NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 1956
As the airplane circled around before coming into land, Maria saw the familiar skyline and she felt herself smiling. Italy was now her home, but there was something about New York that she found nowhere else. This was the place where she had first realized the power of her voice, this was the place where Mary Anne Kalogeropoulou had understood that one day she would be Maria Callas.
Clutching a protesting toy poodle in her right hand, she waved to the photographers from the door of the plane. Behind her, Tita was grumbling about the heat. “How can it still be so hot in late September.” Ignoring him, Maria walked down the steps in her Dior-inspired suit with a shawl-collared jacket, hobble skirt, and black-and-white straw hat.
She had ordered the outfit specially from Madame Biki in Milan, who as the grand daughter of Puccini understood how a diva should be dressed. Greeting the American press on her first trip to New York since she had become the world’s most famous soprano was, Maria knew, as much of a performance as anything she would be giving onstage.
“How does it feel to be back in New York, Madame Callas?”
The reporters’ questions started as soon as she started to walk down the steps.
“It is wonderful to be back in the city of my birth.” Maria smiled at the press pack.
A reporter in a seersucker suit leaned forward. “Madame Callas, you were born here in New York, moved to Greece when you were thirteen, and now live in Italy. That’s three languages right there. I wonder what language you think in?”
The diva put her head to one side as if to better consider the request.
“What language do I think in? What an interesting question, but not one I can answer. All I can tell you is that I count in English.”
There was an appreciative chuckle from the press. Then the questions started coming from all directions.
“Is it true that you insisted on being paid more than the conductor Herbert von Karajan at the Staatsoper in Vienna?”
“Maria, is it true you eat steak tartare for breakfast to stay slim?”
“Would you like to comment on the report you are going to Hollywood to play Cleopatra?”
Toy the poodle barked at the idea that her mistress might be going to Hollywood, but Maria’s smile didn’t waver. She saw the tall figure of Rudolf Bing, the general manager of the Met, over the heads of the reporters.
“Gentlemen, please, Madame Callas will answer questions later.” His English was a mixture of the clipped consonants of his Viennese childhood and the looser vowels of his adopted country.
She offered him her hand and he kissed it slowly, so that the press would have time to take the picture.
“I have a surprise for you, Madame Callas.”
Bing stepped aside and behind him stood her father, George Callas (formerly Kalogeropoulos), wearing a cream linen suit, still sporting his Clark Gable mustache.
“Papa!”
She stepped toward him, and he opened his arms to enfold her. For a moment, and it was only a moment, she felt safe. Her father emerged from the embrace to be dazzled by flashbulbs.
“Mr. Callas, what’s it like to be the father of Maria Callas?”
“Does she get her voice from you?”
“How long since you last saw each other?”
“Where is your mother, Madame Callas?”
Bing led the way to the limousine parked by the terminal building, and soon they were driving through Queens. Maria spent the journey speaking English to Bing; Italian to her husband, Tita, who spoke almost no English; and Greek to her father. As she looked at George, who was sitting next to Tita, she thought that, although they were almost the same age, it was her father who looked younger. He had kept his figure and still had all his hair. Being separated from Maria’s mother clearly agreed with him.
Bing was boasting about how they could have sold all the tickets to the season twice over. “And the press interest has been extraordinary. Everybody wants to put you on the cover, even Time magazine.”
Maria grimaced. “I hope you said no, Mr. Bing. If, as you say, you have sold all the tickets, then you clearly do not need the publicity, and I would prefer not to waste my time with journalists. They can write about me after they have heard me sing.”
Bing looked shocked. “To be on the cover of Time is a great honor. It is on every newsstand in the country and they have never featured an opera singer before.”
Bing sounded as if she had refused the Légion d’honneur.
“Do you really imagine,” Maria said as she focused her gaze on Bing, “that Time wants me on the cover because of my singing? You heard what sort of questions the press were asking me out there—they weren’t about my music.”
Bing didn’t blink.
“They want you because you are the greatest diva alive today. Time gives covers only to the most prominent people in their field. Albert Schweitzer, Salvador Dalí, Eleanor Roosevelt.”
Meneghini asked her in Italian what Bing was saying. Maria replied that Bing had arranged for her to be on the cover of Time magazine without asking her. Tita looked impressed at the mention of Time.
“How much will they pay you?”
Bing, who was fluent in Italian, suppressed a smile and noted the impatient expression on Maria’s face, as she said, “They don’t pay for these interviews, Tita. In America they think they are doing you a favor if they use you to sell more copies.”
George, who had been sampling the contents of the decanter he had found in the arm well of the limousine, looked up and said in Greek, “Are you really going to be on the cover of Time magazine, Maria? Everybody reads it, you know. They have it at the barbers I go to. The whole neighborhood will be so proud.”
Bing couldn’t understand what Callas père was saying in his spiky language, but he saw that it was persuading Maria, who after a while nodded to Bing.
“Very well. I agree to be interviewed by Time magazine.”
II
The trees in Central Park were just beginning to catch fire. Green was being replaced by yellow, orange, and in some places red. Fall, that particularly American season: Maria remembered her father taking her to buy hot dogs from the street vendor around the block from their apartment. They stood on the sidewalk and devoured the sweet pink sausages in the cake-like buns, dripping with the primary colors of yellow mustard and red ketchup. Maria had known better than to mention this outing to her mother, who regarded such American food as the devil’s work. At the time it had been one of the most delicious things she had ever tasted. Would it still taste the same? she wondered. Not that she was going to find out. Hot dogs were not on the menu for her now.
She turned back into the suite, which although luxurious enough and boasting the grand piano that she needed to practice, was not, she suspected, the most lavish accommodation that the hotel had to offer. Tita had made the booking, and he hated to spend more than was necessary.
The last time she had been in New York, she had slept on the sofa in her father’s apartment in Washington Heights. It had been twelve years ago, just after the end of the war. She had come straight from Athens, convinced that the Met would recognize her talent immediately. She had sung impeccably at the audition, but the musical director had offered her only a second-tier contract, singing maids and ladies-in-waiting. Maria had turned it down without hesitation. In Athens, she told him, she had been singing leading roles for three years. The musical director had pointed out that most twenty-three-year-old singers from an obscure European opera company would be overjoyed at any opportunity to sing at the Met.
