The Thief of Time (16 page)

The marriage failed. We were not long in Madrid before it became clear that we would be unable to get past the matter of my indiscretion and Celine and I – amicably but with regret – decided to part. It grieved me to see the end come to this marriage, which I had finally decided was one to which I wished to devote if not my, then at least the rest of Celine's, life, and I cursed myself for my apparent inability to remain faithful to one woman or to maintain a healthy, successful relationship. I begged for another chance but her disappointment in me was as obvious as her sense of betrayal. When we parted, I became disconsolate and drifted from Spain to Egypt where I invested for a time in a project aimed at building low-cost housing around Alexandria, a rare departure from the artistic world for me. I made a lot of money in my time there for the city was prosperous and in need of more dwellings and when I sold my share of the buildings, I made a profit of almost two million drachma, a fortune at the time. The kind of money one could live off for ever if one was careful with it.

Although it was to be three years after our dinner together before I again met Baron de Coubertin, I had followed his continuing story in the newspapers with some interest. The initial lecture at the Sorbonne had met with a positive response from his audience, although it was barely reported in the media, but eventually I heard that he had travelled to America with Celine by his side to meet with representatives of the Ivy League universities, among others, to stir interest in a modern Games. It seemed that she had taken on the position of his secretary and had become almost as involved in his work as he was himself. He returned to the Sorbonne in 1894 where the definitive decision to hold the Games was made, with representatives from twelve countries in attendance, and he himself was appointed secretary-general, under the presidency of a Greek man named Demetrius Vikelas.

‘I wanted to hold off the Games until 1900,' he told me some years later. ‘I thought it would make sense to see in the new century with a new Olympiad, but I was outvoted, eleven to one. Most of the delegates from the individual countries, having got the bit between their teeth, were pushing for quicker action. Of course, I had been planning this for years. I didn't want to rush into it without due preparatory time. Not after devoting so much of my life to the endeavour anyway.

He had also favoured holding the Games in Paris, but Vikelas overruled him and insisted that they be held in Athens where the Games had originally taken place. It was agreed that they should be held every four years and the date for the first of the modern era was set for April of 1896. Elaborate plans immediately got underway.

Visiting Paris again, I was attending a reception to welcome the flautist Jure back home from his triumphant American tour when I saw Pierre locked in conversation with a couple of acquaintances of mine outside on the lawn. Going out to join them, I extended a hand to Pierre, who shook it warmly as if we were old friends.

‘I don't believe we've met, sir,' he said, however, introducing himself to me as if for the first time. ‘Pierre de Fredi.'

I laughed, a little embarrassed and surprised that he did not remember our one-time familial relationship. ‘Indeed we have,' I replied. ‘Do you not recall a dinner we had in Paris a few years ago, on the night before your first lecture to the Sorbonne?' He looked a little unsure and stroked his moustache nervously. ‘I was with your sister,' I added.

‘My sister?'

‘Celine,' I reminded him. ‘We were ... well, we were married at the time. I was your brother-in-law. I still am, I suppose, as we have never divorced.'

He clapped his hands together suddenly, a slight affectation I observed in him from time to time, before grasping my shoulders tightly. ‘Of course,' he shouted, his face breaking into a broad grin. ‘Then you must be Mr Zéla, that's it, isn't it?' His uncertainty testified to me the fact that Celine did not speak of me often.

‘Matthieu,' I insisted. ‘Please.'

‘Indeed, indeed,' he said, nodding slowly, his face growing reflective as he looked at me and took me aside gently. ‘Actually, I remember that night quite well. I believe I told you both about my plans for the Games, am I right?'

‘You did,' I acknowledged, remembering his enthusiasm with pleasure. ‘And I must admit that at the time, while intrigued by your ideas, I thought they were a little too far-fetched to be realised. I never believed you could bring things as far as you have. I've followed your adventures quite avidly in the newspapers, you know. You are to be congratulated for your work.'

