Days Like Today

by Rachel Ingalls

  Less than ten minutes later, the thunder started again. This time it was nearer, coming in long, rumbling swells. It was accompanied by a palpable drop in the air pressure. He hurried to the place in the trail where a lookout had been cut through the trees.

  Across the intervening hills he could see down to the gap. The sky was a shade of black that appeared green. The storm was coming up and it seemed inevitable. He began to walk fast, hoping to outrun the rain.

  There were bright flickerings at the horizon. Behind him the deep, full, angry voice of the thunder issued from a sky like night and it carried a tone of personal, vengeful intent. Other people, his family, the houses he’d left only half an hour before, the city beyond – all the world had vanished, leaving only him and the pursuing storm.

  As soon as the big, branched lightning began, he threw away the umbrella and ran.

  The wind came driving through the boughs, ripping branches away, scattering the leaves: whistling and rattling. Everything whipped and writhed around him and then – more frightening than the commotion – all noise and movement stopped, leaving him racing ahead through silence.

  Suddenly, with a tearing crack, the world exploded and a tree burst right in front of him, the raw inside smoking as the bark was peeled away: sliced like a carrot from top to bottom. And instantly the bolt of electricity slammed into three neighboring trees in quick succession, splintering them into pieces as small as matches. He threw himself on the ground.

  The rain let loose, battering down everywhere. Mud and water poured over him in streams, drenching him so thoroughly that he might have been under the sea. He stayed where he was until the worst of the storm passed by. When he got to his feet and dragged himself back to the house, half the relatives were as worried as if he’d been a missing child. The others laughed.

  He took off his shoes in the back hall, carried some coffee up to his room and left his sodden clothes on the floor of his bathroom. He stood under a hot shower until he warmed up.

  What his grandfather called ‘the ancients’ were right: the elements were gods – how could anyone doubt that?

  His grandfather was a terrible old scoundrel, an old pirate, but he loved him. Nevertheless, the storm was a sign. It had shown him how insignificant every life was and how vulnerable, even to a momentary change in the weather. It was as if he’d been told to hold on to what was true: to make sure that he didn’t forget again.

  The icon had to go back to the island it had been stolen from. Since his grandfather would rather be boiled in oil before he’d make restitution to anyone for anything, it was up to someone else to do it.

  In the night he went downstairs to his grandfather’s study, found the briefcase in which the icon was usually transported, pried open the hinges at the back and took out the painting. As soon as he held it in his hands, he sensed that he was doing the right thing. He also felt a delayed fear at the thought of what a mess everything would be if – as well as the icon – there had been important papers in the case. What would he have done then? He might have found himself having to destroy legal documents, share certificates and private letters.

  As it was, he could simply take the briefcase with him and ditch it. When the loss was discovered, his grandfather might begin to doubt that he’d brought the icon down to the country. He was an old man: his memory wasn’t faultless. No matter how strong his recollection, he’d phone back to town and have a search started. And then the incident would become like the loss of his gold pen. The pen had rolled off the night table and been kicked under the four-poster, to remain in the one spot the maid, Stamata, missed in her vacuuming. She’d found it after five months. And the old man had had to admit that the pen hadn’t been in the other house, as he’d thought, and hadn’t been lost somewhere in his study: it was a mystery. But his treasure had been restored to him and he wouldn’t hear anything against Stamata’s house-cleaning methods; hadn’t she been the one to find the lost object?

  There had never been a mystery, of course. The disappearance of the pen had taken place while the old man wasn’t paying attention and so he couldn’t remember.

  That was what would happen now, Stratis thought. By the time he was home again, the hunt for the briefcase would be in full swing. And, meanwhile, he’d have taken a plane to Greece, restored the icon to its church on the island and, if the news ever came out, he could simply lie. He could say to his grandfather: You were right – all those things look alike. I went out and bought a fake in a souvenir shop. And that’s what I gave them. To jolt them out of their depression. I thought it was worth a try.

  Maybe his grandfather wouldn’t quite believe or disbelieve him. The fate of the icon would become something unacknowledged between them, neither certain fact nor doubt. It might even happen that after a year or so, if any suspicion remained, his grandfather would entertain the idea of a theft with less horror, perhaps with a touch of admiration. After all, hadn’t he been the first to steal? His anger would pass, as would the outrage: the sense of having been robbed.

  Stratis left a note to say that he was going to stay with a friend while he worked on an idea he’d had for a poem. He phoned the friend and told him that he was taking a trip with a married woman the family disapproved of; he’d be gone for a couple of days, so if anyone called up and asked to speak to him, the friend should say that Stratis had been there but that he’d left to go someplace else and he hadn’t told anyone where.

  *

  In the morning, as soon as the old man looked for his briefcase to take out the icon and hang it up in its place, he realized that – having failed to get anywhere by talk – his grandson had resorted to force, and had taken what he wanted.

  His disappointment was so bitter that for two days it took away his appetite. He stole from me, he thought. He, to whom I would have given anything; and I’d made plans to leave him everything, including what he stole.