Maria had walked out, telling the director that one day the Met would be begging Maria Callas to perform on its stage. It gave her some satisfaction now to know that she had been right.
The telephone rang.
“Madame Callas, we have a gentleman here who says he is from Time magazine.”
Maria was tempted for a moment to deny that such a person existed, but she had promised her father, and she did keep her promises.
After a quick look at herself in the mirror to check that she was in what she called “Callas mode”—hair done, makeup perfect, and no glasses—she went to open the door.
The slight man in glasses introduced himself as Robert DeGerasimo.
He was carrying a large reel-to-reel tape recorder which caused him to list to one side.
Maria looked at the recorder in alarm. “I hope you aren’t planning to record me singing.”
DeGerasimo shook his head. “Oh no, this is just to record our conversation.”
Maria raised an eyebrow. “How American. In Europe they use shorthand.”
DeGerasimo patted his machine. “Well, the advantage of this baby is that we know exactly what was said.”
“In case I decide to sue?” Maria asked.
“It means I can’t misquote you, Madame Callas.”
DeGerasimo smiled and she gestured for him to sit down on the sofa opposite, the giant tape recorder between them.
The interview began with all the usual questions about her childhood in New York. Was her family musical? What was the first song she remembered singing, and so forth. She had been asked and had answered these questions many times before. She began to relax.
“Would you like something to drink, Mr. DeGerasimo?”
DeGerasimo shook his head. “Never drink when I’m on duty and I am guessing that you don’t encourage smoking.” He smiled at her.
“No, I do not. Smoke is my enemy.”
“Your only enemy, Madame Callas?” DeGerasimo leaned toward her.
“The only one that I am really scared of. Anything that threatens my voice threatens me.” She clutched at her neck to illustrate her point.
“You don’t view critics or unappreciative audiences as the enemy, then?”
Maria gave a practiced smile. “Every performance is a battle, Mr. DeGerasimo. I must fight every single second that I am on the stage. Usually I win, but there are times when I lose, and that is painful. But I do not blame the audience if I have failed to win them over.”
This too was an answer she had given before.
“But what about other singers? There are rumors that you have had difficult relationships with rival sopranos—Renata Tebaldi, for example.”
Tebaldi was Callas’s main rival at La Scala and had a following almost as devoted as Callas’s own.
Maria’s laugh covered a full octave. “I assure you that Renata and I are the best of friends. It may be that some of our more loyal fans may amuse themselves by inventing an enmity between us, but that is simply invention.”
DeGerasimo looked back at his notes. “You were born here in New York and when you were thirteen your mother took you back to Greece. You lived in Athens during its occupation by the Italian and German armies during the war. That must have been a time of great hardship.…”
Maria nodded. “You can’t imagine.…”
“I wonder how you managed to continue with your studies in the middle of a war.” DeGerasimo paused. “I suppose your mother’s support must have been crucial.”
Maria looked at him in disbelief, her Callas mask cracking.
“My mother? My mother was worse than the Nazis, Mr. DeGerasimo. She used to make me sing in the street for food. The only reason that I was able to keep singing during the war was because I had learned from an early age that the only person I could rely on was myself. You see, I never had a childhood. Once my mother realized how talented I was, she was determined to exploit me for her own ends.”
DeGerasimo watched the spool of tape wind its way through the machine and resisted a smile of satisfaction. Everybody had a button somewhere and the secret of a good interview was to find it. His investigations into Maria’s background had revealed that she had not seen her mother for six years, which had been a red flag. His background was Italian, and he could not believe that the Greeks were so different—a WASP parent might see their child once a decade, but it was unthinkable in an Italian or Greek mother. He suspected that there had been a rift, and as Maria’s voice lost its practiced poise, he knew he was right. There was always one question that the subject felt compelled by their inner torments to answer honestly, and now he had found it.
“And despite everything I did for her, I was never her favorite. She always preferred my sister, Jackie.”
III
WASHINGTON HEIGHTS, 1931
The apartment was on the second floor, so that even on the brightest day it was always dark. Maria was sitting under the kitchen table where her mother couldn’t see her. She was playing with one of Jackie’s old dolls. It had long golden hair and blue eyes like her older sister. Every Christmas she hoped that Santa Claus would bring her a doll of her own, one with black hair and brown eyes like hers. But her mother said that she was lucky to have any toys at all, because times were hard in this terrible country.
Hidden from view under the tablecloth, she could hear Jackie playing the piano and her mother making the soft cooing noise she always made when Jackie played. Her mother liked to say that Jackie would one day play at Carnegie Hall, and then she would buy her mother a mink coat. Maria did not know what mink was, but she knew that it must be very nice because Mama always hugged herself when she said “mink” and smiled with her eyes closed.
Maria could see Jackie’s feet working the piano pedals. Her sister was wearing her new shoes, which were of gray polished kid with a double strap across the instep that fastened with two small pearl buttons. Mama had taken them both to buy shoes the day before. She was cross because Maria could no longer fit into Jackie’s old shoes. “You take after the women on your father’s side of the family, Maria. Giantesses! All of them with feet the size of pumpkins. Thank God that Jackie has small and dainty feet like me.”
Maria looked at the dark brown shoes with laces that had been the only shoes in her size and wished, not for the first time, that she too took after her mother.
The front door opened, and Maria heard her father’s footsteps as he walked over to the wireless and turned it on. The piano playing was replaced by what Mama called “American music.” The springs of the armchair complained as her father sat down heavily. He called to his wife to bring him a beer. Maria knew they would start fighting now, and she wished that she was in the bedroom she shared with Jackie so she wouldn’t have to hear them.
She concentrated on brushing the doll’s hair with an old toothbrush. Maria liked it when her mother brushed her hair sometimes before bed, even though she grumbled that Maria’s hair was so thick that it could stuff a mattress.
