The Mediterranean
August 1959
Maria knew she should avoid being alone with Ari after their night of mutual confessions. At last she’d admitted the unthinkable. Ari wasn’t just an entertaining new friend; she was falling in love with him. She knew she should disembark with Battista at the next port and fly to Lake Garda. Her husband would be pleased, at least; his face showed his unhappiness as he slunk around the deck all day with no one to talk to.
Yet she didn’t suggest it. She danced cheek to cheek with Ari when the orchestra played after dinner each evening, and later, when most other guests had gone to bed, a kind of fatalism led her steps to his bar. The young English guests would be there, sipping nightcaps, playing board games, or splashing in the pool. But even across the room, she could feel Ari’s desire burning like the rays of the sun. She was hyperaware every time he glanced at her, knew he was listening closely to every word she said and was watching when she crossed and uncrossed her legs.
Maria couldn’t help sneaking glances at him as well, and every day her attraction grew. She adored the musky hint of masculinity that mingled with the smell of his cigars when he leaned over to top up her glass. But, most of all, it was the razor sharpness of his brain she loved—that, combined with the gentleness she saw when he was with his children, or sitting for hours entertaining Churchill. The mixture of flint and honey was irresistible.
In bed, she lay awake imagining . . . what would it be like with him? Would he leave Tina if she left Battista? But it couldn’t be. It mustn’t be. It was wrong even to think of it.
Sometimes she wondered what would happen if Battista died. He was sixty-three, after all—a whole decade older than Ari. But Tina would still stand in the way. She couldn’t break up a marriage with two children involved. It was totally against the teachings of her Church. She was committing a sin even by thinking it. There were so many bad thoughts to confess to God: dreaming of having sexual relations with another man, wishing her husband was out of the way, and, worst of all, letting herself fall in love with someone who could never be hers.
The party went ashore on a remote island one day, and Maria slipped inside a tiny white-painted chapel tucked between tall cypress trees. She knelt at the altar and closed her eyes, praying to God for guidance. You know what’s right. The words came into her head as if direct from the Almighty himself. But when she emerged into daylight, there was Ari standing a few yards away, watching her from behind his dark sunglasses, and her knees trembled.
They sailed as far as the Turkish coast, and Ari showed them around Smyrna, the town of his youth. He pointed out his family’s old house, then the place where he had slipped under the fence onto the American naval base to escape the Turks. Maria translated for Battista. He was her husband, after all, and she hadn’t been as kind to him as she should have been, so she made an extra effort that morning.
The next stop was Istanbul, the magnificent city astride the Bosphorus, with glittering minarets rising amid a huddle of multihued buildings. Ari announced that he had arranged for them to have an audience with the Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church, who was based there in St. George’s Cathedral. Maria gazed at him in wonder. The head of her Church? Was there nothing this man couldn’t do?
The English guests said they would rather go shopping in the Grand Bazaar, but seven of the party went to the cathedral around noon—Battista and Maria, Ari and Tina, Artemis and her husband, and the Christina’s captain. They stopped to light candles to St. George, and Maria couldn’t help noticing that Ari donated a hundred-dollar bill, while Battista only left a few crumpled lire.
Next they were shown into the Patriarch’s wood-paneled reception rooms, and he emerged from a doorway, dressed in black robes, with a black stovepipe headdress, long white beard, and straggly white hair. Maria was awestruck. This man was the holiest of the holy. Would he see straight into her sinner’s soul?
He sat on his Ecumenical throne and Ari went up to greet him; then the Patriarch beckoned her too. She slipped forward, bowing her head.
He spoke, his baritone resonating in his chest: “I am honored to find Greece’s two most famous citizens, the world’s finest singer and the greatest mariner since Odysseus, together in my church. Let me say a prayer of blessing.”
Ari and Maria knelt side by side in front of him. She clasped her hands in prayer and felt her palms sweating.
“Glory to the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, now and forever and to ages of ages,” he intoned, and the ancient words of the prayer rang in Maria’s head like the most beautiful music, their rhythm lulling her into a trancelike state. She glanced at Ari, and his expression was deadly serious. Their eyes met. It felt as if the supreme head of their Church was giving his blessing to their union—almost as if he were marrying them to each other.
Maria still felt in a dream state when they rose and looked around to see Battista and Tina watching in disbelief. She avoided their eyes, incapable of speaking on the way back to the Christina.
The Patriarch was joining them for lunch on board, and a feast of many courses had been prepared. The English crowd returned, and the Patriarch said he would pray for them too. The Churchills had stayed on board, and Winston looked terrified as this strange man in his black robes approached, murmuring in Greek, his silver cross swinging.
Maria’s mind was in turmoil. Suddenly, as if a veil had been lifted, she could see where her destiny lay. She had been looking for a sign—from God or from the universe—and nothing could have been clearer than the word of God’s highest representative on earth.
That night, after Battista and Tina had retired to bed, Maria made her way to Ari’s Bar. He was waiting for her at the entrance, unsmiling. Without a word, he took her hand and led her to the Christina’s lifeboat, which had a small suite of rooms. They tiptoed to the bedroom and had begun to unfasten each other’s clothes before their lips touched for the first thrilling time. When they were naked, he pulled her onto the bed, and she tasted salt on his skin, smelled his scent. Their limbs became entangled till it wasn’t clear which were his, which hers; then she felt the deep, primal touch of him inside her very core . . .
The bed creaked and a stiff breeze rattled the rigging, but they were quiet, entirely lost in the moment, as they consummated their union with all the desire they had been repressing for the past two weeks.
Afterward Maria cried tears of pure happiness. Ari wrapped her in his arms and held her so tight that it felt as if they were one being.