Jackie and Maria Page 12

  Maria held the little girl in her arms, a lump in her throat as she examined the porcelain-perfect skin, the sapphire eyes and gummy smile. “She looks like you, Mary. She’s a beauty.”

  Maria handed her over when she began to squawk, then was taken aback when Mary lifted her shirt to feed the little one. She’d always assumed breastfeeding was something you did if you couldn’t afford formula.

  Mary laughed at her expression. “It’s the only way I’ll get her to hush up and give us peace to chat. Now, tell me, is it true what I read in the papers? You’ve only gone and snared the richest man in the world?”

  Maria grinned. “He could be the poorest in the world and I’d still love him. I’ve never felt like this before, Mary. It’s the real thing. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

  “If you love him, I’m sure I’ll love him too.”

  Mary cupped the baby’s head with her hand. “But boy, oh, boy, you sure don’t do things by halves.”

  “I’ve turned down most offers to sing next year because I just want to be with him,” Maria continued. “You of all people know that the backstabbing of the opera world had been getting me down. Now I can sing when I feel like it, for the sheer love of music.”

  Mary looked thoughtful. “That sounds wise, but I hope you won’t give up performing entirely. The world needs Maria Callas. And take it slow and steady with the romance, dahlin’. Listen to your old friend.”

  Nothing could dampen Maria’s excitement, though. She and Ari spoke on the phone every day, long, loving calls that neither wanted to end. He sent vast bouquets of flowers to each hotel and concert hall—entire nurseries’ worth must have been plucked to create them—and he was waiting at the airport to sweep her into his arms when her plane touched down in Athens at the end of the tour.

  THAT DECEMBER THE weather was mild, and she and Ari spent most of their time on the Christina. Maria kept her clothes in Ithaca, for the sake of propriety, but she slept every night in her lover’s bed. She loved taking care of him: choosing new clothes for him, fussing over his health, planning meals with the chef, even cooking some dishes herself—she loved to cook. She got to know his sister, Artemis, and her doctor husband, Theodore, finding them warm and understanding of their situation, although she knew Artemis had been close to Tina. Her one and only desire was to make him happy.

  Ari spent his afternoons on the yacht’s telephone, talking to his offices around the world, the captains of his tankers, and the bank managers in tax havens, switching among the seven languages he spoke fluently. He kept all his global contacts in a scruffy address book, with business cards and scribbled notes shoved inside, all held together with rubber bands. Maria teased him, saying that it was not very grand for the world’s richest man, and offered to buy him a Cartier address book, but he insisted that everything he needed was right there.

  While he worked, she sat reading on deck, huddled in blankets on the chillier days, listening to the sound of his voice in the background. He was sharp with some callers but she never heard him lose his temper. She could tell he had an astonishing facility for mental arithmetic, making complex calculations in seconds and retaining figures in his memory; perhaps part of his talent for business lay there.

  In the evenings, after dinner, they sat talking, faces inches apart, sharing minute details of their lives and beliefs, memorizing every new fact about each other. Maria had never been so happy. Her heart was filled to bursting.

  One evening during the week before Christmas, Ari suggested they have daiquiris before dinner. After Maria had taken a few sips, her stomach heaved, and without warning she threw up violently on the deck.

  Ari rushed to offer his handkerchief and called for a steward to clean up.

  Maria was mortified. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She wiped her mouth, trying to remember what she had eaten earlier in the day, but there had been nothing out of the ordinary. She hoped she hadn’t caught a bug.

  Ari was scrutinizing her, as if trying to work something out. “When is your time of the month? I can’t remember.”

  Maria had stopped taking note of the dates. There seemed no point anymore. She was thirty-six years old and infertile—or so she thought. Her eyes widened. Was it possible she was pregnant?

  “I think you should see a doctor when you are back in Milan,” Ari said.

