Chapter 14
Athens, January
A missed connection resulted in another night in an airport hotel, where Elena had at least consented to have dinner with him. While the food was several times better than that served in a comparable British establishment, the conversation was still slightly frosty. There was an slight thaw, but, overall, it was not yet time to put away the overcoat and don flip-flops. There was, however, a hint of an opening, Simon thought as he readied for bed, reminding himself that the brain was the body’s biggest organ.
A traumatic flight on Olympic airlines, the aircrew seeming to act as a microcosm of the industrial problems of the whole nation, deposited them at the airport, built, perhaps ironically, by the Germans for the Olympics of 2000. The event had been a great success, but added a layer of debt which the already creaking edifice of public finances could not support. Not that anyone was willing to admit this, national pride being paramount. The more rational approach was to protest budget cuts and strike at every opportunity.
The latest such episode explained the 2 hour wait for a taxi, the circuitous route into town, and the burned out street furniture which littered the streets. Their hotel, the Grande Bretagne, was central, but came with the disadvantage that it was on the main square, which seemed to serve as the focal point for public protest. A large, neo-classical stone edifice, it had long been the place to stay, counting Winston Churchill as an honoured and frequent guest in his dotage. Managing to arrive in a gap between protests, they left their bags and hunkered down for the evening. The sounds of chanting outside were at odds with the sedate atmosphere of the hotel, though a couple of boarded up windows suggested that they could not escape the modern world totally. Simon thought of Marie Antoinette, looking out of Versailles as the mob marched out from Paris, and shivered.
The next morning, after a quick breakfast, they hurried down Panepistimeiou Avenue, past more burnt out buildings and banks, the detritus of previous protests still littering the street. Simon had been here many times before, what Ancient Historian could not, but there was something different this time. The strikes had left refuse uncollected for weeks, the bags piling up haphazardly. Although it was cold, nature could not be held back and the smell was turning from merely noticeable to downright unpleasant. Combined with the heavy grey sky, threatening but not quite achieving rain, the impression was distinctly post-apocalyptic, a society on the verge of collapse.
On the right, in complete contrast to its dowdy modern surroundings, the classical buildings of Athens University stood back from the street. Seemingly a reminder of earlier, better times, their white marble facing had a purity missing from their modern neighbours. Strolling up the steps, Simon opened the door and, confronted by a dozing security guard, asked him where he could find the office of Dr Zographos. Disgruntled by the disturbance, he guard muttered something and pointed to his left down a long marble corridor.
“It’s very quiet. Where are all the students?” she asked as they searched for Dr Zographos’ office.
“Oh, they don’t teach here, you don’t want students making the place untidy. The campus is out of town. Costa has an office here because he is a dean, and because he knew the right people to bribe.”
A wood and glass door was marked with Dr K Zographos, Dean. Simon knocked and was greeted by a gruff “Ela”. Entering, he was confronted by a room which made his own look tidy, papers on every surface, books heaped on shelves and the floor, and a selection of wine and ouzo bottles scattered on the remaining flat surfaces. Facing them was a large human bottom, head bent to the floor, hands rummaging through a pile of papers.
“Ti thelete?”
“Kicking your arse would be a good start, but a hello will suffice”
The head surfaced, turned and broke into a broad smile. “Simon, you came” The doctor was short, dark hair streaked with grey, brown eyes hidden behind thick spectacles. His open mouth revealed the sort of teeth which can only be acquired by years of heavy smoking. Sure enough, a cigarette was in one hand, so he used the other to envelop Simon in a bear hug, crushing a couple of ribs.
Spotting Elena standing unsure on the threshold, Costa deposited the cigarette in a nearby ashtray, smoothed down his hair, and strode forward. Taking her hand, he bent down and kissed it, taking long enough over the procedure to make her uncomfortable. She subtly reclaimed her hand and murmured something polite.
The Professor was off again, throwing papers off an antique sofa and looking around flustered.
Beckoning them to sit, he carried on his search until he found his quarry, a bottle of three star Metaxa Brandy. Scooping up three glasses of dubious cleanliness, he filled them and handed them round.
“It is so good to see you my friend. You should have told me you were coming, and with such a pretty lady” a lascivious glance in Elena’s direction. “I would have tidied the place up. Anyway, I remember your favourite drink, no?”
