by Betsy Draine
“I took your Giotto seminar instead,” I reminded him.
“Why not both?” He blew out the match, then smiled. “All right, I’m teasing. Here, let me show you something.” Al got up, went to the wall of bookshelves behind him, and returned with a large illustrated tome of Russian icons. His pipe clenched between his teeth, he thumbed through the book and then spread it open on the coffee table to display a full-page, color reproduction of Andrei Rublev’s Old Testament Trinity. He tapped the illustration with the stem of his pipe. “This is his most famous work, the one that, according to the legend, he duplicated as a small triptych.”
The caption identified the icon as a large piece, some 56" × 45", painted in egg tempera between 1422 and 1427 for the Cathedral of the Trinity–St. Sergey Monastery in Zagorsk. “Originally, the panel was part of an iconostasis,” said Al, “consisting of several tiers of icons forming a wall between the altar and the main body of the church. They say it’s been restored so many times that there are hardly traces left of the original—much like The Last Supper, come to think of it, but even so, you can see why it’s so revered.”
Indeed I could, even though it was only a photograph. Against a gilded background, the work depicts three graceful figures closely grouped around a table. They are angels. Faintly, you can make out their wings and halos. They wear sumptuous cloaks and appear to be seated on an elevated, throne-like dais. The three angels are shown bowing their heads toward one another. Their facial expressions are tender, sorrowful, meditative. The right hand of the central figure, two fingers extended in benediction, is raised above a chalice on the table. In the upper left-hand corner of the icon, there are traces of a building, and above one shoulder of the central figure is the fragment of a tree. These elements are greatly reduced in size. The painting’s tones are rich but muted, and the colors are subtle.
“The icon illustrates a story from the Old Testament,” Al went on between puffs. “But it’s really a visualization of the Trinity. The angel on the left represents God the Father, the angel in the center God the Son, and the angel on the right the Holy Spirit. The scene was inspired by the story of three angels who visited Abraham and Sarah in their tent. The Byzantine artists always included Abraham and Sarah, who served the three angels, but Rublev omits them. Here the angels are alone, conversing about the mystery of the Incarnation.”
We stared for a while, not speaking. As I studied the image, I remembered what Vasari, himself an artist and a contemporary of the great Renaissance masters, had said of Raphael. Yes, he had mastered all the technical advances of his day—linear perspective, naturalistic detail, proportion, and the rest—as well as any of his rivals, but there was something special about his work, a new element that set him far above his peers. Vasari called it “a certain pervasive beauty,” a mysterious quality akin to serenity that made his paintings not only competent but also spiritually great.
Rublev had that indefinable quality too. Perhaps it was the flowing, rounded contours of his figures, the fluidity of their silhouettes, the lovely colors of their cloaks, their radiant facial expressions and subtle gestures, or the way their delicate, inclined heads bowed toward one another, uniting the three as one. Whatever contributed to the ethereal effect was elusive.
“It’s quite beautiful,” I said.
“Yes. It’s that and more,” said Al.
“I’ve never seen so deep a blue,” Toby added, pointing to the central figure’s robe.
“That’s because he used crushed lapis lazuli in the pigment,” Al said. “Nobody else could match his colors. Or his skill in composition. Look closely and you’ll see that the three figures are contained within an imaginary circle. And what’s more, the three figures, with the central one slightly raised above the others, form a pyramid. So, the compositional rhythms are complex but harmonious.”
“What’s that little structure in the background?” asked Toby. “It looks like a section of a palace, a portico or balcony supported by pillars. You don’t see much in the way of background in most icons, do you?”
“That’s true. It’s unusual. Everything in this painting is symbolic,” Al continued as he pointed to each feature. “Here the building suggests the tent of Abraham. Some think it represents the Church, just as the cup on the table represents the Eucharist, and the tree in the background suggests the Cross.”
Then he leaned back, inviting us to take a more encompassing view. “But it’s the composition as a whole that makes the most powerful statement. According to the Orthodox creed, the three persons of the Trinity are equal and are parts of an indissoluble unity. That’s what Rublev suggests by inscribing them in a circle. It was an important statement for him to make as an artist. Portraying the Trinity as undivided appealed to a yearning for unity at a time when the country was weakened by internal feudal strife.”
“I see,” I said. “And was the icon well known during Rublev’s life?”
“Yes, and its reputation kept growing after he died—so much so that a Church Council held in Moscow ruled that any painter who wanted to represent the Trinity should follow the model of Andrei Rublev.”
“All well and good,” said Toby. “But if Rublev’s work was so famous and he made a smaller copy of it before he died, why would anyone want to paint it over? Wouldn’t they want to preserve it?”
“Aha,” said Al, pleased by the question. He tapped the ashes from the bowl of his pipe into an ashtray and set the pipe down beside it. “Now you come to the nub of the legend. Let’s run a thought experiment. Nora: Say you’re the artist and you want to transform the Old Testament Trinity into a small triptych in which the side wings fold over the middle panel. Then you’ll have a portable work suitable for travel. So, how do you do it? How do you change the composition?”
I considered the question. “Well, besides reducing everything in size, I guess you’d place the central angel in the middle panel and the other two on either side, in the wings, one on the left and one on the right. How else?”
