Neil Olson - The Icon

“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.”

“Retsina,” she groaned. “My God, that stuff is poison.”

“This is where I’m supposed to say-with my chin in the air, like this-that you haven’t had the good stuff. ‘That export retsina, Theomou, scatá!’”

“That’s good, you look like somebody.”

“Marlon Brando.”

“I was going to say Mussolini.”

“Gee, thanks. The truth is, all retsina tastes like tree sap to me. Greek food, French wine.” He swirled the dark liquid in his glass. The cooking had eased some of his tension. “Everybody, do what they’re good at.”

She stuffed a forkful of omelet into her mouth, as if she hadn’t seen food in days.

“Do all Greek men know how to cook?”

“It’s an omelet, Ana. Any single guy can make one, it hardly qualifies as cooking.”

“To you. In this kitchen it’s the height of culinary achievement.”

“I’m honored.”

“Can I ask a rude question?”

“Why start looking for permission now?”

“Why are you single?”

“Well, how do I answer that? Fate? I could ask you the same question.”

“We’ll get to me.” She adjusted her wineglass on the table, minutely, precisely, as if it were an important engineering project.

“So you’re not involved?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You can make a last-minute dinner date without having to answer to anyone.”

“Maybe my girlfriend is out of town.”

“Why make me guess?”

“All right,” he conceded with a tight smile, “you’re correct. I am currently unentangled.”

“Now how can that be? A handsome, intelligent guy like yourself.”

She said it casually, as if he must be used to such compliments, but Matthew felt his face flush once more. Maybe it was just the wine.

“This city is full of handsome, intelligent, lonely people,” he answered carefully. “It’s not such a mystery. Anyway, I just split with somebody I was with for a long time.”

“Whose doing was that?”

“Her doing. My fault.”

“Why your fault?”

“It was the Mussolini imitation, drove her nuts.”

“Come on.”

“Too many questions, Ana.”

“Sorry.” Her fork went down with a clatter. Her plate was empty.

“Looks as if somebody hasn’t been eating.”

“I forget, isn’t that pathetic? I’m a grown woman, but I forget to eat. When I’m in Santa Monica I have friends I always see for meals. Here, it’s more free-form. Actually, I used to have dinner with my grandfather a lot, before he became really ill.”

“Don’t tell me I’m sitting in his chair.”

“Eat in the kitchen, my grandfather? We always sat in that gloomy dining room, even when it was just the two of us. I don’t think he knew what the kitchen looked like.”

“Who did the cooking?”

“André. A sweet old guy, who I think I need to let go.”

“Maybe you should keep him,” Matthew noted, pointing to her empty plate.

“He’s almost eighty and wants to retire. I’ve already dumped Diana, that pain in the ass.”

“She was the nurse?”

“Thought she owned the place. My grandfather was sure she was stealing. I don’t know about that, but there was no reason to keep her. Gave her a nice severance and a good recommendation.”

“And you’re left with no one to take care of you.”

“And no one to take care of. I am also, how did you say it? Unentangled?”

“Here’s to that.” They toasted with their half-empty glasses, crystal pinging against crystal. “Do you prefer it that way?” The wine was loosening his normally careful tongue.

She stared off into space, seeming to consider the matter. “Not really. No.”

“All that jetting around the world makes it hard to maintain a relationship?”

“I never thought so, but it was definitely a problem for my exhusband.”