“I did tell you I was coming, when I phoned you yesterday, you old pirate. And you know what I think about Metaxa, the last time I had it, I passed out for two days.”
“I didn’t think your phone-call was serious. And the Metaxa, well you didn’t really miss anything.”
“Have you got the letter?”
“Yes, yes, I have it. On the desk.” Zographos indicated the government issue ply-wood and steel contraption in the corner, although given the depth of the papers on it, it could take hours to find any particular letter.
“Why the rush? Why not relax a bit, you must be tired. Let me finish up, the we go for some ouzo, some mezedes and some glendi, some fun.” Another look at Elena which convinced her that the academic thought himself some sort of lothario.
“We’re in a bit of a hurry, old friend. We need to get there as soon as possible. If you could just give me the letter, we’ll be on our way. We’ll be back in a day or so. And then we can have as much glendi as you can handle.”
Placated, Zographos found the letter surprisingly quickly and bade them farewell, Elena receiving a hug from a pair of wandering hands.
“What do his students think of him?” she said as they walked back down the corridor.
‘He doesn’t have any.”
“What? He teaches in a University.”
“ No he works in a University, there’s a difference. You see Greece was ruled by a rather nasty junta in the sixties and seventies. The students, as students do, took umbrage to this and some of them barricaded themselves in the Polytechnic, just down the road. There was a siege and the army was sent in, and many of the students were killed. It was the spark that set off the uprising that overthrew the junta and restored democracy.
“Ever since then, the students have known that they have the power to overthrow the government, and everyone retains this misty-eyed gratitude for their sacrifice, so there’s a compromise. Pretty much anyone can go to university, but they don’t expect to be taught anything. So no-one teaches them. Costa sits in his office and thinks great thoughts most of the time. He might give the odd lecture, but no-one takes it very seriously.”
They headed back to the hotel and picked up the hire car Simon had arranged. With a change of clothes in the back, and Costa’s letter in glove-box, they set off for their destination.
Five hours later, they turned off the National Road, Greece’s motorway, and headed across the plains of Thessaly. Simon had been happy to let Elena drive, her police training enabling her to cope with the traffic, and now the goats they occasionally found in front of them. While the modern drabness had of central Athens had been replaced with a more buccolic, if more mediaeval panorama of huts, shepherds and olive groves, the next turn took them back to pre-historic times.
The flatness of the plain was giving way to the slopes of the Pindos mountains, when they came across the towering sandstone columns of Meteora. Standing alone in the plain, like supports for a building someone had forgotten to build, the pillars soared skywards, seeming to touch the clouds on this cool grey day. Created over the past 60 million years as rain and wind had cut their way through the original plateau, leaving just the pillars intact, they had fascinated men for centuries. Ironic then that the Ancient Greeks had forgotten to mention them in any of their writings.
Even Elena was impressed, her policewoman’s sense of the everyday over come by the majesty of the sight. “Is this where we’re going?”
“Yep, head for that one on the left. Grand Meteoron.”
Elena followed the road as it twisted and turned up a steep hill, reaching a car park, three hundred metres above the plain. Together, letter tucked into Simon’s breast pocket, they crossed the narrow metal bridge which was all that connected the monastery, and the pillar if was built on, to the rest of the world.
“How did they do it?” Elena asked, seeing the fully-fledged monastery across the bridge and wondering how its makers had constructed it 1000 feet in the air.
“With a lot of difficulty. Everything they needed had to be brought up from below by winch or on ladders. The bridge was only built in the 20th century. And yet, they built dormitories, kitchens, a winery, chapels, everything they needed to be a functioning monastery. It goes to show how much they loved God, I suppose.”
Entering through a small archway, Simon looked for a monk who might understand English. Seeing a young man, his beard not yet fully grown, wearing robes, he approached him and asked him to give Zographos’ letter to the abbot. He lead them into a small courtyard and bade them wait, while he entered a large wooden door which looked like it had been in place since the monastery opened in the 1300’s.
Returning a few minutes later, he asked them to follow him, his English the impeccable brand which can only be acquired by long hours of exposure to American television. Leading them down a narrow stone corridor, candles lining the wall, he led them through another heavy wooden door into the abbot’s study.
