New York City
May 19, 1962
Maria was surprised and flattered when she was invited to sing at the forty-fifth-birthday gala being thrown for President Kennedy at New York City’s Madison Square Garden. The Kennedys were the golden couple of their era: attractive, articulate, and cultured. Maria had watched the iconic television footage of them during their visit to France, appearing fresh and vibrant alongside Europe’s antiquated top brass, and been intrigued by Mrs. Kennedy. It was said she had even charmed the cantankerous general Charles de Gaulle, president of France, and Nikita Khrushchev, the bullying Russian premier.
“Who else is appearing?” Ari asked.
“I’m the only opera singer, but the lineup includes Jack Benny, Judy Garland, Jimmy Durante, and Ella Fitzgerald. And guess what? Marilyn Monroe will appear—although goodness knows what she will do!”
“The Kennedys like to surround themselves with celebrities, so the glamour rubs off,” he commented.
She winked at him. “The pot’s calling the kettle black. I’ve never known a man as obsessed with celebrity friends as you are.”
He laughed. “I suppose that’s true. And I am the luckiest man in the world because I wake up every morning with the biggest star of them all.”
President Kennedy had requested that she sing a couple of arias from Carmen—“Habanera” and “Seguidilla.” She was accepting very few singing commitments now, because her voice had become unpredictable in its top notes, but Carmen’s mezzo-soprano range would be fine. Perhaps with regular practice she could return to form, but it was hard to find the motivation. She had reached the peak of her singing career and was tempted to perform only if it was music she loved, if there was a great director and orchestra involved, and if it was at an opera house where she felt comfortable. She decided she would say yes to President Kennedy, though. The occasion sounded like fun.
Three months earlier, she had started receiving hormone injections from her fertility doctor. A calendar hung in her bathroom with circles around the dates when she and Ari must make love to give her the best chance of conception. Looking back on all the occasions when she had failed to seduce Battista, she felt cross. Ari was willing to give her a child because he loved her; Battista had lost her because he wouldn’t even try.
The treatments had unpleasant side effects. Her stomach was permanently bloated, the headaches to which she was prone became more frequent, and she sometimes awoke feeling irritable for no reason—but it would be worthwhile if it worked. Her doctor told her there was a risk of twins or triplets, and she replied that would be wonderful, but she’d be deliriously happy with just one healthy child.
On the first anniversary of Omero’s death, she and Ari drove to the cemetery where his little body was buried beneath a white marble gravestone with a carved angel on top. Their names did not appear on it—a decision Maria had made with heavy heart. She couldn’t risk a passing journalist spotting it and making inquiries. They brought a lavish bouquet of white roses, a Greek cake called revani with a single candle on top, and some champagne to toast his short life. He would have been crawling by the age of one, and speaking baby words. Maria cried, and Ari comforted her.
“Can we come every year on this date?” she asked. “No matter what is going on, I want us to spend time with our son on his birthday.”
“Of course we will,” he said. “Of course.”
MARIA FLEW TO New York two weeks before the Madison Square Garden concert and checked into a suite Ari kept at the Pierre Hotel, overlooking Central Park. She shopped for a new gown, choosing a full-skirted, metallic-sheened one that seemed sufficiently ostentatious for a president’s birthday.
Ten days before the concert, her manager called the suite.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he told Maria, “but it seems your mother is in Roosevelt Hospital after trying to kill herself. I’ve got the hospital number for you.”
Maria was stunned. Suicide? That didn’t sound like Evangelia’s style, unless it was attention-seeking behavior or a new bid to get money from Maria, who she must have realized was in New York.
She wrote down the number, then phoned Ari. “I’d better call,” she told him, a sudden heaviness descending.
“Let me do it,” he offered. “I don’t want her upsetting you.”
She shook her head. “I should make the call. But I won’t talk to her directly.”
“Be sure you don’t,” he cautioned.
She was put through to a doctor, who explained that her mother had taken an overdose of sleeping pills.
“She keeps asking for you,” the doctor said. “She’s not entirely coherent, though. Sometimes she claims that men have threatened to kill her if she contacts you.”
“That’s odd.” Maria frowned. “Could the overdose have caused delusions?”
“It’s hard to say, but she will need extended psychiatric care as she recovers.”
