The Icon (10 page)

“You’re not used to doing the work, are you? Things just come to you.”

“I’m sorry,” but it sounded less like the confused response he’d intended, and more like the apology it was. “Mostly, things just go away from me.”

“Poor boy.”

She turned to the door, but he reached out and gripped her shoulder. She turned back and kissed him again, more forcefully, and this time he took the hint.

H
e was supposed to wait on the sidewalk for the black sedan to come rolling down Seventy-ninth Street, but it was a cold day, and Matthew sat in the coffee shop instead. The big glass windows commanded a view of the intersection, busy with vehicular and human traffic, shoppers and museumgoers, marching beneath the little sign that proclaimed this stretch Patriarch Dimitrious Way. The Greek consulate was just down the street.

His concentration was shot—lack of sleep and a not altogether unpleasant state of agitation. Without warning, his mind shifted back a few hours to the warmth of her bed, the unexpected heat of her body. She had been so ready for him that a simple touch had been enough, and he had continued to touch her, in various ways, for some time, totally consumed with pleasing. He didn’t make a conscious decision to stay, simply found himself there in the gray predawn, her weight upon him before he knew where he was. Half-asleep, they rediscovered their rhythm and proceeded in a steady, dreamlike fashion, Ana laughing in embarrassment at her own pleasure, thighs spasming against his hips, her whole body responding to his every motion. He had held her for a long time, not speaking, smelling her hair, her skin, his mind and muscles relaxing for what seemed like the first time in weeks. A blessedly uncomplicated sense of how right they had felt together still possessed him.

Over breakfast, they talked about the icon again, and she seemed to come to a decision. Matthew encouraged her not to make up her mind too quickly, but he had not been displeased. At the door, she wouldn’t let him go.

“This was reckless,” she’d said, squeezing his hand. “We hardly know each other.”

“Knowing takes time. We haven’t done too badly.”

“I don’t even know how old you are.”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

“OK, I’m fourteen,” he confessed. “Really, I’ve been shaving since I was eleven.”

Ana smiled, but her mind had already moved to something else.

“You wouldn’t marry her. That was the problem, wasn’t it?” Her words carried such certainty that he’d felt no need to respond. “That doesn’t make it your fault, Matthew. Just a decision.”

“I’m thirty.”

She’d made a show of being chagrined, but she couldn’t be that much older. Obviously used to being surrounded by older men. Eventually he had broken free and escaped into the frigid morning, but he could picture her still at the half-open door, in a gray cashmere robe, hair askew, blue eyes tracking him down the stairs, seeing him, knowing him in some deep and unsettling way.

There was a draft in the shop, and Matthew wrapped his hands around the porcelain coffee mug. When he looked up again Fotis was there on the sidewalk, just beside the bus shelter. The old man pretended to look around, but Matthew was certain he had spotted him there in the window before ever leaving his car. He stood, and Fotis looked directly at him, gestured for him to stay put.

“Am I late?” “No, I just didn’t want to stand in the cold.”

“We must get you a warmer coat. Why don’t we forget the walk and stay here?”

“Sure.” He hung his godfather’s coat and squeezed into the second chair across the table. It was a slow day, and the waiter was hovering instantly.

“This is the place with the good rice pudding?” Fotis asked.

“Best in New York,” Matthew confirmed.

“Two of those.”

The waiter slid the eight feet back behind the counter. Three of them worked in that small space, banging dishes, shouting at each other in some hybrid of Greek and Spanish.

“Now,” Fotis leaned across the table, “what is so urgent that it could not wait?”

“I would have told you on the phone.”

“These conversations are better had in person.”

Matthew tapped the speckled Formica table. He needed to pin the old bastard down.

“I’m pretty sure Ms. Kessler wants to make a deal with the church.”

The older man nodded slowly.

“This is excellent. You have done a good thing, my boy.”

“I didn’t do anything, except talk to her.”

“Did I not say that would be all that was required?”

“Anyway, I thought it would please you.”

“But not you, I fear.”

Matthew shrugged as the desserts were placed before them. Fotis began eating immediately.

“I think it’s the right choice,” the younger man continued,

“but I can’t help feeling that I’ve been dishonest. She doesn’t know anything about your connection with the church.”

“What is there to know? They asked for my help, it has proved unnecessary.”

