The Icon (8 page)

“Müller. You know how much trouble you got me into over that business?”

“How could I not, after all the times you told me? But you work for yourself now.”

“Which means I have fewer resources than I used to.”

“But better technology.”

“This,” Benny waved at the monitor, “this won’t help us with Müller. I don’t see him making it easy on us, staying at a big hotel.”

“Why not? No one has looked for him in years. A private citizen, traveling under an alias, where better to hide but in a crowded hotel?”

The other man considered this. “You may be right. In my experience, however, people’s behavior doesn’t change. They may vary a pattern, but the pattern is discernible. Those old Nazis don’t stay at hotels.”

“Where do they stay?”

“Private homes, if they have those connections. In which case we’ll never find him. I haven’t looked for one of these guys for a while, and never in this country, but there used to be two small inns, run by elderly German ladies, very discreet. One in Brooklyn, which may be gone now; and one in the Village. That’s where I would start.”

“And will you?”

“I have some conditions.”

Andreas sighed. He would rather have paid a king’s ransom than have someone else set conditions, but Benny was a peer and couldn’t be treated like some low-clearance freelancer.

“Yes?”

“What are your intentions when you find him?”

“That is a question, not a condition.”

“One flows from the other. I need to know.” Benny sized him up unblinkingly, while Andreas took longer to form a response than was wise. “My friend,” the younger man pressed, leaning forward in his chair, “do you even know what your intentions are?”

“I have questions for him, if he can be made to answer them. It is also important that I monitor his actions.”

“You once had bolder plans than that.”

“I was younger. He is not responsible for your parents, Benny, he was only there to steal. That is all he has ever been about.”

“That may be true, but it doesn’t forgive his actions. I’ve seen his signature on arrest orders. He participated. Then there’s your story, that would be reason enough.”

“Reason for what? Tell me your damn conditions.”

From the window came the faraway wail of sirens. In a room close by a woman laughed. Andreas felt pinned to his chair by age and fatigue.

“I don’t want your money, first off. We do this together, or I don’t involve myself. I find him, we pay him a visit. He’s bound to be more responsive to your questions with me there.”

“And then?”

Benny shrugged.

“Assuming the circumstances allow it, we get rid if him.”

I
made fresh coffee this time.”

She was used to conveying calm self-assurance, Matthew could tell, but her fidgeting about the counters bespoke nervousness. Was he the cause? Why should he be? More likely the messy details of her grandfather’s estate, which he had taken another afternoon away from his busy office to help her confront. He’d walked along the reservoir, barely aware of the brisk wind, the waning gold light on the water, the joggers’ dirty looks as they darted around him on the narrow path. His senses blunted by images in his mind: a blind shepherd suddenly beholding a candle’s flame; black-shrouded widows on callused, broken knees, baring their grief to the Mother, walking away cleansed; a dark chamber full of weary, resigned supplicants made one, made whole, if only for a little while, by a touch, a glance. Faces like his grandfather’s, his aunts’ and cousins’, faces like his own. Mayer-Goff’s words echoed in his skull:
I saw this with my own eyes.
He barely remembered to leave the park at Ninetieth Street, good shoes muddied by the horse trail, his pace and heartbeat quickening in a disquieting fashion the moment the Kessler brownstone came into view.

“Thanks,” he said, “that wasn’t necessary.”

“It’s not Greek coffee, of course. I’m not sure how to make that.”

“You need the right grounds, like espresso. Better just to go someplace where they make it well.”

“And do you know the right place?”

Ana carried two mugs to the table and sat across from him. Her face still appeared drawn, yet there was something strong in her, beneath the weariness. She wore it well.

“I know a few.”

He was so certain that she would ask where those places were, ask him if he would take her to them sometime, that he was faintly embarrassed when she did not.

“Thanks for coming by,” she said, staring into her coffee, her tone businesslike. “I know I only lured you with the chance to see the icon again, but the price you have to pay is talking some things through with me. Informally. I understand your allegiance is to the Met.”

“I’d be happy to be of use.”

“Can you tell me how serious the museum is?”

“We’re interested, no question. I’m not sure yet how deep the interest goes.”

“You mean it depends on the price.”

“That’s a factor, of course. The chief curator of my department needs to see the work. The director as well.”

“Then I won’t be negotiating with you?”

“I’ll be involved, but this will get done above my head.”

“What a shame,” she said flatly. “We get along so well.”

He laughed nervously. She was so direct in her approach, yet so quicksilver in her moods, that he had no idea what to make of her.

“You could insist upon it. People do things like that. We had one eccentric old lady who would only speak to our junior legal counsel, because he went to her dead husband’s alma mater.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“The director didn’t think so.”

“Shall I do that? Would it help your career?”

