The Icon (11 page)

Before long Alekos was off to school in America, where he fell in love, and never returned home. Which was just as well, given what Greece became in those years. But the familial bonds were strained, and Maria’s death seemed to snap them. Andreas suspected some loose words from Fotis, either to Alekos or to his hard-hearted niece Irini, Alekos’ wife. There was no other way that his son could have learned certain things, things he would have been better off not knowing. God only knew what Fotis’ goal had been. To drive a wedge between father and son? If he had planned to step in and play surrogate father, that plan had failed. He alienated himself from the boy as well. The evil stories had bred others in Alekos’ mind, until he had come to see plots everywhere. Yet that explanation felt like letting Andreas out of his share in the blame. His absence, his actions, had somehow poisoned his child’s mind, made him turn a cold, scientific eye on life, which he found wanting in every regard.

Or perhaps he was being unfair to both of them. Every father wounded his son, it was almost a duty. A man needed to make his own way, and had not Alekos done that? His cynical, aggrieved manner aside, he had found a wife, made two beautiful children, been successful in his career. The price was the rejection of his old life, his old country, his father. It was fair. It may not have been necessary, but it was fair.

The house, a modest stone structure in this town of great brick mansions, appeared behind a stand of hemlock. Alex refused the wheelchair, and with his son and daughter supporting him, walked up the front steps under his own power. Inside, Irini helped him to his study, where he would rest until he could manage the stairs. Andreas was shown to a chair near a warm radiator, but when the others retreated to the kitchen, he joined them.

“He looks good,” Mary said. “I mean, he looks happy to be home.”

“God willing, we can keep him here,” said Irini, whisking an egg furiously. She alone seemed capable of action.
“Babas,
do you want some water?”

“Make your soup, I will get it.”

But Mary jumped up, which was just as well, since he did not know where to find the glasses. He’d been in this house only twice before and felt as if he were visiting distant relatives. It intensified his sadness, but he attempted to shut that out and gratefully accepted the glass of water from his granddaughter. Mary still had a girl’s face, but she was twenty-seven and not yet married. Too beautiful, the old man surmised; too many choices.

“Thank you, child.”

“Can I hang up your coat?”

“In a little bit.”

“Mom, I’m putting up the heat,
Papou
’s cold.”

“Please, I am well,” Andreas protested. Most old men of his country expected this sort of fussing, but he found it humiliating. He could not sit like a pasha, waited upon. He asked for what he needed, or got it himself. Otherwise, he preferred to be invisible.

“See to your father.”

“There’s nothing I can do for him.” The girl looked stricken.

“Here, sit by me.”

He squeezed Mary’s hand and stroked her hair. Matthew gazed at them across the table. Trouble swirled behind that brow. They had not yet had a real talk, though Andreas had been here nearly a week. Besides long stretches at the hospital, they had not seen each other. The boy was busy, but the time must be found. There was no question that his common sense could be trusted; it was more a case of saving him the mental turmoil which the old schemer’s machinations—assuming Aleko was right about that—might cause. A steadying hand was in order.

“Maria.”
Irini was pouring the frothy soup into a bowl, then squeezing lemon furiously, filling the kitchen with its sharp odor. “Get a tray table and set it up by your father.”

Mary leaped up again, and both women headed down the hall to the study. The two men were left alone in the suddenly quiet kitchen, and the distance between them was palpable.

“Listen for screams and breaking china,” said Matthew.

“I think your father will take his medicine.”

“That’s right,
avgolemono
soup cures cancer.”

Andreas nodded. “It’s possible.”

“I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other. This has been a crazier week than I expected.”

“I have kept myself busy, but it would be good to share some time. Alone, not here.”

“Will you stay tonight?”

“If your mother asks.”

“She doesn’t ask because she assumes you will.”

Andreas waved off the subject. “Tell me how your work is going.”

“Hectic.” Matthew put his feet up on a chair. He looked tired.

“I’m clearing rights on some paintings for a new show. And I’ve been out a couple of days, doing research and making house calls.”

“This is about the Greek icon?”

“Much of it, yes.”

“And is the museum going to buy it?”

“To tell the truth,” Matthew answered, pausing for some internal discussion, “that’s looking doubtful.”

“Really? Why should that be?”

“The seller has gotten cold feet. Also, the museum has gotten nervous. Seems the icon may be stolen property.” The boy was staring at him hard. What did he know? Something, of course, but probably not much. “I guess that doesn’t surprise you to hear.”

