Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir by Clint Hil (love letters to the dead TXT) 📗

center to be made into a bed, with an additional two seats by the window for her to sit in. Two additional seats in first class were for Provi and myself. It would be a long, sleepless night for Paul and me as we crossed the Atlantic.

Mrs. Kennedy slept almost the entire way, and after graciously signing photographs for the crew—I always kept a stash of her photos in my briefcase for such occasions—we transferred to the plane that would take us to Athens.

The weather was hot and sunny when we arrived in Athens, under a beautiful clear blue sky. As we were about to deplane, Mrs. Kennedy turned to me with a smile on her face and a gleam in her eye.

“Mr. Hill, are you ready to have some fun? I sure am.”

It was so nice to see her smiling again. It was obvious she was looking forward to the next two weeks.

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, returning the smile. “I think all of us will have a good time.”

But, believe me, I thought, I am going to know everything that is going on.

Prince “Stash” Radziwill and Mrs. Kennedy’s sister, Lee, were there to greet us, along with U.S. ambassador Henry Labouisse. Agent Giannoules had done a great job of handling everything for our arrival, assisted once again by Nick Damigos from the State Department, who knew all the local officials and was keyed into anything that might affect Mrs. Kennedy’s visit.

We spent the first few days of the trip in Athens, where once again the beautiful seaside villa owned by Markos Nomikos had been made available for Mrs. Kennedy and her guests. There was a courtesy visit to King Paul and Queen Frederika at the Tatoi Palace one afternoon, and as we drove down the long driveway, Mrs. Kennedy got a big grin on her face.

“Mr. Hill, you look so worried,” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, I’m thinking about the last time we were here.”

She laughed and said, “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t sneak off for a high-speed ride with Prince Constantine again. And remember? You did catch us.”

“Oh, I remember only too well,” I said with a smile. “I’ll be paying very close attention to your every move this time.”

“I thought you always did that, Mr. Hill,” she said, laughing.

Her teasing and playfulness was back, it was good to see, and true to her word, she didn’t try to pull a fast one on me. At least not at the Tatoi Palace. The next day, we were to begin our cruise on the Christina.

IN THE NEARLY three years that I had been with Mrs. Kennedy, I had had the opportunity to sail aboard some fabulous yachts. Nomikos’s Northwind, Gianni Agnelli’s Agneta, and of course the yachts in the presidential fleet—the Honey Fitz, the Manitou, the Sequoia. But nothing could have prepared me for the Christina.

Anchored in the bay at Glyfada, the 325-foot Christina made the other yachts in the harbor look like bathtub toys. We were met at the dock by a few members of the crew, and two sleek mahogany-hulled Hacker speedboats—the tenders for the Christina. Our bags were loaded, and off we sped to the massive white yacht in the distance.

There were a great many staff to greet us and yes, Aristotle Onassis himself was standing on deck as we boarded. Gray-haired, with black bushy eyebrows, he was shorter than I had expected, and had a stocky frame. He had a very large nose, an oily, olive complexion, and dark circles surrounding rather small eyes.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said. “Welcome aboard the Christina.” He greeted Lee with a kiss on each cheek—as Europeans do—and then proceeded to do the same to Mrs. Kennedy. I cringed as I watched him place his hands on her arms and lean in to graze her cheek with his lips.

This is the man President Kennedy had told me—in no uncertain terms—to make sure Mrs. Kennedy did not meet in 1961. Now, here she is being greeted by him on his yacht as his guest. Did I misunderstand something?

All these thoughts ran through my mind as the other guests appeared on deck. There was Franklin D. Roosevelt Jr. and his wife, Suzanne; Onassis’s sisters Artemis Garofalides and Mrs. Calliroë Patronicola; Greek actor Alexis Minotis; Silvio Medici De’ Menezes and his wife, Princess Irene Galitzine. Many of these people I had met previously—and of course Princess Irene and I had shopped and dined together in Capri—but under these conditions, I felt like an intruder, completely out of place.

A steward escorted Mrs. Kennedy to her cabin, as I followed along, with Provi not far behind to make sure all was well with her mistress. The stateroom Mrs. Kennedy had been assigned was furnished as royally as any palace she had stayed in, while the en suite bathroom had solid gold fixtures, with faucets in the shape of dolphins. I had no idea splendor of this extreme existed. It was only the tip of the iceberg.

As Paul and I explored the yacht we encountered extravagance upon extravagance. A spiral staircase with pillars of onyx soaring three levels above a mosaic floor bearing the image of the Greek letter omega. A lounge with a stunning lapis lazuli fireplace surrounded by bookshelves containing rare volumes. A seawater swimming pool on the aft deck inlaid with an exquisite mosaic copied from the Palace of Knossos in Crete. If you want to dance, push a button and the floor of the pool rises, the water drains, and the mosaic tile floor of the pool is now at room level, ready to accommodate your every move.

Want a drink? Go to Ari’s bar on the main deck. A wooden circular bar made from the timbers of a Spanish galleon with heavy sailing rope as the facing. You are sitting on bar stools covered in whale foreskin. Your arms and feet are resting on footrests and handholds of ornately carved whales’ teeth accented in gold. Under the glass top