The Icon (4 page)

Dragoumis stubbed out his cigarette and looked up at his old friend with large, watery eyes, seemingly on the verge of tears. As if he were the injured party! Despite himself, Andreas almost clapped his hands at the performance. Fotis the wronged.

“I have offended you, I am sorry. Please, sit. Please, my friend, let us not part in anger.”

Andreas sat, but his mind was made up to go.

“I withdraw my question,” Fotis continued. “If I have expressed doubts, there are reasons. I must trust that you too have reasons for not sharing your plans with me. Now that you understand Matthew is involved, you may adjust your actions in a way that will not direct harm to his interests.”

“What the hell is it that you think I’m up to? You think the Greek government wants that icon? You think they would send me to get it?”

“What have you heard of Müller?”

Now Müller. The man was shameless.

“Only that he’s dead.”

“Really. I have heard that he is here, in New York.”

Andreas shifted uneasily in his chair, willing himself not to respond, but failing. “From whom?”

“An unreliable source, I admit. Still, another thing I thought you should know. It would make sense that he would come. You never believed that he was dead.”

“I don’t want to discuss Müller. I need to see Alex.”

“Yes. I have been to the hospital twice. He refused to see me the first time.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“But not surprised. He may resist seeing you also. Are you prepared for that?”

Prepared for it. How did one prepare for rejection from an ill son, a possibly dying son? Andreas had lived through many terrible things, but he could imagine nothing worse than such a rejection, and would not let his mind dwell on it.

“With Matthew’s support, I hope to overcome resistance.”

“Excellent. Look now, let us forget this gloomy talk for an hour. Come into the parlor and have a cognac with me.”

“I should see Alekos immediately.”

“Visiting hours are late. We’ll all go, after we eat.”

“No, I will go with Matthew.”

“Of course. He is joining us for dinner. Then you will both go to see Alex.”

The schemer had thought of everything. Anyway, the food would be good, and Matthew’s company would make the evening tolerable. Andreas did not drink, but he would have a cognac with Fotis. It seemed like just what he needed.

“You have the good Metaxa?”

“Better. Remy Martin XO.”

T
he night before, Matthew had the dream again. A painting vanished, a masterpiece of the collection which he was expected to find, but he couldn’t remember what it looked like. A group stood before the empty wall, declaiming the lost portrait’s beauty, the lips, the eyes, the otherworldly flesh tones, and he tried to build an image in his mind, but it shifted, eluded him, like faces do in dreams. The museum he knew so well became an impenetrable maze, with no Ariadne to help him. Darkness came down. Strange sounds distracted. The search went before and behind, he chased, he was pursued. In a dim basement chamber he saw what must be the image on the far wall, but the path was uncertain, no course took him directly there. No help, he was alone. And then not alone, as a terrible presence filled his consciousness. He always woke then.

They drove in silence, Matthew at the wheel of his colleague Carol’s borrowed Taurus, Andreas settled deeply into the passenger seat. The life had gone out of the old man as soon as they stepped through Fotis’ front door into the cool evening air, and it became clear that the animation he had shown over dinner was an act, for Fotis’ benefit. They were always performing for each other. Coming off the Triboro Bridge, Matthew paid the toll and accelerated away, glancing at his grandfather. Hat and collar obscured his face, and shadow alternated with pink streetlight across the barely visible features. Matthew had seen Andreas in Athens two years before and been struck once again by how little he aged. Still sharp-eyed, clear-minded, grip like a vise. At seventy-seven he could have passed for a vigorous sixty. This night he seemed old, stoop-shouldered and shuffling. His eyes wandered, as did his mind. Of course, it could be fatigue from the flight.

The car shaped the looping entry to the FDR Drive, and Matthew turned off almost immediately on 116th Street. Shouts and the metallic bang of a backboard reached them from a dimly lit basketball court. Tall brick projects rose up around them.

“This is Harlem?” Andreas asked.

“Spanish Harlem, I guess.”

“It’s ugly.”

“Yeah, well.”

“This is an ugly city.”

“So is Athens.”

“A strange comparison. Have I offended your local pride?”

“Modern cities are ugly. New York has some beautiful places.”

“Athens has history.”

“Too much history.”

“It’s true. It’s true that the Greeks are undermined by their history; it is a common phenomenon in Europe. Americans are more willing to attempt things. This is their strength, but it also leads them into much foolishness. They change friends constantly, abandon old allies. This is why the world distrusts America.”

Matthew had heard it all before but was pleased to have the old man sounding like himself.

“What is the latest news?” Andreas asked.

The looming black monolith of Mount Sinai appeared on the left, checkered with tiny squares of light. Heaviness fell upon Matthew at the sight of it, dulling his mind like an anesthetic.

