1996
Giving up is not part of my DNA. If I can’t change the circumstances along the way, I change the way I view them.
Recovery efforts place me deeper inside a web of deceit woven by art traffickers to protect their escalating multibillion-dollar underworld. My financial resources are being stretched as more and more of my energy is drained by my pursuit to unravel this complex network of thieves, and yet my determination to disempower them escalates.
When Polak informs me that we have an extension until March to file a statement of reply in the Lans case, I am relieved.1 There is much to prepare for, and the extra time is a lifesaver, as this trial is coming at a juncture when every other facet of my life is demanding my full attention.
Michael wants to have another child, but my sights are firmly set on exposing the art traffickers and tracking down the whereabouts of the Saint Andreas mosaic of Kanakaria, one of the oldest and most treasured artifacts of the Orthodox people. It has survived the wrath of earthquakes and the brutality of conquerors for centuries, only to be cut out of the sacred walls of an ancient church by the hands of those who worship greed instead of God.
My attempt to be all things to all people causes great anxiety for the ones I love. Michael prepares to leave for the airport on a planned business trip and unleashes some of his frustration.
“We made a deal; one of us will always be with the children when the other is out of town,” Michael says in a tone that is a mixture of anger and hurt.
“I’m sorry, love. I did try to change the date. It’s one day. I must brief the archbishop on the Lans case. I’ve taken care of every detail and the nannies are here. There is nothing for you to do.” He is not impressed. His tall frame bends in half to kiss Andreas good-bye, who is sitting at the breakfast nook.
“No kiss for me?” I ask.
“Stop taking us for granted,” he replies.
The kitchen door swings shut behind Michael as he leaves. I continue to feel the heat of his words throughout the morning as I prepare the nanny to take over the care of the children during my upcoming absence. This is no way to begin the new year.
Octagon is in full swing when I arrive, which gives me a false sense of security that the company is running smoothly. Sometimes we see what we want to see in life, and right now I need to see that things are going well, because I have minimal time to allocate to it. Reaching for my ringing phone, I wonder where my assistant is.
“Happy New Year, Tazulaah,” the voice of Van Rijn says cheerily. “Are you having a good new year so far?” he asks in a sleepy voice.
“It sounds as if the celebration may continue for you,” I say.
“Have breakfast with me,” says Van Rijn.
“Those of us who work for a living actually have a schedule to keep. So, unless there is something important, I really can’t spare the time,” I say.
“Is recovering the Royal Doors a good enough reason? You know, the ones that once hung in Roozemond’s gallery window.”
“Don’t play games, Van Rijn.”
“I’m trying to help you,” he says.
“Come to my office.”
Van Rijn appears shortly thereafter, dressed in a long navy blue coat with the collar turned up and wearing a brown felt fedora.
“Do you have any idea how full my day is?” I say to him.
“You should never be too busy for the icons,” he says.
Holding a bit of anger from my morning fallout with my husband, I take my frustration out on Van Rijn, whom I believe is the cause of my issues to begin with.
“You and your games. Where is the Andreas mosaic you promised me? Now you want to tease me with the Royal Doors. You’re all talk and no action.”
“This is how you treat me? What other dealer gives you tips and helps you recover stolen artifacts?” he says with annoyance.
“What are you angling for, Van Rijn?”
“I can bring you the Royal Doors, but there are conditions.”
“Of course. What is it this time?”
“I have to negotiate on your behalf. You need to get me a power of attorney on consulate stationery, and I’ll deliver the doors within the week.”
“Never,” I say. “Tell me where they are and I’ll move in with the police or the embassy.”
“They’re my clients. I want to keep them that way. If you move in with your big boots and stomp around like you usually do, you will make me look bad.”
“This is going nowhere,” I say, ready to throw him out.
“Tazulaah, these are nothing terms! You give me a hard time for the sake of it.”
“I’m not going to lie about who you are, and secondly, the Church or government will never approve of you acting on their behalf.”
“I am acting on your behalf!”
“Van Rijn, if you are serious, let’s get on with it; otherwise go. I have had enough of you and your deals for one day. Where are they?” I ask him again.
