Death and Restoration

by Iain Pears

  After a while, and having established through his silence who was in control, Father Charles nodded to himself.

  “And you are …?”’

  Argyll introduced himself, speaking loudly and clearly.

  “Sit down, Signor Argyll. And there is no need to talk like that. I am neither deaf nor stupid.”

  Argyll looked embarrassed.

  “And don’t look embarrassed, either. I am, as Father Jean has no doubt told you, not what I was. But much of the time I am perfectly compos mentis. If I feel myself slipping I will tell you, and bring the conversation to an end. I am too proud, I’m afraid, to relish people seeing me in the state such deterioration brings. You would not enjoy it either.”

  “By all means,” Argyll said.

  “So, young man, tell me what you want.”

  Argyll began to explain.

  “Ah, yes, Our Lady from the East. Would you mind telling me why you are interested?”’

  Argyll explained about the theft. As he talked, the old man shook his head with interest.

  “No,” he said. “It cannot be.”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Then you are wrong. She cannot—will not—leave this house. It is impossible, unless”—here he smiled to himself—”unless world politics has changed markedly since I read the newspaper. And that was only yesterday, you know.”

  So much for his mentis. More composted than compos.

  “She will reveal herself in her own good time. Have no fear.”

  There was no point arguing about it. Argyll tried a more oblique approach. “Nonetheless, your colleagues are very concerned, and want me to help. For their sake, even if it is unnecessary …”

  Charles’s face twitched with a little smile. “I am not mad, sir. I talk perfect sense.”

  “Of course you do,” Argyll agreed heartily.

  “And don’t patronize me. You are much too young for that.”

  “Sorry.”

  Father Charles leaned forward and studied Argyll’s face. “Yes. I remember you. I have little time, I fear, sir. You had better tell me your business so that I can answer when I am able.”

  Argyll explained about Burckhardt, and how he thought the dealer had come in pursuit because of something he’d been told which might have come from the monastery archives.

  “I know it’s a long shot. But if I can discover what it was, then I might be able to find out why he was so interested, you see,” he said.

  Father Charles nodded to himself awhile, and Argyll was afraid he was disappearing into his own mind. Then he looked up with a faint smile on his face. “Mr Burckhardt, yes. I remember him. He was here last year. I’m afraid I was a little wicked with him.”

  “How was that?”’

  “A mechanic, if you see what I mean.”

  Argyll shook his head. He didn’t see at all.

  “Interested in style only and concerned to explain every thing. No appreciation of the power of these images. If people pray to her, then he saw it as a quaint example of outmoded superstition. If legends were attached to her, then he wanted to find a rational explanation which took away all the miraculous. He was cruel to other people’s beliefs. And above all he used them to make money for himself. So I’m afraid I was not as open with him as I should have been. He had to do his own work, and missed very much.”

  “Oh.”

  “In your case, I believe I will perhaps let you find what he did not. Do you know why?”’

  “Because the painting has vanished and I might help to get it back?”’

  He shook his head. “Oh, no. I have told you; she does not need your help. She will return when she wants.”

  Argyll smiled.

  “It is because you are kind, and you do not wish people to know it always. Often, when I am able, I go to the church to pray. I have done so several times a day for more than half a century and I like the quiet. I was there a few days ago, and I saw you come in and light a candle to her. And look embarrassed when Signora Graziani thanked you. It gave her great pleasure.”

  “My Protestant conscience,” Argyll said. “It doesn’t always approve.”

  “It was kind, nonetheless. To Signora Graziani as much as anyone.”

  It was a long time since anyone had accused Argyll to his face of being kind, and he wasn’t entirely certain how to react. He thought that saying “thank you” might be appropriate; so he did.

  “I don’t intend to compliment. I merely state a fact which makes me believe I can trust you with some of the documents I decided not to give to Burckhardt.”

  “I’m very grateful.”

  “Now, give me a piece of paper and a pen, and I will tell you what to look for. I would help, but I am afraid that my mind is beginning to play tricks on me again. You must leave me now, I’m afraid.”

  Argyll did as he was told, and Father Charles wrote quickly on it, and handed the paper back. “Fourth cabinet, third drawer down. At the back. Now, leave me, please.”

  “It’s very kind of you …”

  He waved his arm impatiently. “Leave me now. Please, go away quickly.”

