Neil Olson - The Icon

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.

“Your Papou has worn me out,” Alex announced. “You’ll have to leave soon.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Your mother will be here tomorrow. She’ll get some straight answers. Who knows, maybe the next time you see me I’ll be at home.”

“That would be wonderful.”

Andreas rose then, too quickly, and touched the edge of the mattress to steady himself.

“I’m worried about you, Babás.” Alekos’ voice was quiet. Andreas grabbed his son’s hand with sudden force and squeezed it. The face remained neutral but the hand squeezed back. The old man found his balance and straightened.

“I am the only one here who does not need any worrying over.”

“I should have called the hotel,” Andreas said at last. “I hope they have held the room.”

Matthew accelerated down the empty avenue.

“It’s absurd for you to stay in a hotel when Ma is all alone in that big house. She would be happy to have you.”

“She would not refuse me, but it would be awkward.”

“So you could stay with me. It’s not a big apartment, but there’s room. You would be a lot closer to the hospital.”

“You will have to trust that I prefer it this way. Now please tell me what the nurse said.”

“You never miss a thing, do you?” The light stopped them at Eighty-sixth street. “No prognosis, you have to speak to a doctor for that. She did confirm that they’ll probably send him home soon. She also warned that he might be right back there in a week.”

That must be avoided, Andreas thought, but it would be Alekos’ decision.

They were moving again, past the massive, spotlighted edifice of the Metropolitan Museum, columned and crenellated, bleached stone and huge, colorful banners. Matthew’s museum.

“We must get him some morphine,” Andreas said.

“They’ll give him something, I’m sure. He hasn’t been in a lot of pain so far.”

“That may not last, and we cannot count on the compassion of doctors. I mean that we must procure some morphine ourselves. In case of need.” He felt the words sink in during the silence that followed.

“Fotis could get it,” Matthew said.

“No doubt. We will ask him, if we have no other alternative.”

“You don’t like asking him for favors.”

“We have a complicated relationship, your godfather and I. I try to make distinctions between business and friendship. No such distinctions exist for him.”

“You know Dad doesn’t like him.”

“I’m sure your father’s feelings are also complicated. I think he mostly mistrusts him. He feels Fotis may try to involve you in one of his schemes.”

They turned east on Seventy-second street. Matthew did not respond right away, but Andreas waited him out.

“I don’t think Fotis is doing so much scheming these days,” the younger man finally said. “He’s feeling his mortality. He wants to do the things that give him pleasure, wants to be with his family, which is basically us. I don’t think he’s looking to stir up trouble.”

“Perhaps not.” He must be careful; the boy was very close to his godfather. “Trouble has a way of finding Fotis, however.”

Matthew smiled at that.

“He says the exact same thing about you.”

“Yes? Well, I won’t deny it. We have both had difficulty avoiding trouble. We sought it out so often as young men that it has become friendly with us. I tell you, though, I was always the amateur. Fotis was the expert.”

Matthew’s face was hard to read. Confusion or annoyance sat on his forehead and in the muscles around the eyes, or perhaps he was just concentrating on the right turn onto Lexington Avenue. They were close to the hotel now.

“It will be on the left,” Andreas said. “A little further on.”

“Where do you find these places?”

“Friends recommend them.”

“They must be poor recommendations, since you never stay in the same place twice.”

“Just another habit of mine. Right there, I think. The green awning.” Andreas shifted in the seat to observe Matthew as they pulled into an open curb space before what appeared a pleasant old second-rate establishment. “I hope I have not offended you. You know I am fond of your godfather, but I say that with a full knowledge of who he is. He is not an easy man to understand. It would be better for you, and better for your father’s peace of mind, if you did not become involved in any business arrangement with Fotis. Not even an exchange of favors.”

Matthew was silent, staring out the windshield. He would never be uncivil, but this talk had made him uncomfortable. Matters might have progressed further than Andreas had anticipated. He would have to speak more openly, but not now.

“Are you free anytime this week, my boy? Tomorrow, even?”

“Tomorrow is tough. I’ll call you when I see how things are shaping up.”

“Very well.”

“Come on, let’s get you checked in.”

In the beginning was the word. In the end, words weren’t worth much. At the church services he surreptitiously attended, Matthew quickly lost the thread of the words spoken, sung, lost his grip on the Greek language, found it transformed into pure music, pure sound. Sound mixed with the smell of incense, the glint of pale lamps off gold leaf, the dark eyes of saints in the iconostasis. Some days it was enough to invoke a sort of trance, which was soothing to the soul or at least the psyche. Was it faith? He knew that if he followed the words, if he attempted the journey in any sort of intellectual manner, it all felt ridiculous. He had to let himself go. His former girlfriend Robin, a lapsed Catholic, had experienced the same phenomenon. Christ Hypnotist, she called it.