“I thought I would tell her. About them talking to you, and you talking to me.”

Fotis continued eating methodically, pudding sticking to his huge mustache.

“You say she came to the decision on her own. If you tell her these things, you tell her to doubt her decision.”

“Maybe she should doubt it.”

The old man glanced up at him. “Why?”

“Because another buyer might pay her more. And a museum would be accountable for what it did with the work. Who knows what these Greeks will do?”

“Demand to know.”

“I’ve told you, I can’t demand anything.”

“Advise her. You’ve done well so far.”

“And why should I undermine my own museum’s interests?”

“That is a different issue.”

“I’m denying myself the chance to have this work at my fingertips, to examine it at length, any time I want. That’s a very appealing idea to me.”

“And that is a different issue still.” Fotis paused to chew as two large women with several colorful shopping bags each bustled into the tiny shop, gabbling in some Scandinavian tongue.

“Now we have the girl, the museum, and yourself. Who comes first?”

“It’s Ana’s icon.”

Matthew hadn’t meant to use her first name, but if the old fox noticed, he did not let on.

“Very good. She has taxes to pay, I understand, but her financial situation is sound. She has no real money needs. She may well have spiritual ones.”

“That’s not for us to conjecture about.”

“Her grandfather built a chapel to contain the icon.” The old man’s bushy eyebrows rose meaningfully. “Mother of God, what could be a clearer sign of his intentions than that? What could better honor his feelings for the work than giving it to the church? So there is the girl. The museum, truly, I must tell you that I don’t give a damn about them one way or another. Your loyalty is admirable, of course, but it is a big, rich institution which has no need of your protection. Eat your pudding.”

Matthew wasn’t hungry, but dutifully took a bite.

“As for what you need,” Fotis continued, the long spoon clattering in his empty dessert glass, “that concerns me greatly.” He wiped his face carefully and turned his eyes to the street. Always on the lookout, thought Matthew. For what? “The church will want to secure the icon before the girl has second thoughts, but they will not be able to take immediate possession. They have not made arrangements for transport, or for what happens to it over there. I can provide them with a neutral location to store it for a few weeks, insurance coverage, security. I do it for my own work anyway. And you may examine it during that time, whenever you wish.”

“There are companies that specialize in the storage and transportation of art. I could even recommend a few. I can’t believe they would leave that to you.”

“I tell you I can arrange it.”

Matthew squeezed his forehead. He needed sleep, needed to think clearly.

“Have you already arranged it? How deeply are you in with these people?”

“There have been discussions. Nothing has been agreed, but they will do as I suggest. I contribute generously to several of their causes, and unlike you, I am not ashamed to apply leverage. Anyway, they prefer to deal with countrymen, you know the Greeks.”

“And you’re doing this for what reason?”

“You don’t believe it’s for the church?” Fotis smiled at him.

“Suspicious boy. Very well, say that it is for myself. There is little in life that would please me more than returning the icon to Greece, and having a few precious days alone with it before that.”

“I see.”

“And you know, there is another person who might benefit.” Fotis eyed him keenly, but Matthew was unwilling to play. “Your father will be released from the hospital shortly.”

“My father?” A cold panic turned the pudding to lead in his stomach.

“Yes.”

“He’s not much for art. Or religion.”

“If you would remember what you have read, you would understand that faith is not always necessary for healing. It is in the general nature of the miraculous. Doubters are critical to any religion. Their resistance defines faith, and it usually says something about their hearts. The truly godless never bother to think about the matter. Your father’s scorn says something different to me from what he intends.”

“I’m sure he’d be very interested to hear that,” Matthew snapped, anger rising at Fotis’ daring to bring his father into this, even as the old man’s words stirred other, more elusive feelings.

“I would not be foolish enough to say it to him, and I trust that you will have the wisdom not to mention any of this. He will come to my home for a visit when he is out of the hospital. The icon will be there. The rest will be in God’s hands.”

“In God’s hands?” Matthew could barely contain himself. Private musings had leaped from his mind, from the old dusty pages in the library to his godfather’s lips. His own scorn died on his tongue, killed by some stronger emotion. Fear? Was it fear lurking beneath the cover of his righteous rage, and what should he be frightened off? “You honestly think that icon will miraculously cure him?”

“I expect nothing. I would not deny him the opportunity to derive some good from it. Why would you?”