He leans back in the chair and lights one of his Gauloise cigarettes.
“There will be travel involved. I expect the Church to pay my expenses.”
“Location, Van Rijn!” I say, really annoyed now.
“Japan,” he says, which spurs my curiosity.
“A collector?” I ask.
“Institution,” he says “That’s all for now!”
“Tokyo?”
He puts out his cigarette and faces me from across the table.
“When will you start believing that I am your man?” he says.
“When will you give me information without demanding something in return? Is Roozemond involved?”
“It’s more complicated than that. I want answers or I don’t continue.”
Raising my voice, I say, “Damn it, Van Rijn, give me the whole story for once. I’m searching for the contents of five hundred looted churches, and you give me a crumb of information at a time.”
“Calm down. You know about Dikmen and how the artifacts traveled out of Cyprus into Turkey and then to Europe and America. I know what you want: you want to see me behind bars, and I’m the one dealer who’s trying to help you!”
“Roozemond?” I say.
“If you give me power of attorney, I’ll get the doors. Roozemond sold them to the Japanese. That’s my deal.”
I shake my head back and forth.
“Not interested, then,” I say.
Van Rijn slips a piece of paper across the table. It’s a photograph of the Royal Doors.
“You’re making a mistake, Tazulaah. I’ll have my lawyer inform you of my whereabouts in case you change your mind.”
“I don’t know why I waste my time with you,” I say.
“I don’t know why I put up with your insults. You should be much nicer to me if you ever want to see your beloved Saint Andreas again,” he says before he and his damaged ego disappear out of my office.
The rest of my day is filled with issuing passports and meeting with the new manager of Octagon. Michael’s words hang over my day like a cloud that stands in the way of the sun shining through. After faxing the photograph of the Royal Doors to Mr. Papageorgiou for verification, I surprise my son, Andreas, by picking him up after school.
“Mommy!”
“You are happy to see me, aren’t you, my precious?” I say.
“Can we go for Nu niet please?” Nu niet is the Dutch word for “not now,” which is what the nanny tells Andreas, every time he points to the cupboard in the house where the sweets are stored.
“Of course, but first I must smother you with kisses, as I have missed you terribly today,” I say to my young giggling boy.
We arrive at a small café located not far from our home. The waiter delivers a hot chocolate with a towering scoop of whipped cream along with a slice of apple pie. Since the waiter knows us, he also brings a bowl of Andreas’s favorite sweets. We spend time talking about football, his toy cars, and his friends at school. My little man is growing up fast. He pushes the dish of sweet delights across the table to offer me a taste.
“Mommy, why is Sophia not normal like my friends’ sisters?”
Andreas will turn six in a few months, but he is a child with an old soul.
“Sophia is a special care baby, Andreas. You’re right to notice that she is different.” His expression reveals the fact that he has more to say but is not sure whether to say it.
“My friends make fun of her.”
“Then they are not good friends,” I say. “It’s not nice to laugh at people who are different. Sophia is a girl with special needs. Why does that bother you?”
“They make fun of me because she is my sister. Will she have to come to my birthday party this year?”
Knowing how loving and sweet Andreas is with Sophia, I am surprised by his question, but then, looking at him, I realize he is just a child, and his questions are normal.
“How would it be if you have two parties: one with your friends and then we have a separate party with Sophia and our family?”
“Deal,” he says and puts his hand up to slap me five.
I think about how lonely it must be for him not to be able to bond with his sister in the way that his friends do with their siblings. I feel so guilty at letting down Michael and Andreas. Andreas reaches for the hot chocolate, taking a big spoonful of whipped cream in his mouth.
“Ah, you have a big smile now. Any other worries I can take away?”
“Mommy, you’re the best,” he says.
“There is a solution to every problem, Andreas. Remember that,” I say as I watch him ponder the advice he’s just been given. Because he is such a sweet child, I take for granted how little he asks of me. That goes for Michael as well. I feel the struggle of being pulled in multiple directions. The guilt of spending less time with my family weighs heavily on me, but living a life that is fully expressed is a part of who I am. If I stop, I will be depriving my family in another way.
