The Icon

by Neil Olson

  “Andreas brought you to the monastery.”

  “Amusing, isn’t it? The atheist was the instrument of my faith. He should have killed me, that would have been the sensible thing. Perhaps it was this bargain with my father that stayed him.”

  “Maybe he just couldn’t do it.”

  “Yes, that’s what I decided later, when I thought about it. But it is pleasant for me to know that my father bargained for my life. It is difficult to despise one’s father, but more difficult to do otherwise with mine. The icon undid him. He was that altar boy who stole the papers from the elder Müller, and he remembered what was in them. I heard him speak of it to my brother, though the memory did not come back to me until I read the pages myself. He destroyed our family, destroyed himself. This information, that he pleaded for me before he died. It’s a little gift. I thank you for it.”

  “And you stayed at the monastery,” Matthew said, with some surprise, and some odd eagerness. “You became a priest, even after all that you saw.”

  “What else to do after all that I saw? Go mad or find God. I was still young enough to believe in a higher purpose behind the horror I had witnessed. I had lost my mother the year before, then my father and brother together. My sisters were married and gone, there was nothing for me to return to. My soul was desolate, but my heart and mind were open. I was ready for the Word. I was very fortunate. A few years older and I would have turned to cynicism, cruelty. I would have turned my back on Christ, as your grandfather did, as many young men did during those years. By the time my sister found me in the monastery, two years later, I had no desire to leave. I was home.”

  “But you did leave. I don’t know what your position is in the church, but you’re fluent in English, you get sent on sensitive assignments. Not the life of a monk.”

  “More a politician, or a spy, yes? I assure you that I am ill-suited to it. I was fortunate also in my mentor. A monastery can be a hard place for a young boy, but the abbot was a kind man, and your grandfather must have told him my tale. There was no other reason he would have taken me in. He saw right away that I was unprepared for the rigors of religious discipline, and taught me slowly. I learned English, a little French. I was even allowed to read some religious philosophy when I was older. The Orthodox have always emphasized asceticism and prayer above learning. My abbot was more cosmopolitan, and must have known that monastic life was merely a stopping-off place for him. Perhaps he sensed that the same would be true for me. Or perhaps I give him too much credit. Maybe he simply needed a protégé, and there I was, clever, and young enough to be molded to his purposes.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He is dead now, but first he made his way up the church hierarchy to the Holy Synod itself. I think he hoped for me to replace him there, but I was too much of a dreamer, too little of a politician. Another of his protégés was elevated, and that is the man I now serve.”

  “The man who sent you here.”

  The priest’s face grew troubled, and he broke eye contact with Matthew.

  “He sent me, yes, because I could identify the icon, and because I have had dealings here in the past. But Tomas and your godfather were ahead of us, and more killings followed.”

  “More? You mean in addition to those during the war, or have there been others since?”

  “I mean throughout its existence,” hissed Ioannes, guttering the flame. “The icon carries death in its wake. We no longer know how to treat an object of such preciousness. The mind-set has been lost. It overwhelms us, possesses us, makes us mad with longing. These many days I have spent searching for it, searching for you, have given me time to think. I do believe that things happen for a reason, even terrible things. I was granted this time to know the teachings of my own spirit. My mission is no longer the one I was sent upon. Voices have spoken to me.”

  The awed tone had returned. The priest had two modes—man of the world and wild-eyed believer—and they were beginning to alternate with frightening swiftness. Matthew suddenly wondered if Ioannes was not a little unbalanced.

  “What have the voices told you?”

  “Many things. They must be interpreted.”

  “But you’ve arrived at some answer.”

  “Not an absolute one. Anyway, it is not a thing you will wish to hear.”

  “Tell me, Father.” But even as he spoke, Matthew realized that he already knew what the priest would say.

  “I believe in my heart that this struggle will go on, the killings will go on, as long as the icon exists to tempt the weak. And we are most of us weak creatures. This object was created for another time. It can no longer exist in ours. It is too strong for our modern, godless condition. It must be returned to the power that inspired it.”

