Eleven
LIFE AND DEATH
1991
The onset of spring ushers in a world of possibility outside nature’s domain. Shell International offers Michael a senior position, but it will mean relocating the family to Egypt. Jobs like this are reserved for top engineers, so it is a great vote of confidence by Shell as well as an honor for Michael to be considered for such a senior post. I’m very proud of Michael’s accomplishments, as he has only been with the firm for five years.
“How do you feel about moving to Cairo?” Michael wants to know.
With barely a chance to process the news myself, I speak of the positives.
“I think it’s wonderful, Michael!” I say, embracing him.
“This is perfect for you, Tasoula. You are always tired and you look so pale. I want to take care of you. We don’t need your income now. You have me.”
“I’ll always have my own money. I’ll never be dependent. Even in Egypt I will find a way to work.”
“Tasoula, I don’t want you working this hard,” he says.
“Let’s enjoy the moment. We can always discuss this issue later!” I say, trying to avoid the subject.
As we toast to his wonderful offer, reality sets in. I must find the right manager to run Octagon in my absence, which I am confident I can do. All kinds of emotions surface at the thought of giving up my consulship. I believe that my fate is somehow tied to recovering the stolen artifacts, and relocating to Egypt will interfere with that. I found my voice in Holland, so I have mixed emotions and feel inner turmoil. I need to sit with the news and digest it before I can discuss it with Michael. The next morning over breakfast seems like the perfect time.
“You can serve your country from anywhere, Tasoula.”
“I understand, but I work so closely with Kyprianou and Papageorgiou here. We’re a great team, and that will change.”
“You’ll find other ways to serve your country with equal satisfaction.”
Michael is right. I will make the best of the situation and find purpose wherever I live. The work that I do for Cyprus is important to me, but supporting Michael is also important. Besides, how do I know that moving to Egypt is not my destiny?
There will be several months to prepare for our move, so I continue my work as consul and find a manager capable of taking the reins of Octagon in my absence. Several weeks later, Michael is about to leave for Malaysia, and I have a trip to the doctor planned, as I have not been feeling well.
“I’ll call you when I arrive in London to hear what the doctor has to say.”
“Of course,” I say. Today I feel as if I don’t have the stamina to drive myself to my doctor’s appointment, but I say nothing in order to avoid worrying him. My energy is low. I feel sluggish, as if I am coming down with a flu or virus of some kind. My clothing fits tighter as my desire to exercise fades. It is no surprise when the scale indicates that I’ve put on a few pounds. The doctor enters the examining room.
“I’m happy to inform you that your pregnancy test is positive, Mrs. Hadjitofi.”
“That explains the weight gain and exhaustion,” I say.
“True, but it doesn’t explain your other symptoms. I would like to give you an ultrasound if you agree.”
“Of course, whatever you think is best.”
The doctor smiles as he gently moves a wand over my abdomen.
“My dear, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for your symptoms.”
“What is it?”
“You are carrying identical twins who are sharing one placenta.”
“What?” I practically jump off the table hearing the news. “I can’t believe it! This is a dream,” I say. “I thought that the gene skips a generation.”
“Evidently not in Michael’s case. I’m going to give you some vitamins to start off with.” He hands me a referral to an obstetrician at the same hospital where Andreas was delivered. I am unable to contain my enthusiasm, smiling at everyone I come in contact with. I arrive back at my office just in time to receive Michael’s phone call.
“This is a miracle!” he cries. “You realize that you have just made my dream come true, don’t you? You have no idea how happy you’ve just made me. I love you so much,” he says before rushing off to catch his plane.
We are blessed! Being pregnant with identical twins is the greatest gift I can give to my husband, a twin himself. To be a twin is having a shared history with another from the moment of conception. Being married to a twin did take some adjusting on my part as I realized that Michael already had a life partner. It felt as if he and his brother, already their own unit, might view our relationship as an invasion of privacy. I came to understand that they are two separate parts of a whole and that our relationship and the relationship he has with his brother are distinct but equal. To be blessed with twin children with whom to identify is a longtime dream for Michael. As for me, I felt it to be a special privilege to give birth to two, when one is already such a miracle. It is the happiest day of my life.
Tulip season comes and goes in the Netherlands as we move into temporary housing in The Hague supplied by Shell. At this time our home in Wassenaar, because of the pending relocation, is rented and our valuables in storage. I am organizing our lives little by little so that by the time I deliver the twins early next year, all that will remain for us to do is to get on the plane.
I’m excited about the adventures that await us living in the land of the pharaohs, and I plan how I will spend my time there. Since the founding of a unified kingdom by King Narmer around 3150 B.C., Egypt has an enduring history of invasions, and probably more than any other country suffers from the looting and destruction of its own cultural history. I can use my repatriation experience to help their recovery efforts, as I believe the responsibility to protect it belongs to each of us. Or I can begin another software division and expand my company to the Middle East. I could also offer to serve my country as honorary consul to Cyprus in Egypt. Our new home will be closer to Cyprus, so flying there to visit family on the weekends will be feasible.