“Apparently his blood cell count is stable, but they don’t know why, and it could drop again any time. The infusions don’t seem to do much good anymore.”

“So they cannot help him?”

Matthew balked, rolled his shoulders. One could go day to day without ever asking that question. His mother never wanted to know the long-term prognosis. She simply prayed to God the Father, Christos,
Panayitsa,
the whole useless crew. Yet it was a fair question, and the father of his father had every right to ask.

“They’ve made some progress, but the toll on his body has been pretty heavy. After every one of those treatments he’s just…I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth it.”

“They should send him home. A man should be at home to face a thing like this.”

“It’s not that simple,
Papou.”
The sharpness in his voice surprised him. “We can’t give up on him improving. And I’m not even sure he’s strong enough to go home. Mamá would have to do everything for him, which she would try to do, but she’s a wreck right now herself.”

Andreas patted his shoulder.

“Do not think too much about things before it is time to face them.”

At that hour upper Fifth Avenue was nearly empty, and they were able to park near the hospital entrance. The long, tangled branches of elm trees swayed overhead, softly clacking. Andreas looked up at them for a few moments. Then Matthew took his arm and they went in together.

They had shaved the beard, but a heavy stubble had grown back. Where there had once been thick waves of black hair, only a thin gray buzz cut remained. His cheeks were sunken, and the body beneath the sheets seemed to have lost a good deal of mass. To say that Andreas did not recognize his son would be wrong. The forehead, long nose, sullen mouth, the small scar on the chin remained instantly familiar, but the general alteration of the body was terrible. What, fifty-three now? His ancestors had lived well into their nineties, as Andreas grimly expected to do. The son should not precede the father.

The old man stood rooted in the doorway. Had Alekos been awake, Andreas would have strode purposefully into the room, giving nothing away; but since the boy slept, he allowed himself a little time. He had not watched his son sleep since he was a child. He had not seen Alekos at all in five years. That last visit they had put some of the past bitterness behind them, reached some understanding common to their shared sadness. Yet a truce was not a friendship. They had not made the effort to know each other years before, and it was impossible to bridge the distance all at once. With the ocean between them, they had grown apart once more. Perhaps there had been another revelation of past shame, from Fotis, or from Irini, the wife. Perhaps it was simply old hurts that had been picked at again and festered.

Matthew went around the bed and stood by the window. Andreas could not see what the boy saw, but he knew from the turns they had taken that he faced east, toward the river. From the back, his grandson—broad shoulders, round head, black hair—looked like his father. The resemblance was otherwise slight, nor did Matthew particularly look like his mother. His grandmother, Andreas thought, not for the first time:
my wife.
The boy looked just like dear, dead Maria.

“Babás.”
A dry whisper from the bed. The old man turned to face the narrow-eyed gaze of his son. Had he been awake all along?

“Ne,”
Andreas answered. He did not trust himself to move swiftly, so he shuffled like an invalid to the bed.

Alex tried to pull himself up. Desperate to help, the old man hesitated for fear of a rebuke. Matthew came over instead, dragging his father upright. Andreas quickly rearranged the flattened pillows, and Matthew set Alex back against them. The sick man pointed to a cup on the bedside table, and Matthew filled it with water from a white plastic pitcher. Alekos took it with a steady hand and sipped slowly without looking at them, in no hurry to speak further. Andreas’ legs trembled, but he would not sit.

“How is that silent sister of mine?” Alex finally asked, in English, for Matthew’s sake, though the boy’s Greek was good.

“Well. The children keep her busy, you know, and the husband is no help.”

“Always defending her.” But Alex smiled, a tiny lift at the corners of his mouth.

“When I am with her, I defend you.” And then, as an afterthought: “She will be coming to see you soon.”

“Yes, as soon as you report on my condition. I have no doubt they will all be at my bedside, with holy water and a priest. I will count on you to keep the priest away.” Andreas knew better than to answer, and Alex looked to his own son. “You picked him up at the airport?”

“Fotis did,” Matthew responded.

“Of course. The conspirators.”

“He sends his best.”

“You must send mine back, at the next planning session.”

Matthew laughed. “What are we planning?”

“God knows,” Alex rasped. “Ask your
Papou.”

“He sent a man to get me at the airport,” Andreas said. “I was not expecting him. I haven’t seen Fotis in years.”

“How was today?” Matthew asked quietly.

His father’s hand flipped palm up, then palm under, a gesture both of the others recognized.

“The same. They did some tests. They say I may go home soon.
Babás,
sit down.”

Andreas nearly fell into the hard chair. He unbuttoned his coat and put his hat in his lap.

“That’s great news,” Matthew answered. “So your blood looks better?”

“A little. It’s not worse, anyway.”

“But in that case, shouldn’t they go on with the therapy? How do they know it won’t continue to improve?”

