This morning, a representative of the Greek Embassy in Washington paid me a visit. A Mr. Unpos Aspasuos, Special Attache for Culture, camped out in my private secretary’s office starting at 7:00 a.m. (that’s when she usually arrives). Around 9:30, my schedule had a hole in it, so into my office Mr. Aspasuos came. He shook my hand in a dignified manner, then seated himself with extreme care on one of my three leather upholstered plush guest chairs.
“Mr. Collins, the people of Greece require your services,” he opened, not the least bit ironic.
“I am honored, of course,” I responded, “how can I help them?”
“In the matter of the Elgin Marbles, Mr. Collins.”
All right, I knew that the English and the Greeks had recently renewed negotiations over the Elgin Marbles, but really – I’m hardly the world’s foremost authority on them. So, I had to ask – “Although I am extremely flattered by this recognition by the people of Greece, I must confess that you have me somewhat at a loss, Mr. Aspasuos. Surely, in the matter of the Elgin Marbles, there must be other, more qualified experts whom the Embassy could consult?”
“Yes, and no, Mr. Collins,” Aspasuos replied, smiling cryptically.
Whenever somebody from east of the Adriatic says “yes and no,” I have this gut reaction – I want to hook their genitals up to a car battery, throw the switch and ask them if they wish to place their answer on the record. If they say “yes and no” in reply to that question, well, I have other American gut reactions upon which to call. But under the circumstances – i.e., the promise of a substantial amount of money in return for my services – I displayed a considerably more European style of diplomacy. “I am cited as an author in but one study of the Elgin Marbles,” I pointed out, “and in that, only as a collaborator.”
The truth of the matter, dear reader, is I had to – it was part of my thesis to obtain a master’s degree in fine art. My contribution consisted entirely of an economic model of tourist revenue versus art object value in two locations – England and Greece – as a function of time. Which place the model indicates that the Elgin Marbles “should” reside depends entirely upon the choices made for various parameters. I did that on purpose, dear reader, because, frankly, I don’t give a hoot in Hades where the Elgin Marbles hang out.
“There are other, more important considerations, Mr. Collins,” said Aspasuos, smiling slyly. “We have recently reestablished serious negotiations to retrieve the Elgin Marbles to their rightful place in world history.”
“Seems to me I read about that,” I allowed.
“Since the British agreed to resume talks on the Elgin Marbles,” Aspasuos continued, “we have searched both sides of the Atlantic for a consultant with credible qualifications…”
“Oh my goodness, Mr. Aspasuos,” I interjected, “surely, such persons must be legion, indeed!”
“Who have extensive experience with international affairs…” he persisted, undeterred.
“Exceeding mine? Again, sir, there must be hundreds, nay, thousands…” I protested.
Aspasuos withdrew a notebook from his diplomatic pouch, ostentatiously donned a pair of half-lens reading glasses and slowly intoned “Yurkio, Helga, Pilar, Amiya, Sujatmi, Hamisi, Joo-Eun…”
“Oh,” I admitted, “you mean that kind of international affair. I confess – guilty as charged. No need to elaborate further.”
“Not to put too fine a point upon it, Mr. Collins, you are the only credible consultant on the Elgin Marbles, either in Europe or America, who isn’t gay as a jaybird.”
“So,” I asked, “gay is a big issue in the Elgin Marbles question?”
Aspasuos sighed heavily. “Mr. Collins, ‘gay’ is a big issue with Greeks in general. If we hired a consultant who concluded, as I certainly hope you will, that the Elgin Marbles should be returned to Greece, and it was generally known that person was gay, well – people everywhere would just say ‘of course he recommended returning the Elgin Marbles to Greece, he’s gay,’ and that would be the end of it as far as they are concerned – the Greeks cheated. The Greeks hired a queer because they’re all into the back door anyway, even when do it to their women, and queers stick together. So the triumphant return of the Elgin Marbles to the Parthenon, the temple of the goddess Athena, would be forever tainted;” Aspasuos paused solemnly, “no pun intended. Our government finds such a potential situation unacceptable. Therefore, as the only plausibly qualified individual on the planet who can provide a credible, authoritative and independent assessment of the Elgin Marbles question who isn’t also a complete, total, unabashed, lisping, mincing, prancing, fudge-packing, pole-smoking, fine-arts talking, ballet-loving, biscotti-munching, over-pronouncing, fabric-fondling, interior-decorating, hair-styling, clothes-mad, shopping-crazy, salad-tossing, over-the-top-and-in-your-face fruity-pansy-flitty-queen homo, we offer you…”
My phone rang. It was my private secretary.
