Paris
October 1963
The day after Maria arrived in Paris she had lunch at Maxim’s with Ari’s old friend Maggie van Zuylen. There were pictures of Lee and Jackie all over the newspapers and Maggie wasted no time in questioning her about the Christina cruise.
“Why are you not with them?” she asked, her brown eyes full of concern.
Maria had trusted Maggie from their first meeting, and she told her the story of Ari’s infidelity with Lee and the way that he had arranged the cruise for a period when he knew she had to be in Paris.
Maggie leaned back, looking thoughtful. She was an astute, raven-haired beauty who had suffered her share of setbacks in life. She had fallen madly in love with the son of Baron van Zuylen, but his parents refused to countenance the match and disinherited him when he married her against their wishes. For the next three years, it was only Maggie’s exceptional poker skills that kept them from penury. When she finally found a way to meet the old baron, she was able to wrap him around her little finger and have his son reinstated to the succession—and to his inheritance.
“Ari adores you,” Maggie said now. “He talks of you as if you are a goddess. But perhaps he has become a little too sure of your devotion. He’s been a naughty boy and needs to—what do the English say?—he needs to pull his socks up.”
“What do you suggest?” Maria asked, sipping a glass of Bollinger. She was scared of losing Ari to the president’s scrawny sister-in-law, so Maggie’s reassurance was very welcome.
Maggie’s eyes twinkled. “We both know that Ari enjoys conquest: signing a new deal, outsmarting business rivals, or getting a prestigious new guest on board the Christina. With you, perhaps he feels he has already pulled off the deal and there is no challenge left. Do you catch my drift?”
“Ye-es,” Maria answered, unsure of where this was heading.
“So perhaps you should drop a hint that the deal is not impregnable.” She lifted her glass and clinked it against Maria’s. “Then you are a challenge again.”
Maria was baffled. “A hint? You mean like him finding an item of men’s swimwear in my cabin?”
“No. Much more subtle.” She looked around the grand dining room, decorated with curling art nouveau tendrils painted on glass panels. “Have dinner with a gentleman friend. Someone young and handsome, whom Ari will not recognize. Come here, or to another prominent restaurant. Let me know the evening it will happen and I will mention it to a photographer friend and—lo and behold—Ari will get a shock when he peruses his morning papers. You and I know he can’t resist the society pages.”
Maria wasn’t sure. “Isn’t that a dangerous game? I don’t want to encourage tit-for-tat infidelities.”
“Of course not.” Maggie shook her head slowly. “Your dinner will be completely innocent. And when he telephones—as he surely will—you can assure him of that. But for a short while he will be worried, and it will focus his mind. I know you would never be capable of infidelity, but he doesn’t know that. Lotharios make the most suspicious lovers, because they judge everyone by their own standards.”
“Is he a lothario?” Maria felt exhausted at the thought. She knew there had been affairs during his marriage to Tina but had expected them to stop once he was with her. How naive she had been.
“He is not the worst. But make him woo you. Be a little mysterious. Don’t always rush for the phone when he calls. You two will be fine. I can feel it in my gambler’s bones.” She finished her champagne and signaled for a waiter to bring two more glasses. “To love!” she toasted.
“To love,” Maria echoed.
MARIA WASTED NO time in inviting Zeffirelli for dinner at Maxim’s. He was roughly her age, with Italian good looks—a high brow, winning smile, year-round tan, and elegant clothes. There was no flirtation in their relationship, but they shared many interests and had an amusing evening. When she spotted Maggie’s photographer friend wielding his camera, Maria leaned in close, as if keen not to miss a word that her companion was uttering.
A photograph appeared in Paris Match the following morning, along with a caption mentioning that Maria Callas had dined with a “mystery escort.” Maggie called, laughing her pretty trill of a laugh.
“Darling, when I suggested you ask a man for dinner, I meant one who likes women!”
Maria was puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Zeffirelli is a homosexual.”
“Really? I had no idea.” Maria giggled. “I wondered why he didn’t mention a wife or girlfriend. I must be very slow on the uptake.”
There were dozens of homosexual men in the world of opera. Sodomy was illegal in many countries, so few men openly broadcast their preferences, but word got around. Sometimes it was widely known, but at other times, such as this, she was one of the last to find out.
Ari called a couple of hours later, and she greeted him cheerfully. “Hello, darling. How are your famous guests?”
He got straight to the point. “Who did you have dinner with last night and why is your picture in the newspaper?”
“Is it?” Maria asked, disingenuous. “I can’t think why. Zeffirelli and I had a meal yesterday to talk about our Tosca.”
“Did he try to seduce you?”
Maria paused, as if considering the question. “He was very sweet but I don’t think he meant to seduce me. Perhaps . . .” She let her voice trail off, teasing.
“Perhaps what?” he barked.
“Oh, nothing. I am sure it was innocent.”
“You don’t understand men,” he told her. “You have only known Battista and me. You don’t realize the way men think.”
Maria didn’t mention that she had spent her working life in the company of men and had learned how to rebuff those who behaved inappropriately. “I’m sure his intentions were honorable,” she replied. “Don’t give it a second thought.”
Before Ari hung up, he asked about her itinerary for the next few days. She told him she was flying to London to try to persuade the management at Covent Garden that her Tosca should be staged as soon as possible. She loved Zeffirelli’s ideas and wanted to strike while the iron was hot. Ari demanded to know where she would be staying, whom she planned to see, and what day she would arrive back in Paris. She gave him the information, chuckling to herself. Maggie was a genius. She must ask her advice more often.
WHILE IN LONDON Maria caught up with several old friends, and she took the opportunity to ask more about Lee Radziwill. She learned that as well as their London town house at 4 Buckingham Place, the Radziwills owned a country house called Turville Grange outside Henley-on-Thames. She learned that Lee had been on the previous year’s best-dressed list and was friends with a number of Paris designers, who gave her the first pick of their collections. And she was told that Lee’s adoption of the title Princess was considered rather outré in London society. She and Stas should have asked permission of the reigning monarch, Queen Elizabeth II, to use their royal titles; such permission had not been sought, so legally they were just Mr. and Mrs. Radziwill.
Maria knew that both had been married previously, and she asked how they had obtained their divorces and still managed to have their union blessed by the Catholic Church. This was a question close to her own heart. The answer came that Mrs. Kennedy had personally intervened at the Vatican to help Lee get an annulment of her first marriage, thus making the second acceptable to the Church. Was that ethical? Maria wondered. Didn’t presidents’ wives have better things to do with their time?
She didn’t know what she would do with the information she collected, but it felt important that she understand her enemy. And she was under no illusion: Lee was most definitely an enemy.