Her mother was talking about how they must get a better piano teacher for Jackie; and when her father answered, he sounded sad, saying he didn’t know if he would have a job next week. Maria hated it when her father sounded sad.
Her mother’s heels made a clicking noise as she walked over to the radio. Maria recognized the tune that was being played. It was one she had learned at school. She began to sing along, and as her mother turned the radio down, Maria felt the power of her own voice echoing under the table.
“But come ye back
When summer’s in the meadow,
Or when the valley’s hushed
And white with snow,
And I’ll be here
In sunshine or in shadow
Oh, Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so!”
Suddenly the tablecloth was pulled back and Maria’s mother was kneeling opposite her with a look in her eyes that Maria didn’t recognize.
“I had no idea that you could sing like that, Maria. Why didn’t you tell me before?” Maria wasn’t sure how to reply. It hadn’t occurred to her that her mother would be interested. Maria had been told at school that she was good at singing, but it had not seemed worth telling her mother because all the songs she knew were in English and she did not want her mother to frown because she did not understand the words.
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
Litza bared her teeth in a smile that was alarming in its intensity.
“You should never apologize for being given a gift by God. It is something very special to have a voice like that. And if, God willing, you make something of that precious gift, you must thank him every day for his goodness.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“No more of these American songs. From now on you must sing real music. You are not Shirley Temple with her lollipops. You are going to sing opera, agapi mou.”
Maria felt a warmth creep over her. Her mother had never called her agapi mou (my love) before.
Litza went over to their gramophone and took out one of the five or so records that constituted their music library. She put it on the turntable and as she wound the handle she said, “This is what you should be singing, Maria, and one day the whole world will listen.” Maria heard a high pure voice, clear despite the scratchiness of the recording, singing in a language that she didn’t know. But although she didn’t recognize the words, she understood from the music that the song was about wanting something very much.
Maria had always wanted her mother to look at her sometimes the way that she looked at Jackie, with dreamy eyes and a soft mouth. She heard that longing in the music, and she knew exactly how she would sing it.
IV
The sidewalk outside the Metropolitan Opera House was already packed when Maria’s car pulled up. She took off her ordinary spectacles and put on her prescription sunglasses.
That way she could look like the diva the fans were expecting and still find her way to the stage door. It was surprising that there should be so many people here on a rehearsal day. This would not happen in Milan. How many of the eager faces she saw through the window had heard her sing? But in America, she remembered, fame had nothing to do with talent. She smiled and signed autographs as she walked from the curb to the stage door.
As she waited for the door to open, a pale young man held out a single red rose to her.
“I can die happy now that I have seen you in the flesh, Madame Callas,” he said with tears in his eyes.
“Perhaps you should hear me sing first,” said Maria crisply as she disappeared into the opera house, handing the flower to Tita who, as always, was two steps behind.
Maria was early, as usual. She knew Mario del Monaco, the tenor, would be late—he was always late—but she liked to be the first to arrive and the last to leave. This Norma was going to be perfect.
On the second day of rehearsal, Maria was blocking the second act with Mario, who was playing her beloved, Pollione. The director asked them to get closer to each other as the duet progressed and Mario, who as usual was unshaven and smelling strongly of sweat, pulled her against him.
“Like this?” he said to the director, as his hand deliberately grazed Maria’s right breast. She pulled away from him as if she had been stung and slapped him on the cheek.
“No, absolutely not like that, testa di cazzo!” said Maria, her nostrils flaring with anger, calling him a prick in Italian.
Mario stepped back, rubbing his cheek. “Maybe if you weren’t so uptight, you might hit that top C instead of wobbling around like a dying cat.”
Maria drew her hand back for another slap, but then she glimpsed DeGerasimo sitting in the corner of the rehearsal room and thought better of it. Anyway, she wanted to get this bit right, and fighting with Mario was not going to achieve that. All the tenors she had ever sung with believed that she found them irresistible. They simply couldn’t understand that what she felt for them onstage did not transfer into real life.
The director put his hands up. “Okay, everybody, let’s have a ten-minute break to cool off.”
Maria was on her way back to the dressing room when Mimi, the young mezzo who was playing Adalgisa, Norma’s rival for Pollione’s affections, caught up with her.
“Mario is such a pig. He is always pawing me in our duet. Thank you for putting him in his place.”
Maria smiled and put her hand on Mimi’s arm. “Don’t let him get away with it, Mimi. It’s all a game for him. He once did it onstage with me, to put me off, because he was jealous that I was getting more curtain calls.”
Mimi looked at her in admiration. “He should count himself lucky to be singing with you. You make everybody better. Every time I hear you sing, I learn something new.”
Maria nodded. “That’s because you are an artist. We can all learn from each other. But Mario is only a performer. He thinks he is in command of the music; but we know, don’t we, that we serve our voices, not the other way round.”
She leaned down and put her arms around Mimi, who said, “You’re not at all like I thought you would be. Everyone said you were terrifying.”
Maria laughed. “Oh, I can be, Mimi.”
Back in her dressing room, Maria heard a knock at the door, and Bing entered, a frown on his cadaverous face.
“I heard about what happened earlier in rehearsal. That kind of behavior may be condoned at La Scala, but not here.”
He looked at her accusingly, and Maria gasped as she understood his meaning.
“There is no opera house on earth where I will allow myself to be manhandled, Mr. Bing. If Mario del Monaco behaves like a jerk, I will treat him like one.”
“But to slap him in front of the whole company…” Bing almost wagged a finger at her.
“He put his hand on my breast in an improper manner.”
Bing shrugged. “He says that was a mistake. You could at least have given him the benefit of the doubt before resorting to violence.”
Maria’s voice rose a semitone. “Possibly, if this had been the first time it had happened. But Mario has made these ‘mistakes’ before and I will not tolerate it.”
Bing sighed. “He wants an apology.”
“And so do I.”
They stared at each other. Maria did not look away. Finally, she said, “I will shake his hand if he offers it. I don’t want to waste any more time.”
Bing left the room, and Maria looked around for something to break.