  Argyll spent the next eight hours reading with painful slowness; all the documents were in Latin, and he had always been painfully bad at Latin. But he felt obliged to do it himself and not call in help, and so he sweated his way through gerunds and gerundives, dictionary by his side, moving forward word by word and phrase by phrase, until he was sure he was getting the translation right.

  The trouble was the documents were in no particular order; they had been gathered together almost at random, as far as he could see. A page of inductions into the monastery; pages from the daily record of events; transcripts from the papal ports, bills of loading and unloading of ships from the year 1453. A record of a papal address. A note of a nobleman’s landholdings. Remarks on religious festivals, mainly to do with the festivals of the Virgin. Argyll was out of his depth. It was obvious that it was all important and relevant; Father Charles had done everything except spell it out to him word by word. But he still couldn’t figure it out.

  But he felt captured by the old man’s spirit, and would have felt it a betrayal to call in some expert from the classics department, or a medievalist who would have been able to run through the manuscripts in a matter of minutes and tell him exactly what they contained. This had been given to him and him alone, and it was surely not too much to ask that he work it out by himself. Even if it took today, tomorrow and the entire weekend as well.

  He had a cigarette break, sitting in the sun on a stone in the courtyard, thinking absently about what he had read so far, trying but failing to make sense of it. Perhaps the second or third bundles would give a clue. He noticed Menzies coming and going in the church. He waved, but didn’t feel like talking. Father Jean came out of the building and drove away in a tiny little Fiat. And from the outside he dimly heard the sound of singing.

  Such was his mood that it took several minutes before he realized that this was strange, and even more before he got up to see what was happening. Going out of the door, he looked up the street to the church entrance, and saw a group of twenty people, mostly women, mainly old, standing and chanting. Some were holding crosses, or rosaries, and around them was a second group, this time of onlookers, among them a photographer and a man Argyll vaguely recognized as a reporter. He walked over and asked what was going on.

  “They say it’s a vigil,” the reporter said with a faint smile of bemusement.

  “Goodness.”

  “They are going to stay until the painting is brought back.”

  “It may be a long wait.”

  The reporter nodded, and stared glumly at the crowd, wondering how he should angle his story. Touching tale of piety? Or whimsical story of Roman superstition, played for laughs. A tough one.

  Argyll left him to his dilemma and wandered back into the monastery in case the reporter thought that he might have some inside knowledge.

  Flavia had anticipated
having to wait for Fostiropoulos in Castello’s that evening, and wasn’t disappointed. She was on her third cigarette and second bowl of nuts before he bounced in, beaming happily. He kissed her enthusiastically on each cheek, twice, for all the world as though she was his closest friend, and ordered champagne. Here we go, she thought. One of those evenings. Still, it was good champagne.

  “What do you think of our mutual friend di Antonio?”’ he asked as he concentrated on filling the glasses.

  “Who?”’

  “The man who organized the meeting this morning.”

  “Oh. Him. Not a lot.”

  “A fusspot. A major fusspot. All diplomatic services have them, I’m afraid. File marked, “not to be allowed out of Rome”. A pity, but there you are. That’s government for you. Over the years, it accumulates all sorts of strange people. The fusspots, the incompetents, the downright malevolent. Don’t you think? They silt up the works, but for some reason no one ever thinks of getting rid of them.”

  “You speak from experience.”

  He smiled. “Believe me. Personally, I think there should be a revolution every twenty-five years. Clear everyone out, and start again. Mao was right, although it’s a bit unfashionable to say that nowadays.”

  “From my experience, you always end up with the same people in charge again,” Flavia said, vaguely aware that there might be a sort of under-conversation going on here. “However much you try to get rid of them.”

  “Of course. But not all. And you can always recognize them. The style remains the same. Take my line of business.”

  “Spying.”

  “Trade, Flavia, trade. You don’t mind if I call you Flavia?”’

  “Not at all.”

  “Gyorgos. Anyway, you see, in the good old days, we were worried about spies and communists and all that sort of thing. We knew what we were doing and why we were doing it. Guarding the flanks of Europe, I think. Then, pouf! All change. Strange things start to happen.”

  “Such as?”’

  “It’s a bit odd. People lose their sense of orientation. The old certainties vanish, so they go back to even older ones. A traditional enemy vanishes, so they concentrate on one which is even more traditional. Do you see what I mean?”’

  “Not a clue.”

  “Really? You surprise me.”

  “Have another go.”