A light rainy mist is falling as the airplane touches down at Larnaca Airport. More than a thousand protesters are expected to demonstrate in Nicosia, demanding the enforcement of a 1929 law in Cyprus criminalizing homosexuality.
I am ushered into the archbishop’s quarters, where I find him signing documents. The icon of Jesus Christ whose eyes have been scratched out stationed behind his desk is still mesmerizing.
“Your Beatitude, why do you choose to have the defaced icon in your office?”
“It empowers me,” he says as he places a document in his out box and stands to greet me formally. “When you drive here, you see the Turkish flag the army painted into the Kyrenia mountainside after the invasion. It forces us to confront our occupation from every vantage point on the island—a thorn in the side of every Greek Cypriot.”
“If I were the president of Cyprus, I would demand they remove that flag before ever sitting at a negotiation table. It is psychological warfare on our people,” I add.
“It is a test of our faith every time our eyes rest on this indecency. Instead of it destroying us, it fuels our determination to return home to the occupied area one day.” The archbishop turns toward the icon of Jesus Christ.
“The eyes of an icon represent a window into heaven,” he says. “And what we see when we pray before them is God’s gaze returned. The cowardly act of gouging the eyes out of icons is committed to deprive us of our connection to God. With or without the eyes we continue to pray with them. The cross is also a target as fanatical Muslims reject the resurrection of Christ, the symbol of Christianity. Even our dead must endure this hatred as the crosses marking their grave sites in our cemeteries are desecrated and destroyed.”
As he leads me to the sitting area, I notice that his slow and graceful movements are in tune with his calm and serene demeanor. I find myself feeling strangely at ease around him and impressed that he can be this calm despite the protesting. I sit on the red velvet settee and admire how the sunlight filtering in from the floor-to-ceiling windows reflects off the crystal chandelier.
“How is Kyprianou doing with the Lans case?” he asks.
“The Lans case lead will be R. W. Polak, the Dutch lawyer we just hired. Mr. Kyprianou will be an asset to Polak, with his experience on the Kanakaria case and in Cypriot law. I will need Kyprianou and Papageorgiou to come to the Netherlands.”
There is no hesitation on the archbishop’s part to proceed with the case. What is clear is that he and I share the same passion about seeing these artifacts returned.
I remove from my case the photograph of the Royal Doors that Van Rijn gave me and place it before him.
“Van Rijn says the Royal Doors are in Japan. His book is about to be released there and he is looking to publicize it. His supposedly non-negotiable terms are to be the lead negotiator on behalf of the Church and to have his expenses paid.” The archbishop continues to listen thoughtfully.
“I sent the photograph to Mr. Papageorgiou, who confirms that the Royal Doors are from the old church of Agios Anastasios in Peristerona.”2
“How do you suggest we proceed?” the archbishop inquires.
“Van Rijn cannot be trusted. I’ll have to go to Japan with him because he is withholding the location. If we agree to pay his expenses, after giving me proof of the Royal Doors’ whereabouts and revealing who the possessors are, I will take over the negotiation and see to it that he doesn’t compromise the Church in any way.”
“Can you manage this trip alone? It sounds far too dangerous,” he says.
“Michael will accompany me,” I say.
“And the children?”
“My parents will be with them while we are gone and they will have the support of our live-in nannies.”
“Let me pay for your tickets,” he says.
“If you pay, my compatriots will accuse me of using this trip to further my personal business, and there will be questions about why I was sent. I would rather pay my own way so that our actions cannot be questioned.”
“I admire your dedication. The Church is grateful to you.” The archbishop scribbles several telephone numbers on to a sheet of paper. “This is my personal fax number. The others are private numbers no one has access to. When you need anything, you call me without hesitation,” he says. Knowing I have the archbishop’s unconditional trust gives me immeasurable strength.
“Van Rijn’s deals can be full of traps. I plan to lead him to believe he will be speaking for me, but when I meet the possessors I shall ask to speak to them alone.”
“Will there be any repercussions?”