The dress rehearsal had gone better than Maria had expected. She had not performed on the stage before without her glasses, but it seemed that her mental calculations had been right. If the conductor paced the music as he had today, she knew exactly how long it would take her to get from one side of the stage to the other without falling off. And Mario, for all his many failings, was the best Pollione she had ever sung with.
She touched the image of the Madonna that she always kept in her dressing room—it was bad luck to start thinking that things were going well. The ancient Greeks had invented the idea of hubris for a reason.
Tita came in. He had been watching from the auditorium, which would be the last time that he would see it from a seat, as during the actual performances he always watched from the wings.
“Well?”
“One of your best, tesoro. ‘Casta diva’ brought tears to my eyes.” Tita put his hands on her shoulders and kissed the side of her neck.
“I am so lucky to have you, Tita.” Maria clasped the hand nearest to her. “I know that you are always there, watching out for me.”
“Always, carissima.”
They smiled at each other in the mirror. They were always at their closest in the lead-up to a performance. Battista knew exactly how to soothe her fears; and because he had seen every performance she had given since they had first met in Verona, she could trust him when he said that this was one of her best.
“Will you send some flowers from me to Mimi, for opening night?”
“Of course. And to Mario?”
Maria shrugged. “Whatever you like.”
“Remember that you are being paid much more than him, Maria.”
“I should think so too! It is me they have come to see.”
Battista always liked to remind Maria of the success of his negotiations on her behalf, which, as Maria always needed to remind Battista, was only getting her what she deserved.
There was a knock at the door that Maria recognized as Bing’s. Every manager had his own way of announcing his arrival at an artist’s dressing room. At La Scala Antonio Ghiringhelli, the manager, almost battered the door down before he stormed in. Bing, on the other hand, was gentle but somehow reproachful.
He was carrying something brightly colored in his hand. Maria put on her glasses to see what it was.
“I have brought you an advance copy of Time magazine. It will be on the newsstands tomorrow.” Maria noticed that Bing’s tone was carefully neutral.
She looked at the painting of her on the cover. It had been copied from a photograph and to her it looked almost unrecognizable. In the lower right-hand corner, it said SOPRANO CALLAS.
She flicked open the magazine to the cover article, which Bing had marked for her with a slip of paper. Her eyes fell upon the words: “A diva more widely hated by her colleagues and more wildly acclaimed by her public than any other living singer.” Maria looked at Bing, who was examining the ceiling, then she snorted. “Well, I wouldn’t be here if it was the other way around, would I?”
Meneghini, who was expert at understanding his wife’s mood, even if he couldn’t understand the words, braced himself.
Maria read on, her eyes widening in horror. Her hands were shaking so much that she could hardly read the page in front of her.
“Mrs. Callas had moved back to Athens, was living there with Jackie, and very little money. In 1951 she wrote Maria to ask for $100, ‘for my daily bread.’ Answered Maria: ‘Don’t come to us with your troubles. I had to work for my money, and you are young enough to work, too. If you can’t make enough money to live on, you can jump out of the window or drown yourself.’”
Maria threw the magazine at Bing. “I never ever wrote that. She is a lying bitch, and this is all your fault, Mr. Rudolf Bing.”
Bing blinked but otherwise showed no sign of emotion. “The article also says that you are the greatest singer of your generation.”
“And how is that supposed to make me feel better? I am the greatest singer of my generation. This article is full of lies—I shall sue.”
Bing shook his head. “I really would advise against it. If any of these … allegations could be proved, then you would be in an uncomfortable situation. And as to this being my fault, I still contend that to be the subject of a Time cover is an honor and an artist of your stature must expect some degree of criticism.”
“But they aren’t attacking me as an artist but as a woman.”
Bing coughed. “I am sure when you have had time to reflect, you will see that this article is not as bad as you think. Your performance tomorrow will be a triumph and everything else will be forgotten.”
Maria shook her head. “Do you really think that I can perform tomorrow knowing that every member of the audience hates me? My voice comes from my heart, Mr. Bing. I am not a machine. You will have to cancel.”
Bing did not flinch; this was not the first time that an artist had threatened to cancel a performance. “I always think that these decisions are best made in the morning.” He looked at Tita, saying in Italian to be quite sure that he understood, “Your wife must be exhausted. I will call you tomorrow.”
With his hand on the doorknob, Bing added, “The other thing it says in the article, Madame Callas, is that you have never walked away from a fight. I feel sure that part is accurate at least.”
In the car on the way back to the Plaza, Maria took her husband’s hand and clutched it tightly.
“I want you to take me home, Tita.”
“That’s where we are going, tesoro.”
“I mean Milan. I can’t stay here.”
Tita sighed. “Bing will sue, Maria.”
Maria tossed her head. “I have been sued before.”
Tita sighed again. He was almost certain that Maria was not serious, but he also knew that the scene would have to play out.
“If you walk out on the Met, you will never sing there again, and that would be a disaster for your career. Bing will do everything he can to ruin you.”
“So what? Nothing would give me greater pleasure that to give it all up and go back to Milan with you and be Signora Meneghini and wear an apron like your mother.”
Tita did not bother to reply. Maria had threatened to become Signora Meneghini many times before.
The car drew up outside the hotel, and the conversation was interrupted by the fans who kept a vigil by the entrance. As Maria walked into the hotel, sunglasses on, they surged forward, one woman succeeding in pushing past the commissionaire and shoving her autograph book in Maria’s face.
“I am so sorry to do this, but it would mean so much to me, Madame Callas. Every time I listen to one of your records, I feel that I can do anything.” The woman was about her mother’s age, but she had a soft face and dreamy eyes, and she looked so hopeful that Maria fought back the impulse to let her anger propel her into the hotel; she stopped and signed the proffered page.
The woman gasped with delight. “Oh, thank you so much. And good luck for tomorrow,” she called after her.
But Maria had already disappeared through the revolving door.
In the suite, Bruna was waiting for her. Although she hadn’t seen the Time article, she instinctively knew what was needed from looking at Maria’s face.
“I will run your bath, madame, and bring you some hot milk with cinnamon the way you like it.”
