Written In Stone

Another chapter that saw more problems with how I developed the relationship between Edna and Jessica. By now I was beginning to doubt my abilities as a writer but kept telling myself things would get better provided I read and understood the editor's notes and put those words of advice into practice. Sometimes it is really hard to sit and watch the cursor strike out a paragraph or sentence that took a long time to create. That's when I normally go and make a pot of tea and feel sorry for myself and pretend the editor doesn't know what she is doing. I then return to the work and finish the page I am working on - then read it through. Guess what - it all reads much better.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was the kind of morning I loathed. Light rain fell from a dark gray sky, collecting in puddles by the side of the narrow lane outside my mews cottage in Bayswater. Sheltered from the rain by an overhanging chestnut tree, a neighbor’s large black tomcat sat hunched on top of an old red brick wall. He stared down at me with darting amber eyes, watching my feet shushing through piles of yellow leaves. Across the courtyard, more of the same leaves stuck to the asphalt in a montage of webbed ducks feet.

       I was still mad at Hart and Max but most of all, irritated at having to work with an assistant. I wasn’t sure things were going to work out with Jessica. Social airs and graces were okay in the sophisticated atmosphere of art galleries and Sotheby’s, but a much harder skin and some knowledge of political corruption were required when dealing with men like Hrisacopolis. Maybe I was being too hard on her; she was only supposed to dig up historical facts. 

       I couldn’t shake the dark mood off. The damn weather wasn’t helping either.

       Loud squeaks from rusty hinges reminded me the small white picket gate needed oiling.  I pushed it open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. There was a metallic clang as the gate slammed shut behind me.

       The tomcat stalked me and stopped at the corner of the wall, the end of his tail flicking back and forth. I curled my lip at him, pushed the trilby firmly down on my head, and walked briskly into the stiff breeze.      

       Ahead of me, cars sped past the end of the mews and down Craven Road toward Paddington railway station. There wasn’t any point in taking the car; the tube took me straight to the square.

       A blast of cold air hit me as I turned the mews corner. I held the ends of my coat collar tight with one hand while keeping the other deep inside a warm pocket. I cursed inwardly. My eyes began to water. If it weren’t for Jessica I’d still be in bed.

A crowd of placard carrying protesters, some dressed in colorful raincoats and others sheltering under decorated umbrellas, gathered in groups around a makeshift stage beneath Nelson’s Column. Under a small marquee, a Conservative Member of Parliament extolled the virtues of British culture and argued why the marbles should stay in Britain. Jessica and I listened for half an hour but learned nothing new.

       Max insisted we attend, and under normal circumstances I would have argued against going, but not this time. The last thing I wanted to do was argue with Max. Jobs in the print industry were scarce enough and he had stuck his neck out for me. Besides, it was because of him I got my column.

        Hrisacopolis was a shipping magnate with a lot of political allies in the Greek government and he’d been involved in a few scandals during the seventies and eighties. Jessica knew this but wanted me to fill in a few gaps, especially on what could soon happen in Brussels. My irritable dark mood began to fade a little.

       The rain stopped and we moved to a vantage point up on the steps of the National Art Gallery. In the summer, tourists and sightseers packed the place. At that moment, apart from the small crowd surrounding the speaker, there were a few pedestrians hiding under umbrellas. They were hurrying across the square to Whitehall, Pall Mall, or Northumberland Avenue. What never changed were the dozens of vehicles, cabs, and buses, that rumbled around the square, travelling to and from hundreds of destinations every day and night of the year. This was one part of the city centre I loved.

            Jessica yawned behind a half folded hand. “So tell me what he’s up to now.”

       I focused on her face, the speaker and the crowd merging into the gray background. Despite jeans and a bright orange sweater, she still caught the eye. A pair of fleece lined suede boots kept her feet warm, although her toes tapped the ground now and again.

       Taking a granola bar from her purse, she nibbled on it and then wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth with the tip of a little finger.

       Her voice interrupted my train of thought.

       “Enda?”

       I started. “Oh…. he’s a very active politician with more contacts than Eros has arrows.”

       I already knew a lot about our principle subject. Hrisacopolis wielded more power than ever before and from what I heard around Whitehall, was manipulating his political buddies from behind the scenes. I’d been writing an article on the Cypriot unrest in the late nineties when I first came across his name.

       Jessica listened with interest. “Enosis and all that, right?”

       A small gaggle of students, one carrying a placard with the legend – THE STONES MUST    GO HOME – jostled past us. They were climbing the steps for a higher point from which to shout their protests. I mused they might be at the wrong rock concert but kept the joke to myself. Jessica wouldn’t find it funny.

       “Union with Greece is not ‘and all that’,” I admonished lightly.

       During the fifties, Hrisacopolis poured money into the EOKA terrorist organization. Because of a few men like him the troubles rumbled on for years.