“And what effect would that have on the composition?”
“You would have to break the circle.”
“Exactly. And worse, from the perspective of the Russian Orthodox Church, you would divide the unity of the Trinity. Remember, they were rigid about that sort of thing, fanatical. You would separate the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And that would be heresy!” With that, he snapped the splayed picture book shut, suggesting with a hint of violence the punishment that might await the creator of such a work.
“But is it likely Rublev would have gone against the Church?” Toby asked.
“You wouldn’t think so.” Al rose and returned the heavy book to its shelf. “That’s just one of the reasons I’ve never credited the legend. Then again, perhaps the work meant so much to him that even if he had to adjust the composition, he was compelled to make a copy he could keep with him always.”
“That was the case with Leonardo,” I recalled. “He couldn’t bear to part with the Mona Lisa, so he took it with him wherever he went. He had it with him when he died in France.”
Toby frowned. “But if the Church found out you had a subversive painting in your possession, you’d be in trouble, so you would either have to destroy it or disguise it.”
“And that’s the genesis of the legend,” Al concluded, returning to his seat. “By the end of the sixteenth century, Rublev’s Trinity had become so iconic—pardon the pun—that whoever owned the heretical triptych at that point would have been in real danger. So the legend goes that its owner, unwilling to destroy it, had the work painted over, and after a few generations, it disappeared into anonymity.”
“It sure makes for a good story,” said Toby, rubbing his chin.
“And that’s all I ever thought it was, a story.” Al paused. “Until now.” He picked up the damaged icon, which he had laid aside during his discourse, and stared at it thoughtfully. “When did this Federenco fellow say that his family acquired the triptych?”
“Somet
ime in the seventeenth century. He was vague about it,” I replied.
“Hmm. Well, the chronology fits. The age of the panel fits. The dimensions are plausible.” He shook his head. “It’s hardly likely. But still …”
“I was thinking maybe you could clean it, you know, remove the surface layer, to see what’s beneath.”
“Not me. If there’s the slightest chance this could be a Rublev, I’d be afraid to touch it. And in any case, the panel badly needs repair. That’s beyond my skill. You need a professional restorer, the best.”
“Do you know someone in the area you could recommend?” asked Toby.
Al thought for a moment. “I do know someone, but he’s not in the area. He’s in Wisconsin. An old friend of mine and colleague. As far as I’m concerned, he has the best hands in the business.”
“Oh?”
“His name is George Greeley. We were at Yale together in the art history program, but George lasted only two years and finished with a terminal MA. He came to Yale with an undergraduate degree in art, and that was the problem. He was an artist, not a historian. Didn’t give a damn about dates or theories.”
“That’ll get you tossed out of art history in a hurry,” I said.
“Yes, but in this case, it was our loss. When it comes to technical analysis, I’ve never heard anyone as eloquent as George.”
“But now he’s doing restoration?” pursued Toby.
“Yes, and that’s what he was made for. He has the eye of an art historian and the hands of a painter.”
“But, Al,” I said worriedly, “wouldn’t working with an old Russian icon require special training? This isn’t your everyday restoration.”
“That’s why I thought of George. Not far from Madison, in Iowa, there’s an auction house that specializes in Russian icons, old and modern. The university also has its own collection. So George has had a fairly steady stream of local work, and over the years he’s been called on by museums and private collectors from around the country. In this case, you couldn’t do better.”
“Does he teach at the University of Wisconsin?”
“Well, no. And I should tell you that’s rather a sore point with him. He’s always wanted a permanent position at the university. In fact he did some fill-in teaching in the art department until he ran up against a barrier they have for part-time lecturers. It seems that if you teach the same course for a certain number of semesters, you gain the right to be rehired with permanent benefits, and the dean wouldn’t allow that. But he landed on his feet. He teaches art conservation workshops at Madison Area Technical College as well as the occasional art course there, and he still has time for his own practice. Just don’t get him started on the university. He’s still resentful.”
“If you trust him, Al, that’s good enough for me,” I said. “What about you, Toby? The decision should be yours.”
“My worry is the distance,” he said. “We’ve already damaged the panel once. I hate to put it at risk a second time.”
Al spoke gently, reluctant to put too much pressure on Toby. “Look at it this way. What you have here might be a valuable icon in need of specialized care, or it may be a banged-up work of little interest. Now if it were mine, and if it turned out to be worth restoring, I’d want George to do the work.”
Toby considered the point, and then the businessman in him decided. We had to find out what we had, and the sooner the better. If Greeley would agree to do the work, I’d fly to Madison with the icon solidly packed as carry-on luggage, so it would never be out of my protection. Al was able to reach Greeley on the phone while we were there. His friend was so intrigued that he asked if I could bring the icon to Madison as early as Friday, which was only two days away. I felt a little guilty about leaving Angie, but Toby assured me that he’d be a good host while I was gone.