Maria nodded submissively and Tita hoped that the storm had passed. But then Bruna added, “And your father called, madame.”
At once Maria’s face changed.
“Bruna, we are going home tomorrow, so you will need to start packing.”
Bruna’s face did not flicker. She nodded and padded into the other room, leaving Maria and Tita alone. Tita resigned himself to the battle ahead.
“Really, Maria? You want to give it all up, everything you have worked for, because your mother has lied to a journalist?”
Maria took a step toward him. She was a good five inches taller, and he had to look up to meet her eyes.
“What’s the matter, Tita? Don’t you want to settle down with me and live a normal life in Sirmione as Signor and Signora Meneghini, pillars of the community?”
Tita took her hands. “I am only trying to help you, Maria. We both know that if you walk out now, you will regret it.”
But Maria’s hands were still trembling.
“I think you just want to protect your investment,” she said, taking her hands away.
Tita was hurt. Even though she had said this before, it never failed to wound him, which of course she knew.
“Maria, I have given up everything—my home, my family, my work, my friends—to be the husband of Maria Callas.”
Maria sat down on the sofa and her poodle jumped onto her lap. This was a good sign, Tita knew. Toy could soothe Maria like no one else.
“And what happens when I can’t sing anymore, Tita? Will you still want to be the husband of Maria Callas then?”
Tita sat down next to her. “Oh, Maria, I will always be proud to be your husband. But I will be disappointed if you go back to Milan tomorrow.”
Maria stood up, holding Toy in her arms, and started to pace.
“But how can I sing when I know that everyone thinks I am a monster?”
Tita did not say that he thought she sang better when she knew she had to win the audience over.
“Carissima, the moment you start to sing, they won’t be able to think about anything else.”
Maria stopped in mid-pace, her eyes wide with fright, Toy wriggling in her arms because she was clutching him so tightly.
“But what if this is the moment when it all goes wrong, when I just can’t do it?”
Tita stood up and gripped her shoulders. They were so bony now. He remembered the soft flesh that had enveloped the Maria he had married in Verona nine years earlier. Sometimes he wished that she was still that large, badly dressed girl who could always be soothed with pasta and ice cream. He had loved to watch her eat, gobbling her food as if someone were going to take it away from her. She had been a simpler creature then, her Italian strangely emphatic and full of antiquated emotional declarations that she had learned from operas. That girl had known twenty different words for love but didn’t know how to ask for the bathroom.
He spoke in his most soothing voice. “But Norma is your part, Maria. You will win over the New Yorkers, just as Norma wins over her people. Perhaps it will be a little harder than usual, but you will fight and you will win. You always do.”
Maria looked down at him. He could see that her face was beginning to relax. He carried on. “Remember that night in La Scala when the Tebaldi claque started to boo and how you stopped and faced them down … and then at the end you took twenty-four curtain calls?”
Maria smiled like a child who is being told a well-known story about her early life.
“Twenty-five curtain calls.”
Tita wondered if he should ring Bing and tell him that the crisis had been averted. Better to wait until morning. There was an English expression about not counting your chickens until they are hatched, but he thought with Maria it was more like not picking up your tiger cub until its claws had been removed, and even then, it paid to be cautious.
V
Bruna looked around the dressing room for somewhere to put the latest bouquet. The gladioli were almost as tall as she was. She took out the envelope and gave it to her mistress, who was sitting in front of the mirror putting on her makeup. Maria opened it, read the contents, and then went back to applying the white pancake on her olive skin.
Tita looked inquiringly at her in the mirror. “From the mayor, saying, ‘Welcome home.’”
Maria laughed. “It’s funny how easy it is to be an American once you are famous.”
There was the familiar tap at the door, and Bing came in, carrying an attaché case.
“I have come to wish you good luck, Madame Callas.”
Maria looked up, and her look suggested that luck would be superfluous.
Bing continued. “Such a distinguished audience. Everyone in New York is here—the mayor, Mrs. Astor, Elsa Maxwell, even Marlene Dietrich. People talk about ‘glittering occasions,’ but this is the first time that I have actually been dazzled by the jewels in the stalls.” He permitted himself a smile.
“And I just wanted to remind you, Madame Callas, the custom at the Met is to take the curtain calls as a company. I know that they do these things differently in Europe, but here we like to celebrate our collective achievement. And now, Signor Meneghini, perhaps we could go outside for a moment?”
Maria picked up a brush and started to outline her eyes in kohl. She knew that the briefcase that Bing was carrying was full of dollar bills. Meneghini always insisted in being paid in cash before each performance. Maria found his insistence on cash embarrassing, but it made Tita happy to make powerful opera managers wait while he counted their money.
The bell went for the half, that meant thirty-five minutes till curtain up. She touched the Madonna icon and closed her eyes for a second, praying that when she opened her mouth onstage the sound would come.
When she opened her eyes, her father was standing behind her, wearing a tuxedo and holding a copy of Time.
“Get that dreadful thing out of here,” Maria shouted.
George looked bewildered. “What thing?”
“That magazine!” Maria snatched it out of his hands and threw it in the wastepaper basket.
“But, Maria, you should be proud. Mrs. Zombonakis says it is the first time they have ever put a Greek on the cover. Everyone in the neighborhood is talking about it.”
Maria shook her head. “Have you actually read it, Papa?” And she knew from the way his eyes flicked upward that he hadn’t got further than the pictures.
“Well, when you do, you will see that Mama has said that I refused to support her and told her to jump out of a window.”
George looked at her in admiration. “Did you really say that?”
“Of course not! Although right now I wish she would jump off the Empire State Building. The whole world thinks that I am a terrible daughter.”
Her father flicked a speck of powder from his sleeve. “Well, Time magazine should have talked to me. I could have told them that your mother is impossible. It doesn’t matter how much you give her, she will never be satisfied. Do you know how happy I was when she told me she was going back to Greece?”
Maria felt a surge of anger. “You let her take me away to Athens, Papa. Why didn’t you keep me with you?”
George shrugged. “But if I had, then she wouldn’t have gone.”
