Across from Tita perched the plunderer: a petite, 91-year-old woman named, Sevasti. Though Sevasti was surrounded by her treasures, she was not dwarfed by their grandeur. Sitting queenly in an ornate, wicker chair, it was Sevasti who enhanced them.
“Sit,” Sevasti commanded.
Tita sank low into a hot velvet of an Ottoman couch. Sevasti’s sitting area mimicked that of the landowning Greek nobility during Ottoman occupation. In front of Tita was an antique coffee table upon which rested a water pipe mosaiced with small, colorful stones. Beside it a hand-carved backgammon board cradled a game of portes, nearly finished. The side of the board facing Tita was about to lose double. Facing Sevasti was the side of the imminent victor. Tita found it surprising that a woman of Sevasti’s age and standing would be playing backgammon at all, a game typically reserved for men in coffee shops and cloudy bars. Even more surprising was that Sevasti had the skill of an experienced player and daring to trounce her opponent in this manner.
Refocusing her attention, Tita flipped open her blank journalistic notepad just as she had practiced. She made sure her face appeared wide-eyed and full of wonder – the way in which she envisioned a young journalist would face an esteemed interviewee such as Sevasti.
Sevasti opened a small, silver box of loose tobacco.
“Do you mind if I smoke, too?” Tita asked. “It’s been a long day —”
“Yes. I do mind. Tsitsi, what kind of feature does the Kathemerini newspaper want to publish on me? Let me make it clear to you, I am not interested in the exposure of my personal collection.”
“My name is Tita, short for Margarita, actually, not Tsitsi,” Tita replied boldly. “My aim, Kiria Sevasti, actually the Kathemerini’s aim, is to celebrate the historic nature of your home that so many have heard about but of which so few know the story.”
Sevasti was known to dismiss journalists and professors before they even entered her home, merely because she disapproved of their attire. To prepare, Tita had watched editorial interviews online, attempting to model journalistic style and cadence. She doodled anxiously in her notebook, knowing she would have to change her strategy if she wished for any honesty from the old woman. Now, in Sevasti’s presence, Tita had to deliver her lines.
“Oh, really? A reporter from Kathemerini wanting to write a feature on Greek culture? Since when has the paper expanded its interests beyond austerity and financial crisis?” she asked contemptuously.
“I’m interested in the museum-like quality of your home. Here, professors and scholars come to study your artifacts, both catalogued and…uncatalogued. I’ve heard The Benaki Museum itself has made offers to purchase your collection. Yet, you refuse even them.”
“Why do you young people discard the beautiful name you were given at birth for an abbreviated nickname? Is a name which is not monosyllabic really such an inconvenience to you? Such a disrespect to the yiayia you were named for,” said Sevasti, clicking her tongue.
“Actually, I grew up with the nickname from my own yiayia. I’m sure you understand, you yourself preferring the nickname, Sevasti.”
Sevasti raised a single eyebrow.
“To return to my original question about your refusal of The Benaki—”
“Of which is none of your concern.”
“Kiria Sevasti, I’d just like to ask you about your home.” Now addressing the old woman in the respectful, plural tense, Tita hoped such a gesture would at least permit her a few more questions.
“Then by all means, let us proceed.”
“Well,” Tita said, “I’m sure that after seeing all of this, it may be stating the obvious, but why do they call your house the ‘mini-Benaki?’”
“‘Mini-Benaki?’ Not even the sycophantic scholars call my home that,” Sevasti scoffed, as she carefully packed tobacco into a rolling paper, licking it closed.
“I meant to say, what do you see that your home has in common with the great museums of Greece. Or perhaps, what you have that they lack?”
“This is my home,” she said, pointing her glowing cigarette at the treasures surrounding her. “Benaki’s collection is now in a museum, behind glass being squawked at by school children and illiterate tourists. Death to art. An abomination and a crime.”
