by Selcuk Altun
The tourist traffic upstairs was thinning and nobody paid attention to my scrutiny of the Dandolo epitaph with a magnifying glass. When I’d transcribed and translated the three words written in the Greek alphabet, what I had was: ‘Burn the Doge’s palace.’ For the first time I was overtaken by a crisis of laughter. Tears sprang from my eyes but at the same time I relaxed. A Japanese girl who didn’t want to miss her chance snapped three pictures of ‘Man Laughing with a Magnifying Glass in Front of a Tombstone’, then ran downstairs. I left the church without calling the team to inform them of the denouement. Perhaps they could guess it anyway from the expression on my face. After the (L)askaris case I thought I should distance myself from them a little. I exited the courtyard and regarded Haghia Sophia from the outside, again in amazement. Did the Ottomans want to keep her from flying off by nailing down her skirts with four minarets? Really, it was not so preposterous for Haghia Sophia to stand as a church and a mosque at the same time. The image of Fatih Sultan Mehmet, the Conqueror and head of the Ottoman-Byzantine Empire, came to mind. This was in fact the real message of the double-headed eagle as imperial seal: sovereignty over both East and West. The Empire could have been a supreme power uniting, with good will, Europe and Asia; and so many of the world’s geopolitical problems might thus have been averted.
I remembered that I was meeting Nomo in a week. I needed a plan to shield Venice from Nomo’s revenge. This time my father could not help me.
OMEGA
Mistral and her father accepted my invitation to visit at the end of August. My beloved never left my side; Costas Baba spent three days in Galata and then went to Prinkipo Island for a week. He bestowed grateful prayers – in Turkish – on me for finding so many of his old friends who were still alive. I envied their joke-filled, relaxed father-daughter relationship. On the same day that we sent Costas back to Athens, Mistral and I flew to Stockholm. Before we all parted, he said to his daughter, ‘If you don’t marry a Turkish man, I’m going to find an old Turkish woman and settle down on Prinkipo.’
I was going to have a life-or-death meeting with Nomo in London and I wanted to talk to Basil Angelos first. I went two days early to see the gentlemanly Angelos. I felt like I was solving a puzzle before entering the torture chamber. I dropped in at a Golders Green chess club. The regulars were old Jews who’d migrated from Istanbul, and together we cured our homesickness. Uncle Salvador from Balat not only challenged me to a match but destroyed my plan to let him win as soon as he sensed my strategy. I went back and forth between far-off Underground stations with enigmatic names. I scrutinized the faces in my compartment, frame by frame. In the Latino boy I saw an illicit love story, in the face of the Ethiopian girl a sonnet on hope. I loved children from a distance. I inhaled the incense of times past at shops dealing in rare books, maps and antiques. I fell into a trance at zoos and aquariums. (Was the spark that would light my fire against Nomo waiting for me in a nightmare?)
I stayed at the Le Meridien, where I was a regular, and met Angelos in the dim bar. Before leaving Istanbul, I’d undergone the traditional formalities and officially ascended into the ranks of the Elect. Angelos had taken my resolution of the last item in Constantine’s will in a sealed envelope to Nomo, who ratified it against the original document. Three other men, I knew, had risen to the level of the aristocratic Elect over the last 500 years, but they were all eliminated at the final step of decoding the will.
I also completed the legal procedures necessary to become Chairman of the Board of Directors of the corporation called Monodia. I was about to take the reins of Nomo. Wasn’t ‘monody’ what the solo songs of Greek tragedy were called? The Byzantine Andronicus Kallistos, who took refuge in Italy after the fall of Constantinople and died in London, composed a requiem titled ‘Monodia’. In it he mourned the loss of ‘Constantine, who was wiser than Cyrus, more just than Rhadamanthus, and braver than Hercules’ more than he did the capital itself. I could not think of a better name for a company whose major job was to finance revenge.
