WIS - CHAPTER THREE

In this chapter I had a lot of problems trying to hold the readers attention while introducing Enda to Jessica and showing their individual attitudes whilst giving each other information. In the first ten chapters there is a lot of political information to give the reader on a drip feed basis and I wrote first and then had to cut out about 50% of my enthusiastic writing because, as the editor said, "You are giving the reader a history lesson, just give a little and let them figure out the rest" (or go to the library). The other problem is that fiction is being woven into the facts and it takes a long time to get it right. These ten chapters took almost a year to write and the rest (34 chapters so far) were a breeze in roughly six months. I still have five chapters to go but I love writing the action, murder and mayhem.

Your thoughts and comments are really helpful and give a broad view across the reader spectrum as to how the story will be received. It also allows me to tweak here and there when something is not quite right. Thank you.

CHAPTER THREE

I knew there were liver and onions on the menu the moment we stepped from the elevator. The canteen was a pale yellow walled area in the basement, brightly lit by fluorescent tubes and filled with noisy chatter and smoke. It was the only place in the building where the smoking ban was ignored. Journalists sitting on yellow plastic chairs crowded around ring-stained table tops scattered with plates, mugs, notebooks and leather bound organizers. Cell phones rang periodically too, each with its own signature tune piercing through laughter and loud debate. I often wondered why we had a cubicle when most of the work was done over a cup of tea and curry.     

       A strong aroma indicated a fresh brew as Jessica and I joined a short queue for the coffee stand. Unfortunately we found ourselves standing behind O’Grady and one of the junior secretaries from the news room. She looked totally bored as the new manager engaged her in conversation. Seeing me she smiled.

       “Afternoon, Mr. Osin.”  She picked up her coffee and, after reaching for a napkin, made a hasty retreat.

       O’Grady turned and grinned. “Still with us then, Enda?” His cup clattered noisily into a saucer. “Well, I guess demotion has its compensation,” he said, grinning suggestively at Jessica.

       “Just get your coffee, Gilbert, and leave us in peace,” I replied.

       With a smirk, he poured coffee and moved off, one hand still holding up his trousers.

          Jessica sighed as she watched him walk away, a look of disapproval written over her face. 

       After grabbing the coffees I followed her to a corner table. It wasn’t a nice spot, what with dirty condensation streaks marking the wall nearby but then it was an empty table. The disapproving look returned as she stepped carefully over a piece of squashed tandoori chicken stuck to the scratched linoleum floor.

        I couldn’t help smiling. Old hacks were coming alive as she jostled around them in a pair of Prada stilettos. We headed for the table near an open window where fresh air squeezed in under escaping clouds of smoke. It was one of two windows that looked out from our basement ten feet below the street outside. Natural light was limited due to the brick retaining wall close by but at least there was fresh air.

       “What’s so amusing?” asked Jessica. She was balancing a coffee in one hand and some papers in the other.

       “Sorry,” I replied, “but you look so out of place in here.”

       The mauve cashmere suit stood out like a beacon amongst the drab array of dark jackets and gray trousers. Heads were turning as she walked past.

       “I go out to lunch most days.” She hesitated, then added, “Not to McDonald's either.”

       Max had lost no time in pointing out some of my eating habits.

        “I didn’t mean to offend,” I said.

       “No offence taken, Enda, but I do have to meet people in art galleries and auction houses such as Sotheby’s.”

       I couldn’t make up my mind if she was being sarcastic or serious. She brushed the seat with her papers before sitting. As she sat she crossed her legs, tugged at the hem of her skirt, and raised the cup of coffee to her lips in one smooth movement. Her high cheekbones and aquiline nose gave her a regal presence that could have graced any fashion catwalk. But it was the large almond shaped brown eyes that held my attention when she focused them on me.  

       Jessica looked over the rim of her cup and caught me staring at her. She sipped slowly, her eyes expressionless.

       I ran a finger over the scar running down my right cheek and looked away. The habit started at university when I tried to arrange dates. Several girls rejected me. I thought that was because of the scar.

       I got fed up being asked how I got the scar and lying about it. I still don’t like talking about it. Finally my aunt, who’d looked after me since the fire, persuaded me to go to a shrink. The shrink said I had to ‘find myself’ and ‘rise above the guilt.’ She made me feel more depressed after each session. In the end I gave up, lost myself in the Herald and rose five floors above the guilt to the newsroom.

       Jessica’s lips parted in a half smile but she said nothing. Raising the cup to her lips, she sipped.

       “So let’s talk about the Elgin marbles,” I said, trying to sound like a seasoned columnist.

       Jessica paused for a moment, and then asked slowly, “What do you want to know about them?” 

       She rested a hand on the table, a large red bead bracelet clacking on the surface. I hadn’t noticed until then how long and slender her fingers were.

       “Oh, just a brief outline on past and present. I know most of the history but I’m sure you’re better informed about past events than me,” I said, casually.

       Of course we both knew about the marbles but what I wanted to find out was what sort of researcher Jessica was. I didn’t want a history teacher. I wanted her opinions that might put a new slant on different aspects of the story and in particular the background to Hrisacopolis grand offer. Some sixth sense told me there was a story here but it wasn’t the one about the marbles.