Tita felt she was beginning to elicit a genuine reaction from Sevasti: anger, as opposed to condescension. Eyes flitting from object-to-object, Tita hesitated with her next line of questioning. This was because Tita was no journalist. At thirty-two-years-old, she was one of the few women her age who managed to secure a position in the investigative division of the Greek government’s Ministry of Culture and Sports. Through her impersonation of Margarita Simonas, (a journalist she had selected from the Kathemerini website because of her same first name),Tita aimed to prove the ill-gotten nature of Sevasti’s collection. This quest was unsanctioned by the Ministry, however, if it were successful, it would be the biggest triumph of her career.
In her role at the Ministry, Tita dealt with rare antiquities each day of her working life. Yet even she was in awe of Sevasti’s collection of artifacts: every corner, wall, and surface were resplendent. Icons, hand painted with silver and gold accents, circling small saintly faces, a bronze helmet awaiting a Hellene youth ready for battle, porcelain plates framing the edges of the walls. Guarding one corner, was a Minoan fertility statue, opposing an equally rotund jade Buddha. Precious rings hanging from cobwebs of gold thread. A bronze bust of Alexander the Great inspecting a Persian warrior’s decorative harness – ancient enemies now sharing the same wall. A massive Turkish dining room table quietly awaiting twelve unknown guests. A mosaic icon of the Virgin Mary, intact, radiant, and beautiful. Greek Cultural Heritage Law and the Central Archeological Council had established laws to protect private ownership of artifacts. Tita and her office were tasked with enforcing these laws. Tita was incredulous that Sevasti had not been flagged years ago, with so many ‘hot’ items likely acquired through unsanctioned exchanges. Already Tita could identify many violations: illegal ownership of movable monuments, hundreds of pieces likely uncatalogued with the Ministry of Illegal Import, probably purchased from Athens’ thriving artifact black markets.
Then she spotted it, the most surprising treasure of all: Agia Sophia, an oil painting by Konstantinos Parthenis, hanging over the brick fireplace. In the painting’s foreground stood the Agia Sophia in her bastardized Ottoman form and hovering above her like a floating shield of protection were angels and saints, their wings melting into the bleak sky. Tita knew of no other private collector who owned a piece from one of Greece’s most hailed expressionistic painters. Tita remembered this painting had hung in Athens’ National Gallery of Art during a special exhibit on Parthenis. Sevasti certainly was the collector who had loaned it. Even though it may have been acquired legally, this Prathenis should belong to the National Gallery of Art in Athens for all to see, not nestled over a private fireplace for the viewing pleasure of one, obsolete old woman.
Tita’s dusty sneakers sank into the thick Persian rug beneath her feet. Eyes resting on a row of tortured-looking, wooden masks, Tita empathized with their pained expressions. She had no doubt that such objects still retained significance in their country of origin – another violation. Historically, the Mediterranean was the impetus of global trade and illicit exchanges, making its black market challenging to regulate. Therefore, the success of Tita’s mission was vital as such an opportunity may never come to her again.
Tita returned to her rehearsed script. “I read Dr. Panagiatopolous’ interview of you in 2004, where you’re quoted—”
“Stop,” Sevasti said, waving her hand, eyes closed in irritation.
Tita tried again. “Are those African masks from Sudan? —”
“Eritrea,” she muttered, eyes still closed. “However, the provenance of an item is unimportant.”
“I understand that, Kiria Sevasti, but as I’m writing a cultural feature, it’s important I—”
The old woman’s eyes flashed open, her gaze intent on Tita. “This room represents a lifetime. My lifetime. And, at the same time, infinite lifetimes. I let very few strangers past my kitchen. If you were not paying me, you would have been back on the metro passing Syntagma by now,” Sevasti chortled.
“I read your husband is of the Greek-Alexandrians. Is that where your African collection comes from? —”
“He was…,” Sevasti said, lighting another cigarette, “but this is all mine. My husband has nothing here. Nothing. Except for his last name. Nothing. Did you write that down?”