A thick envelope and a dossier fell out of the package Angelos brought. I picked up a bottle of vodka from Tesco and went up to my room to work on them. The thick envelope contained a handwritten letter that summarized – in Turkish – the history of Nomo. It told me about the Monodia Board of Directors, which consisted of four members: a representative each from the Palaeologus, Cantacuzenus and Comnenus families; and the emperor. The emperor, who was of course the head, could run the organization however he wished, except in the matter of dissolution. To dissolve it he needed the assent of at least one other member. The Palaeologus representative was expected to be a loyal supporter of the emperor. In fact, in the emperor’s absence he was acting chairman of the Board.
Monodia was governed by British law, and had instituted many precautions against takeovers aimed at the emperor. For instance, three of the Board members were required to give the emperor signed but undated resignation letters. As chairman, he could put these into play at any time to forestall developments of an undesirable nature.
The dossier contained the balance sheets, as of June 30, 2009, of seven investment firms. Monodia owned six of them. There were graphs and tables in abundance to illustrate their net worth. They were based in New York, Hong Kong, Frankfurt, Tokyo, Milan and Edinburgh, and they had taken their names from combinations of the letters of the Byzantine alphabet. Their profits derived from rental income, real estate, and the interest on bank accounts and government bonds. Each one had a bottom line of less than a billion pounds, to avoid attracting the attention of the global economy. As consolidated in Monodia’s ledgers, their total worth was 5.5 billion pounds, with the original properties worth 4.2 billion and the semi-annual profit coming in at 183 million pounds.
In the short time I spent scanning the reports I began to tense up. I noticed that I was wrinkling my forehead just like my mother. I walked around the room and came back to my desk with a fresh drink. More than simply relaxation, it was an actual pleasure to be solving a problem. For the first time I was going to act like the son of Akile Asil and squeeze the Board into a corner. I’d found the spark I was looking for. I read the financial reports with new enthusiasm and took notes underlining the Board’s passive policies.
I called Angelos after breakfast and told him I wanted the meeting next day to be moved up to half past eight from ten o’clock. I carefully modulated the tension in my voice. I went out and bought a suit and tie for the meeting at the Hackett, simply because it was my father’s namesake. On my return I ran into Selçuk Altun and his wife getting off the elevator in the lobby. It was certainly a surprise. I raised my Hackett shopping bags in humorous homage, and wondered about the possibility of seeing him as a Nomo member.
*
Canary Wharf was at the spot where the twilight-colored Thames River begins turning from the east towards the city. In the 1980s, investment companies began moving into the skyscrapers that were stabbing it in the heart. Lancaster Tower at Churchill Place looked like an aquarium washed and turned upside down to dry. One-fifth of the building’s thirty-four floors belonged to Monodia. The boardroom was of course on the top floor. I entered the elevator with Angelos and imagined myself descending past all those floors two hours later as a man who’d tendered his resignation.
I couldn’t feel right about a floor where twenty-four people were working. It was as depressing as a government office whose modernization is perpetually postponed for lack of money. I was directed to the office of the Chairman of the Board. Furnished with antiques, it actually served as the royal chambers of the emperor-in-exile. I was momentarily excited to think that it was my privilege to be its first occupant. Not to take the chair tricked out in mother-of-pearl would have been to spoil the game. I tried not to smile. Angelos ritualistically placed two files before me. In one were the undated resignation letters of the Nomo members of the Monodia Board, and in the other their short CVs.
The Palaeologus representative was Theofanis Torosidis, born i
n 1963. He’d read history at Oxford, was fluent in four languages, including Turkish, and had been a member for eleven years.
The Cantacuzenus representative, Stelios Moras, was born in 1949 and was a graduate of Georgetown University in political science. He commanded three languages perfectly but his Turkish was mediocre. He had been a member for eighteen years.
The Comnenus representative was Dimitrio Ninis. Born in 1940, he was educated in economics at Yale. He too was fluent in three languages but weak in Turkish. He’d been on the Board for twenty-six years.
The A-team was eager to meet me. ‘Bring them to me,’ I told Angelos. The first to enter was Theofanis Torosidis, whom I knew as Theo Pappas. He offered an apologetic smile. I pinched his cheeks and said in Turkish, ‘So, Pappas, is it you again?’ I continued in English, ‘That tragicomic clown act of yours worked. You must be an excellent director and historian.’ I no longer needed to wonder who had arranged the purple squares in Trabzon and saved me from Laskaris’s trap. The Oxford historian had been my tutor, observer and protector for a year. He was the acting head and brain of Nomo.
