I'm suddenly not feeling very well …” Kivelli jumped to her feet, and her knee banged against the china cabinet as she bolted towards the hallway. The Smyrniot's spry wife ran out behind her and grabbed her arm.

“Please, don't go,” she pleaded, straining to keep the tears out of her voice. “I'm sorry if I've made you dizzy with my babble. I never know when to stop. My husband always says so.” A look of deep regret crept over her face, and there was something so tender and solicitous in Marianthi's grip that Kivelli resisted the urge to shake her off. “Forgive me. I'm just so happy to finally meet you.” She dabbed her moist eyes with a handkerchief, and Kivelli, fanning away her own tears, let herself be led back to the dining room.

“Sit … please.” Marianthi's tone was part consolation, part appeal. “I'll make some more coffee and we can have some sweets — I made them especially for you.” She pushed the tray towards Kivelli. “I was certain you would come. The Smyrniot will be here soon, I promise. And it will be worth it, I promise that too.” She gave her an apologetic grin and left with the empty cups. From the next room Kivelli heard water running, the clatter of dishes in the sink, then the unmistakable sound of china breaking.

Why was Marianthi so anxious, so insistent she stay? Were there no neighbours or wives of her husband's colleagues whom she might have charmed with her pretty face and singsong? Kivelli looked around the room again. It had the remoteness of a museum display, as if it were seldom used. And there were no children's toys scattered, no rhymes or games echoing through the hallway. She decided Marianthi was lonely: she wasn't a mainland Greek and was separated from her own kind by her good fortune. Dispossessed, part of nothing. It was the one thing they had in common. When she returned, the Smyrniot's wife looked a little wilted. The immaculate waves in her hair were separating, losing their authority, and even the bright red flowers on her dress seemed to droop slightly. Kivelli was sorry she had judged her so harshly. It wasn't Marianthi's fault that luck had worked so well in her favour. Perhaps it was just her turn.

After serving the coffee, Marianthi picked up a pastry and ate it in two bites, licking the rose syrup from her fingertips. Kivelli took one too, and lifted it towards her mouth while her hostess watched nervously. As her teeth sank into the crisp layers, the room began to spin and Kivelli was transported through the tall mirror into her father's salon in Smyrna. Her hair was twisted in a loose chignon, her dress was made of salmon coloured silk, and she smiled demurely as she served tea and cake to a pert-faced young man who was now bones in the ground. She spat the pastry into her hand, and Marianthi emitted a small cry of distress, as if someone had pinched her under the table.

“I'm so sorry. Is it really awful? I thought you'd like it, that it would remind you of home.”

“I don't want to remember home.” Kivelli snapped, her cheeks flushing, her voice louder and angrier with every word. “And I don't understand what it is you want from me. We don't know each other, and if it weren't for …” The tears she swallowed made it hard to breathe, and she was afraid she might faint at this ridiculous woman's feet. “… And you sit here acting like it never happened and we're already best friends. So why don't you just tell me what you're after, and then we'll see if you can afford it.”

For the first time since Kivelli had stepped through the door, Marianthi was at a loss for words. She stared into her coffee cup, and twisted and pulled her wedding band as if she couldn't get it off. “Your voice,” she replied meekly. “I want your voice.”

Before Kivelli had a chance to absorb this or respond, she heard someone clear his throat. The Smyrniot stood in the doorway, a guitar tucked under his arm. Marianthi started when she saw him and her face tightened. He stepped into the dining room without addressing the women and took the chair at the head of the table. Marianthi jumped to her feet and hovered behind her husband for a moment before clearing away the plates and scuttling into the kitchen. When she returned, she loitered by the door as if awaiting an invitation. The Smyrniot paid no attention. He was so absorbed in tuning his guitar he might have been alone in the room. Kivelli peeked at Marianthi out of the corner of her eye. Her arms were crossed over her belly and her lips moved in what looked like a silent prayer. If Kivelli still prayed, she would have asked to disappear, but the best she could do was hope that her stay at the Smyrniots' would pass quickly.

After what seemed an eternity filled with nothing but the twang and pull of strings, the Smyrniot finally spoke, his tone as cold and reticent as it had been at Barba Yannis's: “I don't have much time,” he said, and pushed a sheet of lyrics towards Kivelli. “So let's get on with it.” Marianthi had not budged from her spot by the door and was still mouthing words no one else could hear. But her eyes were now closed, and she was tapping her foot softly, like a mangha, stoned and lost in his own world. At first glance, the song didn't seem so different than the usual fare at the taverna — it had drugs and tough guys and heartbreak. But to Kivelli's surprise, it gave the woman's side of things. This was becoming more common, though the guys at Barba Yannis's still preferred hearing their own stories sung back to them. She moved her lips over the words as soundlessly as Marianthi's prayer, her mouth forming them, her tongue tasting them so they wouldn't stumble out like a drunk's proposal: stilted, awkward and worthless.

“Whenever you're ready …,” the Smyrniot mumbled and began playing his guitar. Though the lyrics were lowdown, the music conjured calliopes, operas and Arab charmers with their dancing snakes. They filled Kivelli's veins with ice; she sat frozen, burning at the same time, unable to cry for help, let alone sing. But when the notes circled back to where they'd begun, she opened her mouth and the words came out as if they were her own:

I am the girl, that goodtime girl, who all the manghes crave

But my heart swells for only one, I'll take my secret to the grave

Marianthi took a step closer, her lips forming the same words as Kivelli's, praying to a god of love who lived down the hill and over the bridge in Drapetsona. For some reason this gave Kivelli confidence, and she sang the rest of the song to the Smyrniot's wife in the same way she picked the mangha with the kindest eyes to focus on at Barba Yannis's.

He doesn't know I want him, doesn't see that he's the one

This man who plays bouzouki, like others shoot their guns

To Piraeus I came with no jewels, no clothes, no name

And now I'm going to lose my mind, mangha's driving me insane

Both women's eyes welled with tears, but not for the same reason. The tow of the Smyrniot's music carried Kivelli back to summer fairs, boat races and cafés along the Quai, reminding her of the person she no longer was and would never be again. She'd been created by Smyrna to adorn its lovely streets, and one could not exist without the other. Now she was something like this song: a hybrid of beauty and beast. The gap between the two was cruel, and the pain of that cruelty flooded her voice.

Oh pretty boy, oh wicked boy, take pity on this tart

Let me light your narghile with the flames that eat my heart