  She shivered with excitement. Could she be with child? She glanced at Ari to see if he looked pleased at the prospect, but his expression was unreadable and she was too nervous to ask. It was still early days in their relationship, after all.

  He asked the steward to fetch a glass of water for her, then changed the subject to talk of his friend Prince Rainier. The Monaco National Council had bogged down his budget in red tape, so the money for an opera company could not be found just yet, but he was hopeful that the situation would be resolved soon.

  Maria didn’t care about that anymore. She had a much more exciting prospect in mind.

  BEFORE MARIA COULD return to Milan for a pregnancy test, Ari’s children came to visit. He told them Maria was his “good friend,” but they knew otherwise and scowled, refusing to shake hands until their father insisted.

  “Mama told us you stole Papa from her,” Alexander said when Ari stepped out of earshot. “That’s not nice. You should give him back.”

  Maria shook her head, flustered. Tina must be furious with her to have said such a thing to her children. “It’s not like that at all, I promise . . .”

  She felt horribly guilty that Tina blamed her, and she wanted to say more, but she couldn’t tell these children that their mother was the one who’d had an affair first. If only she could win them over by telling them they might have a new brother or sister—but that would have to wait.

  Throughout their stay, the children refused to engage in conversation. She asked questions about their new home in England and their favorite games, but got no answers, even when Ari snapped at them not to be rude. They sat glumly at the dinner table, picking at their food, and Maria felt awful that grown-ups’ actions were responsible for their misery.

  “They’ll get over it. I’ll see they do not lack for anything, and they can visit me in the school holidays. It will work.” Ari spoke as if trying to convince himself.

  His lawyers were negotiating with Tina’s lawyers, and Maria knew he was concerned about how much of his fortune he would have to give away. Battista’s warnings—that Ari would never divorce Tina because of the money—rang in her ears.

  “I don’t want to break up the empire that Alexander will inherit one day,” he explained. “Many of my businesses are interdependent. Tina knows that.”

  Maria felt it was not her place to comment on Tina’s settlement. At least they were moving toward a divorce, while Battista wouldn’t even contemplate the idea. He had dug in his heels since their meeting in Sirmione and would not budge on anything, even on returning her lucky Madonna icon, which she’d accidentally left behind there. She’d written, begging Battista to forward it to her, offering to pay whatever he asked, but he refused point-blank.

  “Why should I do one single favor for you?” he wrote in his reply. “I can’t think of a reason. So the answer is no.”

  She couldn’t help but worry that it was a bad omen.

  WHEN MARIA’S DOCTOR in Milan confirmed her pregnancy, she flushed scarlet with joy.

  “Do you have any idea how much I have wanted this?” she breathed, close to tears. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

  The doctor explained that they would take special precautions because of her abnormal uterus, and because it was a first pregnancy at her advanced age. The baby would be delivered by Caesarean section, and they’d keep a close eye on her in the final weeks.

  She covered her face with her hands, overcome with emotion, silently thanking God for answering her prayers. If only Ari could have come to the appointment. She couldn’t wait to rush home and telephone him. He had to be pleased. Surely he w
ould be? Her hand was shaking as she dialed.

  “My darling Maria!” he exclaimed, sounding emotional. “To be frank, I didn’t think I wanted any more children, but now it has happened I can’t wait to meet this baby we have created together. I hope it will be a girl and that she has your voice and your beauty.”

  “And your intelligence,” she added. “It is due on the twenty-sixth of June. Just think . . . I have been pregnant since October without realizing!”

  “You know that I will always take care of you and the little one,” he said. “No matter what.”

  A shadow of doubt made her shiver. “It would be wonderful if we could be married before it is born,” she ventured. “So that no one could call our child a bastard.”

  “We are already married in the eyes of God. The Patriarch blessed us, and no two people could be more in love. If we can’t manage to get married in law before June, that is of less concern to me.”

  “But we can try, can’t we? The lawyers might find a way.”

  “Of course we can.”