‘Have you really?' he asked, laughing. ‘Have you indeed? Well it's kind of you to take an -'

‘And what of Celine?' I asked quickly. ‘You see her often, I presume.'

He shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly before answering. ‘She is based in Paris at the moment, with me. She became rather interested in the idea of the Games and I must admit has become indispensable to me now. Her advice and encouragement, not to mention her skill as a hostess, are worth a great deal to me. We have become true siblings in a way we were not for so many years. You hurt her quite badly, you know, Mr Zéla,' he added a little haughtily.

‘Matthieu,' I repeated. ‘And I realise that, I assure you. I miss her greatly, Pierre. Might I ask is she involved with anyone else right now?'

He breathed in deeply and looked around, unsure what to say for the best. ‘She is devoted to her work and to me. To
our
work, I should say,' he explained eventually. ‘Whatever happened in the past . . . well, I do not believe she thinks about it too often these days. She has moved on. She does not, however, consort with young men if that is what you are getting at. She is still a married woman, after all.'

I nodded and wondered whether I would be quite so civil to someone who had treated my sister in so cavalier a manner as I had his. I felt it would be inappropriate, however, to continue to talk about her behind her back and so complimented him once more upon his success, the only thing outside of Celine that I felt we could discuss with any enthusiasm. Again, it was like lighting a Christmas tree in a darkened room. His face bobbed up, his eyes shone, his cheeks grew slightly red and he immediately forgot the awkward moment we had just gone through.

‘I must admit', he told me, ‘that there were many times when I did not believe myself that we could actually do it. And now, it seems, the Games are almost upon us. Only another seventeen months to go.'

‘And are you prepared?' I asked. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and looked around the garden nervously. ‘Let us go inside,' he suggested. ‘Let us find a quiet corner somewhere we can talk. Perhaps you might be able to advise me on some matters. You are quite the businessman, are you not?'

‘I've made a little money over the years,' I admitted.

‘Good, good,' he said quickly. ‘Then perhaps you will know where I can turn to on a certain matter. Come now. Let us go inside.' And with that he took me by the arm and led me inside the reception area to a room upstairs where we sat by a log fire and he told me of the difficulties he was facing and I explained a way that I might yet be able to help him.

A week later I returned to Egypt to close off my final business transactions there, and watched the papers anxiously for any fresh news on the Olympics. Incredibly, it seemed that the decision had been made to hold the Games in Athens without so much as consulting the Greek government, who had precious little money to spare on something so potentially frivolous as an Olympiad. Because of this, the Hungarian government had stepped in and offered to host the inaugural games themselves, with the condition that a top ranking Budapest official be given a position of authority alongside Vikelas. Any such move would of course have involved the removal of Pierre from the proceedings, the very idea of which devastated him.

‘This is exactly the reason I wanted to wait until 1900,' he told me that evening at Jure's party in Paris as we became gradually more and more drunk on wine; his mood was tense but he was trying not to believe that the worst could in fact happen. ‘We aren't ready. Athens isn't ready. Budapest
certainly
isn't ready. If we only had a few more years to prepare we could make everything perfect. As things stand, I can see this whole dream just vanishing into thin air.'

I saw this as my opportunity to make amends with Celine for the unhappiness I had caused her in her life. If she heard that I had helped her brother fulfil his ambition, perhaps she could then forgive me for the unhappiness I had caused her in her own life. I did not expect a reconciliation – nor was I sure that I even desired one – but I felt then as now that I must pay my debts and not cause hurt to people unnecessarily. I had damaged my wife; now I had an opportunity to help her brother. It seemed only right that I should do so.