  He sat in his study and refused to join the others for meals. But he did nothing about the theft, and said nothing. It was for Stratis to come back to him with apologies, explanations and pleas for forgiveness.

  On the third day he heard from the police.

  *

  They telephoned first, saying that they wanted to speak to him about his grandson, who had had an accident; the authorities in Greece had been in touch with them. A man would call at the house.

  Stratis was dead. The body was going to be shipped home as soon as the formalities were completed. He’d been carrying his passport, but identification would still be necessary. The police had tried, but failed, to contact the boy’s parents.

  The man in charge arrived with a Greek Orthodox priest and a translator. He didn’t look like a policeman; and he was wearing a suit, not a uniform. But that was what he was, even if his department extended to international territory. The priest and interpreter accepted chairs at the side of the room while the policeman explained that Stratis had been found on his grandfather’s island. He was first seen asking two priests the way to the church; he appeared to be in great distress. The priests tried to find out what was wrong with him but his command of Greek wasn’t up to dealing with their local version of the language, even though they took care to speak slowly. They attempted to persuade him to rest but he pushed them away and kept walking. They thought that he was sick: he was staggering and gasping. Every once in a while he’d stop and bow his head, stumble around a little and continue. At last, as he was in sight of the church, he fell. They rushed forward to help.

  When they opened his coat – an unnecessary garment at that time of year – they saw that he was soaked with blood. He was trying to talk. He touched the piece of wood that was buttoned inside his shirt. He said something about it that they didn’t understand. However, a search of his pockets afterwards disclosed a list of Greek words and phrases: the words for ‘church’, ‘water’ and ‘car’; and questions such as, ‘Where is …?’, ‘How much is it?’, ‘How far is it?’ and, right at the end, ‘This is the lost
icon belonging to the church and the people of this island. The good luck has returned.’

  The two priests removed the piece of wood and recognized it as an icon of the Madonna. It too was bloodstained, all the way up to the Virgin’s neck, but her face was untouched and – even before they became aware of the importance of that particular icon – they noticed how lovingly her eyes rested on the island that was her home. Stratis at that stage was dying. He kept trying to repeat the phrase about returning the icon but the priests didn’t understand that until the discovery of the paper with its penciled list of phrases. Knowing that death was near, they asked him if he was firm in his belief and ready to meet the Lord of Creation. He couldn’t say anything for a while, although his lips moved. Then a tear ran down his face and he smiled. And he said yes.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ his grandfather said.

  The interpreter whispered something to the priest. They both stood up. ‘Later,’ the policeman told them. The two resumed their places but they continued to talk hurriedly to each other in soft hisses. ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ the policeman said.

  The interpreter insisted, ‘This is the reason why we are here. To assure the family that the young man died in the faith of his ancestors. He said yes and the spirit left him. It was his final word.’

  ‘Half the family is Catholic in any case,’ the old man told him. ‘But what language was he speaking when he was supposed to be saying yes?’

  ‘Greek, naturally.’

  ‘All right. I understand. I’m not doubting your word. Let’s proceed with the officer’s account.’

  They were mistaken, of course. There had been a misinterpretation. Stratis’s command of Greek was pathetic; he’d probably forgotten that né meant yes: because it sounded so close to ‘nay’. He must have believed that he was saying no. And that would be why he’d smiled.

  The ignorance of others was already foisting upon the world a false notion of Stratis’s character – someone they didn’t even know. Those two priests, who had shared his last moments, were like witnesses at a traffic accident, not even clear about what they’d seen with their own eyes.

  ‘He was stabbed,’ the policeman said. ‘We’ve traced the wounding to the men’s lavatory at the airport in Athens, where a gang of four dealers was splitting up a drug shipment for cash. Did you ever suspect that your grandson was involved with drugs?’

  ‘Absolutely not. He liked to drink when he went out in the evening; sometimes a lot, like anyone young, but most of the time just three or four drinks with a meal, sharing a couple of bottles with some friends. That’s all.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Can you explain why he might have taken part in a fight between drug dealers?’

  ‘I can only think that he was an innocent bystander and they thought he was a spy: someone from the narcotics’ squad. If this fight took place in a public lavatory, well … why do you think he’d be there? To relieve himself.’

  ‘We were wondering whether the icon might have been part of the exchange.’

  ‘So that he could give it away?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘And I think I can tell you about that. He’d seen an exhibition of icons at an art gallery last month. He spoke to me about a lost icon that came from an island where everything had gone wrong since it disappeared. I told him … I told him that if the islanders were really superstitious enough to believe that, they’d probably be happy with one of those cheap copies you can buy in any junk shop all over the world – they all look alike.’

  ‘But where would the icon have come from?’

  ‘Oh, anywhere. Here, probably. From some place that sells religious bric-à-brac.’

  ‘I suppose it isn’t possible that the painting was genuine?’

  ‘Of course not. He’d never have dared to take it through customs.’

  ‘It was small and the airport is notoriously lax.’

  ‘Nevertheless. Art theft? A jail sentence? Why would he risk that?’

  ‘Was he very religious?’

  ‘On the contrary.’

  ‘The priest seems to think that he was.’