Tita fervently scratched the female insult, ‘STRYGLA’ into her notepad. Despite what they considered themselves, to Tita, collectors like Sevasti were not artists. Artists birth something new. Sevasti was a mere exploiter. Tita had heard the rumors, she had spoken to the neighbors. She knew the antique dealers Sevasti frequented, many of which Tita had personally seen to closing or fining heavily. Vultures of historical hedonism who profited from the most sacred parts of Greece: the ones which were never meant to be owned. What Tita was doing was technically illegal, she was aware of that. Impersonating the identity of an actual woman could get her fired, but if her time working in the Greek bureaucracy had taught her anything, it was that sometimes such actions were the cost of progress. If she were successful in getting just one major collector to voluntarily admit to a black-market purchase, she would catch the Ministry’s attention, and be promoted to head the mission herself.
* * *
“So, tell me, when did this,” Tita said, pointing to the expanse around her, “all begin?” Tita knew the answer was likely well before the formation of the antique protection laws.
Unphased by Tita’s attempt to revive the interview, Sevasti rose from her seat, and she tugged open a drawer, lifting from it a weathered, leather-bound book. Spilling from its edges were yellow clippings and corners. Sevasti opened to the first page, showing Tita a pasted, black-and-white portrait of a seated man with a small child in his lap.
“Me and my baba, 1936. I was three years old. I was born by the port, Piraeus. Though of course, you would not guess that by looking at me now,” she chortled, “but, I was.”
“So why did you begin collecting, then?” said Tita, attempting to further coax the old woman.
Sevasti’s smile faded. “I could not bear other people owning what I wanted. Though, truthfully, Margarita, most of these priceless treasures, these things, do not bring me joy,” she said, shaking her head. “As soon as I acquired one, its appeal would diminish. And the next day, I was back, compulsively dredging through the auction houses and antique shops of Athens in search of the singular object which would grant me long-lasting pleasure.”
“It must have taken years to accumulate such a collection. Do you know when you began? Tita repeated.”
“My baba was a tailor. A good one, too. Most tailors at that time just made clothes of utility. Baba, however, he was a businessman,” she said, lighting another cigarette. “He saw the future of Greece.”
“And what future was that?”
“My baba believed that Greece would continue to follow the enlightened west. He was right, because after all the wars, we eventually did. Women could dress beautifully and fashionably, not as grieving widows or objects of reproduction. My baba could turn a fish maid into a lady on the cheap, as if there were nothing to it. As a young girl, I would stand and watch him work as I swept threads and scraps from the floor for hours of the day. Then at night, from these piles, Baba would have me excavate the viable pieces before I would throw the shreds away. From these small scraps I learned how to sew. It would be years before he would actually cut cloth for me to use. He wanted to see what I could make from things that were to be discarded.”
“Then, what clothing would you create?” Tita decided it was in her favor to entertain the old woman’s nostalgia. “I’ve seen photos of that time period, the details, the intricacies of rouching and pleats – all custom fitted, I’m sure.”
“Not clothing. Dolls.”
“Dolls?”
Sevasti nodded, placing down the book, fingering for another rolling paper. “You see, as a child, if I wanted to play, I first had to learn how to create. It was my baba who saw something in me before I did. At first, what I made were ugly little things. Miniature torsos of bound muslin outfitted in rough sack dresses,” she said, almost laughing, “but over time, I would teach myself embroidery. Small faces with expressions. Little dresses with pleats. I would even trim fur from tails of stray dogs and sew it on the heads for hair. Shards of shell and stone for shoes and handbags. Before long, I had made a look-alike doll for every girl in my apartment building, purely out of goodwill. Instantly, I had friends on each floor, and eventually, in the neighboring apartment buildings, too. From a young age, my baba had taught me that cultivating a loyal customer base was far more important than the product customers were sold. A beautiful dress you only profit from once. A single customer you can profit from many times over.”
“Do you have any dolls that I can see?” said Tita, hoping for a glimpse inside one of the old woman’s closets.