The priest’s girth, and the decanter of wine on the table behind him suggested strongly that his order did not believe in abstinence from at least some delights of the flesh. A long, bushy beard hung below his hooked nose, on top of which a pair of wire spectacles balanced. Making the sign of the cross, he asked them to sit, his brown eyes examining each closely.
The young priest poured a glass of wine for each of them and retired. The white-washed room was large and simply furnished, but surprising details such as the Apple computer and LCD television attracted Simon’s notice. They seemed an odd contrast to both the age of the buildings, and the simple icon of Mary and Jesus which hung on the wall.
“You find it hard, no?” the abbot asked?
“You came to see a priest in a monastery, but you find computers and televisions.”
“I wasn’t expecting that certainly.”
‘Times change Dr Pelham. It is only recently that your friend’ he nodded at Elena.” would have been allowed here. Even now, there are no females on the Holy Mountain.” Elena was used to a degree of sexism, but it was usually unspoken, and certainly not so overt. The abbot was right, however. Mount Athos, in the North of Greece, was a monastic community dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Despite this, no female, human or even animal, had been allowed on the peninsula since the third century.
“Our brothers who built this place did so to escape the world, to find more perfect communion with God, away from the ravages of mankind But these days, the ravages seem so bad, that it is only by opening to the world that we can best serve God. I am Ephraim, abbot of this monastery, and I should like to help you, Dr Pelham. Dr Zographos is an old friend, although not one who could easily adapt to the rigours of monastic life, I think. His friend is my friend.’
“Thank you, Father Ephraim. Dr Zographos is holy in mind, if not body.” The two shared a wry smile.
“Drink, please, it is our own wine, something to occupy my brothers during the long days. And something which the tourists love to buy.” The rich red wine, almost port like, was delicious, the product, the abbot told them of the particular geology of the region. Something Simon was all too willing to believe, perched at the top of a 1000 foot pillar.
“Now, how may I help you? Costa mentioned something about a manuscript.”
“Yes, I believe you have the works of St Gregory of Nyssa in your library. I know they are very rare, maybe even the only copy. But they are vital for my research. I came across a reference to a brown leather-bound manuscript in my studies, and, I know it is a lot to ask, but I would be most grateful if I could see it. If you would allow me to take a photograph, it would make a superb plate in my new book.’
“And what is this book about, Dr Pelham?”
“The influence of Rome on early Christian mysticism.” Simon hoped the monk did not push too much further, as he was approaching the end of his ability to improvise.
“A worthy subject, Dr Pelham, and one on which the work in question could, no doubt, illuminate you greatly.”
Simon smiled.
“There is, however, a problem.” Ah, Simon should have expected this. Doubtless the priest wanted some sort of compensation for his trouble but he was unsure of the going rate for bribing a monk.
“I would be more than happy to include full attribution in my book. And we could make a contribution to the upkeep of this beautiful monastery and the good deeds you do in it.” Flattery seemed like a good start.
“That is very kind of you Doctor, and Brother Michael who showed you in will be glad to discuss any donation that you might care to make. But the problem is more serious than that. We do not have the work anymore.”
“What? I thought it had been returned after the war. I heard that there were plans for a full scholarly edition to be published.”
“Indeed, there are Doctor Pelham, but we will not be publishing it. You see, we recently sold the manuscript. The monastery has many other treasures, but looking after them costs money. Money which tourists, even those as generous as yourself, do not raise. Last month, we were approached by a collector who wanted to buy the volume you mentioned. He wanted to donate it to a university in his country who would allow scholars to read it and discover its treasures. It was a hard decision, but we could not afford to publish the work ourselves, and it seemed wrong to keep the work hidden from the public. It is so beautiful after all. His offer was very hard to resist, and in the end, it seemed best for all if we accepted it.”
Simon now realised the reason behind the television and computer.
“Can we ask who this man is?” Elena jumped in, possibly the first woman to speak in the walls’ six hundred year life. “Which university is it going to?”
“It was to be given to the University of Teubingen after the buyer’s death. Sadly, it will be there very soon.”
The monk reached for the remote control of the television and turned it on, choosing the BBC World News. “Leading German Industrialist shot in Berlin” was the first item.