“I will not deceive him, just outsmart him, which he will respect.”
The archbishop smiles, and a feeling of regret passes through me.
“Your Beatitude, it is probably not proper for me to say such things,” I say.
“I like that you don’t change who you are in my company. I get to know the real you and the you I am getting to know, I like. You remind me of myself,” he says.
“I’m flattered,” I say. “May I speak candidly, Your Beatitude?”
He nods his head in agreement.
“Shouldn’t your views show the compassion you have for the plight of homosexuals?”
“A parade of people march through these doors each day, most of whom pretend to agree with my views. You are the exception.”
“Your Beatitude. I mean no disrespect. I understand that the Church has its rules and teachings, but as a modern woman of faith, who is influenced by the Dutch in some ways, I happen to disagree with a few things.”
“I’m interested in what you have to share. Please, go on.”
“Being a bishop in the Orthodox faith, one must be celibate. Which is more disturbing to you, the fact that a bishop has an active sexual life, or that he lays with a man and not a woman?”
“Both, of course! Bishops must live in celibacy.”
“Let’s take a moment to debate this.”
The conversation deepens as I reveal my thoughts on everything from the Church’s position on banning cremation to my views on homosexuality. To have the archbishop’s ear like this is a poignant moment. As a child, my nonconformist attitude was discouraged, and I was continually reprimanded, especially when it came to the topic of religion. To be engaged in this kind of debate with the archbishop is to receive an acceptance that I’ve longed for. As he sees me to the door, I feel that my own faith has been deepened from this experience.
“My regards to Michael and the children,” he says, as I bow my head and kiss his hand.
“Next time, it would be nice if we can continue our discussions over lunch or dinner. You are always welcome.”
Valentine’s Day is spent at my office meeting with Papageorgiou and Kyprianou, who flew in from Cyprus to meet with Polak and me regarding the Lans case, so my romantic dinner with Michael is postponed until Saturday. Polak discusses the materials we must secure by the end of the month, of which the biggest challenge will be getting a statement from Dergazarian, the dealer who sold the four icons looted from the church of Antiphonitis to the Lanses. The statement must include the date of sale, the purchase price, when the icons were restored, and the name of the Greek dealer involved.3 I didn’t have high hopes that the Armenian would give up the Greek dealer; getting the date that the icons were restored was more likely.4
In an attempt to reassert himself, Van Rijn leads journalist Jan Fred van Wijnen to Dergazarian, which I believe is his way of showing me that I do need his help. The Dutch are consumed with the breaking story that two of their citizens are involved, and the media frenzy continues.
Van Rijn calls to see if I’ve changed my mind about the Royal Doors and Japan; this is my opportunity to negotiate for what I want.
“Introduce me to Dergazarian. Then we can speak about the Royal Doors,” I say.
“Come to London tomorrow,” I hear him say as the phone disconnects.
Traveling to London is easier for me to arrange because it’s a short flight and I can return home on the same day without disturbing the family dynamics.
In the middle of central London, on a side street somewhere between the palace and Parliament, I meet Van Rijn at a Lebanese restaurant. As I enter, he and Dergazarian are engulfed in conversation. Both men stand to greet me. Dergazarian is tall and dark, with slightly grayish hair and sharp features. The waiter places bowls of tabbouleh and fattoush salads on the table, accompanied by smaller saucers of hummus and baba ghanoush.
“I’m sure Tazulaah will find what I ordered suitable, as the food is similar to her native Greek dishes. Efharisto,” he says to the Lebanese waiter, who turns to me and says, “Milao Ellinika,” which means “I speak a bit of Greek.”
“It’s nice to be surrounded by so many Greek friends today,” I say, in an attempt to relax everyone, but it has the opposite effect.
“What do you mean by ‘Greek friends’? Do you speak of dealers? Are you selling icons?” Dergazarian asks.
“No, I’m sure Mr. Van Rijn has told you I’m here in search of information specifically about four Cypriot icons you sold.”
Van Rijn writes in his book that he first met Dergazarian in a teahouse in Istanbul and later in Beirut, where he became Van Rijn’s source for Russian artifacts.5 Their friendship runs deep, as did their loyalties to each other.