What I am not comfortable with is being a stay-at-home wife. Experiencing the kind of loss that I did in the war molded me into a fiercely independent woman who is never comfortable unless self-reliant. Michael understands my need for independence and does not try to change this about me.
Lately, we spend most of our time making plans for the arrival of our twins.
“We must dress them alike and have them attend the same schools,” says Michael. “My brother and I were separated at first as children, but we only thrived when they put us together. We pushed each other competitively in a positive way,” he says, smiling.
“You will be the best father, Michael,” I reply. His face is radiant. I’ve never seen him this excited about anything before.
“It could be difficult for Andreas as a singleton if our twins are boys. Seriously,” Michael continues, “he might feel excluded. If we have girls, it may be easier for him to adjust.”
“How lucky these children are to be born to you,” I say.
“Listen, I know exactly what it feels like to be a singleton,” reminding Michael that I am the expert in this area. “I will help Andreas adjust.”
The sound of the fax machine draws my attention to an image of an artifact coming through, a photograph of a John the Baptist icon. There is no cover page, and the fax does not state who the sender is. Examining the small and slightly blurred print more carefully, I see it is a page from the De Wijenburgh catalog. The provenance is listed as “Cyprus—first half of 15th century.” After a line or two of additional description it reads, “Literature—Hetty J. Roozemond, Ikon Gunt-Geist, Christies Icon 28th of October 1985, lot 199, Y. Petsopoulos, East Christian Art London 1987.”1
It must be from Van Rijn. He hasn’t been able to reach me so in order to draw me further into his game, he sends me a juicy tidbit of a clue, just enough information to pique my curiosity. He is testing me, and he’s right. I hav
e to know more.
I forward the John the Baptist fax to Michael Kyprianou and instruct my assistant to schedule an appointment with Van Rijn when he calls again, which he does the following day. I choose a garment that I hope will camouflage my pregnancy.
Van Rijn is waiting in the lobby of the Hotel des Indes at our usual table.
“You are becoming more and more difficult for me to reach, Tazulaah,” he says, inspecting me with his glance. I wonder if he notices my weight gain.
“You may call me Tasoula, Van Rijn.”
“I like your style, Tazulaah,” he says.
“Petsopoulos,” I say.
Hearing the name amuses Van Rijn. “At last a Greek who questions the actions of another Greek,” he says as he lights a cigarette. I feel nauseated from the smell of his smoke but I don’t dare say anything.
“Your usual?”
“I’d rather have fresh orange juice today.”
Weight gain and reaction to scents could alert him of my pregnancy.
The waiter delivers the drinks and a small plate of chocolates. I have been able to give up coffee, tea, and wine, but I always have a weakness for chocolate.
“Why is it that your government looks at me as a criminal but turns a blind eye when it comes to Petsopoulos?” he says, as I reach for a chocolate.
Yannis Petsopoulos is a Greek London-based dealer who introduced the American collector Dominique de Menil to Aydin Dikmen in the summer of 1983, the same Dikmen who sold Peg Goldberg the Kanakaria mosaics.
“He’s a Greek. That’s why your government turns the other way.” Van Rijn continues to vent his anger. “It would take the heat off the Turks if a Greek were caught dealing in illicit artifacts, don’t you think?”
“A criminal is a criminal and should be punished. If he is Greek he should be punished twice, and if he’s a priest three times, that’s my philosophy.”
“Don’t be so naïve, Tazulaah.” I offer your government the chance to recover their stolen artifacts and they do everything in their power to have me jailed for it. You think I don’t know exactly what your lawyers are up to?”
“Van Rijn, you misunderstand. My government does wish to come to an agreement with you.”
“You are different from the rest of them. Even you don’t go after Petsopoulos.”
“What are you talking about?” I say, trying to gain some time to inquire about the man. “Feed me evidence and I will.”
“Bullshit,” says Van Rijn. “You will excuse my language, Tazulaah, but let’s put the facts on the table here between us. Petsopoulos deals with Dikmen. You have proof of it with the de Menil situation. The rest is up to you to figure out. Look in the shadows, woman. That is where you will see the true nature of your government.”
I go to a routine doctor’s visit alone as Michael has a crucial meeting to attend at Shell. I’m not expecting anything but a regular check-up. I’m five months pregnant now and I’m feeling fine, if just a bit swollen, so I’m sure I will be sent home with a warning to keep my diet low in salt and my weight down. In the course of this one afternoon, everything changes.
“You have what is called a twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome (TTTS),” I hear the doctor say. If Michael, my scientist husband, were here, he would take control and question the doctor. In Michael’s absence I must hold myself together as I hear the disturbing news.
“Your identical twins are sharing the same placenta but the distribution of blood is disproportionally flowing to one fetus at the expense of the other.”
“How can we fix it?”
The doctor holds my hand, and I can tell from the way she is looking at me that the babies and I must be in danger. “I will have an ambulance waiting to take you to Leiden University Hospital.”
“You can’t be serious!” I hear myself say, my voice rising. “I feel fine. I’m a little swollen, but that is to be expected. I’m carrying twins. I don’t understand! Could there be a mistake in the diagnosis?” I cry.