“You know,” he said carefully, “you should probably leave the negotiating to your lawyer.”

“My lawyer. He’s a tricky guy, my lawyer. He may rob both sides blind.”

“Shouldn’t you have a lawyer you trust?”

“Oh, I guess I trust him.” She averted her eyes to the table before taking a sip from the mug. “He’s been taking care of Kessler business for thirty years, knows all the secrets. I couldn’t get rid of him if I wanted to.”

“Do you have a price in mind?”

“He does. Sounds high to me, but if the piece is as rare as you say, maybe not. I wish I could ask you what was fair.”

“I wish I could tell you. Fair is what the market will bear.”

“But we’re not testing the market.”

“I can’t believe your lawyer wouldn’t put out feelers.”

“You think we should be fishing around?”

“It would be a natural thing to do.”

“Talk to those pimps at the auction houses?” She spoke sharply. “They’ll promise the sun, moon, and stars.”

“They might get them.”

“What are you telling me, Matthew? That I should go to some rich private collector?”

Her stare was intense, and he found himself struggling with his unease, compelled by an impolitic honesty.

“Actually, I think that would be a terrible idea. Not for you, necessarily.”

“Don’t waffle.”

“It’s just, the thought of that work being locked away from the world, stuck up on someone’s wall…”

“Like it is now,” she pressed.

He exhaled slowly. “Yes. Like it is now. It would be a sad choice. It should be where a lot of people can see it.”

“A museum.”

“A museum would be the most obvious call.”

“But will a museum give it the attention it deserves?”

Fotis’ question again, and Matthew had no better answer for it this time.

“You can attach conditions to the sale. It’s done all the time.”

Ana shook her head. “My lawyer says we don’t have leverage with just the one painting. If I were donating the whole collection I could make demands. Or if it were a Picasso or a Rembrandt, maybe. Tell me if I’m wrong here.”

“You’re probably right.” He shrugged. “It’s still worth discussing.”

“Does it annoy you that Byzantine doesn’t get treated with the same respect as the Old Masters, or the Impressionists, or all of that popular stuff?”

“You know, I never considered popularity when I got into the field. I just studied what interested me, fool that I was.”

“But it
must
piss you off. The people who made this icon, it was like life and death for them, right? They held these things up before their armies when they went into battle. They died to defend them. Did anyone ever die over a Renoir?”

She was leaning over the table, eyes wide, hand gesturing fiercely. He wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of her argument, but it was impossible. She was so sincere, so fully present in her emotions that it was he who felt ridiculous, made small by his own restraint.

“That’s true, except that it was really about religion. They killed and died over what the icon represented, not over its beauty.”

Ana sat back, nodding slowly at his words, or in acceptance of some new thought.

“That is what it comes down to, isn’t it? You can’t take religion out of the equation.”

She went to the counter, retrieved the coffeepot, and topped off their mugs, though neither had drunk much. The suit was gone today, she wore faded blue jeans and a white shirt, and he found himself distracted by the long arc of her leg in the tight fabric as she returned the pot to the counter. She remained there a few moments, her back to him.

“So Matthew, since we won’t be negotiating directly, I want to ask your advice about something. I know you’ll be straight with me.”

“I’ll try.”

She came to the table and sat down again, watching his eyes as she spoke. “Somebody from the Greek church called Wallace, my lawyer. They want the icon.”

He had guessed it before she spoke. Fotis was here before him, forcing the issue.

“The Greek church in Greece?”

“I’m not certain. The guy who called was an American priest, but it was on behalf of the church over there. I’m not really sure of the distinction.”

“It’s murky even to them.”

“Apparently, they hinted pretty heavily that the work was stolen from Greece, years ago.”

She was staring at him so hard that he felt implicated in the crime. This was clearly what she had wanted to talk about all along.

“Were you surprised to hear that?”

She sipped, not breaking eye contact. “No.”

“Are they offering to pay?”

“They didn’t float numbers, but yes, they’ll pay.”

“Where was it left?”

“Nowhere. We’re supposed to get back to them.”

“And what advice do you need from me?”

Finally she wavered, looked away.

“I’m just curious what you thought of the idea. I mean, I’m not seriously considering it.”

“Why not?”

“You think I should?”

“Stop throwing all these questions back at me, and think about what you want.” He had barely raised his voice, but she seemed stung. “Listen, Ana, there is no ‘should’ about any of this. I’m simply curious why you wouldn’t consider the church a viable option.”

“It’s a new idea to me, that’s all. I understand about dealers, collectors, museums. Then it’s just about the art. This is bringing a whole new element into it. They want the icon for totally different reasons. I have no way of comparing the two things.”

His thoughts were pulled in all directions: Fotis’ plans, his own desires, what he should tell her, and when—he could not bring it all together.

