The Icon (12 page)

The squat, balding young man in the leather jacket did not inspire confidence, but he knew the priest on sight, took his luggage, and guided him out to the parking garage.

“I’m Demetrios, by the way,” he said.

“I bet they all call you Jimmy here.”

“Yes. I know why you’ve come, I know what’s going on.”

“Indeed?”

“I work very closely with Bishop Makarios. I’m not just a driver.”

“I see.”

It was somehow appropriate that his masters would wrench him from his solace at the moment he had fully embraced it, and reintroduce him to the world. Ioannes hated them for it at first, yet came to know after many years that it was consistent with their message, consistent with the way. The world of spirit must reside within him; he must take it with him into the world of flesh and allow it to inform his decisions. Anyone could maintain faith within the quiet of sanctuary walls. The flock lived outside the walls, and the Word must go to them.

“You’re here to check up on Tomas,” Jimmy persisted as the luggage went in the trunk and they settled into the needlessly large black vehicle; the American bishops always had cars like this. “Forgive me for saying that you’re a little late.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one has been able to reach him for a few days. It could mean nothing, of course,” the burly driver added, unconvincingly.

The difficulty arose when the old masters died, and instruction now came from men younger than himself, men who did not have the inner fire in their eyes. What was required of a man when the inner voices no longer matched the commands of the outer voices? Ioannes had been feeling his way along for years now, but he sensed that this latest assignment would challenge his entire way of being. Maybe it was time.

“I have an appointment with Tomas tomorrow,” the old priest said.

Jimmy shrugged as the car made its way down the dim, winding ramp of the concrete garage.

“I hope he shows.”

Ioannes fought down a rising unease. Everything happened for a reason, and in any case he should not be trusting the word of this twitchy little fellow.

“Father Makarios and I will sort the matter out, I trust.”

“Makarios,” Jimmy snorted. “No offense, I love the bishop. But I’ll tell you right now,
I’m
the guy you’re going to need on this matter.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

H
e should have known better. The whole thing had felt wrong from the start, but Matthew had plowed mulishly ahead, needing to justify his actions to himself. The trouble had begun with the phone call the day before, Fotis suddenly skittish.

“The girl has spoken to you.”

“She says the contract was signed yesterday,” Matthew confirmed. “Tomas and someone else picked up the work last night. And deposited it with you, I assume.”

“All has proceeded as arranged, praise God.”

“That’s almost twenty-four hours. I really would have expected to hear.”

“My apologies. You are eager to examine it again. We must arrange a time.”

He’d had to force out the next words. “We had talked about someone else seeing it.”

“Yes.” A nervous whisper. “Do you think he is up to it?”

“I don’t know; he’s not up to much of anything. I thought that was the point.”

“I would not wish to cause him any unnecessary anxiety during his recovery.”

“It’s not a recovery, it’s a remission.
Theio,
this was your idea. What are you trying to tell me now? I’ve got to make an appointment, and my father is not welcome?”

“I am simply being careful. How will you persuade him to come?”

“Leave that to me. When should I bring him?”

“Tomorrow. It’s a Saturday, and I think you were to pay him a visit anyway.”

It was unnerving the way he knew everyone else’s schedule.

“Yeah, we even talked about a drive. I don’t think he had Queens in mind.”

“I will be here all day. And my boy, forgive this advice. Do not tell your father some foolish story. He will see through it and you will only make him angry.”

“You’re saying I’m not a good liar.”

“Tell him I’ve asked you to come and look at some art. It’s the truth. Tell him you want his company, his support. Let him feel he is doing something for you.”

His father had not objected but had agreed to the visit like a man condemned, sitting grim-faced and silent for most of the drive. At the house in Queens, Fotis greeted them with barely veiled agitation, working his green worry beads nervously. Canvases hung about the study, and Fotis and Matthew discussed a recently acquired Dutch landscape. Alex seemed to relax, and scanned the bookshelves around him. His wheelchair was positioned by the window, weak sun spilling over his strong shoulders, a fresh stubble forming an aura of gray light about his head. Six feet in front of him, beneath a white cloth, a medium-sized square panel sat on an easel, and Matthew could not keep his gaze from swinging constantly back to it, drawn by a special energy. Suddenly the whole production filled him with dread. Catching Fotis’ wet, round eyes, he saw that the old man shared his unease. Before he lost his nerve completely, Matthew stood up and stepped over to the easel.

“Dad,” he said, pulling the cloth from the work, half expecting something else to be beneath it until the eyes caught him once more, nearly stealing his voice. “This is the piece I’ve been consulting on. Fotis is holding it for a buyer in Greece.”

