Oriana Fallaci, one of the greatest journalists of the 20th century, was never associated with pleasure, but she was a towering role model in how to be gutsy, speak the truth—and basically not take b.s. from anybody. For sure, Oriana was obsessed with work, laboring around the clock and nourishing herself with coffee and cigarettes. In the 1950s and 1960s when she macheted her way to the top of male-dominated journalism and became the best interviewer in the world, she had to work twice as hard as a man, she said, otherwise they’d reject her. Her personal life, not surprisingly, suffered: she was nomadic, never home. Ignored her health. Didn’t have a partner or children, which she badly wanted.
Then one day, at age 44, Oriana fell in love with a charismatic young freedom fighter. Alexander (Alekos) Panagoulis was Greek, and one thing the Greeks know how to do: enjoy life. Oriana did something unheard of, she put aside work to live. In this scene from my new historical novel ORIANA, she’s visiting Glyfada, the sesaside hamlet Alekos calls home, at the start of their affair and discovers what she’s been missing.
Oriana had always known that she wasn’t made for pleasure.
Pleasure was for luckier or lazier people and she was
meant to work. Less than a week by Alekos’s side upended that
perception and she saw herself in a startling new light. She
deserved. She was gaining something she should have always
had. The sky would not come crashing down if she loosened the
reins of discipline she imposed on herself. If she indulged in life’s
enjoyments for once, rather than deprive herself, she would not
be punished.
The days in Glyfada took on a holiday rhythm. Breakfast
was fatty sheep’s yogurt drizzled with honey on the wrap-around
veranda overlooking the sea. Alekos skinned fat purple figs and
fed her sugary bites off his paring knife. Athena bustled in and
out with piping hot bread and giant juicy peaches, and though
her face lit up at the sight of her son, it dimmed into a more
complicated expression for Oriana, one that seemed to say, I just
got my son back, only to lose him to her?
After breakfast, swimming in the turquoise Aegean. The
beach was a minute’s walk from the house, and Alekos and his
brother had grown up in bathing suits, diving off the rocks from
Easter to November. Oriana didn’t know how to swim. She was
a city girl who crossed the Piazza Signoria daily and took the
statue of David for granted. She envied Alekos’s ease, the way the
sea was a second skin.
He taught her. She slipped off her beaded cover-up, glad
she’d splurged on the Missoni bikini, glad they had the virgin
beach to themselves. Followed him into the crystalline water,
which was colder than she’d imagined, with minnows weaving
around her ruby toes.
“Don’t wet my hair,” she said. He wet her hair, then scooped
his hands under her belly as she kicked her feet. Oriana didn’t
recognize the sensation of sudden lightness, the burst of joy that
came over her, yet oddly she did.
“Put your face in the water and blow bubbles,” he said. “Now
turn to the side and breathe.” She did. There was a whole universe
of beach customs she had missed out on as a girl, but she was an
excellent student and liked what he was teaching her. Liked the
way she was opening up to him and the sea as a second skin.
Afterward, they collapsed on the sand, the Mediterranean
heat unraveling muscles, slowing the mind, transforming her
into the natural woman she was meant to be. Alekos dozed
under the scorching sun with his hand on her thigh. Her affair
with Pelou had been clandestine, but this man belonged to her in
broad daylight. He made love to her and said loving things and
promised to be her person.
“You would make a wonderful mother,” Alekos murmured.
“What?” She turned her head but he had drifted off again.
Madonna. Was he serious or dreaming? Children? They were
moving fast, Alekos was fast. But she was forty-four, who knew
if she had any decent eggs left. Where would they live? Not in
his country, though it was stunningly beautiful. She told herself
to relax, don’t jump ahead, how lucky to find this man. Why
couldn’t she trust life for once?
They went to Oscar, his favorite cafe in Glyfada, and ate
lunch alfresco in rattan armchairs. The first afternoon, the
proprietor pumped Alekos’s hand, calling the waiter to bring
two ouzos on the house. “This boy did something great,” he said.
“He has Greece inside him.”
After lunch they bought newspapers at the corner kiosk,
where the one-armed veteran refused Alekos’s money, then
bent their heads together at their table. It wasn’t long before the
Greek newspapers went berserk publishing photos of the two of
them smoking and drinking at the café. Then some paparazzo
caught them wet and embracing on Glyfada beach.
“Merda. They’re turning me into Jackie O,” Oriana said,
smacking the paper.
“Jackie was nude,” Alekos teased. The former First Lady had
been caught by telephoto lens sunbathing au naturel on Onassis’s
private island.
“They won’t catch me at that one,” Oriana said. “No more
untying my bikini.”
“Fine,” he said, trailing his fingers down her back. She
laughed.
It wasn’t so funny when gossip began flying in Italy. Foto,
the rag that splashed naked girls on its cover, that tried to
compete with L’Europeo but was only good for lighting logs in
the fireplace, ran a blind item headlined “Fallaci’s Younger
Man.” Her eyes darted over it. Alexander Panagoulis is a dashing
freedom fighter, and the moment Fallaci saw him on television, she
stole the interview from a colleague and rushed to Greece. She spent
the night on his sofa and from there it was a small step to his bed. It’s
true what they say, Fallaci uses feminine wiles to trap her subjects.
Shit. How did Foto know she’d “stolen” the assignment from
Mulotti? The answer leapt to her brain: The little bastard was
leaking.
“What’s wrong?” Alekos said, seeing her expression.
“Nothing.” She regretted telling Lucia to forward her damn
mail. “They’re running their mouths about us in Italy.”
“Let them.” Alekos took the tabloid and folded it away.
“Enough reading.” He shot her a smoldering look that said he wanted her
that instant.
In previous affairs, Oriana had grown bored with sex. The
opposite was true with Alekos. All he had to do was glance at
her, brush against her, and she snapped out of her cerebral
habitat and became a liquidy, spongy self. It was an awakening
in her forties, the way he took her outdoors, indoors, with soft
insistence. The way he glued his body against hers, smothering
her with affection.
It’s not giving away the plot to say that eventually, Oriana misses work and returns to journalism, making a heroic effort to have it all. But life, with its twists and turns, always exacts a price—as we know.
Still, pleasure is always available to us, through good times and bad. It might not be an option to fall madly in love or relax on a Greek beach, but we can indulge in what was fun and put a smile on our faces in our younger, carefree days. Reading for an hour in broad daylight. Feeling the breeze on our cheeks as we walk outdoors with a friend. Dancing. Singing. Rolling on the floor with a child or dog. Belly laughing. Pleasure doesn’t have to be postponed.
Remember: we deserve.
