Neil Olson - The Icon

“And if I ask him about this, he’ll confirm it?”

Fotis looked shocked.

“My goodness, child, what could he say to such a thing? He might speak true, he might invent a lie, I don’t know. More than likely, he will say nothing, but I think it would break his heart if he found out that you knew. I pray you will not mention it.”

In the silence that followed, the waiter laid a check on the table. When Fotis did not immediately reach for it, Matthew knew the old man was shaken. He took the check himself, idly folding it several times.

“Damn it, Theio. I wish I didn’t know this.”

Andreas, in the backseat with Matthew, fought the drowsiness that always hit him in an overheated car. The smooth driving of his granddaughter Mary, the scientist in training, did not aid his efforts. He had never known a woman to drive so well. In the passenger seat, Alekos was still and pale, but his eyes blazed with new life as he looked out on the wet spring woods. He had not expected to see this place again, thought Andreas; he is wondering if this is the last time he will see it.

I have missed his whole life, the old man pondered. When Alex was a boy, Andreas had been constantly away on one awful piece of business or another. Serving his country. Errands for some bloody-minded brute, or worse, some arrogant idealist, soon corrupted. Forced retirements when governments changed, the chance to lead a normal life thrown away when he was called back to serve the next fool as he’d served the last. It might take months, but eventually they all understood how much they needed men like him. Irreplaceable men, who knew all the secrets. Why did he go back, once, twice, how many times? Because it was all he knew? He could have learned something else. He could have been a man of business. Why did he allow himself to stay in that terrible game, where nobody won, where keeping the idiots in power was the only goal? On good days, he understood the need; there were real enemies. But then there were all those men broken in body and spirit for harmless beliefs. Men not so different from himself.

Before long Alekos was off to school in America, where he fell in love, and never returned home. Which was just as well, given what Greece became in those years. But the familial bonds were strained, and Maria’s death seemed to snap them. Andreas suspected some loose words from Fotis, either to Alekos or to his hard-hearted niece Irini, Alekos’ wife. There was no other way that his son could have learned certain things, things he would have been better off not knowing. God only knew what Fotis’ goal had been. To drive a wedge between father and son? If he had planned to step in and play surrogate father, that plan had failed. He alienated himself from the boy as well. The evil stories had bred others in Alekos’ mind, until he had come to see plots everywhere. Yet that explanation felt like letting Andreas out of his share in the blame. His absence, his actions, had somehow poisoned his child’s mind, made him turn a cold, scientific eye on life, which he found wanting in every regard.

Or perhaps he was being unfair to both of them. Every father wounded his son, it was almost a duty. A man needed to make his own way, and had not Alekos done that? His cynical, aggrieved manner aside, he had found a wife, made two beautiful children, been successful in his career. The price was the rejection of his old life, his old country, his father. It was fair. It may not have been necessary, but it was fair.

The house, a modest stone structure in this town of great brick mansions, appeared behind a stand of hemlock. Alex refused the wheelchair, and with his son and daughter supporting him, walked up the front steps under his own power. Inside, Irini helped him to his study, where he would rest until he could manage the stairs. Andreas was shown to a chair near a warm radiator, but when the others retreated to the kitchen, he joined them.

“He looks good,” Mary said. “I mean, he looks happy to be home.”

“God willing, we can keep him here,” said Irini, whisking an egg furiously. She alone seemed capable of action. “Babas, do you want some water?”

“Make your soup, I will get it.”

But Mary jumped up, which was just as well, since he did not know where to find the glasses. He’d been in this house only twice before and felt as if he were visiting distant relatives. It intensified his sadness, but he attempted to shut that out and gratefully accepted the glass of water from his granddaughter. Mary still had a girl’s face, but she was twenty-seven and not yet married. Too beautiful, the old man surmised; too many choices.

“Thank you, child.”

“Can I hang up your coat?”

“In a little bit.”

“Mom, I’m putting up the heat, Papou’s cold.”

“Please, I am well,” Andreas protested. Most old men of his country expected this sort of fussing, but he found it humiliating. He could not sit like a pasha, waited upon. He asked for what he needed, or got it himself. Otherwise, he preferred to be invisible.

“See to your father.”

“There’s nothing I can do for him.” The girl looked stricken.

“Here, sit by me.”

He squeezed Mary’s hand and stroked her hair. Matthew gazed at them across the table. Trouble swirled behind that brow. They had not yet had a real talk, though Andreas had been here nearly a week. Besides long stretches at the hospital, they had not seen each other. The boy was busy, but the time must be found. There was no question that his common sense could be trusted; it was more a case of saving him the mental turmoil which the old schemer’s machinations-assuming Aleko was right about that-might cause. A steadying hand was in order.

“Maria.” Irini was pouring the frothy soup into a bowl, then squeezing lemon furiously, filling the kitchen with its sharp odor. “Get a tray table and set it up by your father.”

Mary leaped up again, and both women headed down the hall to the study. The two men were left alone in the suddenly quiet kitchen, and the distance between them was palpable.

“Listen for screams and breaking china,” said Matthew.

“I think your father will take his medicine.”

“That’s right, avgolemono soup cures cancer.”

Andreas nodded. “It’s possible.”

“I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other. This has been a crazier week than I expected.”

“I have kept myself busy, but it would be good to share some time. Alone, not here.”

“Will you stay tonight?”

“If your mother asks.”

“She doesn’t ask because she assumes you will.”

Andreas waved off the subject. “Tell me how your work is going.”

“Hectic.” Matthew put his feet up on a chair. He looked tired.

“I’m clearing rights on some paintings for a new show. And I’ve been out a couple of days, doing research and making house calls.”

“This is about the Greek icon?”

“Much of it, yes.”

“And is the museum going to buy it?”

“To tell the truth,” Matthew answered, pausing for some internal discussion, “that’s looking doubtful.”

“Really? Why should that be?”

“The seller has gotten cold feet. Also, the museum has gotten nervous. Seems the icon may be stolen property.” The boy was staring at him hard. What did he know? Something, of course, but probably not much. “I guess that doesn’t surprise you to hear.”

“You know I grew up in that village, before I went to Athens. I was there during the war.”

“It was taken by the Germans,” Matthew added pointedly.

“That’s right.”

“And someone was killed trying to stop that.”

“How much has Fotis told you?”

The younger man’s prosecutorial style faltered.

“Almost nothing. Just what I’ve said.”