NEW YORK DOCK, FEBRUARY 2, 1937
Maria waved until she thought her hand would drop off. She held a pink handkerchief that she hoped might make it easier for her father to spot her as she clung to the rail of the steerage deck. Litza had already gone down to the cabin, which they were sharing with two other women, to make sure that she had enough closet space. Her farewell to her husband of twenty-one years had been a brief peck on the cheek.
Maria had been distraught when her mother announced her plan to go back to Greece. Maria was looking forward to going to high school, and then perhaps to Juilliard, which she knew offered scholarships. But no matter how often she pointed this out to her mother, Litza wouldn’t listen.
Maria prayed for her father to intervene. But when his wife had announced that she had decided to go back to Athens so that Maria could have the musical opportunities that she would not find in New York, George had fallen over himself to help. He bought their tickets and promised to send them a hundred dollars a month. He never questioned the wisdom of his wife’s judgment, or even objected to being separated from his daughters. It was clear that he did not expect to be lonely in his family’s absence.
The boat’s whistle blared behind her. Maria tried to catch one last glimpse of her father, but she could not make him out in the blur of people on the quay.
In the dressing room Maria turned to her icon and touched it. “You don’t know what it was like for me. She never loved me the way a mother should.”
George spread his hands wide with the ease of a man who has never willingly taken responsibility for anything.
“Maybe. But, agapi mou, here you are.”
George gestured to the mountains of flowers that surrounded them.
Before Maria could answer, the announcement for beginners came over the public-address system.
“You should go, Papa,” she said, pushing him out of the dressing room.
In the moment of silence that followed she looked at herself in the mirror and tried to summon Norma, the high priestess of the Druids, a woman torn between her duty to her people and her love for Pollione, the Roman soldier by whom she has two children. Norma was a woman of passion, but she was also a politician who could soothe her people’s anger with the right words.
But at this moment she felt like the little girl in Washington Heights who had wanted her mother to be like other mothers who crouched down to embrace their children as they came out of school. She remembered once running out of school and putting up her arms for a hug, but Litza had ignored the gesture and had set off down the sidewalk for home in quick, impatient steps, leaving Maria to trail, disappointed, in her wake.
Battista was waiting for her in the wings. She clutched his arm and whispered in his ear, “I can’t do it, Tita. My voice … it’s not going to come.”
Tita lifted the briefcase in his other hand. “There are ten thousand reasons in here why you will go on, and you will triumph. You always have and you always will.”
Maria was shaking with fear. “But this time is different, Tita. I know that they hate me.”
Tita could see the stage manager behind Maria, the cue for her entrance was less than a minute away.
“Give me your glasses, Maria.” He took the heavy spectacles off her face. “Now make your crosses.”
Obediently, her hands still trembling, she began to trace the sign of the cross on her chest, once, twice, three times. On the last cross, her hand was a little steadier.
The long note from the trumpets that signaled Norma’s entrance began. Maria stood as still as a statue. The stage manager stepped forward. Tita’s hand hovered, waiting to push, but then Maria lifted her shoulders and stepped out of the wings and onto the stage. She could hear applause, but there was also something else: a sibilance, a rumble that she recognized as the enemy’s artillery in the distance. The auditorium was a dark chasm, the audience a pale blur. Even the conductor was just a blob at her feet. The chorus was all around her, asking for her as their priestess to tell them what to do.
The strings started to play the ghostly arpeggios that heralded the start of her great aria, and then on the eighth bar Maria lifted her head and it was Norma who sang the opening bars of “Casta diva,” her voice soaring over the orchestra and reaching right to the back of the auditorium. Norma implored the goddess to bring peace to her people. The voice was filling her body; it was pouring out like the silvery beams of the moon she was worshipping; and it floated out over the listeners who, as the voice reached the high notes at the end of the aria, understood what it was to have faith.
At the end of the aria, she paused, and for a moment there was silence. Maria bowed her head waiting for the return of fire, but then a voice from the gods shouted “Brava!” and a storm of clapping surged through the theater. Maria felt the warmth of the applause run through her, burning away her fear. She was no longer Maria, the vulnerable woman, but Callas, la Divina, who could bring a hostile audience to its feet.
In the interval, Battista sat in the corner of the dressing room clutching the briefcase, looking at her in the mirror, smiling.
“You have won them over, tesoro, as I knew you would.”
But Maria said nothing; she never spoke in the interval.
At the end of the opera, Norma took Pollione’s hand and together they walked toward the funeral pyre that was to consume them both. As the curtain came down, Mario dropped Maria’s hand as if it were a burning coal.
There were shouts of “Maria” and “Callas” from the audience, clearly audible through the curtain. As the cast lined up to take their communal curtain call, Mimi whispered to Maria, “Go out, Maria—they want you.”
As she stepped out from behind the curtain the crowd exploded with delight. A wave rippled through the audience as one by one they stood up, clapping all the while. A rose fell at her feet and then another one. Maria stretched out her arms, and let the applause lift her up and fill the darkness inside her.
Bing was at their suite the next morning with a pile of newspapers. “You couldn’t hope for better press! The Times, the Post are raves. The Financial Times calls it the operatic event of the century.”
As he spoke, he dropped the papers in question onto the piano.
But Maria noticed that there was one paper that he did not throw down. She pointed to it.
“Oh, this isn’t a review—it’s just Elsa Maxwell, the gossip columnist. She fancies herself an opera critic, but she is the only one who thinks she has anything valuable to say.”
“So what does this Maxwell say.” Maria’s voice was sharp.
“Nothing of interest. She is a Tebaldi devotee, so she is bound to be biased.”
Maria reached out her hand in the same imperious gesture that Norma used to raise her sword against Pollione, and Bing yielded up the paper. Maria brought the print up to her face and read aloud.
“‘Her “Casta diva” was a great disappointment. Perhaps she was nervous, or maybe through dieting, she has lost some of the magnificent voice we have heard so much about. The one I heard last night was hollow.’” The paper fell to the floor.
Bing shrugged. “As I said, Maxwell is part of the Tebaldi claque. Renata sings at Maxwell’s parties, and in return, Elsa will support her in print.”
