Neil Olson - The Icon

“I think it’s the right choice,” the younger man continued,

“but I can’t help feeling that I’ve been dishonest. She doesn’t know anything about your connection with the church.”

“What is there to know? They asked for my help, it has proved unnecessary.”

“I thought I would tell her. About them talking to you, and you talking to me.”

Fotis continued eating methodically, pudding sticking to his huge mustache.

“You say she came to the decision on her own. If you tell her these things, you tell her to doubt her decision.”

“Maybe she should doubt it.”

The old man glanced up at him. “Why?”

“Because another buyer might pay her more. And a museum would be accountable for what it did with the work. Who knows what these Greeks will do?”

“Demand to know.”

“I’ve told you, I can’t demand anything.”

“Advise her. You’ve done well so far.”

“And why should I undermine my own museum’s interests?”

“That is a different issue.”

“I’m denying myself the chance to have this work at my fingertips, to examine it at length, any time I want. That’s a very appealing idea to me.”

“And that is a different issue still.” Fotis paused to chew as two large women with several colorful shopping bags each bustled into the tiny shop, gabbling in some Scandinavian tongue.

“Now we have the girl, the museum, and yourself. Who comes first?”

“It’s Ana’s icon.”

Matthew hadn’t meant to use her first name, but if the old fox noticed, he did not let on.

“Very good. She has taxes to pay, I understand, but her financial situation is sound. She has no real money needs. She may well have spiritual ones.”

“That’s not for us to conjecture about.”

“Her grandfather built a chapel to contain the icon.” The old man’s bushy eyebrows rose meaningfully. “Mother of God, what could be a clearer sign of his intentions than that? What could better honor his feelings for the work than giving it to the church? So there is the girl. The museum, truly, I must tell you that I don’t give a damn about them one way or another. Your loyalty is admirable, of course, but it is a big, rich institution which has no need of your protection. Eat your pudding.”

Matthew wasn’t hungry, but dutifully took a bite.

“As for what you need,” Fotis continued, the long spoon clattering in his empty dessert glass, “that concerns me greatly.” He wiped his face carefully and turned his eyes to the street. Always on the lookout, thought Matthew. For what? “The church will want to secure the icon before the girl has second thoughts, but they will not be able to take immediate possession. They have not made arrangements for transport, or for what happens to it over there. I can provide them with a neutral location to store it for a few weeks, insurance coverage, security. I do it for my own work anyway. And you may examine it during that time, whenever you wish.”

“There are companies that specialize in the storage and transportation of art. I could even recommend a few. I can’t believe they would leave that to you.”

“I tell you I can arrange it.”

Matthew squeezed his forehead. He needed sleep, needed to think clearly.

“Have you already arranged it? How deeply are you in with these people?”

“There have been discussions. Nothing has been agreed, but they will do as I suggest. I contribute generously to several of their causes, and unlike you, I am not ashamed to apply leverage. Anyway, they prefer to deal with countrymen, you know the Greeks.”

“And you’re doing this for what reason?”

“You don’t believe it’s for the church?” Fotis smiled at him.

“Suspicious boy. Very well, say that it is for myself. There is little in life that would please me more than returning the icon to Greece, and having a few precious days alone with it before that.”

“I see.”

“And you know, there is another person who might benefit.” Fotis eyed him keenly, but Matthew was unwilling to play. “Your father will be released from the hospital shortly.”

“My father?” A cold panic turned the pudding to lead in his stomach.

“Yes.”

“He’s not much for art. Or religion.”

“If you would remember what you have read, you would understand that faith is not always necessary for healing. It is in the general nature of the miraculous. Doubters are critical to any religion. Their resistance defines faith, and it usually says something about their hearts. The truly godless never bother to think about the matter. Your father’s scorn says something different to me from what he intends.”

“I’m sure he’d be very interested to hear that,” Matthew snapped, anger rising at Fotis’ daring to bring his father into this, even as the old man’s words stirred other, more elusive feelings.

“I would not be foolish enough to say it to him, and I trust that you will have the wisdom not to mention any of this. He will come to my home for a visit when he is out of the hospital. The icon will be there. The rest will be in God’s hands.”

“In God’s hands?” Matthew could barely contain himself. Private musings had leaped from his mind, from the old dusty pages in the library to his godfather’s lips. His own scorn died on his tongue, killed by some stronger emotion. Fear? Was it fear lurking beneath the cover of his righteous rage, and what should he be frightened off? “You honestly think that icon will miraculously cure him?”

“I expect nothing. I would not deny him the opportunity to derive some good from it. Why would you?”

“And for that ridiculous reason I’m not supposed to tell Ana Kessler the truth?”

“There is nothing useful you are keeping from her. And there are many reasons why you should allow the matter to take its course. Must we review them again? Do you need more?”

Matthew’s anger reached some critical mass and converted itself into paralyzing self-disgust. A man who knew his mind would do what he had to, would not sit here debating.

“Do you think the girl is telling you everything?” Fotis continued.

“What do you mean?”

“Only that she may have secrets of her own.”

“Like what?”

“I do not claim to know, but it is a strange and secretive family, from what little I understand. She has not hesitated to turn you to her own purposes, make you her personal adviser.”

“I’ve done that willingly.”

“It always feels that way with a woman, yes?”

“I don’t like your insinuations.”

“I withdraw them. You need no self-serving reasons to do what is right.”

“How do either of us know what that is?”

“You will do what is right because you are a good man. You do not require the spur of familial guilt and obligation.”

“Familial guilt,” spat Matthew. “You mean your guilt.”

“Are we not family? But that is not what I meant. The responsibility lies closer still.”

“Please don’t be mysterious, Theio. Say what you’re going to say.”

Fotis’ eyes were suddenly damp, and his face seemed to droop with his mustache.

“I did not want to speak of this. I break a trust by doing so. Do you understand me? To Fithee. The Snake.”

“The one who killed the priest.”

Fotis reached one long, shaking hand across the table and caught Matthew’s sleeve.

“We cannot know that he did kill him. He was doing what he felt was right, remember that.”

“Tell me.”

“Your Papou.” And he withdrew the hand, looked away. Matthew simply stared.

“Papou was the Snake.”

Fotis only nodded, back bent, hat falling over his eyes. Diminished. Matthew allowed any expressions of shock or denial to pass through his mind unspoken. Indeed, the longer he sat there, made mute by the terrible questions in his mouth, the more they tasted like truth. Had he thought about it before now, he might have guessed. Perhaps he had, perhaps that explained his present restraint. Killers grew into kindly old men. He knew his grandfather had an ugly past. His father had told him more than once that the man had done things of which he was now ashamed, things which haunted him. Certainly, there were circumstances that might explain what happened, yet Matthew had the feeling he would never learn what they were. He could fish for answers, but he would have to be careful, have to keep his own secrets from Andreas until he knew more. Even now, all these years later, it was clear that his grandfather was up to something here, something more than visiting his son in the hospital. He was hardly ever at the hotel when Matthew called, would not discuss whom he was seeing or why. Could it be about the icon?