Sevasti laughed through her teeth, licking shut the freshly packed cigarette. “I never ended up making one for myself. By the time I had made dolls for every girl I knew, I had moved on.”
“Moved on to what?”
After taking a puff, Sevasti inhaled for several seconds before exhaling two columns of smoke from her widened nostrils.
“To dressing real women, of course.”
* * *
“Behind that tapestry is a closet,” Sevasti pointed. “Inside there is a hanging rack, wheel it out.” Tita knew it would be too risky to linger inside the closet for a closer look. Obeying the old woman’s request, she revealed the movable dress rack from which hung several bulging garment bags.
“Here are ‘My Nine,’ as I call them,” said Sevasti haughtily. Then, she slowly released each design from a protective plastic.
“Each creation takes inspiration from one of the Muses: two blue with a flair of 20th century Orientalism, one designed with a distinctive, Parisian pattern of the 1950’s, one of classical Hellenistic drapery, two representative of haute couture, complete with intricate beading, pleats, and rouching, with a hat and purse to match. And, of course, a tweed pantsuit, likely one of the first of its kind in Greece. They were all featured in Eikones fashion magazine. I staged the shoot. I selected the models. I edited the layout. And I approved of the entire spread before print.”
“They’re magnificent, Kiria Sevasti.” Sevasti seemingly ignored the compliment.
“My father sent me to apprentice in a Parisian fashion house when I was young. Italians and French dominated those spaces, and I was respected as much as an illiterate, island goatherder,” Sevasti smiled. “Yet even they could not ignore an illiterate, island goatherder with talent.”
“You surely saw an opportunity in the luxury clothing market of Athens. Grecians craved the westernization of Greece.”
“Greek art has been crippled by history. First, the Turks had raped us of intellect and beauty from our native culture. The Balkan Wars, the Second World War, the Civil War – each further poisoning our true spirit as a people. So, when my father’s tailor shop became my own, I saw an opportunity to marry my knowledge of the Greek fashion market with the high-end skills I had acquired in Paris.”
“Instead of making dolls for girls, you made clothes for women…brilliant!” said Tita, clicking her pen. “That’ll definitely be my byline.”
“Margarita, women want to be beautiful, they always have and always will. And though not every woman is, as you would know,” she added, looking over Tita’s tank top, cargo pants, and dirty sneakers, “every woman can own these,” she said, gesturing to the rack, “and be made beautiful.”
Tita impressed herself with how easily she had drawn such intimacies from the old woman. However, their discussion remained on dresses that were of no consequence to her mission.
“It was I who metamorphosed Athenian women into butterflies,” Sevasti reiterated, excitement rising in her voice. “My shop grew to six women. Each month I would receive shipments of new luxury fabrics, colors, textures, beads, prints, jewelry, purses, feathers, hats. And furs! What did Greek women need of furs in this heat, you may ask. It did not matter. It was what French women had. And now, it was what Greek women could afford, too. I was traveling once a month to fashion houses in Paris, Alexandria, Milan to obtain the latest dress patterns and to order luxury materials,” said Sevasti, eyes widening, “…I was creating art!”
Then, the old woman exhaled, her breath like a wave dissipating over the shore.
“Each dress I made was my child,” Sevasti said softly. “There was always a push and pull. Like my own children, they never formed in the exact direction I had envisioned. But I trained them, reared them, and guided them until they became appendages I could not imagine existing without. In the year after the spread on ‘My Nine’ was published, my shop was booked six months out, and I was soliciting overseas commissions.” Sevasti shook her head, “I thought those times would never end.”
To Tita’s amazement, a crack had formed in the old woman’s iron exterior. “Kiria Sevasti, with six women working in your shop, you must’ve been very busy. I can’t imagine there was much time to devote to your family.”
“It was difficult, but I made it work. And it did work, despite what my husband said,” Sevasti’s voice had returned to its customary curtness. “Was I home every night baking koulourakia, washing my husband’s pants, bathing my babies – of course not. My mother took care of those things—”
“But you sold your shop.”