“You know I grew up in that village, before I went to Athens. I was there during the war.”

“It was taken by the Germans,” Matthew added pointedly.

“That’s right.”

“And someone was killed trying to stop that.”

“How much has Fotis told you?”

The younger man’s prosecutorial style faltered.

“Almost nothing. Just what I’ve said.”

Was it right to finally speak of it? Would there be relief, or just more pain? Could he do it to the boy? Could he do it, again, to himself?

“Truly, what have you been told?”

“Nothing. I want you to tell me. I want to hear it from you.”

There was no noise from the study. It was as if the other three had vanished. The old man looked at the framed pencil sketch on the wall behind the boy, Alekos’ face in profile, done by Matthew at age fourteen. Highly skilled work. He is fumbling in the dark, Andreas thought, he doesn’t really know anything. Someone had let a loose word slip and the boy is pressing the case. I’m not the first he has asked, which means he’s had no satisfaction elsewhere. He thought of the promise he and Fotis had made each other years before. Did he still owe that silence after all that had happened since then? Was there a way to speak to Matthew of this without breaking that bond?

“I am sorry,” he said finally. “It is one of those foolish situations where if you do not know, I cannot tell you. It is a trust between your godfather and myself.”

Voices were suddenly raised in the study. Matthew’s expression grew distracted. Either he was letting the matter go, or he was casting about in his mind for a different approach. Then footsteps in the hall, and both men looked up. A bewildered and defeated-looking Irini stood in the doorway.

“He threw me out. Do you believe that?” Matthew pulled out a chair, but she would not sit, just leaned against her son. “He can’t bear to have me help him.”

“You were probably trying too hard.”

“I just wanted to make sure he actually ate it.”

“What, were you trying to spoon-feed him?”

“He was spilling it all over.”

“You’ve got to let him do things for himself. He doesn’t want to feel like an invalid.”

She sat, shaking her head, palms placed flat on the table, eyes on the large rain-spattered window. Then her gaze shifted to Andreas.

“You’re staying with us tonight?”

He shrugged.

“No?” Her voice was hard. “You’re going to make my daughter drive you into the city in the rain and dark, you selfish old man?”

He was taken aback by her fierceness, even as he recognized the need. This was not the passive, manipulative creature who had married his son thirty years ago. She had grown tough, and he was proud of her for it.

“I would never ask such a thing. I will stay, if you will have me.”

“You are very welcome here,” she answered softly. “You’ve always been welcome.”

Let’s not go into all that, he thought.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your talk,” she continued. Neither man responded. “I don’t know what all of you have been whispering about this week, and I don’t care. But there will be no secret discussions, no arguments, no terrible stories while you’re in this house. I won’t have Alex being upset, or anyone upset around him. Do you both understand me?”

She looked to Andreas first, and he nodded. Matthew followed suit.

“Good. I need your help, boys. Matthew, go sit with your father.
Babas,
you go put your feet on the sofa, I’ll wake you in half an hour.”

They both moved to comply with her wishes.

She kissed him there in the doorway, for all the world to see, and Matthew found he didn’t care. He could barely remember walking here, had found himself almost unconsciously carried to her doorstep. The impulse had been visceral, intense,
go to her,
his body knowing what was good for him better than his mind. Ana pulled him in the door and held him for many long, comforting moments.

“Your father’s home?”

“Yes. We brought him home yesterday.”

“Are you OK with that?” She stood back, her knowing gaze upon him once more, reading his doubts. “Is that good?”

“It is.” He seemed to discern the truth of it there on the spot. The hell with more treatment, home and family were what was needed. Care. Hope. Faith. “It’s good.” He smiled at her as if it were her doing. “We’ll see how it goes from here.”

When she did nothing further, he started down the hall toward the kitchen, his mind already seeing the stairs beyond, the small chamber and that other woman who was the third part of this triangle. Ana took his arm and pulled him the other way, toward the stairs going up.

“No, no icon today. Just you and me.”

He let her lead him up the stairs, his legs willing but his muscles clenched, while his heart began to race. Weird fears hounded him once more. He wanted to be up here, with her. He wanted to be down below, with it. She couldn’t really mean to keep him from it. The idea angered him, and the anger shamed him. He strained to control his emotions as Ana stripped her clothes off, slowly, methodically. It was no good. She saw everything, he could tell.

“I want this to be about us, Matthew. I want there to be some part of this that is only about us.”