“Complications of this syndrome can jeopardize the health of the fetuses,” she continues. For a moment everything freezes. My heart stops beating. I can’t breathe.
“Leiden Hospital specializes in neonatal care and premature births. You will receive excellent care there.”
“This must be a mistake. Please, I don’t believe this.”
“I’m sorry to bring you such upsetting news, Mrs. Hadjitofi. May I call someone to accompany you? We must get you to the hospital as quickly as possible.”
I go directly into survival mode, compartmentalizing the emotional trauma to manage what I have to do next.
“Doctor, I have a young baby at home in the care of a nanny. I must make arrangements for my son, my business, pack a bag, and contact my husband,” I say rapidly, holding back my tears, all the while thinking to myself, this cannot be true!
“I’m sorry, I cannot release you without an escort.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Mrs. Hadjitofi, I must impress upon you that it is essential for you to check into the hospital this afternoon,” says the doctor.
I don’t recall who came to pick me up from the office that day as I was in a state of shock. I just remember organizing things to run in my absence. The busier I am, the less opportunity there is for panic to set in.
At Leiden Hospital the news does not improve, but at least Michael is by my side. On the examining table, I feel vulnerable and exposed.
“I recommend we do an amniocentesis. I will place a needle into your abdomen and remove the excess buildup of fluid. This will ease the buildup and take pressure off the fetuses. It will bring you relief as well.”
“What are the risks?” Michael asks.
“The procedure will have to be repeated weekly if the swelling continues. We are intervening here, but unfortunately, this process can also cause premature delivery.”
Michael is caressing my belly as if to reassure the babies and me that he is there to protect us.
“What is at stake here is that the child with the decreased blood volume is in danger of growing more slowly than its twin and could die from lack of nutrients. The twin receiving the excess blood runs the risk of heart failure as the excess fluid places enormous pressure on its heart.”
Michael and I need time alone to reflect and discuss our options before we can agree on how to proceed. The doctor gives us our privacy, but the choice becomes clear as soon as the doctor leaves the room.
“We must do it. Both children are at risk. We have no choice.”
The procedure goes well. The swelling goes down, and I am placed on bed rest in the hospital. Because I am only twenty-five weeks pregnant, it is crucial to prolong delivery. Michael and I suddenly feel hopeful.
“I will do my best,” I say. Michael gives me a kiss to lend his support. Just a few days later, my condition worsens. Please, God, help me, plays over and over in my mind. The doctor recommends repeating the procedure. Michael and I will do whatever it takes, so we agree.
“Mrs. Hadjitofi, unfortunately one of the fetuses must have moved, which is a risk of doing this procedure. I’m going to start you on a drug now that will help to avoid having an early delivery.”
The nurses descend upon the room immediately, inserting a small needle that will connect me to an intravenous drip. Within minutes of receiving it, I begin to sweat profusely. It feels as if my body temperature is a thousand degrees. My heart pounds, my blood pressure escalates, I am so uncomfortable that I rip the sheet covering my naked body off and grab onto Michael’s arm in desperation.
“My heart, Michael. It feels like it’s going to burst.” Michael turns to the doctor.
“Something is terribly wrong, please do something to help her!”
The doctor disconnects me from the drip.
And the labor pains begin. The sound of alarms and the actions of staff reflect emergency conditions.
“Let’s get Mrs. Hadjitofi to the delivery room, stat,” the doctor says.
&n
bsp; I look to Michael, and he does what he is best at: being the calm to my storm.
“You must, for the sake of our babies, remain as serene as possible,” he says firmly, as he holds my hand and rubs the back of my neck to relax me. My thoughts, of course, are anything but tranquil. One moment life is everything I’ve ever dreamed it to be and the next moment I am in danger of losing it all.
“I need to prepare you, Mrs. Hadjitofi. The gestational limit in the Netherlands for us to intercede is twenty-six weeks. The odds of your twins surviving delivery are not good.”
The doctor’s words feel like the edge of a scalpel as they cut into any remaining remnants of hope I have managed to hold on to. The room fills with additional medical staff in preparation for the delivery. The twins are born rapidly. Instead of the usual congratulatory words followed by everyone patting each other on the back for a job well done as the beaming parents look on with pride and joy, there is dead silence as the doctors struggle to keep them alive. Anastasia weighs 550 grams and Sophia is 720 grams. I dread the worst. I turn my face away from my perceived heartbreak and take refuge in the only privacy available to me. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the tears from washing away the sweat that lingers as a side effect of the medication that was supposed to postpone delivery. I know if I take one look at my daughters that it will break me into a million different pieces that I will be unable ever to put back together again.
Michael is holding me, but even his comforting shoulders cannot protect me from the devastation of this moment.
“The tube is in,” a voice finally says, breaking the silence.
“They are beautiful,” the voice says sincerely.
It is the voice of Ines von Rosenstiel, a pediatrician doing her first-year residency at Leiden who is assigned as our caseworker.
“I can’t look at them,” I whisper to Michael. The babies are quickly placed in incubators, wheeled into the neonatal intensive care unit, and given transfusions. Anastasia and Sophia have tubes coming out of every orifice. Michael is torn between comforting me and following the nurses to watch over the twins.
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