The Goodtime Girl by Tess Fragoulis

quickly.
    After what seemed an eternity filled with nothing but the twang and pull of strings, the Smyrniot finally spoke, his tone as cold and reticent as it had been at Barba Yannis’s: “I don’t have much time,” he said, and pushed a sheet of lyrics towards Kivelli. “So let’s get on with it.” Marianthi had not budged from her spot by the door and was still mouthing words no one else could hear. But her eyes were now closed, and she was tapping her foot softly, like a mangha, stoned and lost in his own world. At first glance, the song didn’t seem so different than the usual fare at the taverna — it had drugs and tough guys and heartbreak. But to Kivelli’s surprise, it gave the woman’s side of things. This was becoming more common, though the guys at Barba Yannis’s still preferred hearing their own stories sung back to them. She moved her lips over the words as soundlessly as Marianthi’s prayer, her mouth forming them, her tongue tasting them so they wouldn’t stumble out like a drunk’s proposal: stilted, awkward and worthless.
    â€œWhenever you’re ready …,” the Smyrniot mumbled and began playing his guitar. Though the lyrics were lowdown, the music conjured calliopes, operas and Arab charmers with their dancing snakes. They filled Kivelli’s veins with ice; she sat frozen, burning at the same time, unable to cry for help, let alone sing. But when the notes circled back to where they’d begun, she opened her mouth and the words came out as if they were her own:

    I am the girl, that goodtime girl, who all the manghes crave
    But my heart swells for only one, I’ll take my secret to the grave

    Marianthi took a step closer, her lips forming the same words as Kivelli’s, praying to a god of love who lived down the hill and over the bridge in Drapetsona. For some reason this gave Kivelli confidence, and she sang the rest of the song to the Smyrniot’s wife in the same way she picked the mangha with the kindest eyes to focus on at Barba Yannis’s.

    He doesn’t know I want him, doesn’t see that he’s the one
    This man who plays bouzouki, like others shoot their guns

    To Piraeus I came with no jewels, no clothes, no name
    And now I’m going to lose my mind, mangha’s driving me insane

    Both women’s eyes welled with tears, but not for the same reason. The tow of the Smyrniot’s music carried Kivelli back to summer fairs, boat races and cafés along the Quai, reminding her of the person she no longer was and would never be again. She’d been created by Smyrna to adorn its lovely streets, and one could not exist without the other. Now she was something like this song: a hybrid of beauty and beast. The gap between the two was cruel, and the pain of that cruelty flooded her voice.

    Oh pretty boy, oh wicked boy, take pity on this tart
    Let me light your narghile with the flames that eat my heart

    It took a few moments for Kivelli to regain her composure after the song ended, so she missed what the Smyrniot said on his way out. “He wants you to meet him at the Hotel Xenos in Athens tomorrow morning,” Marianthi repeated after he was gone. “He’s going to record you. I knew it. I’m so happy!” She threw her arms around Kivelli, holding on as if she would never let go, her rose-tainted breath dampening the singer’s ear. “I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew it would be perfect.”
    â€œIt’s time for me to go as well.” Kivelli pulled away gently. “I need to rest before work, or I won’t wake up until noon tomorrow.” She didn’t remember the last time she’d seen morning light, except for the sly rays that seeped through her wooden shutters, streaking the floor and licking her eyelids like cats’ tongues.
    Marianthi made a disappointed face, but did not protest. “Of course, of course. But you must come