After we’d settled things with Greeley, Al helped us repack the panel. First he wrapped it in a triple layer of paper, using unprinted newspaper sheets, the kind that professional movers use. They won’t smudge ink onto a frame, or worse, onto paint. Then he secured the paper with masking tape, which is easy to unpeel. Next he bundled the icon in a double layer of bubble wrap, again secured with masking tape. Finally, he placed it in a hard-backed briefcase, lined with foam rubber. The well-protected painting was now floating in air, within its case. All ready for the trip, including passage through security.
We took the precious cargo home, and I scrambled to get air reservations at short notice. Using saved miles, I scheduled a flight for early the next day, with a return on Saturday. Now all I had to do was pack and explain my three-day absence to Angie.
By the time she came dancing in the door, my packing was done. But I couldn’t get a word out. Angie was babbling irrepressibly about how excited Sophie was to hear we’d found the angel Michael and how obviously Michael was hovering around us, always ready to defend us from danger. I finally had to put a hand up and ask for a chance to talk. “So you told Sophie about how we discovered the icon?”
“You’re not mad, are you? Oh, gosh. I’m sorry. I don’t think Sophie will tell anyone. She told me our work was confidential. But maybe I should call her and ask her to be sure not to talk about it.”
“Would you?”
“Oh, Nora. I feel terrible. Sophie was so happy to hear about the discovery. She asked me to invite you to our session on Friday. She wants you to bring the icon along. We can all work our way to a better understanding of what Michael can do for us, or even learn what he may want from us.”
“I’m afraid I can’t on Friday.” I explained my mission to have the icon examined and, possibly, restored in Madison.
“Well,” Angie persisted, “as soon as you get back, will you come with me to see Sophie?”
I gave in. “All right. If you think it will help you, I’ll come. Sometime next week. Meanwhile, will you feel okay about being here without me till Saturday?”
“Are you kidding? I’ll have a blast. This is the greatest place for just knocking around. After seeing Sophie this morning, I spent hours in Graton at the shops, and I took a super walk in the hills there. Sophie says I need to be alone more and explore what makes me really happy.”
“She sounds like a psychotherapist. Is that what angel reading is like?”
“I don’t know about that, but Sophie helps me hear what my angels are saying. They think I need a change of course.”
“You said that a few days back. Are they any clearer now on what sort of change you need?”
“No, and Sophie said the angels won’t tell me directly. I need to look for the answer within myself. So she’s recommending that I take a long walk every day and see what surfaces. That’s what I can do while you’re gone. It’ll be like being on a silent retreat.”
“Good. I’ll only be gone a few days. Then we’ll see Sophie together.”
“Cool beans! Oh, I almost forgot. Sophie gave me these quartz crystal points, one for each of us.” Angie rummaged in her bag and brought out two clear crystal cylinders. Each had a point at the end. “You put this on your night table when you go to bed, with the point facing your head. And while you’re sleeping, the crystal helps you open your channel to spiritual receptivity. Will you try it?”
“If you want me to,” I said. Why not?
Dan called late that evening, after Angie had gone to bed. I had left a message earlier telling him about our discovery, and he wanted to hear the details. He apologized for the late hour, but he also had major news about the investigation.
“Wait a second. Toby’s here too. I’ll put you on speaker.”
“Hi, Dan.”
“Hi, Toby. Well, I think we’ve got our killer. Mikovitch. The Russian.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as we can be without a trial. We have a positive ID from Interpol, including dental records and a rap sheet as long as your arm. He had links to the Russian mafia and specialized in art theft. We figure he got wind of the icon through the online auction ca
talogue but too late to bid on it. What tipped him off that it might be valuable, I don’t know. Interpol says the Russian mafia’s been on a worldwide watch for old triptychs for some time.”
“And you’re sure he’s the one who killed Charlie?” Toby asked again.
“It’s a strong case. We tracked down his motel and searched his room. I sent a batch of stuff for lab analysis. The results came back today. They found traces of Charlie’s blood on the rubber soles of a pair of shoes that were in the Russian’s closet. The shoes had gunk in the treads that matched the debris in the bottom of the rowboat that was used to transport the body. It was him, all right.”
“So, circumstantial evidence.”
“We’ve got more than enough for an indictment. He’s the guy. I figure it happened like this. The Russian gets Charlie’s number from the auctioneer, tells him he’d like to make an offer on his purchase. They meet, my guess being at your gallery. Charlie gets scared, puts him off, hides the icon—now we know where. The Russian comes back some time later. What happens next I’m not sure, but for some reason they end up out on the bay shore, where the murder takes place. Either he forces Charlie to take him there, or Charlie leads him there unknowingly. Why that particular place, I can’t tell you.”
“Dan,” I interrupted, “I think I have some idea what they were doing out there.” I filled in what I now knew about the Gaffney house, the set of The Birds, and Peter Federenco’s connection to the site. “It could be they were on the trail of the remaining icon panels.”
“You think those panels are buried out there somewhere?”
“If they still exist.” I hadn’t said as much before, but yes, that’s what I did think. I remembered the dream I had the night before Charlie’s funeral, when he appeared to me as a stone head walking across the grass. He couldn’t speak but he was trying to tell me something by casting his eyes downward, toward the ground. I kept the dream to myself but said, “At least it’s a possibility.” I looked at Toby, and he nodded in agreement.