“Mr. Collins,” she said nervously, “there is a gentleman here from the British Embassy who wishes to speak with you upon a matter he describes as one of extreme urgency.”
“Please ask him to wait a moment,” I replied coolly. Then, not missing a beat, I said “Mr. Aspasuos, my ten o’clock appointment has arrived somewhat early. I conditionally accept the Greek government’s proposal and request twenty four hours to respond. Would you mind dictating the details of your request for quotation to my private secretary?”
Aspasuos smiled, rose, shook my hand and nodded curtly. Turning toward the door, he looked over his shoulder and winked. “Whatever the British offer you, we will pay double!”
A tall, thin gentleman with a moustache entered – much to my surprise, he did so through the entrance to the adjacent meeting room, not the entrance to my private secretary’s office. Grasping my hand firmly as I stood to greet him, the gaze from his smoldering gray eyes was remarkably intense. “Henderson,” he said, “MI6.”
“I had no idea,” I said, releasing his hand and indicating a chair in which he should sit, “that Whitehall took the Elgin Marbles so seriously.”
“Oh, I can assure you, Mr. Collins, unequivocally,” Henderson replied as he made himself comfortable, “that not only Whitehall, but also Buckingham Palace consider the Elgin question to be one of utmost national importance.”
“Well, I certainly hope you will forgive a simple American’s naivete, sir,” I ventured, “but why, in the Year of Our Lord 2007 should Her Majesty and Her Government contribute an aerial fornication about the Elgin Marbles?”
“I can appreciate, Mr. Collins, that, as an American, you have no concept of the principles which govern the values of British civilization,” Henderson began, “Her Majesty could, for example, have shipped every one of her subjects off the Falkland Islands and set them all up in northern Scotland for less than half the money the United Kingdom spent fighting Argentina over that country’s claim that the islands should be called the Malvinas and be administered from Buenos Aires. Your Getty Museum,” he continued, “recently returned two objects to Greece after the Greeks made the case that those objects had been stolen. The Elgin Marbles, on the other hand, were obtained in a completely legitimate manner. Nevertheless, the Greeks seek to cite the Getty’s decision as some sort of precedent for return of the Elgin Marbles. So you see, Mr. Collins, that is the same sort of reasoning which so unfortunately drove the Argentinians to invade the Falklands. The British,” he concluded, “have offered to lend the Elgin Marbles to Greece, provided the Greeks acknowledge that we own them. But will the Greeks do that? No, Mr. Collins, they will not!”
“Ah, yeah, Mr. Henderson, I understand how the British, whoever they are…”
Henderson shot me a withering glance.
“… see this, but, you must admit, Greece made no sovereign decision to relinquish the Elgin Marbles. When Thomas Bruce, Seventh Earl of Elgin, took the sculptures from the Parthenon, Greece was under the subjugation of the Ottoman Turks. Lord Elgin was, in fact, an ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, not to Greece. And, is it not a fact that Lord Byron himself denounced taking of the Marbles as theft?”
“What some club-footed, incestuous Greek sympathizer – who, in addition, was obsessed with Armenians, of all things – thought of the acquisition is irrelevant, even if he was a half-decent poet;” Henderson volleyed back, “come now, my good man, Byron kept a pet bear – he was clearly as mad as a hatter.”
After such a gratuitous ad hominem attack, I couldn’t resist goading Henderson a bit. “So the British position is that you stole the Elgin Marbles fair and square?”
