IONIAN SEA, AUGUST 1962
Two months later Maria woke up to headlines announcing that Marilyn Monroe was dead. Maria felt cold even though it was August in Greece. It was horrible to think of that shining fragile creature being snuffed out. The newspaper report said that she had died at home, and Maria wondered if she had taken her own life. She crossed herself reflexively and looked out over the Mediterranean with tears in her eyes.
Aristo walked on deck after his morning swim and gave Maria a salty kiss.
“What’s the matter?”
Maria gestured toward the newspaper headline.
Onassis sighed and he too made the sign of the cross.
“She was only thirty-six, Ari. What a waste.”
He shrugged. “In a few years, she would have lost her looks and then where would she be? Better to go when you are still at the top of the tree.”
Maria looked at him in horror. “How can you be so callous?”
Ari said in Greek, “Those whom the gods love die young.”
Maria was silent. It occurred to her that they very rarely spoke Greek together anymore.
Ari went on in English. “The first lady must be happy. Maybe the president will get another baby.”
Maria got up. “Why are you being so cynical. You know I liked Marilyn,” she said accusingly.
“You met her once for thirty minutes, Maria,” replied Onassis without emphasis.
“But she made a big impression on me. We had a lot in common.” Maria thought of Marilyn asking her whom she was singing for.
“You had nothing in common with Monroe, apart from being a great piece of ass, of course.”
“Don’t be disgusting. And, anyway, how do you know? Did you sleep with her?”
Ari winked at her. “Let’s say I have it on good authority. I think Miss Monroe was a more willing partner than Mrs. Kennedy.”
Maria turned away, hating him in that moment.
“What I don’t understand, Maria, is how you can be so upset about a woman you hardly know and yet when your own mother tries to kill herself you don’t bat an eyelid.”
“It’s completely different. My mother didn’t want to die. She just wanted attention. You’ve never met her; you don’t know what she’s like.” Maria spat the words out.
Ari went on talking in an annoyingly calm voice. “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea.”
Maria narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “I’ll let you figure that out while I go and take a shower.”
Maria watched him walk up to the steps to the master cabin and disappear.
The Christina was moored off Meganissi in the Ionian Sea. She looked over at Skorpios, where she could see that work was beginning on the chapel at the beach. Ari spent most of the day on the island, chivvying the workers and planting trees. He worked shirtless and his back was the color of the Christina’s teak fittings. He was quite happy to work all day in the hot sun, but Maria had felt faint after twenty minutes, much to Ari’s delight.
“You aren’t from true peasant stock like me.”
Maria resented the island for taking Ari away from her during the day and for making him so tired that when he came back, he would fall asleep without touching her.
She knew that she should go back to Milan and start practicing again. She had a recording of Medea coming up, and there was the Zeffirelli production of Tosca to prepare for. She knew that the smart thing to do would be to leave; but every time she resolved to tell Bruna to pack the bags, Ari would give her that grin, or kiss her on the neck in passing, and she would ask herself why she was in such a hurry.
She decided to go when his children came at the end of the week. They were always rude to her, and Ari never reproached them. She had tried so hard to make them like her, especially Christina, but it was clear that they blamed her for the breakup of their parents’ marriage. She knew that behind her back they called the singer Kolou, or fat arse. Maria had attempted to explain that sometimes things happened that were beyond your control, but they had looked at her with sullen, closed faces. Maria knew that they were dead set against the idea of her marrying their father and that they still dreamed that their parents would reunite. Maria had hoped the children might change their attitude when Tina married the Marquis of Blandford, the son of the Duke of Marlborough and a relation of Winston Churchill, but it had made no difference at all.
Tina’s wedding had thrown Ari into an uncharacteristic sulk. Maria overheard him shouting on the phone one day. “Who told you to marry that Englishman with no chin? Everyone knows he’s a drunk with no money. You should never have left me, Tina. You don’t know how to look after yourself.”
Maria had gone into the bedroom and slammed the door. But Ari had been cheerful at dinner, and she decided that to say anything would be pointless. She wasn’t jealous of Ari’s feelings for Tina; the only thing she coveted was her wedding ring.
She hoped that Tina’s wedding might prompt Onassis to propose, but he still stuck to his argument that they were perfectly happy as they were. “Why do you want to marry me? You are Maria Callas. The whole world knows who you are. Why do you want to be anything else?” There were times when Maria almost agreed. But since Lee Radziwill had begun to hover at the edges of her vision, she wanted something more.
She remembered Tina’s words to her on the yacht—comparing Ari to the Duke in Rigoletto, swearing undying love to one woman after another.
Ari came back on deck, wearing a polo shirt and white trousers, looking pleased with himself.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “What are you going to do today, agapi mou?” Their earlier spat had evidently been forgotten.
“Practicing. I am meant to be recording in a couple of weeks.”
“Where?”
“In Paris.”
Ari sighed. “You know how I hate it when you go away.”
Maria took her hand in his. “Do you want me to cancel?”
Ari shook his head. “No, you should go, and maybe I can join you there later. You should stay at the Paris apartment.”
“Thank you, darling.”
“Have you thought any more about the film?” Ari asked. “I told Carl that if you were no good, I will pick up the tab.”
Maria was surprised. “But that would cost a fortune.”
Ari shrugged. “I think you should be on-screen, and I am happy to put my money where my mouth is.”
The film was an adaptation of The Guns of Navarone that was being produced by Ari’s friend Carl Foreman. There was a cameo part for a Greek actress and Ari had suggested to Maria that it would be the perfect start to her film career.
But Maria was not at all sure that she wanted a film career. A film of an opera was one thing; but she knew nothing about acting for the screen, and she wanted to do something only if she knew she could do it well. Ari didn’t understand her hesitation. To him there was no difference between an opera about a nineteenth-century courtesan and a twentieth-century thriller about Greek partisans. He couldn’t understand why Maria wouldn’t leap at the opportunity to be in a Hollywood movie.
“I don’t know, Ari. I am nearly forty. You thought poor Marilyn was over-the-hill and she was only thirty-six.”
Ari shrugged. “You are playing a Greek partisan, Maria. No one is asking you to be sexy.”
Maria laughed sardonically. “That’s a relief.”
Ari looked at her in exasperation. “I don’t understand you, Maria. One minute you say that you are too old, but when I say it doesn’t matter how you look, you are offended. I am only trying to help you.”
“Ari, can’t you understand that I am a great singer, maybe the greatest singer in the world. Why would I want to do anything else?”
But Aristo was walking away, putting his hand up to say that he wasn’t listening.
Maria went to her stateroom and told Bruna to start packing. “We are going to Milan and then Paris.”
“And do you know when we will be coming back, madame?”
Maria shook her head.