“Not every icon that is sold on the market is from Cyprus, Madame Consul, and not every piece of art from Cyprus is looted. Artifacts were shipped out of Cyprus by your own people after the war as well. What can I do for you today?” asks Dergazarian.
“Mr. Dergazarian, I am not here to argue about what was shipped by who or to take anyone to task for it. I’m here to get a copy of a receipt or a statement about when you sold the Antiphonitis icons to the Lans couple.”
He laughs. “So you can prosecute me for selling them?”
“My priority is to get the artifacts back, not to prosecute people. If my strategy is to prosecute, your friend here would be long gone,” I say, looking at Van Rijn.
The look in his eyes says my sense of humor doesn’t appeal to him.
“You can trust her,” says Van Rijn to Dergazarian.
“How can I prosecute you without an address anyway?” I say. “Why don’t you just give me a statement now?”
“Excuse us for a moment.” Van Rijn speaks a few words of Arabic to the Lebanese owner and disappears into another room with Dergazarian. While I’m enjoying my hummus, I see Van Rijn and Dergazarian in a heated debate, but I can’t hear what they are talking about. They appear ten minutes later and hand me a statement.6 I notice that it has all the points Polak wanted me to obtain for the Lans trial. However the writing is Van Rijn’s and not Dergazarian’s.
“I need a statement from Dergazarian, Van Rijn, not from you! Mr. Dergazarian, can you please compose your statement here in front of me.”
“Finalize Japan, and you get your statement,” says Van Rijn. “See you at the des Indes tomorrow.”
I allowed Van Rijn to drag me to London, away from my family and business, and make a fool of me. How can I consider going to Japan with him? My mind works overtime preparing for all of the different scenarios that Van Rijn might try to pull next.
The spring blooms in their infancy mark the end of a gray winter. When I arrive at the Hotel des Indes, Van Rijn is sitting at a table in the back of the lobby smiling like a Cheshire cat.
“You better have that statement today,” I say to him.
Van Rijn, turns over Dergazarian’s statement to me.
The statement says that Dergazarian acted as an intermediary for Van Rijn in selling the four Antiphonitis icons to the Lans couple in 1978, not 1971 as they originally told me, which proves our argument that the Lanses purchased the looted icons after the war, not before as they claimed. As much as this document helps to prove that the icons were bought from the conflict zone after the invasion, there is still the unknown of how the statute of limitations issue will be judged. What is clear to me, from the date of Dergazarian’s statement, is that Van Rijn has had this short document in his possession for the last six months and has been holding it to use as a bargaining tool. We have an understanding. He sees me as his window to clearing his name. I see him as an open door to lead me to the rest of the dealers. Even if I had enough evidence to have him arrested, I wouldn’t have him prosecuted at this point because I would then close the door to the world of art trafficking.
“Where are we with Japan?” Van Rijn asks.
“It’s clear that you are not going to tell me who the possessors are and that I will not give you the power of attorney to act on behalf of the Church. We are at an impasse.”
“I’ve already been corresponding with them from Malta,” he says. “They are an institution and very anxious about Cyprus taking legal action against them. They don’t want negative publicity, Tazulaah. If you don’t trust me, I can have the Royal Doors delivered to Scotland Yard, but you are to do as I say.”
“Enlighten me,” I reply.
“Write a letter to the possessor stating your position as acting on behalf of the Church of Cyprus and say that the Royal Doors were looted from Cyprus during the invasion in 1974. Also, confirm that you will not prosecute them if they agree to return the doors. Everything must be on consulate stationery. You must show proof that the icons were stolen and that they came from Cyprus. I’ll have my lawyer send you a fax later on this afternoon with an example of what I need you to say. So, do we have a deal?”7
“In theory, we have a deal but, in terms of the letter, I can’t give you a blanket yes on that because it will have to go through the Church’s attorney.”
“Deal,” he says as he taps his espresso cup to mine.
Seconds after I fax the statement of Dergazarian to Polak, he rings me at my office.