Athens, January
A missed connection resulted in another night in an airport hotel, where Elena had at least consented to have dinner with him. While the food was several times better than that served in a comparable British establishment, the conversation was still slightly frosty. There was an slight thaw, but, overall, it was not yet time to put away the overcoat and don flip-flops. There was, however, a hint of an opening, Simon thought as he readied for bed, reminding himself that the brain was the body’s biggest organ.
A traumatic flight on Olympic airlines, the aircrew seeming to act as a microcosm of the industrial problems of the whole nation, deposited them at the airport, built, perhaps ironically, by the Germans for the Olympics of 2000. The event had been a great success, but added a layer of debt which the already creaking edifice of public finances could not support. Not that anyone was willing to admit this, national pride being paramount. The more rational approach was to protest budget cuts and strike at every opportunity.
The latest such episode explained the 2 hour wait for a taxi, the circuitous route into town, and the burned out street furniture which littered the streets. Their hotel, the Grande Bretagne, was central, but came with the disadvantage that it was on the main square, which seemed to serve as the focal point for public protest. A large, neo-classical stone edifice, it had long been the place to stay, counting Winston Churchill as an honoured and frequent guest in his dotage. Managing to arrive in a gap between protests, they left their bags and hunkered down for the evening. The sounds of chanting outside were at odds with the sedate atmosphere of the hotel, though a couple of boarded up windows suggested that they could not escape the modern world totally. Simon thought of Marie Antoinette, looking out of Versailles as the mob marched out from Paris, and shivered.
The next morning, after a quick breakfast, they hurried down Panepistimeiou Avenue, past more burnt out buildings and banks, the detritus of previous protests still littering the street. Simon had been here many times before, what Ancient Historian could not, but there was something different this time. The strikes had left refuse uncollected for weeks, the bags piling up haphazardly. Although it was cold, nature could not be held back and the smell was turning from merely noticeable to downright unpleasant. Combined with the heavy grey sky, threatening but not quite achieving rain, the impression was distinctly post-apocalyptic, a society on the verge of collapse.
On the right, in complete contrast to its dowdy modern surroundings, the classical buildings of Athens University stood back from the street. Seemingly a reminder of earlier, better times, their white marble facing had a purity missing from their modern neighbours. Strolling up the steps, Simon opened the door and, confronted by a dozing security guard, asked him where he could find the office of Dr Zographos. Disgruntled by the disturbance, he guard muttered something and pointed to his left down a long marble corridor.
“It’s very quiet. Where are all the students?” she asked as they searched for Dr Zographos’ office.
“Oh, they don’t teach here, you don’t want students making the place untidy. The campus is out of town. Costa has an office here because he is a dean, and because he knew the right people to bribe.”
A wood and glass door was marked with Dr K Zographos, Dean. Simon knocked and was greeted by a gruff “Ela”. Entering, he was confronted by a room which made his own look tidy, papers on every surface, books heaped on shelves and the floor, and a selection of wine and ouzo bottles scattered on the remaining flat surfaces. Facing them was a large human bottom, head bent to the floor, hands rummaging through a pile of papers.
“Ti thelete?”
“Kicking your arse would be a good start, but a hello will suffice”
The head surfaced, turned and broke into a broad smile. “Simon, you came” The doctor was short, dark hair streaked with grey, brown eyes hidden behind thick spectacles. His open mouth revealed the sort of teeth which can only be acquired by years of heavy smoking. Sure enough, a cigarette was in one hand, so he used the other to envelop Simon in a bear hug, crushing a couple of ribs.
Spotting Elena standing unsure on the threshold, Costa deposited the cigarette in a nearby ashtray, smoothed down his hair, and strode forward. Taking her hand, he bent down and kissed it, taking long enough over the procedure to make her uncomfortable. She subtly reclaimed her hand and murmured something polite.
The Professor was off again, throwing papers off an antique sofa and looking around flustered.
Beckoning them to sit, he carried on his search until he found his quarry, a bottle of three star Metaxa Brandy. Scooping up three glasses of dubious cleanliness, he filled them and handed them round.
“It is so good to see you my friend. You should have told me you were coming, and with such a pretty lady” a lascivious glance in Elena’s direction. “I would have tidied the place up. Anyway, I remember your favourite drink, no?”