“Her Majesty’s position is that the English Parliament bought the Marbles from Lord Elgin in 1816,” Henderson stated, matter-of-factly, “and that the Marbles were Lord Elgin’s legitimate property at that time. Over the last few decades, UNESCO has nagged and insisted that we meet with the Greeks every couple of years to discuss the issue, and the British Government has no problems with that. We’re prepared to talk to the Greeks about the Elgin Marbles until Doomsday, should it be necessary. Surely, Mr. Collins,” Henderson pressed on, leaning toward me earnestly, “you can’t imagine that the Greeks would do anything with the Marbles but let them go to ruin. Just look at the condition of the Parthenon sculptures that Elgin left behind!”
“True,” I conceded, “Athens is pretty polluted and limestone does not stand up well to acid rain. But didn’t the staff at the British Museum manage to damage the Elgin Marbles back in the 1930’s?”
“Pryce and Hinks were good public-school chaps – the right sort in every respect. They meant well. Lord Duveen had spent quite a great deal of money on a new gallery for the Marbles and he was genuinely convinced they were dirty. Besides, it was Arthur Holcombe who actually had at the Marbles with copper wire brushes and Carborundum, not Pryce and Hinks; and Holcombe was nothing but a Yorkshire stone mason. Surely, Mr. Collins, one can’t blame the British Museum for the ill-advised actions of some working-class dolt like Holcombe?”
“I would have to concede that, in the context of English society, your argument for exculpation by reason of higher class membership is irrefutable,” I admitted reluctantly, “but outside of the British Isles, where people are unlikely to understand, as do the people of the United Kingdom, that membership in the nobility or public school society automatically confers immunity from blame or responsibility for alleged wrongdoing, how can Her Majesty’s Government expect favorable public opinion on this issue?”
“Ah-hah!” Henderson nearly leap out of his seat. “That’s why I’m here! Mr. Collins, Her Majesty’s Government has exhaustively researched the qualifications and backgrounds of every academic, scholar, professor, museum curator and consultant in Europe and America, whose opinion, analysis and conclusions regarding the Elgin Marbles would be taken seriously. Out of all of them, you are our choice!”
“To prepare a study demonstrating conclusively why the Elgin Marbles should remain in England?” I sat back, awaiting the answer.
“Yes! Exactly! You’re the Queen’s own selection – Her Majesty’s man!” No doubt Henderson’s emphatic delivery would have left many an interlocutor feeling it positively rude to continue the discussion. His pronouncement carried such authority, his confident air projected such unalterable finality – who could question such a statement?
I could. “Although I am extremely flattered by this recognition of Her Royal Highness, I must confess that you have me somewhat at a loss, Mr. Henderson. Surely, in the matter of the Elgin Marbles, there must be other, more qualified experts whom Parliament and Whitehall could consult?”
“Yes, and no, Mr. Collins,” Henderson replied, smiling cryptically.
I thought briefly of car batteries and Henderson’s naughty bits, then said “I am cited as an author in but one study of the Elgin Marbles, and in that, only as a collaborator.”
“There are other, more important considerations, Mr. Collins,” said Henderson, smiling slyly. “Your extensive experience with international affairs, for example,” he went on, smirking, then leering at me just a bit. “Furthermore, not to put too fine a point upon it, Mr. Collins, you are the only credible consultant on the Elgin Marbles, either in Europe or America, who isn’t a complete poofter and queer as a three-pound note.”
“So,” I asked, “gay is a big issue in the Elgin Marbles question?”
Henderson sighed heavily. “Mr. Collins, ‘gay’ is a big issue with the English in general. If we hired a consultant who concluded, as I certainly hope you will, that the Elgin Marbles should remain in the United Kingdom, and it was generally known that person was gay, people everywhere would just say ‘of course he recommended keeping the Elgin Marbles in Britain, he’s gay,’ and that would be the end of it as far as they are concerned – the English cheated. The logic would go, that the English hired a queer because they’re all queer, and queers stick together. Her Majesty finds such a potential situation unacceptable, as it would doubtless bespeckle the Royal Escutcheon…”
“Metaphorically speaking, of course,” I interjected.