  “You mean it must be destroyed.”

  “Yes.”

  They were both quiet while the idea took substance between them, a bridge or a barrier. Matthew wanted to remain reasonable, to assess the priest’s suggestion with cool detachment, but it was impossible. The idea was monstrous, even sacrilegious.

  “I think,” he began slowly, “that you’re forgetting all the good associated with the icon, and giving too much credit to a few greedy old men. Do you give no credence to all the miraculous healings reported over the years? And even if that turns out to be just mind over body, don’t we have to respect the object which can inspire that?”

  “No doubt healings have occurred. In my youth I saw women cured of their arthritis, and one man cured of his blindness, at a touch. These were mostly poor and doubting souls, always Christ’s favorites, and their contact with the work was brief. Compare this with the few who possessed it for some length of time. Ali Pasha, Müller, Kessler. Covetous souls, who may have lived long lives, but not happy ones. Strife and illness plagued them, they watched their loved ones die young. Then look at all those who tried to possess it, who came to grief somehow. My father and brother are two. Look at the lives it has used up and twisted. Your own godfather. Look what it has begun to do to you.”

  “Don’t put me in that group, Father. I’ve been trying to let it all go.”

  “And doing admirably, though I wonder if you can succeed. Müller and Dragoumis left the icon alone for years at a time but were always drawn back. I need someone like you, who has tasted the work’s power, to be my ally in this, to understand me. The icon carries death.”

  “How can that be so if it carries the blood of Christ?”

  “Where is the contradiction?” the priest demanded. “Christ was surrounded by death. Death pursued all his followers but the timid, and many millions have died in his name since then. The promise of Christ is salvation of the soul, not long life on earth.”

  Matthew tried to frame a response, but his mind was alive with fear and agitation, and no logical rebuttal would come to him. The priest’s thinking was wrong. Not just wrong but dangerously simplistic, a product, no doubt, of his own brutal experience. Understandable, but somehow he had to set the man straight before Ioannes did something rash.

  The telephone rang, startling them both. It seemed to Matthew that it must be late, yet the clock indicated it was not, even if full darkness had fallen outside. The candle had burned down; for short emergencies, clearly. He knew he should simply let the phone keep ringing, but some uncontrollable urge caused him to reach back to the counter and pick it up.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Spear. I am pleased that you are finally at home.” The voice was old and unfamiliar, and Matthew felt at once that he had made a mistake in answering. “We have some time to make up, so I will come to the point. Your grandfather is in our care, and it is necessary for you to speak to me about the icon. I understand that your knowledge of its present location may be imprecise, but I do require that you tell me all you can. Are we clear so far?”

  “My grandfather.” What the hell was this? A threat, certainly, but from whom?

  “Yes, Andreas is with us. We are getting on famously, but such things seldom l
ast.”

  “Listen. Who are you?” No, that was stupid. “Let me speak to Andreas.”

  “Of course. Briefly.”

  “Paidemou.” The old man’s voice sounded sleepy. “Do nothing. I have explained to these princes that you know nothing, but they are both stubborn fellows. Tell—”

  “Well,” the first voice came back on the line, “that was not very constructive, but at least you can be satisfied that he is with us, and healthy. Now, Mr. Spear, I cannot stay on this call for long. Please speak to me.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.” What a mess. They really had the old man. Were these the same people who had gone after Fotis, after Ana? He squeezed the receiver hard. “We should speak in person, shouldn’t we? Someplace public. With my grandfather there.”

  “A meeting is an excellent idea, when I am convinced that you have something to share. You must convince me of that first.”

  “Why would I tell you anything over the phone? This has to be an exchange, right?”

  “That depends upon the value of the information. Do you know where your godfather is now?”

  “I have a pretty good guess. I know that’s not enough. Let me check it out and contact you again tomorrow.”

  “He is within the greater New York vicinity?”

  “If my guess is right. How can I reach you?”

  “You cannot. I will telephone you tomorrow.”

  “I won’t be here. Let me give you my cell phone number.”