  They agreed that Maria would spend the spring months on the Christina with him, then both would live in her Milan house for the final weeks before the birth.

  When she got off the phone, Maria grabbed Bruna and twirled her around the hall. “We’re going to have a little one!” she cried.

  “Oh, madame! I couldn’t be happier for you.” Tears glinted in her eyes. “I’ll help you. I looked after all my sister’s babies. Such wonderful news!”

  Maria clasped a hand over her belly, feeling sure this child was a girl. Her star sign would be Cancer, which meant she would be a loving, sensitive child. Cancer was particularly compatible with her own sign of Sagittarius, so she hoped they would be the best of friends as well as mother and daughter.

  Until the birth, she didn’t want a hint of her pregnancy leaking to the press. She would hate to see headlines about her getting pregnant out of wedlock, illustrated by unflattering photos of her belly. Ingrid Bergman had been crucified in the media after getting pregnant with the child of director Roberto Rossellini while married to another man. No; it would remain a tightly guarded secret until she and Ari could stand side by side with their child in her arms and make a joint announcement.

  Chapter 22

  The Mediterranean

  April 1960

  Maria’s nausea had passed and her belly began to swell. Her hair grew thick and glossy and her skin glowed; she’d never felt healthier. She sent Bruna to purchase ever-larger brassieres and swimsuits and loose, exotic kaftans that she could wear on board the Christina, plus a chinchilla swing coat that disguised her figure when she went ashore.

  “Pregnancy suits you,” Ari said, running a finger along her cheekbone. “You look ravishing.”

  The pregnancy hormones seemed to stimulate her libido as well, because she had never felt such urgent desire for Ari. As she lay beside him on a lounge chair, tanning in the spring sunshine, her skin ached for his touch. Many times a day she reached across to kiss and caress him, then they slipped down to his suite to make love. Unlike Battista, he was always willing.

  “I will have to keep you pregnant all the time if it has this effect,” he murmured, drowsy in the aftermath of lust. “You were sexy before but now you have turned into an insatiable diva.” He grabbed a handful of her backside and bit her shoulder.

  They became more adventurous in the bedroom. Whatever Ari wanted to do, Maria agreed, as long as it wouldn’t harm the baby. He had told her that his earliest sexual experiences had been with prostitutes, and she sometimes wondered if that was where he learned some of these more advanced techniques. It didn’t matter. She wanted to do everything with him that a man and a woman could possibly do together, and she loved it all: every magnificent erotic moment.

  The only cloud that spring came when a friend sent a telegram to warn Maria that her mother had written a book about her that was soon to be published by a New York house. Straightaway Ari got his American lawyer to send a threatening letter, telling them to stop publication, but it was too late. The book came out, and the lawyer sent a copy to Maria so she could decide whether she wanted to sue.

  “Don’t read it,” Ari advised. “Don’t let her words inside your head. If you sue, it will give the book a publicity boost and it will reach many more readers. Leave it alone and it will disappear by the end of summer.”

  Maria looked at the cover, bearing the title My Daughter Maria Callas, and couldn’t stop herself from opening to the first page. Then she sat down and read some more.

  According to Evangelia, Maria had been an adorable baby, but she had a personality change after being knocked down by an automobile at the age of five. From a sunny-natured toddler, she became bad tempered and selfish overnight. According to her mother, Maria never appreciated the years of sacrifice that she, Evangelia, had endured, the scrimping and saving to pay for voice lessons, the hardships of the war years in Athens—all of it had been for the sake of her ungrateful daughter.

  A decade earlier, when she still yearned for her mother’s love, this would have devastated Maria; now that her heart was hardened, it meant nothing. She didn’t recognize herself in her mother’s words; she knew that was not the child she had been.

  After Maria had finished reading, she asked Ari to read it too. “Tell me honestly what you think,” she said. “I trust your judgment.”

