by Mike Sweeney
“I will let them know they have someone outside. For you, I will ask them to give you special prices. Five euro only.” He vanished.
“And ouzo!” I shouted after him.
Yeah, I knew I was being scammed. I was a San Francisco girl. But I hadn’t given him any money yet, and if I kept on the way I was going I’d die of hunger before I’d made my own choice. As long as food arrived I’d call it a win-win.
I took off the fedora and ran fingers through my sweaty hair. The cool breeze that had kicked up helped relax me and clear my head. A tourist couple walked past, coming down from the direction of the Acropolis, three or four kids trailing them in a parade that reminded me of that old photograph of Konrad Lorenz and his ducks. A motorbike came the other way, politely moving to the curb until they were safely past.
The gyro came in a paper wrap and was excellent. With it was a large glass full of clear liquid and ice cubes. As I watched, it started to cloud milky white, like absinthe. I took a shot.
Nearly choked. Oh, my, gods. Raki was smooth. This stuff was like getting whacked in the throat with a licorice stick. The customer-puller chuckled.
I turned the glass 180. Stared at it, getting its measure. Took it in both hands and took another shot. The man made a sound of approval. “Eat,” he pointed. “You must eat when you drink ouzo.”
I settled back in the cafe chair, working my way through the bowl of olives and the thick crunchy toast once the last flake of gyro was gone. This was…this was perfect. I could hear a distant guitar, this one doing that tune from that black and white film with the actress who later went on to sit in the Greek parliament. Or however that story went. I could really get to like Greece. And I didn’t mean just the classical monuments. I meant the living Greece that was all around me.
That was the last of the ouzo. I should really be getting back to the hotel. I stirred reluctantly, caught the eye of the man. He came back out with the bill. Oh. I had no cash on me. I pulled out the credit card, held it out hopefully. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Fortunately that didn’t seem to be a problem. And yes it was a lot more than five euros but between ouzo and whatever they did with tax I was fine with that. I apologized again for using a card. “I have no cash,” I said then, realizing. “You have been so nice, too.”
“No tip,” he said.
“I know!” I was feeling terrible by now.
“It is included,” he said. “No tip.”
“Oh, thank you!” I was still embarrassed. “I mean, Efharistó!” There was so much to learn.
“Parakaló.” He gave that seemingly universal waving-it-off gesture.
I had to wonder…he’d been so careful to speak American to me. Was this lapse into Greek a bit of grudging respect? No. I was probably reading way too much into it.
I plopped the hat back on my head and tried hard to fall off the curb. Oh, really good plan. Alone at night in a strange city and I couldn’t even speak the language and I’d gotten staggering drunk. I couldn’t even read the street signs. They were literally all Greek to me.
Thank the gods for GPS. I hauled out the phone and it showed me a sliver of red before the low battery prompt popped up. Oh, yes. Very good plan. Ah, well. I strode off, the strength and stability coming back to my legs with every step. It had only been one ouzo, after all. Nobody got to call me a cheap date.
Besides, I had the best guidepost in the world. The Acropolis was before me, as it had been this morning that now seemed like so long ago.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN FRONT OF me was Greek coffee served sweet and thick and a house salad that had everything but lettuce. I’d skipped the hotel buffet again to head out to the Plaka district for breakfast.
I’d been tempted by a “Diogenes Cafe” but on closer examination they had ordinary chairs. Not so much by a place called “Eris.” As tempting as it would be to order a golden apple, the last thing I needed was more chaos in my life.
This place was practically in the shadow of the Acropolis and had a cute yellow paint job, red tile roof, and nice wooden tables and chairs under the typical awning. It wasn’t in a cave, but the murals inside more than made up for it.
My first full free day in Athens. Sunday, so the museums were probably closed, so that meant exploring, and more monuments, and can’t forget shopping. Definitely shopping, I owed my fans that.
I’d ordered two pastries with the meal. After yesterday, I needed them. And with that and the coffee, I was finally ready to deal with the stack of messages I’d been avoiding.
Where have you been? Drea wanted to know. Are you okay? the next read. And many, many more of the same. Please respond, it’s almost midnight! said the last, sent twenty minutes ago.
I’m at breakfast. I sent. Did you forget the time difference?
Oh thank god. When I saw you fall I was so scared. Are you sure you’re okay?
You saw what now? I forked up another bite of ravani, syrup dripping off of it. I’d better get a lot more hiking in today. I stopped suddenly, grabbed at the phone. Biro sent you video? No wonder he’d had that guilty look. I couldn’t really blame him for keeping the camera running, though. I’d been taught the same way. Electrons were, after all, cheap.
I’m all good, I told her. That party you sent me to was weird, though.
She sent a contract. You need to finish your food because you need to be at the Lufthansa desk for a two-thirty flight.
What?!Eleventy!
It’s an easy gig. Show up in costume, do your thing, you’ll be back in your hotel by tonight.
Well, you’re my business manager. I sighed. Drea had already signed for me. One day, soon, we needed to have words. I guess five bucks is five bucks. They are paying for the flight, right?
Five bucks! The rest of the text was filled with emoticons I couldn’t name and didn’t even know my phone had.