  ‘Well, he’s wrong. Maybe Stratis saw the restoration of the icon as an adventure, or even a joke: he’d take it to the island and if they accepted it as genuine, that would help them out of their troubles. Just as I said.’

  And of course the island would accept it now. Blood had been spilled. That made everything true. You wouldn’t die for something that was fake, would you?

  The island would prosper and Stratis, who had made such an extraordinary gesture – giving his life for the sake of strangers – would become famous. His story would be told all over the island and, in the telling, the facts would be worn down as the sea wears away the stones on the shore, so that eventually his recounted history would resemble the life of a saint: a rich young man who – rebelling against his family – cast away all worldly vanities and entered a sacred state.

  ‘I’m tired,’ the old man said. ‘This news is hard to bear. I would like to rest.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll need to ask you anything more. Are the boy’s parents –?’

  ‘They’re traveling. I’ve telephoned. They’re flying to Athens and then back here.’

  Everyone stood. As the policeman left the room, the priest began to talk about the island’s great joy at having the treasure restored. The true treasure was faith, which they had lost with the disappearance of their protectress. Now they could never doubt again. His grandson had shown the world that heaven meant them to be blessed. All the people of the island joined him and his fellow clerics in extending their condolences to the family for the loss of this splendid young man who had sacrificed himself, so nobly, for others.

  The old man put a hand to his temple for the last part of the speech, and closed his eyes. When both priest and interpreter had finished, he said to the priest in Greek, ‘I thank you for your sympathy and for coming all this way in person. I must retire now, but the family would be happy if you could join them for a meal before you leave. My cousins will attend to everything.’ He rang the bell on his desk. Later he heard that, after many protestations, the two did stay for dinner and managed to exact contributions for a memorial to Stratis.

  Vultures, he thought; even at the graveside, hustling for money to keep them in business. And now their miserable island was going to be on the map: a genuine tourist attraction with a legend to go with it.

  *

  The newspaper accounts didn’t mention the fact that one of Stratis’s relatives had come from the island. The surname was different, but the old man’s name – even in the shortened, more easily pronounceable form he had adopted on arrival in America – would have been recognized by an islander. And the priest had sat down to dinner at the house. Had nobody admitted that there was a family connection with the place of the icon’s church? Apparently not. Nor did anyone in the family remark on the peculiar circumstances of Stratis’s death. The icon was never mentioned at all, although they knew that there was one in the house. They might even have realized that that one was now gone. Perhaps they simply weren’t curious, or possibly the fact of death had taken away their interest in peripheral matters.

  Maybe they believed, as Stratis had, that his grandfather had stolen the painting when young. Perhaps they didn’t want to investigate what they saw as a crime of long ago that had finally been put right.

  The funeral was attended by all the relatives and some friends. A girl no one in the family knew – probably the one who had caused all the trouble – was there. She was pretty enough, but unremarkable, looking serious and rather melancholy. She came with an ugly friend, who cried a lot.

  The old man didn’t cry. He exerted all his strength to stay standing, with the help of his cane. And after that, he went to bed.

  *

  The young were natural betrayers, of course – particularly young men: that wa
s a fact of life. They were always moving forward too fast to keep up with old ties. They had to find their place in the world and not simply copy the ways of older generations. You made them the inheritors of your future self and then they threw it away.

  But Stratis had had a good heart. How could he have failed to stop and think about what he was doing? How could he have so misbelieved and misunderstood?

  It must have been the girl: the utterly unsuitable, superficially attractive girl who was just like thousands of others he could have found any day – all of whom would have fallen at his feet as long as he didn’t allow them to imagine that they were more important than the next woman.

  Stratis had been too impatient. He’d continued to want something he couldn’t have. He hadn’t been content to wait. He would certainly have found another girl, better and more to his liking, and one who loved him back.

  *

  He too had suffered early disappointment and betrayal in love. That was when the painting had come to him, at the moment when he’d made the decision to step out of one life and into another, taking nothing with him – except, as it turned out, that one thing.

  A week before leaving Athens for good, he’d seen an icon for sale. He’d spotted it from the street outside; it was right at the back of the shop. He’d gone in. And he was inspecting the painting closely, thinking how much it reminded him of the one on his island, when the owner had come up to him, saying, ‘You like it?’

  ‘I like it,’ he’d replied, ‘although it’s a copy.’ He hadn’t known that for sure, but he’d assumed it. Nearly all art for sale was a copy if it purported to be old. You were safe only if you bought new painting; sometimes not even then.

  ‘A copy, naturally,’ the owner had agreed. ‘But a good one.’ And then he’d said that he couldn’t hold it; he’d already had a very attractive offer for it.

  Of course he had. From someone who was going to try to resell it as the real thing. Or perhaps from a richer man, who had never seen the original and would be buying it in the hope that it would turn out to be genuine. The owner was slick enough to absolve himself from the responsibility of guaranteeing the genuineness of his wares. Copyists were so skillful nowadays – well, they always had been and always would be. It was a good idea, when purchasing a work of art, never to hope for an investment but, rather, to buy what you liked and wanted to live with: like choosing a friend or a partner in marriage.