“Well done, Tasoula. This statement establishes that the icons were purchased after the war. I’ll draft some legal text for you to include in your letter to the government requesting they invoke the Hague Protocol.”8
The Cypriot foreign minister makes the request to the Dutch government to invoke the Protocol of the 1954 Convention for Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict.9 This is the first time the Protocol will be invoked, and it draws the attention of global media as well as UNESCO, who sends an observer to follow the case. The Dutch government reply is that because the question of ownership has already been taken to the court of Rotterdam, they cannot intervene in the civil procedure until after the court’s ruling. Since we can’t invoke the treaty at this point, having Dergazarian’s statement is essential.
On March 11, I forward a copy of the letter that Van Rijn asked me to write to the possessors of the Royal Doors to Polak for his comments. Van Rijn is still refusing to reveal who the possessors are, so I am acting with him as though I may pull out of the negotiation without having that information first.10 Polak suggests a few edits, as the draft can be construed to read that Van Rijn is negotiating on behalf of the Church. I fax a revised copy of the letter to Van Rijn’s lawyer for added protection, in order to have third party witness to what Van Rijn is promising me. He is not pleased with the revised letter or that I sent it directly to his attorney.11, 12
We continue to disagree about format until he calls me from Malta.
“Just do what I tell you, woman, if you want to see your doors,” Van Rijn says.
“Send me a fax where to go,” I say, leaving the dial tone ringing in his ears.
On April 19, I update the archbishop on the Japan trip.13 I receive formal approval to cover Van Rijn’s expenses, after securing proof of the doors and the identity of the possessor. I send a fax to Van Rijn’s attorney giving them the go-ahead to schedule an appointment with the possessor for April 23 and 24.14, 15, 16 Michael and I rarely have the opportunity to travel alone together and look forward to our trip to Japan.
OSAKA, JAPAN
When we arrive at the hotel in Osaka, a petite Japanese woman greets us at reception and hands me a letter and a gift. The letter has five bottles drawn on it. Under the bottles appear the names Dikmen, Van Rijn, Roozemond, Dritsoulas, and Petsopoulos. The text reads, “Wouldn’t you like to see all of us dealers bottled up like this?” I unwrap the gift, which is a bottle of Japanese clear alcohol with a gutted salamander in it. Supposedly, when the two elements are joined they make an aphrodisiac. After one look at the lizard you could hear my scream at the opposite end of the lobby, which is where I hear the sound of Van Rijn laughing at the top of his lungs.
Making our way over to Van Rijn, I ask him, “Do you find this funny?” Van Rijn is hysterical. Michael and I join him at his table.
“Who are the possessors?”
“Relax. Please let me get you each a drink.”
The waiter brings us drinks.
“The doors are at the Kanazawa College of Art. It’s a several hour train ride from here. Tomorrow we will meet the professors at their attorney’s office.”
“Van Rijn, you told me the possessors are going to give the Royal Doors to me. Why are lawyers involved?” I ask.
“One look at you and they will turn the doors over.”
Now I know I’m in for a fight tomorrow.
“Don’t let me be the one to interrupt the golden couple’s getaway,” he says. Van Rijn hands me the address of the possessor’s lawyer. “I’m in negotiations with them on other business, so I’ll be there when you arrive. We will finish at ten A.M. Be on time. Enjoy the aphrodisiac.”
Heading back to my room, I feel all kinds of guilt about exposing Michael to the antics of Van Rijn and to this situation in general. I can’t sleep, wondering if the Japanese will be cooperative and return the doors or if I will have to begin a civil case with the college. Knowing Van Rijn, he is scheming, and I’m waiting for the plot to unravel. Michael and I have a private breakfast in the room.
“In case I don’t return or something goes wrong, here is Polak’s mobile number. Call him. He will know what to do,” I say as I leave for the appointment the next morning.
I validate that the address is indeed connected to a lawyer’s office and take a taxi there alone. As I walk up the long flight of stairs leading to the office wearing a dark blue Louis Féraud dress with a white-and-blue-striped short jacket, I see Van Rijn waiting for me at the top.
“Wow, you look smashing!”