Pierre arranged a meeting between the two of us and Crown Prince Constantine, who had already set up various committees aimed at generating funds for the Games and we discussed different plans for making sure that they stayed in Athens. Afterwards, I travelled to Egypt once again and arranged an appointment with Georges Averoff, one of the most important businessmen in the country. He was a well-known benefactor to various Greek causes, having paid for the building of the Athens Polytechnic, the military academy and the juvenile prisons among other places of common good. I had met him many times over the course of the previous few years and, while it was well known that he had the means to support a project such as this, we had not enjoyed a good relationship during my time there. I had made the error in judgement of giving an interview to a local newspaper regarding building plans within the city and had been critical of some of Averoff's holdings. Although we were both engaged in very similar projects, he was a much wealthier man than I – in interest alone he earned an annual income which came to about half of my capital. I was in poor form at the time and had foolishly felt threatened by the constant signs of ‘Averoff throughout Alexandria and elsewhere, where I wanted to see the name ‘Zéla'. I felt personally affronted that I myself was not afforded the respect and admiration of the populace which flowed so easily towards the great entrepreneur. And so I had made light of some of his buildings, going so far as to call his trademark high windows and rococo finishes a blight on a great city, a pock-mark on the face of modern Alexandria. I said more than that too but it was all childish stuff and unworthy of me. One of Averoff's people came to see me shortly afterwards and told me that while they were not going to take any action against me at that time, Averoff would appreciate it if I never spoke his name to a media body again, and I was so embarrassed by the way that the newspaper had portrayed me as a shallow, childish simpleton that I complied immediately. So, naturally, I was not particularly looking forward to meeting with him, cap in hand, and asking for help.

We met in his office on a Saturday morning in mid-1895. He sat behind a large mahogany desk and came out to shake my hand warmly when I arrived, which surprised me. His grey hair had turned completely white since I had last seen him and I couldn't help but think that he looked a little like the American writer Mark Twain.

‘Matthieu,' he said, guiding me to a comfortable sofa, across from which he sat in an armchair. ‘It's good to see you again. How long has it been?'

‘A year or so,' I said nervously, wondering whether I should apologise immediately for my previous behaviour or simply pretend that it had never taken place. A man in his position, with his responsibilities, was surely too busy to remember every single slight, every word which was said against him, I reassured myself, eventually deciding to let it go. ‘At the Krakov party, if I remember correctly.'

‘Ah, yes,' he said. ‘Terrible thing that happened there, wasn't it?' (Petr Krakov, a government minister, had been shot dead only a few weeks earlier on the street outside his house. No one had yet claimed responsibility, but there was talk of underground involvement, which surprised everyone, for this was not a city of violence.)

‘Awful,' I said, nodding my head piously. ‘Who knows what kind of business he was involved in? A most unhappy end.'

‘Well, let's not speculate,' he said quickly, as if he knew only too well. ‘The truth will out sooner or later. Idle gossip will get us nowhere.' I looked at him and wondered whether this was a dig or not but decided against, for the moment anyway. His desk was littered with framed photographs and I asked whether I might take a look at them. He assented with a smile and a wave of his hand.

‘That is my wife, Dolores,' he said, indicating a smiling woman who was ageing gracefully by his side. Her features were fine and I could tell that she must have been a great beauty in her youth, and perhaps the kind of woman who becomes completely stunning when she reaches her natural middle age. ‘And those are my children. And some of their wives and children.' There were a lot of them and I could see a glowing pride in his face as he showed them to me, which I envied. He lived a similar life to me, Georges Averoff; we were both entrepreneurs, we had both made a lot of money, we were both intelligent businessmen, and yet somehow this aspect of life had escaped me. I wondered how it was that after so many failed marriages and relationships I had yet to father a child or begin a happy family such as he had. Perhaps it was true; perhaps there really was only one woman for every man and I had already lost her. Not that I could have ever hoped to have kept her.

‘So,' he said with a smile as we sat back down across from each other, ‘what did you want to see me about?'

I explained the events of the past few months with Georges, telling him about Pierre's brilliant plans and how they looked increasingly likely to be spurned. I showed him the letter from Crown Prince Constantine, urging him to help us, and repeated the series of disasters which had led to the possibility of a Hungarian Games. I appealed to his sense of patriotism, stressing how important the Games would be for Greece but, in truth, I did not have to speak for long for he almost immediately gave in.