Paris
October 21, 1968
Maria examined the wedding photos on the front page of her newspaper. To her, the smiles were fake. Ari was clutching a glass of something, probably whiskey, as if he needed it to get through the day. Mrs. Kennedy looked toothy, as if someone had yelled “Say cheese!” a second earlier. She read the story, then crumpled the paper and threw it to the floor. It would be better if he had died; then she could have mourned. Instead she would have to get used to seeing pictures of them in the press: welcoming guests on the Christina or attending premières or balls. These were not as bad as the images in her imagination: Mrs. Kennedy sleeping in Ari’s bed, having massages alongside him on the Christina, and dining with him on the terrace at Skorpios that she had designed.
She felt like an invalid. Her bones ached, her head hurt, she was feverish and low, but she forced herself to socialize. The previous evening, while the wedding was under way, she had attended the première of Feydeau’s A Flea in Her Ear, starring Rex Harrison and Rachel Roberts. Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor had made a fuss over her, and afterward they’d all gone dancing at Les Ambassadeurs until the small hours. That evening she planned to go to the seventy-fifth anniversary of the opening of Maxim’s with a crowd of Parisian friends, and she would paste on a smile every bit as false as Mrs. Kennedy’s. She wanted Ari to see her picture in the papers and think she was having the time of her life. He mustn’t know that he had destroyed her.
Three days after the wedding, a bouquet of red roses was delivered to Avenue Georges Mandel. When Bruna carried it into the salon, Maria didn’t have a clue who they could be from. Richard and Elizabeth, perhaps? They were being kind.
No. The card read, “I’m sorry. I miss you. Ari.”
With a scream, Maria hurled the flowers into her fireplace. The brown paper that they were wrapped in caught fire, and flames shot out; then the stems began to crackle and steam. She tore the card in half, then tossed it on top of the fire. How dare he? She clenched her fists, trying to contain her rage.
The mail had brought condolence letters from friends. “He is a madman,” Zeffirelli wrote. “No other woman will do all that you did for him.” Princess Grace wrote, “You are a beautiful woman and I know that life has another great love in store for you.” Her sister, Jacinthy, wrote, saying that she would always be welcome at her home in Athens. Maggie van Zuylen called to say, “He has lost his mind. I no longer recognize him.” Even Costa Gratsos, Ari’s oldest friend, called, saying, “I warned him not to do this. He is making the biggest mistake of his life. It should have been you.” Her friends invited her to dinners, lunches, parties, and other gatherings. She was touched by the affection showered on her.
The following day, there were more letters in a similar vein, and a package. She slit open the latter and gasped: inside was her Madonna icon, the one she used to pray to before performing. She hugged it to her chest, then read the note that accompanied it, recognizing Battista’s writing straightaway.
“My dear Maria, I am glad that you must by now have realized Mr. Onassis’s true colors but at the same time I am sorry for your very public humiliation.” Maria exhaled loudly as her eyes skimmed the page, then she turned it over. “I recognize my own part in the failure of our marriage,” he wrote. “I should have appreciated you more and not allowed the flame of romance to be extinguished by the demands of business.” Near the end of the letter, he said, “I still love you, Maria. I am here for you should you want to get in touch.” She had to laugh out loud at that.
“Bruna?” she called, wanting to share her mirth.
Bruna hurried into the room.
“Battista wants me to return to him now that Ari has married someone else. Can you believe the arrogance of the man?”
Bruna’s eyebrows shot up. “How long has it been? Nine years?”
Maria shook her head in disbelief. “I’m glad to have my Madonna icon returned, but I don’t think I will dignify his letter with a reply.”
She would never forgive him for selling his story to the press. In her book, that was the death knell for a relationship. At least Ari hadn’t done that.
ON NOVEMBER 15, the buzzer rang in the apartment and Bruna answered, then came into the salon, looking worried.
“Madame, it is Mr. Onassis. What shall I tell him?”
Maria’s heart lurched and her mouth felt dry. “Tell him to go away. I have nothing to say to him.”
She stood in the doorway to listen as Bruna passed on the message. Ari was clearly arguing with her, because she had to repeat her refusal several times.