“And no pun intended,” Henderson agreed. “Therefore, as the only plausibly qualified individual on the planet who can provide a credible, authoritative and independent assessment of the Elgin Marbles question who isn’t also a raging, tea-bagging, bum-riding, opera-loving, macrame-tying, pink-poodle-walking, nitrate-huffing, Judy-Garland-worshipping, counter-tenor-singing, chicken-rimming, fairy-bunned, pixie-kneed, banana-bending, limp-wristed, cherry-picking, daisy-muffing, fist-felching, ginger-beering, Hershey-humping, jaw-juggling, lamb-chasing, mitten-milking, tinker-bell-teasing, willy-wonking, knob-polishing, light-in-the-loafers… ”
My phone rang. It was my private secretary.
“Mr. Collins,” she said nervously, “there is a gentleman here from the State Department who wishes to speak with you about marbles. He says you’re the only expert on marbles in America or Europe who isn’t gay. Is that true, Mr. Collins?”
“Apparently,” I told her.
“Well, that does it then! No way is my husband going to start a marble collectors’ blog site.”
“Try to interest him in philately instead,” I suggested.
“Hell, I give him plenty of that already – you think more will keep him from turning queer?”
“Maybe,” I replied coolly. Then, not missing a beat, I said “Is Mr. Aspasuos still out there?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Send him and our new visitor into my office then, please,” I commanded.
“Billings,” said the man from State, “cultural attache, European Desk.” He was young – couldn’t have been more than 26, and was a dead ringer for Praxiteles’ Apollo Sauroktonos – in a Lord & Taylor suit, of course.
As I shook Billing’s hand, I noticed Henderson and Aspasuos staring at each other. For a fleeting instant, I was on the verge of freaking out completely, thinking that the two of them were going to start a fist fight or something. But then, well, I could see the only thing missing was a sound track of selections from “Swan Lake.”
I cleared my throat discretely. Henderson and Aspasuos looked at me. Billings stared at them, his lips quivering – in anxiety or something else, I could not tell. Billings sat down, leaving them no choice but to perch on two chairs on either side of him.
“Mr. Billings, State Department; Mr. Aspasuos, Greek Embassy; Mr. Henderson, MI6,” I nodded around the little group, dispensing introductions. “It seems that all of you want to discuss the Elgin Marbles with me this morning. I haven’t heard from Mr. Billings yet, so, perhaps, Mr. Billings, you could tell me about your organization’s interests in that magnificent and inspiring archeological artifact of Western civilization, culture, philosophy and art.”
Billings dug into his briefcase, pulling out a short stack of paper, perhaps five or ten pages, fastened together with a single staple in the upper left hand corner. Without another word, Billings held the document up and began reading aloud from it in a powerfully soporific, Alabama cracker accented monotone.
“The United States Department of State wishes to acknowledge and recognize the sovereignty of both the Republic of Greece and the United Kingdom in matters of a cultural, artistic and archeological nature…” Billings droned away, his eyes fixed on the document, making it clear that by gum, he was, as instructed by his superiors, going to read this Tom Collins feller, and anyone else who would listen, the riot act, as conceived by the Bush State Department, concerning this Elgin Marbles thing, whatever in tarnation that might be.
For the first couple of minutes, Henderson and Aspasuos just sat there, staring at each other. Then Aspasuos took a gray handkerchief out of his coat, folded it into a double peak and placed it in his outside breast pocket. Billings noticed, but kept on reading. Henderson responded with a light blue, folded into three peaks. Aspasuos replied with bright red, folded into a single peak. Henderson went for a square-folded bright red with a white stripe. Billings’ eyes darted frantically from Henderson to Aspasuos and back to the State Department brief. Aspasuos displayed a dark red, shyly putting up two fingers. Henderson pulled a tan, Aspasuos replied with beige, followed by rust; Henderson flaunted a coral followed by leopard, paisley and a holstein print. Billings licked his lips; sweat broke out on his brow as he struggled to maintain his concentration. Aspasuos pulled lavender, purple, fuschia and teal in rapid succession. Then both of them got up and left – in a hurry – Billings stopping for a heartbreaking instant as he watched them leave.