Van Rijn leads me to a conference room where there are four Japanese men standing. Van Rijn says, “I introduce Mrs. Hadjitofi, honorary consul of Cyprus.”
The Japanese men bow. I’m well versed in their culture, so I know not to shake their hands. Bowing slightly, they each offer a business card using both hands. I hand them each a Consul of Cyprus card in return, keeping eye contact but not bowing.
“Good morning,” I call the meeting to order. Everyone sits at a rectangular table.
Van Rijn sits next to me, asserting his position as my spokesman.
“Gentlemen, thank you for receiving me today, and I want to thank Mr. Van Rijn for making this introduction. For the record, he neither represents the Church of Cyprus nor the Cypriot government, and it is for this reason that I wish to discuss the details about the Royal Doors without his presence.”
Van Rijn is livid.
Facing the lawyers, I say, “I come here in good faith without legal representation to make a personal plea on behalf of the people of Cyprus.”
The lawyers and professors confirm that the Royal Doors are at the Kanazawa College of Art, and I am welcome to go and see them the next day. They tell me they were purchased from a gallery in Holland that belonged to Roozemond, and their position is that they had no idea that they were stolen. I tell the lawyers about the conflict and the cultural cleansing that took place in Cyprus. I show proof of provenance for the Royal Doors that Mr. Papageorgiou has supplied. They hold each piece of evidence up to the light to scrutinize. They are not convinced that the records are authentic, and through their interpreter they ask to see documents that are officially stamped by the government, along with photographs of the doors prior to the war. And sadly, this kind of photograph does not exist in our records, and so I must try another angle.
“You know, gentlemen, that in 1990 Cyprus won a landmark case, which set the precedent that once something is proven stolen it cannot receive good title.”
“That is American law, Madame. I would like to read about this case. Perhaps you can send a copy to me. We will also require proof of your consulship and a power of attorney to confirm that you have permission to negotiate on the Church’s behalf,” says Shiro Kuniya, the spokesperson for the legal team.
“You’ll have all the documentation you need this afternoon, but in return I would like to see the Royal Doors,” I say.
“We have scheduled an appointment for you at eleven A.M. tomorrow.”
From my hotel room, I spend the rest of the afternoon confirming what transpired in my meeting with the lawyers representing Kanazawa College and secure the requested paperwork.17 Feeling guilty about the fact that Michael is stuck in the hotel room helping me, I ask reception to recommend an authentic local restaurant, not one catering to tourists. She writes the name of a restaurant in Japanese, which we hand to a taxi driver.
A short distance away in the middle of a busy shopping area, we find the door to the restaurant to be so low that Michael and I practically bend in half to enter. The restaurant is informal in style with a large circular sushi train dominating the room. Michael and I take seats and eye the individual dishes of sushi and sashimi as they move slowly past us on the conveyor belt. Although Michael and I often eat sushi, there is such a great variety of fresh fish, and many of the dishes are unknown to us. This restaurant has stimulated our taste buds, and Michael and I are grateful for some much needed time to relax together.
“I can’t believe what you are up against between the lawyers, the games that Van Rijn plays, and the fact that the law itself doesn’t side with you. A college of art should know to do their due diligence and should be held accountable for purchasing stolen property,” Michael says.
“Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”
We take our empty plates to the cashier, who charges by the dish for the dinner.
Michael places his arm around me.
“It means the world to me that you are here, my darling,” I say, placing my head on his shoulder. He maneuvers his body to kiss me, and as he pulls away he says, “One day at a time, my love.”
KANAZAWA COLLEGE OF ART
As we travel to the college, Van Rijn says to Michael, “Did Tazulaah tell you how she embarrassed me yesterday? Kicked me out of the meeting like a dog.” He turns to me and says, “You are not going to do that to me today. I won’t allow that.”
“Outside is exactly where you will be during this meeting again. If you want your money, you will let me finish my business,” I say. I realize that he has lied to me once again and that the Japanese lawyers are not ready to give the doors back, contrary to what Van Rijn initially said.
He turns to Michael and says, “Can you please tell her this is no way to treat the person who is here to help her?”