  Matthew carefully recited the number, the digits swimming in his panicked brain.

  “Very good. I need not mention, but I will, that you must not include the authorities or anyone else in your search. I am sure you understand.”

  “Look, my grandfather isn’t really involved in any of this. My godfather and I dragged him into it. You should go easy on him.”

  “I have no wish to be hard. Until tomorrow, Mr. Spear.”

  Father John gazed at Matthew sympathetically after the younger man hung up the receiver.

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “No. It could be this del Carros. South American collector, tried to grab Ana Kessler a few days ago. Or it could be someone else.”

  “You should contact the police at once.”

  “Yes, I should. But he made it clear they would hurt Andreas if I did.”

  “They may do that anyway.”

  “I know. I have to try something. I have to go speak to someone.” He struggled to assemble a map in his mind, the roads of northern Westchester, that day trip with Robin to find Fotis’ house. The Snake’s denial of purchasing the property he had coveted for so many months had not been convincing, even that day in the park; and alone in his Salonika hotel room weeks later, Matthew had guessed what the denial was all about. But could he find the house again, without Robin’s assistance? Not in the dark, but first thing in the morning he must try.

  “Let me help you,” said the priest earnestly.

  Matthew gave him a hard look.

  “What, the kind of help you were just talking about? I can live without that, Father.”

  “Who else is there? All that I said before was intended only to convince you of what I believe. I will not force your hand. I want us to be allies.”

  Matthew exhaled. God knew, he needed friends. Ana had to be kept out of it. He would want Benny with him when he went up against del Carros, but Benny would be only a liability in speaking to Fotis. So he was down to the mad priest. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.

  24

  S team heat clamoring to life awakened him. The room was dark, the shade on the west window half-raised, and orange light had broken across the crowded trees and white stucco mansion on the opposite hillside. For the several long moments required to reach full awareness, Fotis was treated to this warm and placid vision of dawn, budding branches sketched from shadow by the rising sun, the sky shifting from deep lavender to blue, the real or imagined trill of birdsong. Dawn was primal, and he might have been a hundred different places, or a hundred different men. He might have been young.

  Then the pain arrived. Radiating from his lower back up the spine to his shoulder blades, and in pulsing waves through the center of his thighs. Acute discomfort returned him to himself, drew his boundaries, and cut him off. The quality of light outside ceased being a display of beauty and became a means of determining that it was six forty-five without consulting the clock on the night table. He pressed his fists into the mattress and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He hadn’t the energy to go further right away, and fishing the square pillow from between his worn knees, he placed it behind his ruined spine and leaned back into the headboard. The pipes banged again, shaking the floor, and the valve on the bedside radiator began to hiss. The heat coming on had confused him. It was not winter but spring, early May. Yet the nights were still quite cool here, and he had set the thermostat up the previous evening. His bones had no tolerance for any cold whatsoever.

  At these moments, thinking of the hot shower, the first pills after breakfast, the first drink after lunch made the pain seem bearable. When the time came that he could no longer subdue the agony by such simple means, he knew his days would begin in terror, end in despair. Perhaps it would never come to that. The degeneration had advanced quite slowly up to now. Maybe he would be carried off by something more dramatic before the illness reduced him to a groaning, bedridden ghost. Or perhaps the Mother would save him. He could not see her, but he felt her presence in the room. Yes, he felt her. The same warming, enveloping sensation of well-being that had possessed him when Tomas had arrived with the package nearly two weeks before. The very same feeling that had taken him, body and spirit, that had shaken him to the core sixty years ago, when Andreas had first shown him the work. He had not been the same man since. Certain preoccupations, certain necessities had ruled him from that time forward. Andreas had given him a great gift with that private showing in the empty, candlelit church. Yet in another sense he had troubled Fotis’ spirit, unsettled his life, and the worst part had been that Andreas himself was utterly unmoved by his prize. The icon was a curiosity that he was happy to show his friend, but it meant nothing to him. Such love for his men, and later for his wife and children, but a heart of stone for his God. Andreas. They would never choose each other’s friendship at this late date, but it was no matter; they were helplessly linked.