Alex turned his head to the panel only very slowly. There was a determined expression of resistance on his face, which loosened at once when his gaze met the image, and a true look of wonder seemed to play about his eyes. Matthew’s spirit fed off that look.

“I know you don’t have much use for religious art, but I find this one particularly affecting, and I really wanted you to see it.”

He took advantage of his father’s trancelike state to step behind the wheelchair and move it closer to the easel, close enough that Alex could reach out and touch the icon, if he wanted.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

He could no longer see his father’s face, and there was no immediate reply. Then the large head seemed to nod, almost imperceptibly, and indeed the right hand reached up and outward. Did he actually touch it?

A spontaneous moan escaped Fotis at that moment. Alekos’ hand recoiled from the painting, and his head swiveled to stare at the old man. Matthew squeezed the handgrips of the wheelchair in frustration and also looked at Fotis. The schemer wore an expression closer to naked terror than Matthew had ever expected to see on that calculating face, and the young man could not tell whether the old one’s eyes were focused on Alex, or on the door behind them. No one said a word for several seconds. Then Alex shook his head slowly, as if clearing his mind of a dream, and when he spoke his voice was tight with disgust.

“Get me away from this thing.”

Most of the return drive passed in embarrassed silence. There was nothing angry or accusing in Aleko’s manner; more confusion, mixed with fatigue. For long minutes he seemed about to speak, and finally did.

“I don’t know what you intended by all this. Maybe you’re proud of the work and wanted to share it with me.”

“Something like that,” Matthew managed, eyes glued to the damp road.

“I know some things about that icon, some things your
Yiayia
told me, years ago. I don’t know the whole story, but both of those bastards have blood on their hands over that painting. I thought your
Papou
was going to tell you about it.”

“No. Fotis told me something. It was pretty awful.”

His father grabbed Matthew’s forearm.

“Listen to me,” Alex said firmly. “Are you listening to me?”

“I’m listening.”

“I mean
listen
to me.”

“Dad, I’m listening, for chrissake.” He fought the pressure on his arm to keep control of the wheel.

“Believe nothing Fotis tells you. Until you hear it from someone you trust, believe nothing. Do you understand me?”

“I hear you.”

“But you don’t believe.” Alex released him. “After all, what could your idiot father know?”

“That’s not what I’m thinking.”

“No? What are you thinking?”

Matthew grasped after his own thoughts, then shifted lanes quickly to make the exit off the expressway, which he hadn’t noticed coming up.

“I’m thinking that I’m hearing an awful lot of shit from everyone, and I don’t know what to believe.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t think you’re lying, you’re just not saying anything useful. It’s this vague, angry ranting against those two that I’ve been hearing my whole life. What did they do?”

“They made a devil’s bargain with the Germans.”

“That much I know.”

“Talk to your grandfather.”

“He won’t tell me. I’ve tried.”

“Did you tell him whatever Fotis told you? Did you? No? Oh, that one has you wrapped around his finger. Ask your
Papou.”

“I’m telling you he won’t speak to me.”

“He’ll speak to you. I’ll see to it.”

They sat idling at a stop sign, though there was no traffic in sight. Matthew pulled the shift arm toward him once and the wipers made a quick arc across the rain-speckled windshield.

“Why do you hate them so much?”

“I don’t hate them,” Alex said, “Any more than I hate a dog that’s been trained to kill; but I don’t trust them. They’re creatures of their time, and it was an ugly time. Greece suffered terribly during the war. Then the civil war, troubles with Turkey, Cyprus, all the changes in government, all corrupt. The politicians had a siege mentality. They were fighting to keep Greece free, so anything was allowed. Your
Papou
and godfather were government men, loyal soldiers. I don’t know the details, but I know they participated in some terrible things. You can see it in their faces. And it started during the war, with that damn icon. They took the first step from being freedom fighters to being political operatives right then. Trading with the enemy for guns to use on their brothers.”

“The communist threat was real,” Matthew insisted, accelerating away from the stop, surprised by his own defensiveness.

“They could easily have taken over Greece.”

“I don’t deny that, but it was a bad war that followed. Thousands were rounded up, tortured, locked away without charges. Some executed. Even the men who fought that war have trouble defending it. They just don’t talk about it at all.”

Matthew slowed the car as they neared the house. His father’s inarticulate rage toward the old men had been a feature of the family dynamics for so long that no one inquired into it any longer. But Alex had revealed more of his feelings in the last few minutes than in all the years preceding, and despite how angry some of it made him, Matthew was loath to let the moment pass.

“Is it impossible for you to accept that they did what they thought was necessary? That it’s in the past now and they’re old men?”

“Would you accept that argument for the Nazis in South America? For Milosevic or Karadzic?”