She pulled his shirt up and pressed her breasts and belly against his skin. Her cool flesh and hard nipples demanded his attention. His body reacted, scorning his anger, ignoring the lack of instruction from his troubled, suspicious mind. Fotis’ words came back to him. Who knew what her own secrets were? At this moment, who cared? Her tongue found his; he remembered the night they had spent together. He wanted more of that, wanted to lose himself in her. The Mother of Christ receded, but did not disappear from his thoughts.

T
he priest sat in a low chair in the corner, yet seemed to command the room. In the few minutes of small talk that accompanied everyone’s getting settled, Matthew learned that Father Tomas was Greek-born but ordained in the American branch of the church, and served Bishop Makarios in New Jersey. He had arrived alone, no aide accompanying him. Fifty-some-thing, gray temples and curly black hair, a lined, trustworthy face, and kind eyes. Little was said at first about his purpose here, but he produced documents from the Holy Synod in Athens that seemed to satisfy Ana’s lawyer, Wallace.

In the only bright corner of the dark study sat the Holy Mother, on an aluminum easel, staring out at all of them. Matthew had looked at her a long time before the priest came, while Ana and the lawyer conferred, but now he turned his chair away and tried to clear his mind. Tomas had examined the icon when he arrived, but since then had mostly ignored it, his eyes instead roaming over the massive oak bookcases, hardly settling anywhere but taking in a good deal.

“Your grandfather collected more than paintings, I see.”

“Yes,” Ana responded. “He was very proud of his book collection. Maybe even more than he was of the paintings. I think he felt closer to them.”

“Of course,” the priest agreed. “One can be more intimate with a book, hold it, turn its pages. A book is a friend. A painting simply hangs there, aloof.” He glanced upward again. “I see some friends of my own on these shelves. Dostoyevsky. Flaubert. Kazantzakis. And some rare titles. Maybe we can talk books after we talk art.”

“How about we take one transaction at a time,” Wallace cut in. Late sixties, gray-haired and rheumy-eyed, a gravelly voice and a hacking cough that bespoke a lifelong cigarette habit, recently kicked, judging by his fidgety fingers. Nothing in his slumped posture, shifty gaze, or false-friendly delivery conveyed trustworthiness to Matthew, but Ana seemed to rely on and defer to him.

“Indeed,” Father Tomas said.

“Now,” Wallace shuffled his notes to no purpose, “I assume we can take your satisfaction with the work as a given.”

“If you refer to its artistic quality, I am hardly the proper judge, yet I pronounce myself well pleased. Of course, it’s suffered much wear.”

“Over the centuries,” Matthew said. “Not in the last sixty years.”

“In any case,” the priest continued, “while this might put off a collector, for my purposes it merely helps to establish the work’s age. And adds to its mystery.”

The lawyer cleared his throat, seemed to want to spit.

“And you’re satisfied that this is indeed the icon you’ve been pursuing.”

“The Holy Mother of Katarini. Again, I am not an art historian, but it conforms in every way to the description. Some of my brothers in Greece know the work firsthand, and will be able to identify it. What does your own expert say?”

All three of them looked at Matthew. Though he had resisted pushing Ana toward a decision, he’d been aggressive in his support once she made it, fearing that the lawyer might change her mind. He had even asked to be present for these negotiations. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would be asking him questions.

“Well, it matches everything I know about the Katarini icon. Of course, I haven’t tested it for miraculous powers.” Only the priest laughed. “I can say with confidence that it’s pre-iconoclastic, which alone makes it extremely rare, and that it’s a work of high artistic achievement.”

“In your opinion,” quipped Tomas.

“And according to the standards for religious art of that time.”

“You are Greek?”

A harmless question, but Matthew hesitated. “Yes, I am.”

“Then I shall consider your opinion doubly valuable.”

“So we’re agreed on those points,” the lawyer insisted.

“Indeed, Mr. Wallace,” sighed Tomas, with a long-suffering smile. “We can move on to the financials, as I can see you’re eager to do.”

“We discussed a figure a few days ago.”

The priest created a dramatic pause by sipping from his water glass, staring hard once more at the object of his affection.

“Hardly a discussion. You simply named a figure. A very high figure.”

“We don’t think so.”

“Perhaps a million and a half dollars is a modest sum by your own standards. The church of Greece is a small church in a small country, and I understood this was to be taken into account. We have never heard of any icon selling for such a price.”

“I doubt that an icon this rare has been offered for sale in any of our memories.”

