“I could fly you to Rome on the first,” he persisted.
“Thank you,” she said, “but it doesn’t work like that. I need to prepare for big concerts. For several days before, I’ll either be rehearsing or I’ll be resting my voice.”
“What a bore!” he exclaimed. “I would be vexed if my work stopped me having fun.”
“I’ve never thought of singing as work,” she said, then paused to try and find the words to express herself without sounding too pretentious. “It’s the greatest source of joy in my life. When I’m immersed in a production, it’s so all-consuming and fulfilling, I can’t think about anything else.”
“Like sex, then?” he retorted, and she blushed, glad he couldn’t see over the telephone wire.
“I suppose there are similarities.” Maria giggled, nervously. She wasn’t used to discussing sex with anyone—not even her husband. “It’s as if something else takes over when I sing—a divine energy, a creative force, call it what you will—and it fills me from top to toe . . .” She stopped, feeling self-conscious. “Now you’re going to laugh at me!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said quietly. “It’s clear this is what you were born to do, and I’m glad it brings you such pleasure. You’re lucky.”
“I am,” she agreed. She didn’t tell him that she was insecure, superstitious about her luck deserting her if she changed any of her rituals. She always used the same warm-ups, prayed to her Madonna icon, crossed herself three times, then stepped onto the stage right foot first. Always the right. “But clearly you were born with a great talent for business. I’m sure you get pleasure from striking a new deal and watching the money roll in.”
“It’s not about money for me,” he said. “I love the game. The simple explanation is that I can’t stand to lose, so I make sure that when I set my heart on something, I always get it.”
His words hung in the air between them, seeming loaded with meaning.
Maria was the first to speak. “I’m sorry not to make your party. Perhaps another time.”
“You were going to tell me when I should come and hear you sing, remember?”
“I will.” She laughed again. There was an awkward pause; then she said, “Do give my best to Tina,” before she hung up.
Maria decided not to mention the call to Battista. He was keen to become best buddies with Onassis. He liked befriending the superrich, whereas she always felt slightly uncomfortable around them, as if they could sense she wasn’t their social equal. The rented apartment in Manhattan’s Washington Heights neighborhood where she had grown up with her Greek immigrant parents and older sister had been comfortable enough, but her mother was never satisfied with it: “I’m used to better than this,” Evangelia moaned incessantly. “I should never have married down. What was I thinking?” As a product of that “marrying down,” Maria was still conscious of her place in the class system long after her success had helped her to transcend it.
ROME WAS OVERCAST, with a damp, penetrating wind blowing up the Tiber when they arrived on December 27. Maria and Battista were staying at the Hotel Quirinale, which was connected by a passageway to the Teatro dell’Opera. This meant she could protect her vocal cords from the chill of the streets, but the auditorium was as cold as the grave when she arrived for the first rehearsal.
“Can we have some heating, please?” she demanded. “Presto!”
An assistant stage manager scurried over and promised she would look into it, then sneezed violently. Maria yanked her scarf over her face. She couldn’t risk catching cold just days before a concert.
It was Norma, Bellini’s great tragedy, a difficult part but one she loved to sing. It suited her voice, with all the technical challenges and coloratura. She usually sang in full voice at rehearsals, just for the sheer joy of feeling the muscles working in harmony to create such glorious music. The acoustics were superb, of course, and the orchestra top-notch. She lost herself in such moments. This was the reason she put up with all the pressure and criticism—because the rewards were phenomenal.
On New Year’s Eve, four days after their arrival, they joined some friends for a party in a club called Circolo degli Scacchi. Maria permitted herself one small glass of champagne for a toast at midnight, but only sipped it. They stayed for an hour before heading back to the Quirinale.
“What would you like 1958 to bring?” she asked Battista in the taxi.
“I want to get more money out of La Scala when we renegotiate your contract,” he said. “They bought you too cheaply.”
He didn’t ask what she wanted, but he knew. She’d never made a secret of it. She yearned for a baby.
AS A SINGER, Maria had to be very attuned to the state of her health. She imagined it was the same for athletes, or anyone else whose body was highly trained for performance. So when she woke on the morning of January 1, she knew her throat didn’t feel right: slightly tight, a little bit scratchy. She nudged Battista and mimed that he should fetch the steam inhaler, then wrote on the notepad she kept by the bed that he should call a throat specialist.
While she breathed steam through the mask, she listened to him make phone call after phone call and became increasingly alarmed. No one was working on New Year’s Day. She thought back to that girl who had sneezed on the first day of rehearsal, three days earlier—exactly the incubation period for a cold or influenza virus.
She could tell that one call he made was to the opera’s director: “I hope you have an understudy,” he said, “because Maria may not be able to sing tomorrow.”
There was a long pause, then Battista retorted, “Be that as it may, if a doctor tells her not to sing, she will not sing. She can’t risk damaging her vocal cords.”
Maria clutched her throat. She couldn’t bear to let them down. Please, God, no.
The specialist who came that afternoon swabbed her throat and gave her an anti-inflammatory spray. All day she avoided speaking, using her notepad to communicate, sipping water at room temperature, and having clear soup for meals. No meat, no dairy, no solids.
The following morning, as soon as she awoke, she swallowed tentatively, and felt the tightness had eased a little. Still, she rested her voice all day, and an hour before curtain the doctor pronounced her fit to perform.
She did the warm-ups cautiously, scared to push herself. “Please give me good voice tonight,” she prayed to her Madonna. The Virgin smiled back, her expression benign.
In the first scenes, the notes were true but she couldn’t get much power behind them. The muscles were not responding. During “Casta Diva,” with its leap from middle F to high C and those long sustained notes, she could feel the sound weakening and her top notes becoming unsteady. Her voice was hanging by a thread. It was agonizing, but what could she do? There was nothing for it but to press on. After one particularly wobbly phrase, someone in the audience booed, and she winced. There was a shuffling of feet. They were restless.
Then she felt the instability hitting her lower register too, and the grumbling from the audience increased. “Go back to Milan!” someone shouted. She couldn’t blame them. They’d paid a fortune for their tickets and they weren’t getting value for money.