Neil Olson - The Icon

“Makarios,” Jimmy snorted. “No offense, I love the bishop. But I’ll tell you right now, I’m the guy you’re going to need on this matter.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He should have known better. The whole thing had felt wrong from the start, but Matthew had plowed mulishly ahead, needing to justify his actions to himself. The trouble had begun with the phone call the day before, Fotis suddenly skittish.

“The girl has spoken to you.”

“She says the contract was signed yesterday,” Matthew confirmed. “Tomas and someone else picked up the work last night. And deposited it with you, I assume.”

“All has proceeded as arranged, praise God.”

“That’s almost twenty-four hours. I really would have expected to hear.”

“My apologies. You are eager to examine it again. We must arrange a time.”

He’d had to force out the next words. “We had talked about someone else seeing it.”

“Yes.” A nervous whisper. “Do you think he is up to it?”

“I don’t know; he’s not up to much of anything. I thought that was the point.”

“I would not wish to cause him any unnecessary anxiety during his recovery.”

“It’s not a recovery, it’s a remission. Theio, this was your idea. What are you trying to tell me now? I’ve got to make an appointment, and my father is not welcome?”

“I am simply being careful. How will you persuade him to come?”

“Leave that to me. When should I bring him?”

“Tomorrow. It’s a Saturday, and I think you were to pay him a visit anyway.”

It was unnerving the way he knew everyone else’s schedule.

“Yeah, we even talked about a drive. I don’t think he had Queens in mind.”

“I will be here all day. And my boy, forgive this advice. Do not tell your father some foolish story. He will see through it and you will only make him angry.”

“You’re saying I’m not a good liar.”

“Tell him I’ve asked you to come and look at some art. It’s the truth. Tell him you want his company, his support. Let him feel he is doing something for you.”

His father had not objected but had agreed to the visit like a man condemned, sitting grim-faced and silent for most of the drive. At the house in Queens, Fotis greeted them with barely veiled agitation, working his green worry beads nervously. Canvases hung about the study, and Fotis and Matthew discussed a recently acquired Dutch landscape. Alex seemed to relax, and scanned the bookshelves around him. His wheelchair was positioned by the window, weak sun spilling over his strong shoulders, a fresh stubble forming an aura of gray light about his head. Six feet in front of him, beneath a white cloth, a medium-sized square panel sat on an easel, and Matthew could not keep his gaze from swinging constantly back to it, drawn by a special energy. Suddenly the whole production filled him with dread. Catching Fotis’ wet, round eyes, he saw that the old man shared his unease. Before he lost his nerve completely, Matthew stood up and stepped over to the easel.

“Dad,” he said, pulling the cloth from the work, half expecting something else to be beneath it until the eyes caught him once more, nearly stealing his voice. “This is the piece I’ve been consulting on. Fotis is holding it for a buyer in Greece.”

Alex turned his head to the panel only very slowly. There was a determined expression of resistance on his face, which loosened at once when his gaze met the image, and a true look of wonder seemed to play about his eyes. Matthew’s spirit fed off that look.

“I know you don’t have much use for religious art, but I find this one particularly affecting, and I really wanted you to see it.”

He took advantage of his father’s trancelike state to step behind the wheelchair and move it closer to the easel, close enough that Alex could reach out and touch the icon, if he wanted.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

He could no longer see his father’s face, and there was no immediate reply. Then the large head seemed to nod, almost imperceptibly, and indeed the right hand reached up and outward. Did he actually touch it?

A spontaneous moan escaped Fotis at that moment. Alekos’ hand recoiled from the painting, and his head swiveled to stare at the old man. Matthew squeezed the handgrips of the wheelchair in frustration and also looked at Fotis. The schemer wore an expression closer to naked terror than Matthew had ever expected to see on that calculating face, and the young man could not tell whether the old one’s eyes were focused on Alex, or on the door behind them. No one said a word for several seconds. Then Alex shook his head slowly, as if clearing his mind of a dream, and when he spoke his voice was tight with disgust.

“Get me away from this thing.”

Most of the return drive passed in embarrassed silence. There was nothing angry or accusing in Aleko’s manner; more confusion, mixed with fatigue. For long minutes he seemed about to speak, and finally did.

“I don’t know what you intended by all this. Maybe you’re proud of the work and wanted to share it with me.”

“Something like that,” Matthew managed, eyes glued to the damp road.

“I know some things about that icon, some things your Yiayia told me, years ago. I don’t know the whole story, but both of those bastards have blood on their hands over that painting. I thought your Papou was going to tell you about it.”

“No. Fotis told me something. It was pretty awful.”

His father grabbed Matthew’s forearm.

“Listen to me,” Alex said firmly. “Are you listening to me?”

“I’m listening.”

“I mean listen to me.”

“Dad, I’m listening, for chrissake.” He fought the pressure on his arm to keep control of the wheel.

“Believe nothing Fotis tells you. Until you hear it from someone you trust, believe nothing. Do you understand me?”

“I hear you.”

“But you don’t believe.” Alex released him. “After all, what could your idiot father know?”

“That’s not what I’m thinking.”

“No? What are you thinking?”

Matthew grasped after his own thoughts, then shifted lanes quickly to make the exit off the expressway, which he hadn’t noticed coming up.

“I’m thinking that I’m hearing an awful lot of shit from everyone, and I don’t know what to believe.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t think you’re lying, you’re just not saying anything useful. It’s this vague, angry ranting against those two that I’ve been hearing my whole life. What did they do?”

“They made a devil’s bargain with the Germans.”

“That much I know.”

“Talk to your grandfather.”

“He won’t tell me. I’ve tried.”

“Did you tell him whatever Fotis told you? Did you? No? Oh, that one has you wrapped around his finger. Ask your Papou.”

“I’m telling you he won’t speak to me.”

“He’ll speak to you. I’ll see to it.”

They sat idling at a stop sign, though there was no traffic in sight. Matthew pulled the shift arm toward him once and the wipers made a quick arc across the rain-speckled windshield.

“Why do you hate them so much?”

“I don’t hate them,” Alex said, “Any more than I hate a dog that’s been trained to kill; but I don’t trust them. They’re creatures of their time, and it was an ugly time. Greece suffered terribly during the war. Then the civil war, troubles with Turkey, Cyprus, all the changes in government, all corrupt. The politicians had a siege mentality. They were fighting to keep Greece free, so anything was allowed. Your Papou and godfather were government men, loyal soldiers. I don’t know the details, but I know they participated in some terrible things. You can see it in their faces. And it started during the war, with that damn icon. They took the first step from being freedom fighters to being political operatives right then. Trading with the enemy for guns to use on their brothers.”