       Jessica rolled the granola wrapper into a tight ball between her fingers and deftly pushed it into her jean pocket, using the tips of her fingers. The movement stirred something inside me. I breathed deeply and looked back at the speaker.

         “Money seems to have been the root of all evil in this family,” she said, looking up at more black clouds rolling across the sky.             

       I nodded. At the end of World War II, Andronis’s son, eight year old Paul, inherited his father’s shipping business. At twenty-two, he fought a guerrilla war alongside Archbishop Makarios and General Grivas, mainly against the British. His wealth and connections funded EOKA and kept the Cypriot dream alive. A few years later, Paul sent his son, George, back. He fought with Grivas but the cause he fought for faded fast. A year later he died in a skirmish with the British on a beach at Pomos Bay. He returned to Athens, a posthumous hero.                       

       It was the end of the fight but not the dream. A military coup in Greece led to terrible repercussions for the Turkish Cypriots. Turkey invaded northern Cyprus shortly after and formed the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus.              

       Jessica gave me a knowing look. “Now everyone agrees not to agree and the Cypriot question hangs around in a time vacuum.”

    I smiled at her neat conclusion. A UN plan, put forward to end partition, still needed agreement.

       “So apart from getting himself a pat on the back as a good patriot and plenty of publicity regarding the marbles, what’s Paul’s connection with Enosis today?”

       She was asking all the right questions and I was impressed. I told her Cyprus was part of the European Union already for a year but one problem still remained.

       “Sovereignty.” Jessica clapped her hands and grinned. She looked as though she’d just won a prize. I was starting to warm to her.                

       “Got it in one. In the meantime Paul Hrisacopolis has plans of his own,” I said.

       Another speaker took the stand to loud applause.

       Hrisacopolis needed a platform on which to speak so he could meet members of the EU and grease some willing hands.

       “Do you know that for sure,” asked Jessica? She pulled a small red fold away umbrella from her bag and flipped it open. Rain had started falling again, quite heavy.

       I looked at her and nodded. “I’m ninety percent certain.”

       Hrisacopolis needed a position from which he could influence decisions about the future of Cyprus. The end of November would be an ideal time for him to be in that position. It gave him time to make his move and see who might be his new friends.

       “Supposing what you say is true. How does he get his platform and opportunity to rub shoulders with the power brokers inside Brussels?” 

        Someone on the stage started shouting amid a lot of cheers from the crowd. Jessica’s feet tapped the ground in turn. Taking her by the arm, I guided her away, carefully avoiding a pigeon waddling around my feet.

       A small restaurant I frequented wasn’t far away. Not exactly the Ritz but it served hot food all day and the coffee tasted good. We could have a private chat in one of the dingy corner booths.   

        Traffic got heavier and hissing tires splashed through puddles as rain hit the road and bounced. Jessica took my arm, pulling me under the umbrella. Our conversation carried on while we walked along the sidewalk.

        I’d found out something interesting from my Whitehall sources. Plans for forming a committee looking at proposals put forward by Athens and Ankara with regards sovereignty were nearing completion. Hrisacopolis, selected by his political buddies in Greece, supposedly because of his shipping and oil interests and connections with other EU industries, won the vote as their representative. Of course, this development wasn’t public.

       Jessica stopped, gradual realization lighting up her face. “Right.... platform, opportunity, and position of great influence.”

       “Precisely.” I pulled my collar up. “ He’s  manipulated the system so he can follow his own plans.”

       We started walking, pointing the umbrella forward against a blustery wind. “You obviously don’t have a very high opinion of him, do you?”

       I counted on my fingers. “Terrorism, blackmail, bribery and murder. No, not very much.”

       “Have you ever met him?” She was almost shouting over the wind.

       “No. Why?”

       “I always reserve my judgement until I’ve met someone like Hrisacopolis. I’m sure he’s all you say he is but he did fight for a cause he believed in.” She took a large stride over a small puddle.

       “Yeah right,” I scoffed, “so that gave him the go ahead to kill innocent people.”  Why is it women find powerful men attractive?”

        I knew as soon as I opened my mouth and started to speak that I should have kept my thoughts to myself.

       “Oh, for goodness sake, Enda, that is so childish,” She pulled her hand away from my arm. The rain dribbled passed my collar and down my neck.

       “Really,” I said, more to myself than to her?

       We continued on in silence, Jessica striding on the high moral ground while I shuffled along with embarrassment, soaking wet. After what seemed an eternity, I grabbed hold of her arm. “Sorry,” I shouted, half turning toward her.

       She shivered and put an arm through mine, pulling me back under cover.

       “Actually, I think you may be right about him.” An impish grin tugged at the corners of her mouth and raised her eyebrows. Her brown eyes sparkled.

       “Why?”

       “He’s paying for the restoration work on the Parthenon – eighty million plus.”