Moras had the looks of a well-adapted domestic bridegroom, and Ninis the air of a tired professor. They did not act like natives of the Aegean. Still, they were not disagreeable, and I welcomed them heartily.
In the boardroom, after we’d taken care of a certain well-known item, the official meeting could begin. I sent Angelos out and invited Nomo to the square table. I pulled out their resignations, tore them up theatrically, and said, ‘Let’s discuss the matter of the emperor’s will. If we have any misunderstandings on this point, my presence at the next meeting is out of the question. I tore up those resignations so that you’ll feel free to express your opinions. If I continue as Chairman of the Board of Monodia, I won’t request any resignation letters from anybody. If somebody needs to quit, he can do what is required of him on his own.’ I paused and looked at Nomo. They seemed hypnotized.
‘I’m grateful to you, not for the rank bestowed on me by five people, but for helping me develop an awareness of the greatest civilization in history. I owe a debt of thanks to all of you and to your ancestors who devoted their lives to preserving our precious legacy.
‘Gentlemen, when Constantine XI said, “Burn the Doge’s palace,” he did not give us 500 years to do it in. He assumed that one of his grandsons would carry out the mission while Venice was still a state. But his descendants were unable to fulfill their duty. Meanwhile the successors of Venice lost their soul by surrendering first to France in 1797 and later to Austria. In 1866 Venice joined Italy not as a state but as a city. Instead of a Doge, it got a governor. Eventually its palace that looked like a Byzantine bathhouse became a second-rate museum. Therefore it was Venice herself who implemented the last item of Constantine XI’s will. After 1866 any further action, in my opinion, would be the equivalent of taking a corpse out of a grave and shooting it.
‘I have to open a special paragraph for Venice here. I know it better than I know Istanbul and I enjoy it no less. There are two Venices. The first one, which was once the wealthiest city-state on earth, is now serving as an amusement park for rich and shallow tourists. The other Venice is a glorious page of the Byzantine heritage. The immense Byzantine impact on the architecture of churches and official buildings erected in the Middle Ages is noted in every tourist’s guidebook. But what isn’t known is the way in which her palaces that run like a string of pearls on either side of the Grand Canal clones the Byzantine Golden Horn. The whole world would have known this if the Latin army had not devastated the Golden Horn. At least the stolen masterpieces of art are being displayed in Venetian museums as Byzantine items, and who knows how many priceless Byzantine manuscripts are under lock and key in the Marciano Library. For this reason alone I think Nomo should feel responsible for Venice.
‘In short, Constantine XI’s last wish has been fulfilled by the euthanasia of the dukedom. Yet, one of his distant grandsons, by decoding his will in 2009, has at last rescued the soul of the emperor from agony. Please know that I have no intention of dissolving Monodia. On the contrary, I want your contributions to a new mission and vision for Monodia.’
Torosidis asked to speak. His accent was like a Shakespearean actor’s. He started to rise but I said to him in Turkish, ‘Please stay seated as you speak. And, Pappas Efendi, come to the point.’ His team bowed their heads and tried not to laugh. Torosidis was responding well to my teasing.
‘You’ve honored us by considering our views, Your Excellency,’ he said. ‘We completely agree with your remarks. Constantine XI will rest in peace from now on since his legacy has finally been passed on to a wise and honest descendant of his.’
As the others nodded in agreement I said to Torosidis, ‘Whose idea was it to name me Constantine?’
‘It came from my father-in-law, Vasilis Spiropoulos, Excellency. Your grandfather knew him as a landholder from Izmir whom he once met in a Monte Carlo casino. He was actually the Palaeologus representative before me. With your permission, Mr Ninis, who worked with my father-in-law, can tell the story.’
I saw that Dimitrios Ninis was waiting for my permission to speak and I made the necessary nod. (Better not to abjure the customary rituals.) The oldest Nomo launched into his remarks as if they were a sermon.