“Fair enough. Yet an icon of considerable reputation was sold a few years ago for less than a third of the sum you name. That is the highest price we know of. It is perhaps lamentable that these items which we revere are not held in the same regard by the art community as certain secular masterpieces, but there it is. No one pays such prices for icons.”

“I have to tell you, Father, that we have already received an unsolicited offer of that much from a private buyer.” Wallace clearly enjoyed the silence which followed his little bombshell. Matthew was as stunned as the priest, and wondered if it was true. “Mind you,” the lawyer continued, “we haven’t pursued it, and it is not our desire to go private with this thing, but a number like that commands respect. Look, the Russian market is drying up. They’ve stolen everything they can out of that country. The price for all icons will rise, but for an extraordinary one like this…”

“Of course, one cannot account for the eccentricity of collectors,” Tomas said, recovering his composure. “I was under the impression that our only competition was institutional. Tell me, was the Metropolitan Museum prepared to pay anything close to this price?”

The priest was not looking at him, but Matthew wondered if he was supposed to respond. Instead, Wallace jumped in once more.

“We never got to that stage. For all I know, they might.”

“Even if it turned out the work was stolen?”

“You know,” Wallace said, lowering his voice threateningly,

“you are the only source for that rumor we’ve heard from.” His eyes went absolutely flat.

“It is a fact, sir, not a rumor,” the priest answered coldly.

“I’ve never seen evidence. And it’s an awfully convenient tool for driving down the price.”

“We can provide the evidence, I assure you.”

“You’ll forgive me if I remain dubious. In any event, the estate has certain minimum financial requirements, and if we have to turn to private buyers to fulfill those, so be it. I don’t think the collector we heard from would be troubled by this issue.”

“You would seriously consider such a move?” Tomas’ indignation filled the room.

“We are earnestly trying to avoid it. We are giving you the opportunity to keep the work available to the public and return it to its native soil, but you have to work with us, Father. Ms. Kessler has obligations to her grandfather’s estate which she must meet.”

Matthew realized that most of this was simply negotiating hardball, but the alternative which the lawyer threatened was exactly the one he feared, and he had to work hard not to convey his panic to Ana. Tomas became quiet again. Then the beatific smile returned.

“Let me, as they say, put my cards on the table. I have clearance to offer up to seven hundred thousand U.S. dollars. I am reasonably confident that with a telephone call to Bishop Makarios here and a few others in Athens, I could get that number to something very near one million. Beyond that, they will not go.”

Wallace readjusted his glasses and sat up in his chair.

“Well, that’s movement. We’ll take that as an encouraging step, Father.”

“Please do not misunderstand, Mr. Wallace. I have been straight with you; do not abuse me for it now. I have given you our best offer.”

“It’s enough.” Ana’s voice surprised them all. “Arthur, I think it’s enough.”

Nobody spoke for a moment.

“My client and I need to talk,” Wallace finally said. The priest shrugged.

“No,” Ana said quietly. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I know my mind here.”

“There is absolutely no reason for haste. We have some options to weigh.”

“I understand, someone else might pay more. It’s not important.”

“There are other issues.”

She looked at Matthew. “What do you think?”

He took a deep breath and made himself block out his fears, ignore the heat on the back of his skull from that ancient painted gaze across the room.

“Mr. Wallace is right. If you’re satisfied on the price, fine, but there are additional things you need to know.”

“Such as?” queried Tomas.

“What will her access to the work be after the sale? Will it be available for possible exhibitions of her grandfather’s collection?”

“Yes, I have those points here,” said the lawyer, tapping his legal pad.

“Where will the work be displayed?” Matthew continued.

“What sort of access to it will the general public have? What steps will you take for its protection and preservation?”

“Excellent points.” The priest nodded. “None of which I can answer definitively at this moment, except to say that I suspect we can satisfy you on most of them.”

“Let’s run through them anyway,” the lawyer grumbled, reasserting himself.

“Certainly any request by Ms. Kessler for a private viewing would be favorably heard. As for loaning the piece for an exhibition, I doubt the Synod would commit to such a thing.”

“I don’t care about that,” said Ana.

“The icon would likely hang in the cathedral in Athens. Wherever it is, it would be on display to the faithful. It is not our intention to hide it, that would contradict its purpose. Yet we will need to take measures to safeguard it, so that we do not again suffer its loss.”

“Of course,” Wallace answered mechanically. “I can put all the details into a draft of the contract.”

“Leaving us sufficient latitude, I trust. I am already agreeing to more conditions than most buyers would permit.”