“Come on, you can’t put them in the same category.”

“My point is that their actions do not disappear because they’ve become old men. They did what they did. And they still have their hands in it. Don’t believe for a moment that they’ve given up those ways.”

“This is where you lose me. Fotis has been in this country for decades.
Papou
spends his time in his garden. What would the Greek government need with a couple of guys that old?”

“I’m not speaking of whom they work for, I’m talking about their
ways.
They’ve been bred in the ways of manipulation and double-dealing. It’s become instinct with Fotis. He has to have some scheme going at all times, business schemes, spy schemes, it doesn’t matter. He’s like a shark, in constant motion. If he stops plotting, he’ll die.”

“And Papou?”

“He’s subtler. I don’t think he takes the same pleasure in his work as your godfather, but he still takes orders from the Greek government, or some part of it. He keeps an eye on Fotis, and performs other jobs as well. Don’t believe that he came here just to see me.”

“I do not buy this stuff.”

“I know. I don’t know how to make you believe.”

They pulled into the driveway and Matthew killed the engine, yet neither made a move to get out of the car. Rain built up slowly on the windshield, obscuring the details of the house, but a warm yellow light shone clearly in the kitchen window.

“Why does Fotis have the icon?” Alex asked at last. “What happened with the museum?”

“The seller changed her mind. The Greek church approached her about the work, and she decided that they should have it.”

“How does that involve him?”

“They approached Fotis also, to try and influence the deal, I guess. He knows the estate lawyer. And to help arrange transport, so he got to hold on to the icon for a little while.”

“To what purpose?”

“For him? So that he could pray before it. It’s a very holy icon. It’s supposed to have miraculous curative powers.”

“The old bastard. Does he think he’s found a way to live forever?” Alex seemed halfway between rage and laughter.

“He’ll only have it a week or two, then it goes to the church.”

“How did you end up in the middle of this? You were supposed to be appraising the work for the museum.”

“I did. I really thought that would be the end of it. But Ana, Ana Kessler, the seller, she wanted me to advise her.”

“And Fotis encouraged this?”

“Yes.”

“So you talked her into the deal.”

“No, it’s what she wanted to do. I didn’t talk her out of it, though. I didn’t tell her about Fotis’ involvement.”

“You didn’t influence her at all?”

“If I did, it’s because I thought it was right, not because of him.”

“Are you sleeping with this girl?”

Matthew only sighed and leaned back in the seat. The air in the car was cooling, and the house suddenly beckoned.

“I see,” Alekos nodded. “He’s teaching you well.”

Matthew slammed the dashboard with his fists, startling both of them.

“Do you really think so little of me? That I don’t have any ideas of my own, that I don’t believe in anything of my own? Are you so consumed by this hate for them that you need to reduce everything to that level?”

Alex shook his head slowly, but he seemed more distressed at having upset his son than bruised by his words, making Matthew feel impotent in his anger.

“You shouldn’t take it personally. They’re masters. They’ve done it to me my whole life. If you can take a lesson from this, you can avoid some future pain.”

“What in God’s name do you think they’ve done to you?”

A figure appeared in the kitchen window, blocking most of the light.

“They’ve orchestrated my life. I’m a chemical engineer because my father wanted me to be. I live in America because he sent me here. Even marrying your mother…”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t speak to you about this.”

“You knew she was Fotis’ niece, that’s how you met her.”

“I knew she was his niece, but I didn’t yet understand who he was. He even pretended to disapprove, just to tempt me, knowing she and I would fight him.”

“And why exactly did he do that?”

“Who knows? Maybe he thought it was a way to steal me from his old pal Andreas, turn me into the son he never had. God knows he tried, but I saw through him soon enough.”

“This is bullshit.”

“You don’t know, you weren’t around.”

“I don’t need to have been around. I don’t even have to be your son to see through this, because either you loved her, so nothing he did mattered, and it was right. Or you didn’t, and it was wrong. Either way it’s on you, nobody else. So don’t try to feed me this garbage. And by the way, I know we’re having this heart-to-heart, but I don’t want to know the answer to that, OK? She’s my mother, so keep it to yourself.”

The figure had vanished from the window, and the rain increased. Matthew breathed deeply in an effort to calm himself. He could not have imagined, even minutes before, being so angry with his father. Yet it was a pure, righteous, cleansing anger, and he could not wish it away, even knowing the guilt he would feel later.

“Of course, that’s true.” Alex seemed deflated, yet his face still had a warm flush of color, unseen there for weeks. “I’m sorry I spoke of this. Please don’t ignore everything I’ve said. Please take warning.”

“Let’s go inside, you must be getting cold.”