‘Mr Spiropoulos used to visit your sainted grandfather regularly, Your Majesty. After your grandfather died, he continued to visit twice a year to keep an eye on you. He had high hopes for you. He told us how impressed he was by your ability to turn the period after your parents’ divorce into an opportunity for maturing instead of breaking down. He believed that you would be more astute than Manuel II, whom you resembled in your scholarly interests.’
I remembered the mysterious Mr Spiropoulos, who always went around with an ornamental walking stick although he never limped. The compliments he paid my mother in his inadequate Turkish made me uneasy. It was a comfort to learn about Nomo’s concern. But, perhaps at the devil’s behest, I posed a crucial question.
‘Okay, what were you going to do if I ordered the Doge’s palace to be burned down?’
He looked me in the eye and said, ‘We took an oath to carry out commands consonant with the legacy of Constantine XI, Your Majesty. If it is your wish, I can have that building razed to the ground in seventy-two hours.’
I tried to register my displeasure with the enthusiastic tone of his voice in my facial expression.
As I moved on to my second topic, I felt I should acknowledge the good will I’d experienced with the first discussion.
‘Let me make a few brief observations and then, if we come to an agreement, I have a suggestion to make. Perhaps we can begin a new era in Nomo’s history.
‘Monodia’s resources have been quite conservatively managed. In the profit-loss statements I found no income stream other than interest and rentals. Now, if mutual bonds from telecommunications, energy and the health-care sectors were bought and sold along with investment funds; and if gold and financial instruments such as treasury bonds were acquired, the accumulated profit would be multiplied by a factor of five at least. Sure, there’s always a risk factor in this business, but look: during the recent global recession some of our real estate, which was considered a risk-free investment, lost twenty percent of its value and we took a big loss in our rental income.
‘Friends, my goal is to double Monodia’s bottom line in seven years – that would be eleven billion pounds! To do that we need to increase corporate profits by one hundred percent each year. An institution with a cash value like ours can reach that goal in the medium term. Of course we’ll apply all our profits to the service of the Byzantine cause. This is my new mission for Monodia. We could begin by channeling our resources to the restoration of historical treasures. Nor should people and institutions who deserve to be penalized be forgotten. This sentence does not imply terrorist activity, by the way.
‘We’ve got time to make a proper list, but we shouldn’t sit still in the
meantime. Let me mention my embarrassment, for example, over the so-called memorial to Constantine XI in Athens, stuck behind a huge statue of a bishop like a toy Sancho Panza.’
I continued with a certain amount of Nomo-bashing, but gently. Finally I stood and said, ‘If there is no objection, the meeting is adjourned.’
Photos of the properties Monodia owned in partnership with various entities covered the conference-room walls like a spider web. I observed those tributes to ugliness with a sour expression. I used my notes in the Board of Directors meeting to make the directors and managers sweat. In the end it was decided to set up a division for buying and selling mutual bonds, investment funds and mining shares. On top of everything else, Monodia’s interior décor was to be modernized, subject to my approval.
The time came for my salary to be fixed. Torosidis, who as an administrator and deputy chairman came to work every day, took home thirty thousand pounds. Ninis and Moras got fifteen thousand each. In addition they all received shares of the annual net profit. I cut my salary from ninety thousand pounds to half of that. ‘And I wouldn’t even take that much,’ I said, ‘if I weren’t spending a good deal of it on scholarships for poor children.’ I closed the meeting with a decision to have the third-quarter meeting, scheduled for November 22, at the Four Seasons Hotel, which stood on the foundations of the Great Palace of Byzantium.
I invited Nomo to dinner at The Providores. I planned not to ask personal questions on this night of socializing, but I couldn’t resist the urge to ask Torosidis, ‘Pappas, what part of Istanbul do you come from?’ My right arm, it turned out, was the only son of a Fener priest. To ask how he ended up at Oxford after the Fener Greek High School would have been superfluous.
*
By the time I boarded the plane to Stockholm, it felt as if I’d aged five years, but I had gained greatly in self-confidence. Mistral thought Monodia was a mid-level investment firm in which one of my grandfather’s friends was a partner. When I informed her that I was the Chairman of the Board, she said, ‘Ah, now I see the reason for your squared-up shoulders.’