       “I think you know more than you make out.” She laughed and looked out of the window. It was an infectious laugh that begged for company. We both laughed but I got the feeling her laugh was more governed by social expectations than spontaneous..

       Jessica knew her history but kept to an outline. The marbles had formed a frieze that lined the inner wall above the colonnades of the Parthenon in Athens. Centuries later it began a religious merry go round. She paused to sip some coffee, her fingers wrapped around the cup.

       “Hi Jessica, long time no see.” Jessica smiled and nodded at a woman colleague threading her way through the tables with a loaded tray. “You too, I’ll catch up with you later,” she replied, giving a little wave. Several heads turned our way as she spoke.

       Her voice intrigued me. It was soft yet husky, the kind you heard on those late night radio phone in shows that dealt with lovers’ relationships and musical requests. It attracted attention in a crowded room.

       I found myself looking at her lips as she formed each word. It was hard to concentrate on the commentary as the husky tones lulled me into a dreamlike state of mind. Of course I knew the history of the Elgin marbles and managed to jump back into reality now and again, nodding in all the right places.

       Of the original one hundred and fifteen Elgin marbles fifty-six were displayed in the British Museum, forming a two hundred and forty-seven foot display depicting an annual Panathenaic festival. Thomas Bruce, the seventh Earl of Elgin, Ambassador to Constantinople and the Ottoman Empire, rescued them, thinking the Turks would destroy them. He received a firman in 1799, a letter of instruction, from the Sublime Porte, ordering that the Athenian authorities could not stop his work. He was allowed to remove any pieces of stone with inscriptions or figures. This included two large statues from the Parthenon. According to the Greek writer Pausanias one depicted the birth of Athena from the head of Zeus and the other the struggle between Athena and Poseidon for the land called Attica.

        I smiled. Jessica Du Rosse was a lot more than a pretty face with a wealthy background.  She earned a degree in art from the Sorbonne and traveled all over the world, spending a lot of  time in London and Paris working for art galleries before combining her interests in photography and art. I took the trouble to quiz one of Jessica’s close colleagues before we met for coffee. She told me Jessica wanted out of the social merry-go-round and wanted something more challenging. That’s why she joined Hart Industries in New York. Two years later she came to London and headed up the arts department.

        “What about pictures?”

       “There are plenty in stock,” she answered.

        “I take it the stones are ours to keep…. Legally I mean? The Greeks have said in the past we stole them.”

       “Oh, they’re ours all right, according to the British Museum that is.” Her lips tightened in a wry grin.

       Our conversation was drowned out briefly by a shrill siren as police hurtled down the road outside. Being in the basement had its drawbacks. Sounds from the traffic just above our heads constantly competed with the general buzz in the cafeteria. Sirens always won, stopping all conversation. 

       Jessica’s research revealed that Elgin acquired the marbles as a private individual and eventually sold them to the trustees of the British Museum with parliament’s blessing. The letter of instruction, or Firman, was never seen by parliament. They had accepted a hand written copy and so the dispute began. 

       “I take it Max told you they’re being shipped back to Athens.”

       Jessica nodded and leaned forward, tapping the side of her small mug. She’d been holding the mug awkwardly in her left hand and it wasn’t until then that I realized there was a crack that would have touched her lips if she’d held it in her right hand.

        “This should never have happened.” She shook her head slowly. “No proper provenance means no legal ownership. Regardless of legalities over ownership they are going back where they belong anyway. The Greeks are going to rebuild the Parthenon.” Her eyes were on fire and her chest rose as she spoke. 

       It took several seconds for her remark to sink in and then I snorted. “What?”

       The idea bordered on the impossible and sounded like a bureaucratic fantasy. Every time politicians came up with some big scheme it nearly always ended as a giant cock-up. The Millennium Dome was a great example. That’s what happens when politicians meddle in the arts.

        “So who’s really squeezing the government?” she asked.

       My mug hung midair as I thought about that. “I’m not sure,” I answered, “but I wouldn’t mind betting Hrisacopolis is involved.”

       Hrisacopolis was a politically motivated animal. Without a doubt he had a few skeletons in his closet. Apart from him there were pressure groups who’d been lobbying for years. Most of them were based in Greece and the UK, and all of them had support from countries around the world. According to Max it looked as though the British museum trustees would agree to a compromise put forward by the Greek government that involved running a rotating exhibition of Greek art in the British Museum. The deal would also cover the cost of copying the marbles before the originals returned to Athens. The offer had been made in 2004 and like all dusty English institutions, the museum trustees dragged their feet from one month to the next.

       A breeze drifted in from the window, carrying the scent of Jessica’s Gardenia Chanel perfume. The back of my neck tingled and I took a deep breath. “Anyway, there’s a… um… there’s a-.” My mouth was dry and turning to rubber. I took a mouthful of coffee and felt my face flush. “This Sunday, there’s a meeting… about it. I…”

       Jessica turned and waved to her friend, and then turning back, said, “In Trafalgar Square. Yes, I’ll meet you there.” 

       Without another word, she rose and left me sitting there alone with her mug of coffee, hardly touched.