At last, Billings concluded his assignment, deliberately and, with perfect diction, intoning “… of the United States Department of State to facilitate and enable a complete and mutually satisfactory agreement concerning the final, ultimate and permanent resolution of the Elgin Marbles question.”
“Where did they go?” Billings was beside himself, agitated. I could not decide if that was because he was supposed to intercept those two and do something in the name of State – or, perhaps, something more personal.
“Mr. Henderson and Mr. Aspasuos have apparently decided to engage in a bilateral discussion of the Elgin Marbles question,” I speculated. “Your position statement was very informative,” I lied, “it had excellent organization,” I prevaricated, “and I’m glad you took the trouble to read it,” I fibbed. “What can I do for you?”
“Where?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Billings, they didn’t say.”
“Can you guess?”
“Certainly,” I smiled, beguiling, ”but shouldn’t we conclude our business first?”
With evident difficulty, Billings arduously regained control of himself, in the process developing the most darling stutter. “M… Muh, Muh, Muh, Mr. Caw… Caw… Caw… Caw… Collins,”
“What’s this? A Harvard boy, then?”
“Nah… Nuh… Nah… Not funny, Mr. Caw… Caw… Caw…”
“Oh, Fulbright Scholar, too, eh?”
“Caw… Collins! Thu, thu, thu, the State Depart… part… partment would vuh, vuh, vuh, very much app, app, appreciate it if you coo… coo… coo… could stay out of this argument bet, bet, bet, between the United Kink, Kink, Kink, Kingdom and the Republic of Guh, Guh, Guh, Greece.”
“I can appreciate that desire, sir,” I replied, leaning back in my chair and contemplating the ceiling, “but both parties are, it seems, about to embark on a bidding war for my services. A fellow has to make a living, does he not?”
Billings scowled, trying to control his stutter sufficiently as to remain intelligible. “The State Department is prep, prep, pre… prepared to offer you this amount,” Billings shoved a piece of paper across my desk at me, “to deliver an anal… anal… anal… anal… anal…”
“I’ll bet, fine arts boy. Come on, spit it out and you can go track down those other two handsome fellows!”
“Duh, duh, duh, damn you, Collins! An analysis, not to exceed fifteen pages in length…” His mind and heart finally stopped writhing around like wounded birds. His humiliated eyes blazed at me in anger as his face turned crimson and tears streamed down his face, “explaining why, out of thirty-nine thousand six hundred fifty-two people in America and Europe who are even remotely qualified as authorities on the Elgin Marbles, only one of them – you, Mr. Collins – isn’t a total, lisping, mincing, fuh, fuh, fuh, fudge-packing, puh, puh, puh, puh, pole-smoking, salad-taw, taw, tossing, tea- baa, baa, bagging, buh, buh, buh, bum-riding, limp-wristed, knob- paw, paw, polishing, luh, luh, luh, luh, light-in-the-loafers…”
“I’ll take the job!” Picking up my telephone, I called my private secretary.
“Where?” Billing’s eyes, radiating excitement, anger, lust, and anticipation of carnal ecstacies which dare not speak their names, restlessly implored me, beseeched me, begged me for surcease.
“Make a right as you exit the lobby. Three doors down. It’s the bar in the back – the one in the front is straight.” I nodded goodbye to Billings as he abruptly took his leave.
“Yes, Mr. Collins?” My private secretary’s voice mixed with the sound of a hurriedly slammed door.
“Shred the paperwork Mr. Aspasuos and Mr. Henderson left with you. Then call them both and leave messages that I have accepted a task from the U.S. State Department, the execution of which precludes performance of any related work for either of them.”
“Okay – shred their paperwork and call both of them – will do. Anything else?”
“Just one thing – about philately.”
“Oh my, what about it?”
“It’s stamp collecting.”
“Well, that’s a relief – my neck is killing me in the mornings as it is. So starting a marble collectors’ blog site won’t turn my husband gay, then?”
“Not unless the marbles weigh sixty tons and have a bunch of really buff, half-naked men with very tiny physical endowments, all decked out in fancy Bronze Age costumes carved on them.”
“That would do it?”
“Oh yeah; and I wish I had quarter for every time it has. I could retire tomorrow.”