Act I
Chapter 1
Hotel Danieli; Venice, Italy
September 3, 1957
Come with me.” Maria felt her elbow being tugged by the party’s hostess, so insistently that she almost toppled sideways. “I want to introduce you to your fellow Greeks: Aristotle and Tina Onassis. Here they are.” Arm outswept, the hostess announced, “This is Maria Callas.”
Years later, Maria would look back on the seeming ordinariness of the moment. When you meet someone who is going to turn your world upside down and shake it up so violently that nothing will ever be the same again, there should be a warning sign, she thought. In Greek mythology there would be a thunderclap, an earthquake, an eclipse of the sun. Here there was no such thing. Just the murmur of polite conversation, a string quartet playing Schubert, and the clink of champagne glasses under crystal chandeliers.
Of course Maria had heard of Onassis before. Depending upon which paper you read, he was either the world’s richest man and a charming host on his yacht, the Christina, or a crook and a pirate of the high seas. She was surprised to find that he was shorter than her, because in photographs he had the aura of a tall man, but straightaway she liked the amusement she detected in his eyes, the way he held her hand firmly and bent to touch it with his lips.
“I’m honored to meet the world’s greatest soprano,” he said, his first-ever words to her.
“One of the greatest perhaps . . .” Hyperbole always embarrassed her.
“You must be the only person in this room who plays down her achievements,” he said, with a tip of his head toward the assembled company. There were actors and socialites, some royals, and a sprinkling of politicians, but few from the world of opera, Maria’s usual milieu. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor were holding court, wearing crowns as if to mock the one he gave up when he abdicated the British throne; Princess Grace of Monaco wandered around with a sweet smile pinned to her face despite the conspicuous absence of Prince Rainier less than a year into their marriage; and Elizabeth Taylor was flirting at the bar with a swarthy man who was definitely not her husband.
Maria laughed. “I was assured these were ‘Europe’s finest,’” she said, mimicking the Midwest accent of their hostess, a gossip columnist who relished bringing celebrities together.
“Of course, one should always believe the word of journalists,” Aristotle retorted with a grin, and Maria warmed to him.
“Are you Maria’s father?” she heard Tina Onassis asking her husband, Battista, who had been hovering behind her. People often thought that because of the thirty-year age difference between them.
“Suo marito,” he replied with a hint of exasperation. He didn’t speak much English, only Italian, so Tina switched to that language to chat with him, while Aristotle continued addressing Maria in Greek.
“I’m ashamed to say I’ve never heard you sing. I’m not a fan of opera. It always sounds to me like a pair of Italian chefs screaming risotto recipes at each other.”
Maria laughed. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one. Can you remember what it’s called?”
“No idea,” he admitted with a grin. “But when Tina took me to an opera in Athens I dozed off in the box. At least they had comfortable seats.”
“I think you’ll find that operas are as varied as . . .” She searched for an appropriate simile. “You are in shipping, are you not? As varied as shipping routes.”
He pulled a face. “But more artistic, I hope. Despite my tin ear, I would love to hear the voice that all the critics rave about.”
She gave a modest shrug. “They don’t all rave, I’m afraid. They ran out of superlatives long ago and now they come to my performances searching for things to criticize. I don’t want to make their job easy, so the pressure each time I perform is immense.”
“That old story: they build you up only to knock you down again.”
“Perhaps you have experienced something similar?” She knew that three years earlier he had been arrested in America on some technicality involving his shipping empire, and grainy photographs of him being fingerprinted had appeared in the press. It must have been humiliating.
He leaned closer, and she could smell a sweet hay scent that was probably explained by the cigar protruding from his top pocket. “There’s a world of difference between us. To get where I am took nothing more than pigheadedness. But you—you clearly have a gift from the gods.”
“I work quite hard too, Mr. Onassis.” That was an understatement. Maria memorized libretti, practiced all afternoon, and, if she didn’t have a performance in the evening, she read opera scores in bed till the early hours. Music was her life. Attending parties like these was a rarity.
“Call me Aristotle. Please.” He touched her arm, just above the elbow, where her glove stopped and bare flesh was exposed. “So, when will I come to hear you sing? You be my guide.”
She smiled. “I’ll let you know when I am singing in a concert hall with particularly comfortable seats. Maybe you should bring your own pillow.”
“It’s a deal,” he said, his hand still resting on her arm.
He was flirting, with her husband just inches away. Maria usually had no time for the directors and fellow performers who made advances, but this was innocent fun and she was enjoying herself. “How can I believe you?” she teased. “Don’t they say you should never trust a sailor?”
“My friends can trust me with their lives, my enemies can trust that I have a Greek appetite for revenge—so I suppose that makes me trustworthy.” His eyes were flecked with gold, she noticed. Shrewd eyes.
“And I? Do you think I should trust you?” she asked.
“If I make you a promise, I will always keep it,” he told her, serious now. “You can trust in that.”
Those words stuck in her head long afterward.
Chapter 2
Venice
September 4, 1957
The morning after Elsa’s party, Maria awoke to find a note slipped under the door of their suite asking if she and Battista would join Aristotle and Tina Onassis for lunch in Harry’s Bar at one o’clock. She stretched and looked at the ormolu clock on the mantel: it was almost twelve. She generally preferred to ease herself into the day with a scented bath followed by a leisurely breakfast, but something about Aristotle had piqued her curiosity. She’d expected the world’s richest man to be serious and money obsessed, but instead he seemed fun.
“Battista!” she called. Her husband was reading a newspaper on a sunny balcony that overlooked the Grand Canal. “We’re going for lunch in an hour.”
Harry’s Bar was a short walk away along the waterfront and they arrived only slightly late. A maître d’ in white jacket and black bow tie led them through the restaurant, past the long, polished-wood bar to a table at the back, where the Onassises were poring over menus. Aristotle leapt to his feet.
“I’m delighted you could come,” he declared in Italian, kissing Maria’s hand, shaking Battista’s, then clapping him on the back. “Please, sit. Bellinis all round? It seems fitting, when they are named after the great opera composer.”