“I guess one way to judge would be to think about who will get to see the work in each case, and what each group would get out of that experience. You need more information.”

“But does that even matter? Let’s say the icon
was
stolen. Doesn’t it belong to them? And couldn’t they make serious trouble for me or for the museum?”

He had been intentionally evading the issue, but there was no way around it. The mere whisper of “stolen Nazi loot” by the Greeks would cause the museum to drop its interest in a moment. There wouldn’t even have to be evidence.

“Are those the arguments the church rep made to your lawyer?”

“They were more subtle, I’m sure, but he understood. And he made sure that I did too.”

“What is he recommending?”

“He’s not one to be intimidated, Wallace. As far as I know, the museum is still the first option, but he wouldn’t have even mentioned the church if he didn’t expect me to consider it.”

“Well,” Matthew struggled for words. “This is interesting.”

“Is it? I find it rather nerve-racking, myself.”

“You must be more undecided than you first let on.”

“I go back and forth.” She ran a hand through her hair. “No choice seems like the right one. My lawyer gives me this maddening, contradictory advice in his completely neutral tone, and all you can do is ask questions.”

“At least he’s getting paid. My advice is free.”

“You want me to pay you?”

“I’m asking questions that I think are going to help you know your own mind. I’m not in a position to tell you what to do.”

“Right now, I’d like someone to tell me.”

“I strongly suspect that if someone tried you would resist strenuously.”

She rewarded him with her first smile of the day.

“Do I seem that contrary?”

He leaned back in his chair and returned the smile. “It’s what I would do.”

“Really? Is there stubbornness lurking beneath that smooth exterior, Mr. Spear?”

“So I’m told,” he said to the rust-colored floor tiles. Best to get off that topic quickly. “Have you considered simply holding on to it?”

“The thing is, some of this stuff has to go. Despite how careful my grandfather was, there are estate taxes, other expenses. Pretty hefty ones.”

“Why the icon? There’s plenty of other work, isn’t there?”

“The modern I want to keep, that’s my thing. Of the older work, the icon is the most valuable piece.”

“Maybe that’s all the more reason to hold on to it.”

She placed both hands firmly on the table.

“OK, you want the truth?”

“Please.”

“The thing gives me the creeps, it always has. I know, it’s just paint, but it feels as though there’s something more, something lurking inside. Then there’s my grandfather dying in front of it. I want it gone. So, I’ve said it. Now you can be disgusted with me.”

“Hardly. All it means is that the work is affecting you. Maybe not in the way the creator would have wanted, but nevertheless.”

She was pensive for a moment, then broke into another smile.

“You mean the artist. Not the Creator.”

He blushed for no reason.

“That’s right. The little guy, not the big guy.”

“I’m sorry, I’m punchy. I need a break from this.” She checked her watch. “God, it’s late. You didn’t need to go back to your office?”

“I’m done for the day.”

“Is there someplace you’re supposed to be?”

“No,” but he sensed the kiss-off and got to his feet. “Just some reading to catch up on.”

He went to the sink to wash out his mug, childishly annoyed about being denied another look at the icon. This obsessiveness wasn’t like him, and he felt unnerved. The visit had been about what she needed, not about him.

“Leave that, I’ll do it.”

“No problem.” He put the damp mug on the counter.

“I was wondering if you want to have dinner. If you’re not too busy.”

Matthew shook his head at his own stupidity. When had he become this slow? Why was he misreading her, making things harder?

“It’s a nice idea.”

She was gazing at him serenely, and he waited for an excuse to roll off his lips. It was a terrible idea, in fact. There was this business matter between them, and she was an odd woman in a vulnerable place. Despite his sympathy for her, and even his fascination, he was made constantly uneasy in her presence. The hundred-year-old German grandfather clock in the dining room intruded a deep, resonant ticking into the expanding silence.

“I promise not to talk about the icon,” she added, and he thought about the walk home, past the dry cleaners and Chinese restaurants to his empty apartment, while whatever lame excuse he concocted echoed around in this old brownstone, and she sat at the table drinking coffee all night.

“OK,” Matthew said. “Sure, I’d love to. Where shall we go?”

As it turned out, they didn’t go anywhere. Ana thought they could throw something together, the only difficulties being that there was little food in the house and that she didn’t cook. She did know the wine cellar, however, and went to retrieve a bottle while Matthew chopped mushrooms and whisked four eggs with a little cold water. Sliced apple, some parmesan, and in minutes he created a perfect omelet, which they ate with toasted bagels and a 1984 Châteaux Margaux.

“This is the wrong wine,” Ana said.

“Not if you like it.”

“Do you?”

“Very much, not that I’m an authority. Too much retsina forced on me at a young age.”