I make a facial expression that lets Van Rijn know he is not the help he believes himself to be. He has had his hand in and has made money from every stolen artifact, including the Royal Doors. He has led me around the world with the understanding that the Japanese would hand the doors over freely, and now I face a possible civil case in Japan, too. “She is the honorary consul. She calls the shots. I will remain outside here with you,” says Michael, not taking the bait.
Kanazawa College of Art is a small municipal college for art and industrial design which is a several hour train ride from Osaka. The city of Kanazawa itself is admired as a cultural center of traditional arts and crafts. We are led inside a series of rooms decorated with sculptures by the French artist Auguste Rodin. I see the Royal Doors mounted upright on a transparent base supported with wire and provided with a Japanese plaque. The doors, with their Byzantine detail, look so out of place. Just the sight of them brings back so many memories from my childhood in Famagusta. Seeing them among these relatively modern paintings stirs my emotions. These are the doors that my grandmother and mother prayed before. I visualize them inside the church from which they came, and it unnerves me. Van Rijn asks me to stand next to them, and he takes a photograph for me. We admire them for a few minutes. Van Rijn and Michael stay behind as I move on to join the awaiting professors.
Professors Tsuneo Ueda and Katsuyuki Nakanishi are present but the director of the university is not in attendance.
“Where is the director?” I ask.
Mr. Nakanishi replies, “He is busy. He sends his apologies, but he can’t meet you today.”
“What about his deputy or the secretary of the college?”
“They are busy, too,” says Mr. Ueda. “You should speak to Mr. Kuniya, the attorney representing the university.”
“I came here to discuss this with the director of the college to see if we can find an amicable way to end this dispute.”
“That is a decision that only the mayor of Kanazawa can take, because the doors were purchased with taxpayer money, as we are a municipal college. Unless we are compensated for the money we spent, we cannot return them.”
Although the lawyer is not present today, the response to every question about their intentions is for me to contact their attorney. I, in turn, request a copy of the legal export license and a receipt of purchase that they would have had to have received from Cyprus in order to prove that the university purchased the doors legally. Negotiations continue to deteriorate, and I end the meeting by giving them forty-eight hours to decide whether the mayor will be handling things or their lawyer.
Van Rijn goes on to Tokyo to promote his book launch there. Michael and I take the train back to the hotel, where he tells me that Van Rijn confessed to him that the Rodins that the rooms at the college filled with were all fake.
“We are expecting them to know about Byzantine art from the churches of Cyprus, and here they are teaching modern art, and they can’t tell a fake Rodin from a real one,” I say.
When I arrive back at the hotel, I call the mayor of Kanazawa’s office asking for a meeting. His assistant tries to fit in an appointment.18 An hour later the mayor’s assistant calls, saying, “The Kanasawa College of Art says there is no need for you to meet the mayor; they will deal with you directly.”
I feel that they are hiding behind each other forcing me to start a civil case.
Van Rijn sends a fax to the hotel: “Dear Golden Couple, Tazulaah would have made a great art dealer who would put me out of business.” Van Rijn goes on to brag that he does not rely on the archbishop’s money, that he installed a fax machine in his private hotel suite in Tokyo, and that he will not leave Japan until he hears about the latest developments.19
The following morning Michael and I are preparing to leave for the airport when Van Rijn calls the hotel.
“You are famous in Japan, woman! The Asahi Shimbun is the largest newspaper in Japan, and you and the Royal Doors are all over it.”
I arrange for the hotel to send me up a copy, and there is a picture of me standing next to the Royal Doors and an article about how Van Rijn discovered the stolen artifacts and led me as honorary consul to repatriate them. His motives become perfectly clear. I always knew that it’s been about the launch of his book, but now I see his motives for wanting to try to negotiate for the Royal Doors. The Royal Doors enabled him to receive the news coverage he wanted to promote his book. Plus, the more he associates himself with me, the more he sells himself as being legitimate.20 The Asahi Shimbun news coverage could have put some embarrassing pressure on the university, but instead it deepened the line in the sand between us.