Five euros. That’s what she put on the business card.
Girl… Look, do you even know what an old pot sells for these days? If it said 5 it was because art dealers must get tired of writing zeroes.
I sighed. Put down the phone, slumped back in my chair. There went my day.
I drank up, paid up, and gave the little alleys a last look of regret. There was barely enough time to get back to the hotel and get in costume.
Part II
Black Forest Hams
CHAPTER FIVE
THIS WAS THE part I hated. “Penelope,” I said. “Penelope Bright.” It was, regrettably, the name on my passport. What had mom been thinking?
The immaculate and extremely blond woman behind the Lufthansa desk took my passport. The professional smile gleamed. She could have walked out of one of their advertisements. I was impressed. I knew just how much work went into keeping up a look like that and I mentally gave her an approving salute.
The airport was cool and dim, at least in contrast to the hot Mediterranean sun outside. The theme was cream and blue, the vast space and exposed roof structure of a convention hall, and that same susurration of voices and footsteps and air conditioning. It wasn’t crowded. At least not this desk, and not right now.
“We have both window and aisle seats still available, ma'am.”
“Oh, window, certainly.” Aisle seat was a mistake I didn’t want to make again.
A few more questions and she handed my passport back, then an envelope. “Flight 1279, non-stop to Frankfurt am Main,” she said. “Terminal B. Boarding will begin at 1400.”
“Efha…thank you!”
“Enjoy your flight!” she said, with what sounded like real warmth. “And please make use of the Lufthansa Business Lounge. Terminal B, Schengen.”
Business…lounge? I looked at the boarding pass in my hand. I was flying business class?
I was flying business class. Now I knew how the other half lived. The Lufthansa lounge was small, but it had empty chairs. So did the gate area outside, but I’d been discovering that filled up when you got close to boarding time. There was a buffe
t. And booze. And even better, an espresso machine.
I curled up in an armchair, and topped off the charge on my phone while I used the WiFi. Could a girl get used to this? A girl could most certainly get used to this.
Business class also boarded first. More smiles, more smooth service. I was somewhat less impressed inside the plane. In front of the curtain…the middle seat was marked off and unoccupied. That was it. On the other hand this was a puddle-jumper and didn’t even have a First Class.
The safety lecture was charming, and pushback occurred almost on the dot. I craned my neck as we climbed, hoping to catch sight of the Acropolis but we were too far away and, as far as I could gather, flying in the wrong direction. As the aircraft gained height, the ground blended into a sort of uniform detail where I couldn’t tell if I was over Athens or Thessaloniki, Greece or Albania or Montenegro. Well, probably not either of the latter, not yet. Besides, I could still see water.
Well, I’d spent what little of the day I’d been given getting to then getting back from the Plaka. The best plan for this flight was to catch a long nap. And…what was that glint?
The gentleman in the aisle seat was playing with a coin. A rather ancient looking coin. He noticed me staring. “Gallienus panther,” he said.
“What’s it made of?”
“Billon.” He was some indeterminate middle age, dad build and round-featured. Clothes were clean, even new, but neither fit him properly nor worked with each other. “Bronze, basically,” he said. “Coinage was so devalued by the Third Century they’d just scare the Antoninianus with a picture of some silver.”
He handed it across the empty seat. There was a guy in a spiky crown on one side, a muscular-looking animal with a lean body and elongated head on the other.
“Off flan but a very nice strike. Oh, was that too much?”
“I’ve heard worse. I’m an archaeologist.”
“Oh, well, all right then.”
I took it he got my point. He might enthuse over coins. We enthused over broken pots. “You’re English,” I continued to make conversation.
“What? When did this happen?” He held out his hands, turned them back and forth as he examined them.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m American.”
“This is a chair, that is a window.”
I handed back the coin. “Look, if you don’t want to talk…”
He made a placating gesture. “I am sorry. Small talk is so, well…” He stopped. “The name’s Graham,” he said at last.
Of course it was. The man was so perfectly a Graham they needed to use him for the illustration. “I’m Penny Bright,” I said. “Yes, I’ve heard all the jokes.” I saw his eyebrows rise up as if in response to the challenge and added swiftly, “I’m in Athens on vacation.”
Graham blinked deliberately. “This plane,” he said, “goes to Frankfurt.”
“I…long story.”
“Longer than this flight?”
“No…just…complicated. To be honest, I’m not really sure I understand why I’m going to Bad Münster.”
“Bahd,” he corrected. “In the name of a German town, it means spa or hot spring. Like Bath in Somerset. It comes from Roman times.”
“Oh, gods, Romans again,” I muttered. “So it is called Bath because they had a Roman bath.”
“No,” Graham said, “they had a Roman bath.”
I let that one go. “You aren’t going to this spa, are you?”
“Hardly. I’m to give a lecture at GIG. This,” he held up the coin, “Is to make a point. It is pre-UNESCO. The point it that it hardly matters, and probably shouldn’t matter.”
“You lost me,” I said politely.
“It was sold in London in 1952. No way to tell how long it had been in modern circulation.”