“And for that ridiculous reason I’m not supposed to tell Ana Kessler the truth?”

“There is nothing useful you are keeping from her. And there are
many
reasons why you should allow the matter to take its course. Must we review them again? Do you need more?”

Matthew’s anger reached some critical mass and converted itself into paralyzing self-disgust. A man who knew his mind would do what he had to, would not sit here debating.

“Do you think the girl is telling you everything?” Fotis continued.

“What do you mean?”

“Only that she may have secrets of her own.”

“Like what?”

“I do not claim to know, but it is a strange and secretive family, from what little I understand. She has not hesitated to turn you to her own purposes, make you her personal adviser.”

“I’ve done that willingly.”

“It always feels that way with a woman, yes?”

“I don’t like your insinuations.”

“I withdraw them. You need no self-serving reasons to do what is right.”

“How do either of us know what that is?”

“You will do what is right because you are a good man. You do not require the spur of familial guilt and obligation.”

“Familial guilt,” spat Matthew. “You mean your guilt.”

“Are we not family? But that is not what I meant. The responsibility lies closer still.”

“Please don’t be mysterious,
Theio.
Say what you’re going to say.”

Fotis’ eyes were suddenly damp, and his face seemed to droop with his mustache.

“I did not want to speak of this. I break a trust by doing so. Do you understand me?
To Fithee.
The Snake.”

“The one who killed the priest.”

Fotis reached one long, shaking hand across the table and caught Matthew’s sleeve.

“We cannot know that he
did
kill him. He was doing what he felt was right, remember that.”

“Tell me.”

“Your
Papou.”
And he withdrew the hand, looked away. Matthew simply stared.

“Papou
was the Snake.”

Fotis only nodded, back bent, hat falling over his eyes. Diminished. Matthew allowed any expressions of shock or denial to pass through his mind unspoken. Indeed, the longer he sat there, made mute by the terrible questions in his mouth, the more they tasted like truth. Had he thought about it before now, he might have guessed. Perhaps he had, perhaps that explained his present restraint. Killers grew into kindly old men. He knew his grandfather had an ugly past. His father had told him more than once that the man had done things of which he was now ashamed, things which haunted him. Certainly, there were circumstances that might explain what happened, yet Matthew had the feeling he would never learn what they were. He could fish for answers, but he would have to be careful, have to keep his own secrets from Andreas until he knew more. Even now, all these years later, it was clear that his grandfather was up to something here, something more than visiting his son in the hospital. He was hardly ever at the hotel when Matthew called, would not discuss whom he was seeing or why. Could it be about the icon?

“And if I ask him about this, he’ll confirm it?”

Fotis looked shocked.

“My goodness, child, what could he say to such a thing? He might speak true, he might invent a lie, I don’t know. More than likely, he will say nothing, but I think it would break his heart if he found out that you knew. I pray you will not mention it.”

In the silence that followed, the waiter laid a check on the table. When Fotis did not immediately reach for it, Matthew knew the old man was shaken. He took the check himself, idly folding it several times.

“Damn it,
Theio.
I wish I didn’t know this.”

Andreas, in the backseat with Matthew, fought the drowsiness that always hit him in an overheated car. The smooth driving of his granddaughter Mary, the scientist in training, did not aid his efforts. He had never known a woman to drive so well. In the passenger seat, Alekos was still and pale, but his eyes blazed with new life as he looked out on the wet spring woods. He had not expected to see this place again, thought Andreas; he is wondering if this is the last time he will see it.

I have missed his whole life, the old man pondered. When Alex was a boy, Andreas had been constantly away on one awful piece of business or another. Serving his country. Errands for some bloody-minded brute, or worse, some arrogant idealist, soon corrupted. Forced retirements when governments changed, the chance to lead a normal life thrown away when he was called back to serve the next fool as he’d served the last. It might take months, but eventually they all understood how much they needed men like him. Irreplaceable men, who knew all the secrets. Why did he go back, once, twice, how many times? Because it was all he knew? He could have learned something else. He could have been a man of business. Why did he allow himself to stay in that terrible game, where nobody won, where keeping the idiots in power was the only goal? On good days, he understood the need; there were real enemies. But then there were all those men broken in body and spirit for harmless beliefs. Men not so different from himself.