“Yes. Not by choice.”
“Oh?” Tita looked up from her notepad. In her research, she had found that all of Sevasti’s assets were listed under her own name, not her husband’s – a rare occurrence for a woman of her age in Greece.
“How come?” Tita asked, as this detail must relate to the illegal purchase of artifacts.
“Nothing to expand upon. That was life. Do you see her over there?” Sevasti said, referencing a small, marble figurine.
“She looks like a miniature caryatid.”
“She is an ancient, to-scale model of the one caryatid still held hostage in the British Museum. Look at her – strong posture, muscular, yet full-figured. Her neck and head once the architectural support system of an ancient temple. The older I grow, the more she has become my favorite artifact. She is a paragon of femininity: from her strong feet to her childbearing hips, she shelters all who seek refuge beneath the shadow of her ample bosom. The ancients understood it was womanly strength which fortified life.”
“This must be one of the only original caryatid models still in Greek possession. What’s her provenance exactly?”
“As I said before, that is none of your concern. However, let me enlighten you to the only provenance relevant to your feature. I turned myself into someone beyond the stereotyped, female caryatid. I was not satisfied in being merely a column to uplift roofs designed by men, so I became their designer. I became a lady of Athens. I learned to talk like them, to act like them, to live like them. My talent became my path to this.”
“—hence the house? One of this size, in this neighborhood. Your husband must have offered you support.”
“Supported me? It was my money. My money that paid for the seamstresses, the trips, the fabrics—”
“And this house? I’m assuming this room is just the annex—?”
“Along with my baba’s shop, this house was my dowry. It is where my boys grew, mostly with my mama.”
“You said ‘boys’ just now…,” said Tita, nodding to a portrait of two young boys, around five or six, displayed on the side table behind Sevasti. “Are those your two sons? I’m sure they are so thrilled to be inheriting all of this one day,” referencing the grandeur around her, “I’d love to get their perspective as part of my article.”
Sevasti turned her head to glance at the photos, and then quickly back again to face Tita. The old woman’s eyes were glossy white, her pupils two blots of bubbling ink. She took another drag of her cigarette. Her gaze was fixed on the female breastplate hanging on the wall behind Tita. Bronze, custom molded to the generous bust of an 17th century woman from the foothills of Taygetus mountain. A fighting woman, curvaceously feminine, yet impenetrable to Turkish treachery.
“Tuti, I am assuming you are a woman with career aspirations, yes? A woman that had to work hard. Well, imagine your dream is snatched from you, against your will by a husband ashamed to feed his family from the purse of his wife. My collection is what I could still create with the money I had earned. If you knew the merchants by the port and frequented the right social gatherings, acquiring artifacts was not difficult at all. So that’s what I did.”
“Is that what led to the rumors of your financial ruin? Is there any truth that while your husband was ill, you illegally spent his pension on antiques, ignoring his medical bills? Or that you were paying in cash at underground auction houses and foregoing your signature on ‘proof of purchase’ receipts?”
Sevasti’s eyebrows snapped towards her hairline. Her plume of blue-ish cotton hair seemed to wilt slightly, no longer the crown of an empress.
“Who did you say your editor was, Tuti?”
Tita had done a brief Google search of the newspaper’s website before arriving.
“Dr. Pappas. Feature Editor of History & Culture.”
“Pappas—male or female?”
“Female. Efrosini Pappas.”
“They are a good family, yes. Good customers. Loyal.”
Tita swallowed, “yes, Efrosini is a kind boss. A strong working woman, like yourself.”
“She gets it from her mother. Theodora was actually one of my favorite clients.”
“I never took Efrosini to be a woman who would value such frivolities.”
“Frivolities? My, the world of feminism has not only made you weak, it has made you stupid. A culture reporter with the cultural acumen of a Romanian gypsy. Let me educate you now. In my time, women could neither have degrees, education, nor property rights. Clothing was our currency. Without it, we were nothing more than Eve, naked, clutching her half-bitten apple in one hand while shouldering the blame of the world.”