“Wait…” I was remembering that presentation of Cosimo’s, at the Atlantis Gallery. “Before the seventies. That means something?”
“You want the long version or the short version?”
“Depends. Longer than this flight?”
“Vastly. My hour lecture is barely long enough to cover the implications of S.3449; the 2016 amendment of the U.S. Stolen Property Act.”
A lot of things were falling into place for me quite rapidly. “We’re talking about antiquities sales.”
“No, we’re talking about coin collecting.”
“Are coins even antiquities?”
Graham sighed. “You’ve cut to the crux. Err…why the smile?”
“Rock climber.” Crux meant something different to us; it meant the toughest part of a route.
“Really.” In two syllables, he got out that it might be okay for some people but there was no way you were going to find a sensible person like him clinging to the face of some cliff. Well, that probably made two of us. It wasn’t green screen, at least, but when I climbed it was usually at a gym and over a padded mat. It was still climbing, but mistakes were a lot less fatal.
The first food came by and I was distracted by actual china and silverware. I didn’t know if the food was good or bad — it was enough for me that it wasn’t in a cardboard box on this flight. Wine was also available but it was all by name and I settled on a fruit juice instead.
“Coins,” Graham said when conversation resumed, “were historically excluded from antiquities laws. Perhaps because collecting is so entrenched, so widespread; the King of Hobbies, the Hobby of Kings. What has changed in the last decade or two is what I and the associations I am involved in believe is an over reach by hungry politicians.”
“Sorry?”
“Take your own country. In their blind panic over Daesh or whatever they are calling the terrorists under the bed this month, they decided to claim looted coins are the bad guy’s piggy bank. So they tried to change the rules. More and more, and with similarly inept reasoning, states are trying to lump in coins along with the looted sculpture and artwork. It has become very difficult for the honest collector.”
“Roll that back a little,” I said. “I have to admit I’m not that familiar with antiquities laws. Actually, honestly, I’m a little more interested in what happens to the sculptures and the artwork anyhow.”
“Where do I start?”
“It’s a four-hour flight, and I’d like to get a nap in if I can.”
“1970, then. 1970 rules the world of antiquities trading. It is the date of the UNESCO ‘Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transport of Ownership of Cultural Property.’ It came into effect in 1972, and as of September, 137 states have become parties to it.
“Right, your nap. The UNESCO agreement is a poster boy for the concept of the letter of the law overtaking the spirit. The effective result has been the quashing of any and all movement of what a state might choose to fall under that loosely defined term ‘cultural properties.’ It is essentially impossible to legally purchase, transport, or indeed for a private party to own any object from the Classical eras of Greece or Italy, from the mere Iron Age of Germany, or from any time in China previous to the Cultural Revolution.”
“But…lots of people own Ming Vases and so on. And I’ve seen bronzes on sale in a gallery.”
“And welcome to the unintended interpretation of UNESCO,” Graham gave a weary sigh. “The rule isn’t retroactive. It does not apply to any object that can be documented to have been outside of its state of origin when the convention met. Which is why Nefertiti is still in Berlin and half the Parthenon is in the British Museum.”
“Oh. The Elgin Marbles.” I’d had so little time to prepare I couldn’t afford to research outside of the Classical era, but it was impossible to read about the Parthenon without hearing about the Turkish powder magazine or Lord Elgin and his group of busy stone-cutters.
“The story of the Seventh Earl of Elgin is typical. You think museums are filled by busy Howard Carter types? No; every famous museum you can name was founded on the private collection of some old rich guy who bought the things back befo
re the Third World figured out they could keep their Nefertiti busts and start their own money-making tourist attraction.”
“You are a cynical man, Graham.” I toasted him with my fruit juice.
“So the legal antiquities market today takes place under a single paper-thin excuse; if there is the thinnest evidence that it came out of the ground before 1970, it can be legally traded. If a detectorist in Tuscany found it last Thursday, it is the property of the State and good luck ever seeing it again.”
“It does seem…arbitrary,” I admitted. “You’ve given me quite a bit to think about. And we didn’t even get to why you think coins should be exempt.”
“Perhaps you should come to my lecture,” Graham said dryly.
“Perhaps I should.”
We talked for a little more, then I did my best to catch a quick nap. There turned out to be another advantage to a window seat; if you sat just right you could rest your head against the window itself instead of getting a stiff neck trying to use the seat back. The glass was a bit cold but a pillow took care of that. Service. What a concept.
Of course airlines have passenger management down to a science. In no time at all, it seemed, the lights brightened and the carts came by with scones and coffee and it became impossible to stay asleep. The cabin stirred to activity, passengers re-doing their shoes and repacking the carry-on bags with all the things they’d been utterly unable to do without for three full hours, and scurrying to wait in line at the toilets.
We dipped lower and lower and the colors below us resolved into shapes. Geometric fields formed a mosaic pattern with miniature forests, cut through by ribbons of water that sparkled in the lowering sun. It was ridiculously green, except where it was equally vivid autumnal colors. The effect from this angle was like one of those orthographic computer games come to life, grid squares of farm and field and tiny towns waiting for the player to enter the next command.