The Greek philosopher Aristotle said, “There is only one way to avoid criticism: do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing.”
Neither the Church nor the government can embark on buying looted art because it will compromise our existing cases and fuel the trade. There are many situations in which we know that artifacts are of Cypriot origin but we cannot prove which church they were removed from, as our records are inadequate and these items are traded daily around the world. How do I get them back? I ask Polak if the Church is allowed to buy the artifacts back legally, and his answer is yes. However, it would be a public relations disaster.
Thinking about an alternative solution, I envision a telethon to raise funds to recover these looted artifacts that are impossible to win via legal routes. If there is any truth to Van Rijn’s offer, money raised this way could be used to finance the purchases. The telethon could be an opportunity for we the people of Cyprus to build our future on the ruins of the past.
The logistics of getting proper governmental approvals and licenses for such a telethon will be arduous, but it is an idea worth investigating. In Holland, I would need approval from the Central Bank. The process in Cyprus is unknown to me. These thoughts occur just as I lie down to sleep. Unable to turn off my mind, I rise to send a quick handwritten fax to the archbishop. Knowing that President Glafcos Clerides of Cyprus will be coming to the Netherlands, I ask for an appointment with him to present the idea and to bring him up to date on Van Rijn’s latest offer.1
I am bombarded with phone calls from diplomats and journalists trying to schedule time to see me in Amsterdam when the president of Cyprus arrives. I call Ambassador Zenon to inquire as to what my role will be as honorary consul.
“There is no role for you during the president’s visit. I have everything in order,” he says.
“Won’t I even greet him at the airport?” I ask.
“No need for that,” says Zenon.
I inform the archbishop that the ambassador will never permit me direct access to speak to the president while he is in Amsterdam. The archbishop tells me he will make the arrangements himself.
On June 20 I write to Ambassador Zenon to formally request a half hour of the president’s time in order to update him on the recovery efforts in the Netherlands and to pitch him on the telethon idea.2
“I’m afraid there is no room to accommodate your request for a meeting. What is so important that you can’t tell me?”
“Alecos, you asked me to separate my two jobs. Anything to do with the repatriation of artifacts I do as a representative of the Church. This is a Church matter, which I wish to share with the president and the archbishop. As a representative of the Church, I do not report to you. That’s what we agreed.”
“You will do nothing without me. If you cannot tell me what it is so that I present it to the president, you will not see him,” replies Ambassador Zenon.
Michael witnesses my struggle with Zenon and my shame in having to tell my peers that my ambassador sees no need for my presence. He devises a solution and surprises me with tickets to Wimbledon in London the day after the president’s arrival. Going to Wimbledon is a great excuse to avoid the embarrassment I would face with my peers because of Zenon’s actions.
“When people ask you why are you not attending, you can tell them that you have VIP tickets to Wimbledon to watch tennis instead,” he says. “That’s a good enough reason, darling, isn’t it?”
His thoughtfulness is beyond sweet in this moment. Fate strikes. The match we are scheduled to attend is postponed due to rain. Michael and I had cleared our calendars but had not left for London yet. I receive a telephone call from one of the president’s assistants in Amsterdam.
“Madame Consul, the archbishop and the president spoke and the president would like to see you this afternoon at four. Will you be able to make the meeting?” he inquires.
“Of course. I will be there,” I say, quite surprised.
All Michael can do is shake his head and hand me the keys to his car, as mine is a mess from the kids.
In an hour I arrive at the Hotel de l’Europe, a five-star luxury palace built in the nineteenth century overlooking the Amstel River in Amsterdam. I stop at reception desk and ask the attendant to park my car and call the president’s suite.
A Greek Cypriot man standing next to reception introduces himself as one of the president’s guards.
“There has been a misunderstanding. The president cannot meet with you at this time. Come we will have a drink at the bar,” he says.
“I don’t understand. We have an appointment?”
“His schedule changed.”
“Excuse me, I am not the type of woman to hang around bars! Where are the ambassadors from Brussels and The Hague?”
“How do you know these people?” he asks, sounding concerned.
“I am the honorary consul of Cyprus in The Hague, they’re my colleagues.”
Looking shocked, he says, “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be involved. I didn’t know that you are a consul.” And he walks away.
As I pass the lobby bar, I see two of my colleagues and friends from the Embassy for Cyprus in Belgium, ambassador Michalis Attalides and press officer Dimitris Komodromos. Attalides volunteers to place a call to Ambassador Zenon. His expression causes my heart to sink.
“I see,” he says. “Yes, I’ll explain it to her.”
The ambassador turns to me and says, “There has been a misunderstanding. It is probably best that you leave.”
“What is going on?” I ask. “Who telephoned me and asked me to meet with the president?” He just stares at me, unable to comment on what he knows.
I dial Ambassador Zenon on his mobile phone.
“Alecos, where are you?”
“In Amsterdam,” he replies. “I’m out in a restaurant dining with the minister of foreign affairs.”
“Well, I was asked to attend a meeting with the president.”
“I have no knowledge of this, its not on the schedule,” he responds.
“Can I wait for you to return?”
“No, I’m afraid I’m busy until very late tonight. I will see you when I return to The Hague tomorrow,” he says, and hangs up.
Humiliated, I brush the tears out of my eyes as Attalides and Komodromos kindly comfort me. I can tell that they are equally embarrassed, which makes it worse. Outside the hotel, as I wait for my car to arrive, I run into the ambassador’s driver, making his way into the hotel. He is a lovely man whom I actually recommended for the job.
