When she staggered backstage at the intermission, she knew she couldn’t go out again. Her forehead was burning and her throat was so swollen that it had almost closed.
“You need to get her to bed,” the doctor told Battista, after taking her temperature.
The director came to argue: the show would have to be canceled and he would sue.
Battista told him that he was an idiot for not getting an understudy and led Maria through the passage to their hotel. She wanted to apologize and try to explain, but she was so ill she felt close to collapse.
The next morning she heard Battista huffing and grunting as he looked through the newspapers that had been left at the door of their suite. The headlines were damning: “A Million Lire for a Single Disastrous Act,” one said. Another had a photograph of her drinking champagne in that damned nightclub. She hadn’t noticed a photographer; it must have been taken in the commotion just after midnight. They claimed that it was her “partying” that had damaged her voice. “Scandalo!,” “Disgrazia!,” “Insulta!,” they all agreed.
The public attack was infuriating and deeply unfair. In the whole of 1957, she had given sixty-seven performances and had postponed only one—in San Francisco, also on medical advice. She had been accused of canceling a Vienna concert, but in fact contract negotiations had stalled, so it didn’t happen. Hers was a better record than any other opera singer’s, yet the press insisted on portraying her as a spoiled diva who stormed out of productions on a whim. The media had invented a scowling persona for her and were sticking to their story, so there was no sympathy when she caught a cold in Rome. No, this was Maria Callas being difficult—again. They accused her of drinking champagne and staying out until dawn, when it wasn’t true. She was selfish, ungrateful, a disgrace. It reminded her of the litany of complaints her mother used to hurl at her in childhood—“Stupid, ugly, good-for-nothing girl”—and brought back a similar feeling of worthlessness.
As she lay in bed in the Hotel Quirinale, a compress wrapped around her throat, a telegram arrived. She tore it open.
“I’m sorry to hear of your malady,” it read. “Please let me know how I can help. May I send my personal physician? A private plane to whisk you to sunnier climes? Or a hitman to assassinate disrespectful journalists? Your wish is my command. Aristo.”
Maria smiled. All three would have been welcome. But instead she would keep her head down, recuperate, then work harder than ever to get ready for the full schedule of concerts already booked for the coming year—including a run at the Met in New York City in just a month’s time.
Chapter 6
Hyannis Port, Massachusetts
October 1956
I heard Maria Callas sing at the Met last night,” Jackie said during a lull in conversation around the Kennedys’ huge oak dinner table. “She was spectacular. It gave me gooseflesh that a human being can produce such a sound.”
Jack looked up from sawing his brisket. It was tough as boot leather; Jackie had left most of her portion. If she were in charge of the menu, the meals would be much better, but the Kennedys didn’t care about fine food. “Just think of all the votes I could have bought for the price of your ticket,” he quipped.
She felt a prick of annoyance. Running their household was her domain, but Jack was forever complaining about money these days, wanting to know how much she spent on drapes, and rugs—even on towels, for heaven’s sake. She was about to answer when Rose, Jack’s mother, chimed in.
“She sounds like a piece of work. Did you read that Time article about her?”
Jackie shook her head. “Not yet.”
“It says she is a diva who always has to get her own way.” Rose spoke as if this were a criminal act, although the same could be said of any of her children.
“I imagine you have to be very exacting to perform at her level,” Jackie replied. “And I also imagine the Time journalist went in wielding a hatchet because otherwise there’s no meat to the story.”
“Henry Luce and Briton Hadden were the cofounders of Time, back in the twenties,” Jack’s father, Joe, added. “Decent men, both of them, but Briton used to drive Henry crazy when he put actors and singers on the cover. He wanted it to be a heavyweight political paper, leaning towards the Republicans. But of course journalists tend to be young men of principle so it acquired its Democratic bias.”
“Who do we know there?” Jack asked. And, just like that, the subject switched back to politics.
“Ed Thompson will be with us.” Joe began to list Time journalists who might support Jack’s career.
Jackie would have liked to argue that Maria Callas was every bit as deserving of a Time cover as a transient politician, and that her ticket had been worth every last cent she’d paid for it, but she knew from experience that discussions around that table quickly became adversarial. All the Kennedy children were competitive; no one backed down, whether they were playing tennis, swimming, or debating. And none of them shared her belief that culture was equally as important as politics in a civilized society. This evening, she didn’t have the energy to fight them.
Jack stood abruptly, scraping his chair against the floor. “I’ve got a meeting in Hyannis at seven. I’ll grab dessert when I’m back, if you hounds leave me any.”
“Who are you meeting?” Jackie asked, then bit her lip. She wished she could be the independent, sassy girl Jack had fallen for rather than a nagging wife, but sometimes the questions slipped out.
“You know—the team,” he answered vaguely. “I won’t be late.”
He gave Jackie a quick kiss on the forehead, exactly the same kiss he gave his mother a second later. Not long afterward she heard his car’s engine turning over in the drive.
When they finished dinner, Jackie was about to head up to their room, but Joe grabbed her arm. “Let’s you and me go for a stroll. It’s a fine evening.”
She donned a wool wrap against the autumn chill and tied a headscarf over her hair. The Kennedy house was right on the Cape Cod seafront and winds whipped in off Nantucket Sound. The sun had sunk below the horizon but there was still a pinkish glow on the west-facing upper windows.
“You seem unhappy,” Joe said as they walked across the lawn toward the beach. “Is my son neglecting you?”
“No more than usual.” Jackie forced a chuckle. She and Joe had had this conversation before. Prior to the wedding, he’d warned her that Jack needed plenty of freedom, and she’d been able to tell him she already knew.
“You could have had any man you wanted,” Joe said. “I know that; he knows that. You’re brilliant, beautiful, charming, and you’ve got spirit.”
“What’s with the soft soap?” she asked. “Have you got a favor to ask?”
He spoke seriously. “Just that you don’t leave him.”
Jackie didn’t answer for a long time, but walked along the shoreline, listening to the noise of breakers crashing, then ebbing, sending pebbles scuttling. “Why not?” she asked. “Because it would ruin his political career?”
“No. Because I couldn’t bear to lose you as a daughter-in-law. Now, let’s talk frankly.”