  He started laughing before he reached the second page. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know she’s your flesh and blood, but any normal reader is going to think she is insane. You clearly made the right decision in cutting her out of your life.”

  “Are you sure?” Maria had thought the same. The pages were dripping with malice, and full of factual errors too. She would not dignify it with a response, and she would not let it spoil her otherwise idyllic pregnancy. Her mother was her own worst enemy, but she was nothing to Maria now. And she would make sure that, no matter what happened, Evangelia would never meet her grandchild.

  Chapter 23

  Hyannis Port

  Summer 1960

  Jackie was coming up on twenty weeks pregnant and did not want to risk traveling cross-country for the Democratic convention in Los Angeles, but she stayed up till two in the morning to watch on television as Jack accepted the presidential nomination. She almost missed it, because the set took ten minutes to warm up; then she had to tinker with the antenna to get rid of fuzzy zigzag lines slashing the picture. Two-year-old Caroline awoke and came downstairs to snuggle sleepily on her lap.

  Behind Jack on the stage were the four candidates he had defeated, all of them seasoned politicians. She wondered how they felt about being beaten by a comparative newcomer. Adlai Stevenson would be particularly peeved; he had tried to persuade Jack to run for vice president on his ticket and had now been outrun by him. They looked sincere in their congratulations, but politics was a game for competitive men and no one liked to lose.

  Caroline quickly lost interest; to her the distant figure on the TV screen was not her daddy. Jackie felt curiously detached as well, as if he were someone else entirely.

  “The New Frontier of which I speak is not a set of promises—it is a set of challenges . . .” Jack announced.

  It was grandiose sounding but there was nothing of substance. The policies could wait. For now, it was about making an impression.

  Jackie had asked Joan, Teddy’s ultraglamorous blond wife, to chaperone Jack on the West Coast. She would be the woman on his arm at formal dinners, the one sitting behind him during the interminable speeches. Jackie had urged her to stay close, hoping the presence of his sister-in-law would curtail Jack’s extramarital activities. He had to be careful not to get caught now he was in such a high-profile position.

  Jackie was spending the summer at Hyannis Port, reading, painting, and playing with little Caroline. The baby in her womb was much more active than her previous three; she could feel it kicking and rolling around from about eighteen weeks, getting livelier in the eve
nings, as if having a private party. She was glad for the reassurance that it was alive and thriving; when she realized Arabella had stopped moving inside her, it had been the worst moment of her life.

  Jackie’s peace was disrupted on the day of the nomination announcement by the press arriving en masse. Low-flying planes buzzed overhead with photographers leaning out to snap pictures, and she had to give several interviews and stand in the sweltering heat, posing for photographs, just when she was feeling her least attractive. No designers made chic clothing for pregnant women. She had some flared cotton sundresses in floral prints that she wore with white, low-heeled pumps, but they were far from the elegant, streamlined look she normally favored. Then her father-in-law insisted on a press conference, held in the living room of Joe and Rose’s home.

  “I’m so excited,” she gushed in answer to the questions fired at her. “Jack would be a wonderful president, who could do so much for this country.”

  She had hoped the level of interest in her family would die down after an initial frenzy, but, if anything, it increased. Sightseers came to gawk at their house, so she could no longer wander into the yard without being photographed. Some folk leaned over the picket fence and helped themselves to stems of the rambler roses. If she so much as appeared at a window, the cameras came out.

  Is this really the life I wanted? she wondered, thinking back to the six years between her coming-out party and her marriage to Jack, years when she could have chosen a different spouse and changed her fortunes entirely. She had achieved her ambition “not to be a housewife,” but was this too much?

  WHILE STILL AT school, she had wavered between John Sterling, son of an ambassador, and Bev Corbin, son of an attorney: the former was fiercely intelligent but not sexy enough, and with the latter it had been purely a physical attraction. She had dithered for a while, then decided to hold out for both qualities in one package, and had broken up with both of them before she turned eighteen.