Maria snorted. “That is totally corrupt. I would not have thought that even Tebaldi would stoop so low.”
Bing said nothing.
Maria lifted her chin. It was always the same: there could be a hundred reviews calling hers the voice of the century, but it took only one negative comment to puncture the soufflé of praise. It was as if she were eleven again with her mother ridiculing her for wearing the wristwatch that was the second prize in the radio talent contest: “You should have come first, Maria.”
“I think I should like to speak to this Maxwell?” Maria said.
Bing looked wary. “Well, that could be arranged—tonight in fact. She is coming to the gala.”
Maria looked shocked. “You would really allow her to come to the gala, after she has written these vile things about me. Do you see here she calls me the ‘devious diva.’”
The manager of the Metropolitan Opera did not even blink at the inconsistency.
“Madame Callas—Maria, if I may—she may know nothing about music, she is frequently rude, and delights in her own power; but just as no opera house will be content until they have secured the services of Maria Callas, I am afraid that no party in New York is complete without Elsa Maxwell.”
VI
Maria checked her outfit against the sketch that Alain, Madame Biki’s son-in-law, had given her. She had a folder of such sketches that showed her exactly how to wear all the outfits he had created. Tonight, she was wearing the white sheath, made of a heavy silk crepe that was draped in a majestic swathe across her right shoulder. She had the evening sandals from Ferragamo, made with a middling heel so that she did not tower too much over her husband. Her minaudière in the shape of an elephant had been a present from Franco Zeffirelli after the first night of Lucia at La Scala. The shape was a reference to her extraordinary weight loss. As Franco had said, “When we started working together you sang like a goddess, but now, cara mia, you look like one too.” There was something missing; but before she could ask for it, Bruna handed her the long black evening gloves that made the outfit utterly chic.
The diamonds lay in a case from Harry Winston. They had been loaned to her for the event, and a security man was even now standing outside the door of the suite waiting to accompany her to the party. Bruna took the glittering necklace out and fastened it around Maria’s throat. This, Maria thought, is how you get the world’s attention if you can’t sing.
Maria and Tita stood together hand in hand at the top of the staircase that swept down to the ballroom, the burly security guard standing discreetly six feet behind.
The words of the emcee came booming across the room. “And now, Mr. Mayor, ladies and gentleman, put your hands together to welcome Manhattan’s very own diva, Maria Callas.”
The band played the march of the toreadors, and Maria walked slowly down the staircase, the faces of the guests a blur as she concentrated on not falling over. At last, she reached the bottom and Bing was there with a woman whose diamonds made her own borrowed finery look insubstantial.
“May I introduce you to Mrs. Vanderbilt, who is on the Metropolitan board.” Bing made the Metropolitan board sound like Mount Olympus.
Maria looked at the hawklike face in front of her. The thin lips were a slash of coral in the weathered face.
“A remarkable performance, Madame Callas. Truly remarkable. I had the privilege of hearing Adelina Patti’s Norma, which was, of course, sublime. But I think you are rightfully her successor.”
Maria stretched her face into a smile. It was remarkable how many people liked to compliment her in a way that revealed their own knowledge.
She nodded and said that her teacher in Athens had been taught by Patti. This did not interest Mrs. Vanderbilt at all, and she drifted away, aware that she claimed her right as the grande dame of New York society to speak first to the guest of honor.
A waiter offered her a glass of champagne and Maria waved it away, asking for a glass of water at room temperature. Bing introduced her to more of the Met patrons, with surnames like Whitney and Houghton. The women were mostly tall with lean arms that spoke of afternoons playing tennis. They were followed by their husbands, who held tumblers of whiskey and smiled eagerly when their wives explained that “Only you, Madame Callas, could have persuaded Buffy/Charlton/Winston to come to the opera. You really should be flattered.”
At last Bing had run out of board members to introduce her to, and Maria asked him, “So where is the famous Elsa Maxwell, Mr. Bing?”
Bing pretended to look around him, but then he pointed to a corner. “She is over there talking to Marlene Dietrich.” He pointed to where the elegant German star sat, her famous legs crossed languidly.
“Well? Are you going to introduce us?”
Bing hesitated, but after a look from Maria he led the way to where the film star was laughing at something Maxwell had said.
Maxwell was small, and almost spherical in shape. She was dressed in a brocade frock trimmed with sable that appeared to be upholstered to her ample frame. Maria saw at once that although Maxwell was neither shapely nor beautiful, she had a confidence that defied anyone to define her as ugly or fat. Her bright, intelligent eyes danced in her wrinkled face, calibrating everything around her.
Maxwell looked surprised when Maria loomed over her.
“Fräulein Dietrich, Elsa, may I present Madame Callas.” Bing almost clicked his heels.
Dietrich smiled warmly and took Maria’s hand. “I was so lucky to hear you sing last night. You had that tough audience at your feet, and I salute you. But you mustn’t stay too long here—it is not good for your voice. Too much smoking and talking is dangerous. I shall make you some of my chicken broth and send it over tomorrow. It is an elixir for the throat.”
“How kind of you,” said Maria, surprised that such an exalted person should be so down-to-earth.
“A singer must look after her voice; it must always come first.”
She leaned over to kiss Maria on the cheek. “And don’t tell Elsa here any secrets that you don’t want to see in print tomorrow.” Dietrich gave her trademark slow sideways smile and glided away.
Maria looked down at Elsa Maxwell. “I thought when I read your words about me in the newspaper, Miss Maxwell, that you would be taller.”
Elsa grinned. “But I have to look up to you. I would say that puts you at an advantage.”
“Do I need an advantage?” Maria asked.
“Everyone needs an advantage when they go into battle,” said Elsa, her small black eyes glittering.
Maria looked at the sturdy little figure in front of her and suddenly her anger subsided. She understood that this woman was not a critic but a fellow performer wanting to be noticed.
“I think it was brave of you to contradict all the other opera critics when you wrote about my performance.” Maria raised an eyebrow.
Elsa swelled a little as she replied, “I could only write what I thought was true.”