  Fotis woke again with a start. He had sensed someone at the foot of the bed, but no, there was no one. Neither enemy nor friend. He was quite alone in the house, and had to force himself not to think about all the ways in which sick old men could die, alone in a house. Even getting out of bed was dangerous. The shower would be pure peril. Perhaps he should avoid it. The house was warm. He would dress and eat and see what strength he had after that.

  It was a slow process. There was no longer anyone to help him. Roula had died before he had lost the strength he might have needed from her. It was too hard to think about her with him now, the years of contentment they might have had. And children, which she had desperately wanted, but God had willed otherwise. The young creature who had followed had been less than useless to him; only beautiful, what was that? She had expected to become his wife, but he had sent her away, grateful for the lesson in vanity, not repeating his mistake. His niece belonged to Alekos, who hated him. The men were more dependable, but he had lost them all. Phillip ran the restaurant and kept his distance, as had been arranged between them. Nicholas was in the hospital, the faithless Anton had run. Now Taki was dead, his sister’s only child. He closed his eyes and tried to close his mind to the grief and guilt that rushed in upon him.

  This resistance was critical. If he could not stem the tide of regret at once, the past would break over him in an irresistible wave, and all the dead would swirl about him together. Marko, strangled in an alley, staring bulge-eyed from the mortician’s table; Roula coughing up her last bloody breaths; the young priest, burned and bleeding, writhing at his feet in the dark cry
pt. All of them with some claim upon him. And he, Fotis, old, broken, fearful as a child, damned, and yet still here. Ninety years of life and fighting for more. Ludicrous. Disgusting. He nearly reeled with bottomless self-loathing as he dropped the sweater with which he had been struggling and sat upon the bed once more.

  Look to the Mother. That was the only way out of this. That was what all the pain and trouble had been about. He shifted around on the bed, and there she was. The light was not yet strong enough to strike her directly, but it had suffused the room in a warm orange glow that caught the brighter spots on her surface. The gold upper region and the yellowish parts where paint was missing created a contrast by which the maroon robe, the long brown hands, the enormous eyes came into focus. The eyes held the old man in their hypnotic, forgiving caress, and he could not help feeling that even there, where the paint had held, the painter’s hand did not rule. Artifice had been stripped away, and these portals burned directly out of the heart of the wood. Their black depths sounded in a time before the artist’s brief life, in the deep and sacred soul of the original. She was the first, even before the Son. She was the source, the life. Within the wood lay both. Her garments, his blood, her tears.

  There was no way that a man could not be made small before this wonder. Fotis welcomed the smallness, his sins shrinking with the insignificance of his life, the lives he had helped, harmed, ended. Dust. A man had to live a very long time to feel it, to understand the lesson as well as he did now, and there was no teaching it to others. It took the transformative power of a sudden, burning clarity, lent by the Lord to the lucky few. Christ loved sinners. So there was yet hope.

  Time lost meaning in the face of such contemplation, but a man was still a man, burdened with needs. Hunger brought the Snake back from the garden to the solitary room, now full of mid-morning light. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he forced himself to his feet, tugged on the gray cardigan, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Only after his coffee and oatmeal did he allow himself to consider his position once more. It was not an enviable one. Between the purchase and bribing Tomas, he had spent nearly everything to get the icon. Keeping it, and finding the means to live, would prove challenging. He had some cash, and disguised accounts in three countries. The house had been bought in Phillip’s name, and he had told no one about it, except the boy, apparently. Why had he told him? A need to share his pleasure with someone? A simple slip of age? The reason did not matter, it was done. He had then told Matthew the purchase was off, and the boy didn’t know precisely where the house was, did he? Troubling to be unsure of such details. In any case, Andreas could take what little Matthew knew and discover the rest. Others would be searching, too, even though Fotis’ return to the country had been in secret. The house could not be considered secure. He had already tarried here three days, regathering his strength. A new short-term location must be found, and a long-term location finally decided upon. Someplace warm. Mexico, perhaps.