“I did tell you I was coming, when I phoned you yesterday, you old pirate. And you know what I think about Metaxa, the last time I had it, I passed out for two days.”
“I didn’t think your phone-call was serious. And the Metaxa, well you didn’t really miss anything.”
“Have you got the letter?”
“Yes, yes, I have it. On the desk.” Zographos indicated the government issue ply-wood and steel contraption in the corner, although given the depth of the papers on it, it could take hours to find any particular letter.
“Why the rush? Why not relax a bit, you must be tired. Let me finish up, the we go for some ouzo, some mezedes and some glendi, some fun.” Another look at Elena which convinced her that the academic thought himself some sort of lothario.
“We’re in a bit of a hurry, old friend. We need to get there as soon as possible. If you could just give me the letter, we’ll be on our way. We’ll be back in a day or so. And then we can have as much glendi as you can handle.”
Placated, Zographos found the letter surprisingly quickly and bade them farewell, Elena receiving a hug from a pair of wandering hands.
“What do his students think of him?” she said as they walked back down the corridor.
‘He doesn’t have any.”
“What? He teaches in a University.”
“ No he works in a University, there’s a difference. You see Greece was ruled by a rather nasty junta in the sixties and seventies. The students, as students do, took umbrage to this and some of them barricaded themselves in the Polytechnic, just down the road. There was a siege and the army was sent in, and many of the students were killed. It was the spark that set off the uprising that overthrew the junta and restored democracy.
“Ever since then, the students have known that they have the power to overthrow the government, and everyone retains this misty-eyed gratitude for their sacrifice, so there’s a compromise. Pretty much anyone can go to university, but they don’t expect to be taught anything. So no-one teaches them. Costa sits in his office and thinks great thoughts most of the time. He might give the odd lecture, but no-one takes it very seriously.”
They headed back to the hotel and picked up the hire car Simon had arranged. With a change of clothes in the back, and Costa’s letter in glove-box, they set off for their destination.
Five hours later, they turned off the National Road, Greece’s motorway, and headed across the plains of Thessaly. Simon had been happy to let Elena drive, her police training enabling her to cope with the traffic, and now the goats they occasionally found in front of them. While the modern drabness had of central Athens had been replaced with a more buccolic, if more mediaeval panorama of huts, shepherds and olive groves, the next turn took them back to pre-historic times.
The flatness of the plain was giving way to the slopes of the Pindos mountains, when they came across the towering sandstone columns of Meteora. Standing alone in the plain, like supports for a building someone had forgotten to build, the pillars soared skywards, seeming to touch the clouds on this cool grey day. Created over the past 60 million years as rain and wind had cut their way through the original plateau, leaving just the pillars intact, they had fascinated men for centuries. Ironic then that the Ancient Greeks had forgotten to mention them in any of their writings.
Even Elena was impressed, her policewoman’s sense of the everyday over come by the majesty of the sight. “Is this where we’re going?”
“Yep, head for that one on the left. Grand Meteoron.”
Elena followed the road as it twisted and turned up a steep hill, reaching a car park, three hundred metres above the plain. Together, letter tucked into Simon’s breast pocket, they crossed the narrow metal bridge which was all that connected the monastery, and the pillar if was built on, to the rest of the world.
“How did they do it?” Elena asked, seeing the fully-fledged monastery across the bridge and wondering how its makers had constructed it 1000 feet in the air.
“With a lot of difficulty. Everything they needed had to be brought up from below by winch or on ladders. The bridge was only built in the 20th century. And yet, they built dormitories, kitchens, a winery, chapels, everything they needed to be a functioning monastery. It goes to show how much they loved God, I suppose.”
Entering through a small archway, Simon looked for a monk who might understand English. Seeing a young man, his beard not yet fully grown, wearing robes, he approached him and asked him to give Zographos’ letter to the abbot. He lead them into a small courtyard and bade them wait, while he entered a large wooden door which looked like it had been in place since the monastery opened in the 1300’s.
Returning a few minutes later, he asked them to follow him, his English the impeccable brand which can only be acquired by long hours of exposure to American television. Leading them down a narrow stone corridor, candles lining the wall, he led them through another heavy wooden door into the abbot’s study.