Maria leaned in and said, “Then you know nothing about opera. My performance that night was one of my best. But perhaps you wanted to be the exception.”
Elsa frowned, and then her face creased into a smile of admiration. “Do you know, Madame Callas, a woman brave enough to confront a critic must be right. I never have liked being one of the crowd. Perhaps there was more to your performance than I realized at the time.”
She put a cigarette in her lacquered holder, lit it, and took a long drag before she spoke again. “I believe, Madame Callas, that you may be about to join the very select company of those that I call my friends.”
Maria acknowledged this distinction with a brief nod. “I really must be going.”
Elsa looked at her watch. “But it’s only eleven thirty.”
“I am singing tomorrow.”
“If this were one of my parties, you wouldn’t be so ready to leave.”
“Maybe, but I haven’t had that pleasure.”
“Oh, well, that can be put right.” Elsa smiled wickedly. “Will you be bringing your husband?”
Maria opened her eyes wide. “But of course.”
She gestured to the waiter. “Could you find Signor Meneghini, and tell him I want to go.”
The waiter nodded.
Elsa tapped her on the shoulder. “I’ll see you for lunch on Thursday,” she said, and walked away before Maria could answer.
VII
Lunch was at the Colony, the women’s club that Elsa wrote about frequently in her columns as the place to see and be seen. Ambrose, the maître d’, recognized Maria at once and led her over to the corner table where Elsa liked to hold court.
Maria was glad that she had worn the blue linen suit and the hat with the veil. Although her vision was blurry, she could see that the women around her were impeccably chic.
Elsa had a martini in one hand and the inevitable cigarette holder in the other. As Maria sat down, Elsa made a great display of putting out the cigarette.
“I don’t want to poison that golden voice of yours.”
“I thought you said it was hollow,” Maria said.
Elsa smiled. “And I thought we’d established that you can’t believe anything you read in the papers.”
Maria laughed.
Ambrose brought over the menus, but Maria waved hers away.
“I’ll have steak tartare and a green salad.”
“And to drink, madame? A martini, perhaps, or glass of champagne.”
“Just an iced tea.”
Elsa raised her eyebrows. “My, my, how abstemious you are. You know what they say: all work and no play makes for a dull diva.”
Her eyes twinkled and she laughed delightedly at her own joke.
“Well, I would rather be dull than ruin my voice,” said Maria.
Elsa patted Maria’s hand. “Don’t mind me. I know how you singers need to look after yourselves. My friend Dickie, who I always go and stay with in France, is a singer—in fact Dickie was a pupil of Toscanini no less and we were both there at the famous performance of Turandot when the maestro put down his baton halfway through the third act and said there is no more. I would love to hear you sing Turandot, Maria.”
Maria sipped her iced tea. “Well, I shall be sure to invite you next time.”
Elsa gulped down her martini. “Of course I have seen Renata Tebaldi sing it many times, but she doesn’t look the part in the same way that you do.” She looked at Maria and added, “I am very cross with Renata, as I said in my column, for what she said about you.”
Maria tried not to show her surprise. “I didn’t know she had said anything.”
Elsa tutted and patted her hand again. “Oh, Maria, Maria, you naughty girl. Though I say it myself, my column is considered essential reading.”
Maria moved her hand back a fraction. “I don’t have time to read papers. Every morning I get up and practice and then I am either rehearsing or performing, and at night I like to read scores.”
The food arrived. Lobster thermidor for Elsa and steak tartare for Maria. Elsa picked up her napkin and tucked it under her many chins, and speared a piece of lobster meat onto her fork as she said, “I forgive you, especially when you look so enchanting in that little veil. Renata told a reporter in Milan that she had the one thing that you didn’t have and that was a heart.” She popped the lobster into her mouth and chewed with evident pleasure.
“So delicious; they make it specially for me, you know. I like the sauce to be extra creamy.”
She looked at Maria, who was piercing the egg yolk and mashing it into the circle of red minced beef on her plate with her fork.
“But then I stopped watching my figure years ago, not that I ever really had one. You know the secret of my success?” Another gulp of martini. “That no woman has ever been jealous of me.”
Maria put a small amount of steak tartare on her fork. “Then you are lucky. I am surrounded by jealousy.”
“Oh, you mustn’t mind Renata. She is just piqued that you have made such a success here in New York.”
Then her gaze flicked upward as a tall, handsome man, whose profile looked familiar to Maria, blew Elsa a kiss as he walked by.
“Darling Cary, always such a gentleman. I must get the two of you together, perhaps a little dinner party.”
Maria looked at Cary’s Grant’s elegant back. “You clearly know everybody.”
“Well, that is my job, darling: to know everybody worth knowing. And I always say that they don’t have to be rich or famous, so long as they aren’t dull. Bores are the vacuum cleaner of society; they suck in everything but give nothing back.”
Elsa leaned back with the expression of someone who had delivered the punch line and was waiting for the laugh.
Maria duly obliged.
By the end of the meal Maria was exhausted. Elsa did most of the talking, but she expected total engagement in return.
Maria’s cheek muscles ached from the effort of finding the appropriate expression. Thank goodness it wasn’t a performance day. She was intrigued as to the status of Dickie, whom Elsa referred to constantly. Was he her lover? Elsa wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
As Maria leaned forward to kiss Elsa goodbye, the gossip columnist clasped both her hands and said, “Oh, Dickie will be livid not to have met you.”
“I am singing in Paris next year; you must both come. And if Dickie speaks French, he can talk to Tita, who gets so bored when everything is in English.”
Elsa let go of Maria’s hands. “Dickie does speak perfect French and Italian, but I suspect that she would much rather talk to you than your husband.”
“Dickie is a woman?”
Elsa smiled at Maria’s astonishment. “Well, yes, even though she only wears suits from Savile Row.”
Maria tried to conceal her confusion.
“I don’t suppose you have ever been to the Isle of Lesbos, have you, Maria”—Elsa smiled—“where burning Sappho loved and sang?”
Maria shook her head. “I have hardly been to any of the Greek islands. It’s a great shame.”
“Oh, but you have plenty of time,” said Elsa.