“It might. They tell me it might, but they don’t believe it, and I don’t believe them.” Alex spoke without anger. Profound weariness seemed to be the controlling tone in his voice. “Anyway, I can’t take any more of the therapy now. I need a rest. I can’t rest in this place.”

“Of course not,” Andreas insisted. “You should be home.”

“Well now. I think you may be the one who needs a rest, old man. You look worse than me.”

Andreas could only manage to stare at his son, as at a car wreck, unable to take his eyes away, aware of all the naked emotions on his face but unable to hide them.

“I am well. It’s the airplane. I have never gotten used to them.”

The look on Alekos’ face was more gentle than Andreas had seen since his son was a child, and the past overtook him just then in a numbing wave. He reached to unbutton his coat and realized he had already done so; he unbuttoned the collar of his priestly white shirt instead.

“Matthew, get your
Papou
some water,” Alex commanded.

“No,” Andreas said. “We passed a coffee machine in the hall, you remember?”

“You sure you want coffee this late?” The boy’s concern was kindly, but anger rose in Andreas instantly.

“You think I’m some old woman? I will get it myself.”

“No, it’s all right.”

“Black, no sugar,” Alex said from the bed.

“Yes,” Andreas agreed, “your father knows. Thank you, my boy.”

Then Matthew was gone, they were alone together, and Andreas no longer knew why he had schemed for this chance, what he had intended to say.

“Fotis told me you would not see him at first.” He spoke Greek now.

“Are you surprised?”

“So much time has passed. Why do you cling to your anger?”

“Do you think these things go away because time has passed? You would like to think that, wouldn’t you? That there is some clock on your sins, and when so much time elapses…”

“We were not discussing my sins.” Andreas heard the hardness come into his voice, despite himself.

“No? What were we discussing? My mind wanders, you see.”

“Your happiness.”

“My happiness, yes. Always a great concern of yours. Anyway, I saw him, so why hound me?”

“Rini made you.”

“I became too tired to fight about it, just like I am too tired to fight with you now.”

“I don’t want to fight. I am grateful to you for seeing me.”

Alekos seemed almost shocked, or played well at it.

“You’re my father. You’re family.”

“Fotis is family.”

“Fotis is a
relation.
You are blood. Anyway, what am I going to say to Matthew, ‘Tell your grandfather to wait in the hall’?”

“Once you might have done that.”

“I had strength then.”

“So is that the reason I am here? For Matthew’s sake?”

“You know, this isn’t about you, old man. This is not about your forgiveness. This is about me. You came, God knows why. I don’t want to know your other reasons. You’re here. It’s right that you should be. Leave it alone now, don’t ask for anything else.”

Alex slumped back on his pillows. Fool, Andreas scolded himself, stupid ass, exhausting him this way. Leave it alone, indeed.

“Fotis is involving him in something,” Alex said. “About that damn icon. You know about it?”

“I learned about it today.”

“You’re not involved?”

“No.”

“How the hell would I know if that’s true?”

“It’s true.”

“Keep him out of it. Leave my son alone. Tell the schemer to leave my son alone.”

“It’s for the museum. There is no harm in it that I can see.”

“You think Fotis hasn’t arranged it somehow? The man has his fingers in everything.”

“I do not see where the gain is for him. The museum getting the icon would be the end of his hopes for it.”

“How can we know if it is that simple? Who told you about Matthew’s involvement?”

“Fotis.”

“And how did it seem to him? How did he feel about it?”

Alex had a scientist’s mind, untrained in the ways of deliberate misdirection. This was no doubt one reason that he resented his father and uncle: not just because duplicity was so much a part of their lives, but because he himself was so easy to dupe.

“Pleased,” Andreas answered.

“I am not a spy, of course, but when that man is pleased about something, I worry. Keep my boy out of it.”

“It’s for his work.” Work was the closest thing to sacred to Andreas.

They heard Matthew’s voice in the corridor, speaking quietly to the nurse. Alex leaned forward again, straining.

“At least speak to him. Tell him the history.”

Andreas’ mouth was dry. How much of the history did Alex know? Who told him? Not Fotis. Maria? Himself, some forgotten evening long ago? His son was staring hard at him.

“No, you can’t do that, can you? Just tell him to stay out of it, then. Do that for me. He won’t listen to his father, but he will listen to you.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Matthew walked back into the room.

“Will you do that for me, old man?”

A dozen calculations collided in Andreas’ brain, all of them unsolvable with his son’s face looking at him that way.

“I will speak to him.”

Matthew touched his shoulder, and when Andreas turned the boy handed him the paper cup of coffee. The old man’s stomach lurched, and sourness crawled up his throat. He placed the cup on the arm of his chair with his hand around it, warming his stiff fingers.