The priest’s girth, and the decanter of wine on the table behind him suggested strongly that his order did not believe in abstinence from at least some delights of the flesh. A long, bushy beard hung below his hooked nose, on top of which a pair of wire spectacles balanced. Making the sign of the cross, he asked them to sit, his brown eyes examining each closely.
The young priest poured a glass of wine for each of them and retired. The white-washed room was large and simply furnished, but surprising details such as the Apple computer and LCD television attracted Simon’s notice. They seemed an odd contrast to both the age of the buildings, and the simple icon of Mary and Jesus which hung on the wall.
“You find it hard, no?” the abbot asked?
“You came to see a priest in a monastery, but you find computers and televisions.”
“I wasn’t expecting that certainly.”
‘Times change Dr Pelham. It is only recently that your friend’ he nodded at Elena.” would have been allowed here. Even now, there are no females on the Holy Mountain.” Elena was used to a degree of sexism, but it was usually unspoken, and certainly not so overt. The abbot was right, however. Mount Athos, in the North of Greece, was a monastic community dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Despite this, no female, human or even animal, had been allowed on the peninsula since the third century.
“Our brothers who built this place did so to escape the world, to find more perfect communion with God, away from the ravages of mankind But these days, the ravages seem so bad, that it is only by opening to the world that we can best serve God. I am Ephraim, abbot of this monastery, and I should like to help you, Dr Pelham. Dr Zographos is an old friend, although not one who could easily adapt to the rigours of monastic life, I think. His friend is my friend.’
“Thank you, Father Ephraim. Dr Zographos is holy in mind, if not body.” The two shared a wry smile.
“Drink, please, it is our own wine, something to occupy my brothers during the long days. And something which the tourists love to buy.” The rich red wine, almost port like, was delicious, the product, the abbot told them of the particular geology of the region. Something Simon was all too willing to believe, perched at the top of a 1000 foot pillar.
“Now, how may I help you? Costa mentioned something about a manuscript.”
“Yes, I believe you have the works of St Gregory of Nyssa in your library. I know they are very rare, maybe even the only copy. But they are vital for my research. I came across a reference to a brown leather-bound manuscript in my studies, and, I know it is a lot to ask, but I would be most grateful if I could see it. If you would allow me to take a photograph, it would make a superb plate in my new book.’
“And what is this book about, Dr Pelham?”
“The influence of Rome on early Christian mysticism.” Simon hoped the monk did not push too much further, as he was approaching the end of his ability to improvise.
“A worthy subject, Dr Pelham, and one on which the work in question could, no doubt, illuminate you greatly.”
Simon smiled.
“There is, however, a problem.” Ah, Simon should have expected this. Doubtless the priest wanted some sort of compensation for his trouble but he was unsure of the going rate for bribing a monk.
“I would be more than happy to include full attribution in my book. And we could make a contribution to the upkeep of this beautiful monastery and the good deeds you do in it.” Flattery seemed like a good start.
“That is very kind of you Doctor, and Brother Michael who showed you in will be glad to discuss any donation that you might care to make. But the problem is more serious than that. We do not have the work anymore.”
“What? I thought it had been returned after the war. I heard that there were plans for a full scholarly edition to be published.”
“Indeed, there are Doctor Pelham, but we will not be publishing it. You see, we recently sold the manuscript. The monastery has many other treasures, but looking after them costs money. Money which tourists, even those as generous as yourself, do not raise. Last month, we were approached by a collector who wanted to buy the volume you mentioned. He wanted to donate it to a university in his country who would allow scholars to read it and discover its treasures. It was a hard decision, but we could not afford to publish the work ourselves, and it seemed wrong to keep the work hidden from the public. It is so beautiful after all. His offer was very hard to resist, and in the end, it seemed best for all if we accepted it.”
Simon now realised the reason behind the television and computer.
“Can we ask who this man is?” Elena jumped in, possibly the first woman to speak in the walls’ six hundred year life. “Which university is it going to?”
“It was to be given to the University of Teubingen after the buyer’s death. Sadly, it will be there very soon.”
The monk reached for the remote control of the television and turned it on, choosing the BBC World News. “Leading German Industrialist shot in Berlin” was the first item.
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