“Is my father with her?” She couldn’t remember when she’d last heard from him.
“She says your father has gone back to Athens. I don’t know if that’s true, but she certainly hasn’t had any visitors since she’s been here.”
Maria was surprised to hear her father was in Athens. Did that mean his marriage was finally over, or was it a temporary break? Eleven years had gone by since she’d last seen Evangelia, years in which the bitter Time magazine article had appeared and her mother’s book about her had been published. The thought of a reunion filled her with dread. “Is she going to pull through?” she asked.
“She’s responding to treatment,” the doctor said, “but she is very weak. She left a note addressed to you. I don’t know if you would like me to forward it?”
Maria shuddered. “Do you have it there? What does it say?”
Almost immediately she regretted asking as the doctor opened the note and read: “I am sure you will shed no tears for the woman who gave you life and sacrificed her own so that you might one day be famous . . .” It went on in the same vein and finished by saying that she would only forgive Maria if she came to see her “dying mother.”
“Can I tell her you will visit?” the doctor asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” She thought she had grown used to the ways her mother tried to manipulate her emotions, making her feel guilty for being “the bad daughter,” but the letter still stung.
“Do you have a message for her?” he persisted.
“No. No message.”
“I have to ask . . . I’m afraid there’s the small matter of her medical bills. She told us you would pay them.”
Maria sighed out loud. “That figures. Send them addressed to me at the Pierre Hotel.” She hung up and called Ari.
“Don’t visit,” he advised. “Remember how much her book upset you. Remember this is the woman who forced you to date German soldiers in wartime.”
An image came into Maria’s mind of the cold expression on Evangelia’s face when she thought her daughter had been raped and all she cared about was the money.
“But she’s on her own and it sounds as though she is going senile.” The old emotions bubbled to the surface: the little girl who was desperate for her mother’s love but could never win it; the feeling that she was unlovable.
“What would it achieve?” Ari persisted. “If you visit, she will be back in your life and she will have more ammunition to sell stories to the press, calling you a whore and whatever else.”
Maria pursed her lips. “But I know the way her mind works. If I don’t visit, she’ll tell journalists I wouldn’t even come to her bedside when she was dying. She’s already told the hospital to send me her medical bills.”
“We can counter that if we get in first. Your manager can release a statement saying that despite your mother’s vile treatment of you, and the awful book she wrote, you telephoned as soon as you heard of her suicide attempt and have agreed to cover her medical bills. It will make a positive story for a change. Remind me: Which hospital is it?”
Maria told him. He was right: she wouldn’t visit, because she couldn’t let Evangelia back into her life. She was capable of doing too much harm.
ON MAY 19, the performers gathered backstage, sequins sparkling and sticky clouds of hairspray wafting from every dressing room. Maria nodded in greeting to the familiar faces from stage and screen but did not stop to chat, because she didn’t want to tire her voice. She went through her normal warm-up routines, although the two arias she was singing were undemanding compared to a full operatic production.
When her cue came, she walked onstage, right foot first. As she waited for the orchestra to play the jaunty opening bars of “Habanera,” she smiled mischievously at the audience, inhabiting the role of Carmen, the fiery gypsy who broke men’s hearts. Her voice was strong and dark as she launched into the opening bars: “Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame . . .”
The applause after her second number was uproarious, although she did not for one moment suppose this crowd was opera lovers. President Kennedy was sitting in the first row, just beyond the orchestra, but she was disappointed not to spot Mrs. Kennedy by his side. She was curious about the chic First Lady.
As she walked back to her dressing room, she bumped into the unforgettable vision of Marilyn Monroe, with her iconic bleached hair, wearing a gown so revealing that Maria couldn’t think where to look. It was made of flesh-colored fabric studded with rhinestones and was completely molded to her curvaceous figure, making it clear she was not wearing a scrap of underwear.
Without introducing herself, Marilyn put a hand on Maria’s arm, saying, “I wish I could sing like you. I’m on later and I’m terribly nervous.” She was blinking rapidly, her lips quivering and her pupils huge.
“No one expects you to be note-perfect. I’m sure you’ll bring your many other talents to the performance.” Maria smiled, so it didn’t sound like a criticism.
“Is there nothing you can suggest? I have to do a great job.”