“I apologize, Kiria Sevasti, if my questions have offended you.”
“It’s quite curious that Efrosini never had a conversation about artifacts with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her mother, Theodora Pappas, was by no means my wealthiest client, she was far from it. But she knew how business was really conducted in Greece. She understood, and still understands, value.”
“Oh, so she bribed you, then?”
“Theodora knew never to trust the drachma. She would pay me once annually for all of her commissions. Not in worthless currency, but in artifacts.”
“Artifacts? The ones here?”
“For generations the Pappas family has owned property in Rhodes. The family compound was built atop an ancient Rhodian agora. If the family leveled stone for a new veranda, artifacts appeared. When they laid pipes to bring running water to the house, more antiquities were unearthed. One year when planting a garden, a mosaic was uncovered. Theodora knew what I liked and saved them for me. In turn, I would reserve my best imports of cloth and most unique patterns for her.”
Tita’s heart was fluttering. She had just heard the closest utterances to a confession. “And the Rhodian government just lets this happen?”
“What do you mean, lets it? Silly girl, they profit from it. Do you actually know anything about this piece you are writing?”
“Like I said, I’m new, I mean, I still have a lot to learn. Efrosini is my editor, everything I write crosses her desk first. I’ll talk to her tomorrow—”
“No need, child.” Sevasti stood up and walked toward an antique telephone. “I’ll ring her mother right now.”
“Please don’t bother yourself with a phone call. I’ll fact-check with Efrosini tomorrow, that won’t be a problem, Kiria Sevasti,” her words tumbling from her mouth.
Sevasti stopped and turned to face Tita. The wrinkles on the old woman’s face started to stretch into a strange smile.
“Does Efrosini know you are here?”
“Well, she assigned me to the piece.”
“I have not spoken to Theodora in quite some time, but I feel if her daughter were sending a reporter from the Kathemerini to interview me, she would have called me about it. You see, Theodora was one of those little girls who lived in my apartment years ago.”
Moving swiftly towards the door, Sevasti’s white linen dress flowed behind her in the Athenian heat.
“I do not know who you are. Leave now!” Sevasti commanded, “or should I just call the police instead? That would be one way to ensure your name gets Efrosini Pappas’ attention.” And with surprising speed, Sevasti ushered Tita out of the house.
Walking backwards through the front door, Tita slipped on the slick, top marble step, losing her balance. The contents of Tita’s purse spilled onto the driveway: her blank journalist notebook, pens, notecards, cigarettes, and Ministry badge, now glittering in the daylight.
“Margarita,” said a voice from above, “if there is anything I have become good at in my years of collecting, it is spotting a replica. My Parthenis you could not peel your eyes from, that is clearly an original. Even someone with your peasant knowledge can see no one is capable of impersonating such genius. Sometimes counterfeits are not obvious right away. They may have all of the right cracks, inscriptions, they may look, feel, and smell like they should. But fakes can never replace art. That indescribable essence is something that even the most expert frauds can never capture. Margarita, if that is even your name, you are just another cheap imitator,” and with that, the old woman shut and bolted her door.
On her hands and knees, Tita groped at her belongings and thrust them into her bag. A woman who had risen to prominence in her field and earned the respect of her peers had been diminished to that of small child clumsily gathering its toys. The caryatids, usurped, the Agia Sophia, vandalized, and Sevasti, vindicated. Tita looked up at the sky. She could imagine the angels and saints from Parthenis’ painting, hovering above, weeping. Now on her feet, Tita rummaged through her bag. She placed an offering on Sevasti’s front step: her Ministry badge. Turning on her heel, Tita paused. She said a silent prayer and hurried away.
* Authekastos in Ancient Greek refers to someone who “calls things by their right names” – who “calls a spade a spade.” Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by Robert C. Bartlett and Susan D. Collins. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2011.