When Bruna hung up the intercom, Maria hurried to the window and hid behind the shutter, planning to watch him walk away—but he didn’t. Instead, he stood in the street and began whistling a simple four-note tune that all the boys in Athens used to whistle when they wanted to attract the attention of the girls. He whistled, then called, “Ma-ri-a!,” then started whistling again.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Maria grumbled. “This is a polite neighborhood. He can’t do that.”
Far from giving up, Ari was increasing the volume of his shouting. “Ma-ria, I need to talk to you! Let me in!”
She tutted. He was stubborn and wouldn’t give up when he knew she was there. She would have to see him.
She checked her appearance. Fortunately, she was dressed, coiffed, and made up for going out to dine later. She added a slick of lipstick and patted her hair, then called to Bruna: “You had better press the buzzer or he’ll turn the entire 16th arrondissement against me.”
She sat in an armchair in the salon, where the light was flattering. He hesitated in the doorway, unsure of whether to embrace her, so she spoke first to make it clear that was not an option.
“It’s only three weeks since your wedding. I thought you’d be on your honeymoon. Or has the Widow given you time off for good behavior?”
Ari sat on the sofa opposite. “I need to explain why I got married, and why I couldn’t tell you before. Please, will you listen?”
Maria looked at her watch. “Make it quick. I have dinner plans.”
“You know me, Maria. You know better than anyone that I had no desire to marry again. The Kennedys trapped me into it.”
Maria shook her head in disgust. “That’s nonsense. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“It’s true! I confess that I wanted to sleep with Jacqueline.” He spoke quickly, in Greek. “But she wouldn’t consider it unless we were married . . .”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Maria interrupted, with sarcasm. “So you kept me around to satisfy your carnal urges while you were trying and failing to seduce her?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. I never meant to lose you, Maria. I . . .”
At least he seemed upset, she thought. Good.
“I admit I miscalculated. I thought I could persuade you to accept me having an affair with Jacqueline and we could carry on as we were.” His expression was pleading. “It’s true I asked her to marry me but I never meant it to go ahead. I thought she would sleep with me once we were engaged and I could keep delaying the wedding indefinitely. But when I tried to pull out of marrying her, the Kennedys forced my hand by announcing it to the press. Do you remember that day I phoned you and asked you to save me? If you had come then, I swear I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”
“Don’t you dare blame me for this,” Maria blazed. “You’ve made your bed and chosen as bedfellow a woman who only wants you for your money. You’ve behaved with hubris and we both know what plans the gods have in these circumstances.”
Ari jumped up from the sofa and came to kneel at her feet, hands clasped in prayer. “I am begging you . . . please try to understand. You know my weakness. You know I can’t resist a conquest. I thought you loved me despite that.”
“And I thought you loved me too,” she retorted. “But you clearly don’t or you wouldn’t treat me with such callousness. Do you really think you can discard me, then woo me back? Would you discard me again as soon as the Widow beckoned?” She was gesticulating for emphasis. It’s almost like the plot in an opera, she thought. But in real life Ari would find there was no encore.
“I can’t bear to think how much I have hurt you.” He leaned his forehead on her knees, but she shoved him away.
“Don’t touch me!”
“If you could find it in your heart to forgive me, I swear I will make it up to you.”
Maria shook her head. “How? By buying me diamonds? Another fur coat? It’s too late for that. I want you to leave now. Please don’t come here again.”
He argued hard. He talked of all they had gone through together, the son they had lost, the illnesses and setbacks they had supported each other through.
“We are family, Maria. I want us to be family forever. Why let a simple marriage certificate get in the way when you are the one I love?”
Maria willed herself to turn to stone. La Callas would never return to Ari and neither would she.
“I am leaving for my dinner engagement now,” she said, standing up and stepping around him. “Let yourself out. And please don’t contact me anymore.”
She walked through to her bathroom and locked the door, listening until she could hear the click of the front door closing behind him.
What it boiled down to was that she could have him back if she was prepared to be his mistress—but Jackie would always take precedence as the wife. She had already been through that before, when he was married to Tina. No matter how much she missed him, she could never accept a subordinate position in the hierarchy of his women. She couldn’t believe he had asked her to. She was Maria Callas. She had far too much pride.