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Levká
An excerpt from The Secret Memoirs of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis by Ruth Francisco
[Jackie Kennedy quite famously said, “I want to live my life, not record it.” Jackie remains elusive, her interior life hidden, her soul masked behind sunglasses and an enigmatic smile. These fictional memoirs tell Jackie’s story in Jackie’s voice — with all of her joy and wit, grief and bitterness, fortitude and gentleness. Here, Francisco plunges into the subtext of Jackie’s public life, psychology, and sexuality, re-imagining Jackie’s feelings and thoughts between the lines of recorded history.]
Ari and I dine in a tavern perched on the cliffs on the island of Levkás. We sit at a little table on the terrace and look out at our island home in the distance. I imagine how they see us. The man, much older than the woman — thirty years, at least — must look like a prosperous businessman from Athens relaxing on vacation. He laughs as she runs her index finger around his large ear, affectionately, as if she can’t resist touching him. She is definitely not his daughter. Though the woman is tall and reed-thin, the man is solid with a big barrel chest. He wears white trousers and a tan cotton square-cut shirt. When he leans back in his chair, smiling, eyes closed behind his sunglasses, he looks as content as a tomcat basking in the midday sun. The woman wears a brightly colored cotton shift and sandals. Her shoulder-length hair is dark and tangled. Her sunglasses are neatly folded on the table. We enjoy our solitude, no doubt appearing very much like any other man and wife at their local tavern. Indeed it is the closest restaurant to Skorpios. There are only a handful of other people in the bar. It is too late for lunch, too early for dinner. There is a timelessness about the afternoon, the hot sun filtered through the leaves of the grape arbor above us. The waiter, the bartender, the fiddler, the flower and newspaper vendors, the street urchin who sells reed flutes — all know Ari. He buys whatever they offer and waves off the change, even though the change is several times the price of the newspaper or rose. They thank him and depart quickly. Ari drinks Johnnie Walker Black, I sip an Americano. Between us sits a basket of fried calamaraki and a plate of dolmades, stuffed grape leaves. I occasionally nibble the corner of a piece of squid, wiping my fingers meticulously each time. Ari ignores the food for a bit, then in a burst of hunger shoves several pieces into his mouth and chomps noisily. I imagine we appear happy and relaxed, as if we own the place. Perhaps we do. After I whisper a story in Ari’s ear, I touch his hand with my index finger, pause, then deliver the punch line. Ari explodes in laughter, the rumbling, furniture-shaking laughter of a much bigger man, the laughter of a man who never laughs alone. He waves over the waiter and has me repeat the story. Initially, I am shy, uncomfortable, unfamiliar with a waiter, uncertain of my command of the Greek language, but I warm as I tell my anecdote, delighting as I see Ari’s eyes dance in approval. We all laugh a little too loudly — the waiter eager to show respect, Ari eager to show the world his majesty, I eager to please. Ari orders a bottle of champagne — the very best in the house. Are we here to celebrate? they wonder. Yes, to celebrate life, abundance, and the beautiful afternoon. Ari begins a tale, leaning on his elbows over the table, which tips with his weight. I listen raptly, running my long fingers over my glass-bead necklace, my eyes large and sparkling, head tilted slightly, as if my life depends on catching every word. Perhaps it does. Whatever the tale, I hardly breathe while I listen, completely absorbed in his story. He finishes by drinking a full glass of champagne in one gulp. I press my hands together and laugh appreciatively. He gloats with pride. “Oh, Ari. I never know whether to believe you or not. What a story!” “I don’t know if I’ve lived so long so I’ll have stories to tell, or I’ve lived so long so I can tell stories.” “Is it true?” He smiles slyly. “What is the truth, my dear?” I love it when my pirate becomes philosophical. Even platitudes, coming from him, seemed profound. Because of the accent? Or because they came from his experience? Suddenly the air explodes with lights. A Greek photographer leaps out from behind a hedge of oleander bushes, snapping his camera, his flash — pop, pop, pop — circling the table with his Cyclops eye. Ari flies out of his chair, his face purple with rage. “Who do you think you are, you son of a bitch! You’re insane. Leave my wife alone. Go way. Get out of here. You want money? Here!” Ari throws a fistful of drachmas on the floor. The photographer scoops up the money into his pocket with one hand while continuing to snap pictures with the other. But he doesn’t leave. Click, click, click. Who tipped off the paparazzi? The photographer dances around the table like a demon possessed, shouting in halting English, “Look at me! Over here! Here I am!” Squatting, leaning, leaping. The waiter rushes to the table and tries to shoo him away, snapping his white towel to no avail. People on the street stop and stare. The other diners stop eating. One man stands up as if to help. By now the photographer is out of film and is using his backup camera. Ari grabs me by the hand, yanking me roughly out of my chair. He swings me in front of him and pulls up my dress. “Is this what you want you son of a bitch? Are you happy now? Here, take her picture. Then get the hell out of here!” I sway about to faint — mortified — my crotch exposed to the world. A woman gasps; a glass crashes. It is as if all the air has been sucked out of the room. The waiter stares, pedestrians stare, diners stare. Everyone stares. A cool breeze tickles my silk panties. Click, click, click. The photographer squats, snapping away, then disappears, between the tables, through the bushes, down an alley. The Cyclopes come like wraiths in the night, springing on me wherever I go. Pursuing me like bad memories that won’t be forgotten. Pursuing me like a thousand starving children clinging to my skirts, begging, taunting, demanding. Pursuing me as if I owe them something. How much will Ari’s secretary pay this time? How much did she pay for my naked butt high in the air, fucking Ari in a row boat? The Billion Dollar Bush! Even on the island, they sneak on like assassins, hiding in the bushes, stealing photos, zipping by in speedboats, buzzing by in helicopters, their long lenses like elephant trunks. Once when I was water-skiing, a paparazzo drove a speedboat between me and the lead boat, snapping my towline. Gleefully, he clicked away as I sank, nearly drowning, paralyzed in terror. Why won’t they leave me alone? Even Ari can’t protect me. I smooth my skirt and wobble back to my seat, my lips pressed together, trying hard not to be sick. Ari sits down, furious at me, “If you didn’t make such a goddamn fuss all the time, they’d leave you alone.” “You are right, Ari.” The happy mood is broken. The day ruined. We sit in silence for a few moments, then, I excuse myself to use the restroom.
The Secret Memoirs of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis: An intimate portrait? Or salacious exploitation? <<read more about the controversy>> <<buy The Secret Memoirs of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis>>
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