“How are you, Christos?” I ask.
“Delivering cigarettes for the president and his crew upstairs,” he replies.
“Have you seen the ambassador and the minister of foreign affairs?” I ask.
“They are on the second floor having drinks. Come, I’m going there,” he says.
Meanwhile, Komodromos comes to check on me.
“Are you okay, Tasoula?” He leans in close to me and whispers, “Zenon blocked your appointment. You didn’t hear it from me. Please give my love to your family.”
I retrieve my car from the valet. I’m so upset that I can’t find my way out of the one-way roads and the canals surrounding the hotel. Fifteen minutes later I am right back where I began, facing the hotel again. In the distance I see the ambassador and the minister of foreign affairs from Cyprus walking with several other diplomats. I slouch down in the car to prevent anyone from seeing me.3
Speeding out of Amsterdam, totally distraught, I stop a few miles away and accidentally fill up Michael’s sports car with diesel fuel. Minutes later, on the highway in the middle of nowhere, I feel the car slowing down, so I steer it out of harm’s way to the side of the road where it dies. People stop to help me and I burst into tears, unable to communicate a word.
“Are you okay?” a concerned man asks.
I ask to borrow his phone, which I use to call Michael.
“I’ll get there as soon as I can,” he says.
I’m in the midst of having a full-blown panic attack. The first one I ever experienced occurred during the war. I remember the vibration of the ground as the shell exploded and the dampness of the earth made it into my nostrils and lodged itself in the back of my throat. The feeling that I was going to die any moment is also with me now.
When Michael finally arrives, I weep in his supportive arms.
“I never want to see that man in our house again,” he says.
Preparing breakfast for the children the next morning I notice a missed call and check my voicemail. The sound of the archbishop’s voice is heard.
“How was your meeting with the president?”
The phone rings and I pick it up thinking it’s the archbishop but it is Zenon.
“Tasoula, hello, what a terrible misunderstanding,” he says. “I didn’t know that you were coming to Amsterdam.”
“Alecos, save your performance. You no longer exist for me from this moment onward.” I say as I hang up the phone.4
Even a beach holiday in the Peloponnese cannot remove the weight of the world from my shoulders. The olive trees are abundant in Kalamata, an area famous for the best tasting olives on the planet. The olive tree itself is the symbol of peace, but there is no peace within me right now. The responsibility of managing multiple court cases, Octagon, and the escalating costs surrounding the repatriation efforts are drowning me.
Michael, Andreas, Sophia, and I are alone in a gorgeous rental house by the sea without the normal caretakers and cleaners. Although taking care of Sophia on our own places additional responsibility on Michael and me, we are desperate for privacy.
My mind relaxes in the rays of the sun as my tired body rejuvenates in the Mediterranean waters that surround the white sand beach. One large suitcase carries Sophia’s diapers, food, and medical supplies. She is six years old and her big brown eyes and short brown hair turned golden by the sun make her look like a stunning princess. She only just learned how to walk, at the age of five, fulfilling a dream for me. She looks adorable in the summer dresses I spoil her with. I’m so excited that I don’t focus on the feeding tube that dominates her face or the fact that wherever we go people stare but are afraid to inquire about her. It is their looks of pity that I despise. All the books in the world cannot prepare you for what life is like raising a mentally and physically challenged child.
Andreas is having a wonderful time. We bury him in the sand, swim all day, and collect shells at the beach. Every night as we dine out he sits between us. After we order the food, Andreas speaks directly to the Greek waiter.
“Just three plates, please. My sister doesn’t eat. She is a special care baby.” Michael and I realize that Andreas is accepting responsibility for Sophia in his own way. His studious eyeglasses make him appear older than his seven years. He gathers the leftovers and places them in a napkin.
We dine to the setting sun, retire early, then Michael and I catch up on just being together and falling in love with each other, our babies, and life once again.
When I wake up, I find Andreas outside feeding the stray cats with the leftover food.
“Can I take them with me back home?”
“No, honey.”
“Can you buy me a small cat in Holland?”
“We will talk to daddy and see.”
Being with the family in uninterrupted solitude is such a rarity, and we enjoy our time together immensely.
That is, until Van Rijn interrupts our vacation in paradise. There is urgency in his tone. He is pushing me to take a position to purchase the stolen treasures about to be sold in Germany. He wants a million and a half dollars to do this deal, and he is insisting that if we don’t act on these treasures now, they will probably be lost forever. Over the years I have heard many things from Van Rijn, but his persistence this time leads me to believe that there might be some truth to this story.
My cell phone is ringing over and over again. It’s not Octagon calling, so it must be Van Rijn, as the same telephone number keeps trying to reach me.
“Tazulaah, we will lose this opportunity if you don’t move on it. I can’t wait anymore. My father is dying. I want to clear my name.”
“We will be buying from dealers, right, and not possessors?”
“It’s two or three people tops.”
“I’ll be back in a few days and I’ll call you,” I say.
Michael says, “Tasoula, he doesn’t leave you alone.”
Van Rijn is proposing to lead me to a large supply of looted artifacts which are under the control of two or three dealers. After what happened in Amsterdam with Zenon, this could be the perfect vehicle for me to make an exit.
Arriving home to the Netherlands, Andreas opens the front door and finds the baby kitten Michael and I arrange to have waiting for him upon his return. He names him Speedy.