She looked so scared that Maria decided to demonstrate an exercise to calm her nerves. “Blow out the air to empty your lungs completely,” she instructed, and did it herself. “Can you feel the diaphragm muscle engage?” She placed her hand on top of her own diaphragm.
Marilyn tried, pouting her lips and blowing hard.
“Now breathe in fully,” Maria said. “Try to sing from there and not from your throat. You’ll find you have more breath.”
Marilyn stood, practicing intently, in and out. She smelled as if she hadn’t bathed that day. It wasn’t an unpleasant odor, but it was intimate, somehow conveying more than Maria wanted to know.
She excused herself to return to her dressing room and freshen up, but she couldn’t resist hovering in the wings when Marilyn was due to take the stage for the finale. She looked terrified in the moments before she stepped out, then in a split second her posture straightened, her expression changed, and she became the star everyone knew. Maria recognized the transformation: she did the same herself, going from simple Maria to La Callas.
She watched as Marilyn sang “Happy Birthday”—whispering entirely from her throat, barely singing at all. The suggestive hip movements, the heavy breathing, and the pouting lips were excruciating. Maria glanced around at the other performers who were watching from the wings: many were openmouthed.
“How was I?” Marilyn whispered as she tottered off the stage, smelling more strongly than before.
“Extraordinary,” Maria told her. “The audience loved you.”
“Do you think the president liked it?” she asked, lip quivering, and Maria assured her that he must have.
At the after-show party, President Kennedy came to thank Maria in person.
“I was awestruck by your performance, Mrs. Callos,” he said, mispronouncing her surname. “My wife is a big fan and plays your recordings at home, so I knew your voice, but I’m delighted to finally hear you in person.”
“Is your wife here tonight?” Maria asked, glancing over his shoulder. Perhaps she had been sitting elsewhere in the auditorium.
“No, she had a prior commitment. Something to do with horses, I believe. I often think she prefers horses to human beings. But she will be very jealous when she hears that I have met you. It’s a great honor that you flew all the way from Europe.”
“My goodness, the honor is all mine,” she replied. “I hope you’ve had a wonderful birthday.” She noticed a smear of beige makeup on his shirt collar and wondered how it got there.
“How could I do otherwise with so many beautiful women singing for me?” He grinned, his impossibly white teeth gleaming as he gestured around the room. “Look at this crowd: I’m completely starstruck. It’s so much fun being president. I love that I can pick up the phone and call anyone in the world and they take my calls.”
“I rather imagine everyone here is starstruck on meeting you,” she replied.
“You’re very kind. I hope we can tempt you to come to one of our state dinners in the White House? My wife loves to bring together the leading lights of the arts.”
“It would be my pleasure,” she said, meaning it.
“I’ll pass that on. It might win me a marital merit badge.”
“Are you in need of one?” Maria teased.
“Always. You women are terribly difficult to please.”
He didn’t linger for long, because there were many other guests to talk to, but Maria had already decided she liked him. He was warm and personable.
As he moved on, she glanced across the room and saw that Marilyn’s puppy eyes never once left the president. It looked as if she had an overwhelming crush. Maria wondered if they had met before, or if Marilyn was simply overcome with awe.
When she got back to the hotel, she called Ari, even though it was the middle of the night in Europe. He’d made her promise she would.
“You were right about Kennedy being charismatic,” she said. “I think Miss Monroe has fallen under his spell. She only had eyes for him.”
“Yes, she’s sleeping with him,” Ari said matter-of-factly. “Bobby too. They pass her between them.”
“What? Surely not!” Maria was astounded. “What makes you say that?”
“My publicist knows everything that happens in Hollywood, and he reports back to me. Information is useful, especially when it concerns the president of a country that impounded my ships.”
“I hope you’re not going to use the information. Poor Marilyn is the victim in all of this.” She remembered reading in the papers that Marilyn was single again after her unlikely marriage to playwright Arthur Miller had broken down.
“It’s an insurance policy,” he said. “That’s all. Was Mrs. Kennedy there?”
“No, I hear she had a prior commitment with some horses.”
Ari laughed: “Yeah, I bet she did!”
After they hung up, Maria couldn’t sleep, going over the events of the evening in her head and worrying about poor, vulnerable, childlike Marilyn Monroe. She felt protective toward her.