“That’s part of the compromise,” the lawyer said evenly.

“These are the conditions we’re demanding in return for giving you a bargain price.”

“A bargain,” the priest scoffed. “Mr. Wallace, you could sell rugs in a Turkish bazaar.”

“You flatter me.”

“Not a bit. Do I take it we have an agreement?”

“There is no agreement until you see the terms, and your superiors approve the money. But I’d say we have an understanding. Ana?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

The priest checked his watch. “I do not know if I can reach my people this evening.”

“See what you can do,” the lawyer said. “I’ll draft the paperwork, and we’ll wrap this up in the next few days.”

“Very good. I am most pleased by this. Most pleased.”

The priest smiled at all of them. If he was stunned by the speed of the negotiation, or his supposed good fortune, he was doing a good job of concealing it. Everyone stood to shake hands, and Matthew relaxed somewhat. It was happening. Now he had to keep his eye on the old men until the icon hung in the Athens cathedral. Then he could truly let it all go.

“I’m sorry,” Ana said.

The lawyer looked up from packing his briefcase, then gave her his most paternal smile.

“Nothing to be sorry for. I wish that we had been a little clearer on strategy beforehand, but no matter. As long as you’re happy with the result.”

“I’m happy to have it over with. I couldn’t stand squeezing him, he’s a priest.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Matthew said, gently placing a drop cloth over the icon. There was an immediate sense of relief as the image vanished. “The Greek church is rich. Maybe not cash-rich, but certainly rich in holdings. They can afford it.”

“He just seemed so vulnerable, all by himself.”

“Vulnerable,” laughed Wallace. “Vulnerable as an iron safe.”

“Yeah, I agree,” said Matthew. “Vulnerable is not the word I would use, but I was surprised by the lack of advisers. I thought there would be a whole entourage.”

“Didn’t need them.” Wallace snapped his case shut. “He’ll have their lawyers vet the agreement before he signs, you can be sure. Meantime, he’s trusting his own judgment. I think they wanted to get this done quickly, and involve as few people as possible.” He wrestled himself into a tired green overcoat, coughing furiously. Then he patted Ana on the shoulder. “I’ll have a draft of the paperwork for you to look over soon. Take care, dear.”

She saw him to the door. Matthew wanted to walk out with the lawyer and ask a few more questions, but a look from Ana made him remain where he was.

“Thanks for being here,” she said when they were alone.

“Those were good questions.”

“Wallace had them covered.”

“I just needed you around.” She reached for his hand and he stepped closer to her. “Are you going to be in trouble with the museum?”

“Don’t worry about that.” In fact, if his role in this became public he could be in trouble with all sorts of people, but Matthew had put that thought aside whenever it came up. His work had suffered terribly in the last ten days, and he’d come to believe that he would never be able to focus on it again until this matter with the icon was settled, in a way which left his mind at peace.

“Stay awhile,” she said.

He’d had no intention of doing so. This business was eating up his life; he’d stolen time to be here, was behind on everything. The pressure of her hand held him. He could not leave her alone now, and he knew that in a few moments he would no longer wish to.

The connecting flight in Frankfurt had been delayed, and Father Ioannes arrived at JFK hours later than expected. Makarios was supposed to send a driver to get him, but Ioannes did not know where they were to meet and had not been able to find a working telephone. His baggage was lost briefly, then found on the wrong carousel. Leaving the men’s room, he became disoriented and could not find the Arrivals area. This is what hell must be like, he mused. This is when he needed the patience they had taught him on the mountain, but it came less and less easily as time passed. He would pray for peace of mind as soon as he was done silently cursing.

On the mountain they had taught him of a God very different from the one the village priests knew. The old priest’s God had been sad and angry in turn, like the man himself. The young priest also had preached a God of his own fiber, a passionate spirit who spoke to the needs of the moment, the need to resist, to survive. These deities fulfilled a purpose generated by man; they did what was required of them. On the mountain, they were not above invoking the angry God, to frighten the novices. Fear was known to sharpen the senses, and fear kept a boy in line until the mind, fed on incense and sacred visions, had grown sufficiently to accept the full depth and breadth of the true God, in all his glory. Ioannes had needed more time than most to achieve this readiness but had absorbed the lessons deeply. The terrors which defined his youth, which had initially held him back, became his sustenance once the path was discovered, became the fuel for the fire lit in his mind. Darkness was banished, and a door opened in his soul directly into the world of spirit. He would have been more than content to spend his life in isolation and explore the way.