  “Old Charanis. A strange man. What do you know about him?”’

  “Not much; I’ve only ever heard of him as an art collector and man about the galleries, although I thought he’d given that up. I remember a dealer complaining about it once. Didn’t he announce he’d more pictures than he knew what to do with?”’

  Fostiropoulos smiled. “That’s correct. He got old, began to think about mortality and became pious. And gave up old masters and has turned instead to donating works of art to churches. Such as icons. But he’s even given that up now.”

  “Still, even you must admit it is something more than a coincidence.”

  “Perhaps. He’s an odd man. The strangest thing about him is that he is a fervent democrat.”

  “Why is that strange?”’

  “When we had the coup back in the sixties, he was against the colonels. About the only member of the hundred families who own Greece who was. Admittedly it was because he thought it was bad for business, but also because in his soul he’s a romantic. Greece the cradle of democracy. Virulently anti-communist, but no supporter of these nationalistic thugs who took over.”

  “So he’s as pure as the driven snow.”

  “Used to be an obsessive collector, so they say. With magnificent results, as well. The national museum is trying to get his collection left to them in his will. It’s a hard slog, not least because old habits die hard in someone like him. He wants so many tax breaks and concessions and contracts in return that it’s not yet certain it’ll work. On top of that, so I’m told, the director of the museum is balking a little at one or two pieces he owns.”

  “Oh, yes?”’

  “Origins a bit doubtful. No one knows where they came from, or how they got there. Still, that’s irrelevant.”

  “Is it?”’

  “It is. Because he hasn’t bought anything for five years or more and refuses absolutely even to consider buying more.”

  “What a pity.”

  “He spends all his time in retreat. Of course, because he’s a bit of a megalomaniac he has his own monastery, and a cell for meditation which is equipped with a satellite link and fax machine, but his heart is in the right place, as much as he has one.”

  “Where is this?”’

  “Near Mount Athos. He spends more and more of his time there. Even dresses like something out of the Middle Ages. Rumour has it that he is repenting for his sins. He’s got a big job on his hands.”

  “So we can forget him? Is that what you’re telling me? Same as this morning? So why this meeting?”’

  “For the selfish delight of your beautiful company, dear signorina. And to point out that you might, as computers tell us to do these days, refine your search a little.”

  “I know I’m being obtuse …”

  “Not at all. Not at all. You have been looking for someone called Charanis.”

  “Oh, I see. Brother, son, daughter, cousin?”’

  “He has difficulties with his children, poor man, although I can’t imagine he was much fun to have as a father. Smothered them with material goods but, unfortunately, expected them to deserve it. He is absurdly competitive himself and, so it is said, took particular delight in winning, even when playing a little kid. When the poor boy was four, he used to try hard to beat him at table tennis. Of course, popular gossip says there are good —or at least understandable—reasons for this.”

  “And? What does popular gossip say?”’

  “It says that nine months before Mikis was born his wife was more than a little indiscreet. Charanis at the time was having a passionate affair with some woman, and his wife did the same. Now, this is a great dilemma. To admit your wife is unfaithful is a shaming thing. To preserve your pride and bring up a cuckoo in your nest is as bad.”

  “He did the latter and made the son pay for it?”’

  “Correct. Even after he divorced he kept the boy, largely, I suspect, to teach her a lesson. And Mikis has grown up with a very unfortunate personality and an unpleasant attitude towards authority. Of late, this has found its expression in politics.”

  “Public service,” Flavia said. “Could be worse.”

  Gyorgos grimaced. “I doubt it, unfortunately. He took up with the most venomous bunch of right-wing nationalists there are. The sort of people who make our old military junta seem like milksop liberals. Common pattern, I believe. A desire to impose order and discipline on the entire country and beat up foreigners to show you’re tougher than your father.”

  “Lot of them about, these days. What does it mean in Greek terms?”’

  “As you’d expect. Don’t like Slavs, don’t like Arabs, don’t like immigrants of any form. A fervent desire to discipline the country and bring it back to true patriotism and order. The usual brew, but in his case, of course, it’s allied to our glorious historical past.”

  “Athens?”’

  “Fraid not,” he said as he swept a bowl of nuts into his huge hand and thrust them into his mouth.

  “Don’t tell me. Alexander the Great. He wants to conquer Persia.”

  “A bit ambitious, even for someone as extreme as young Charanis,” Gyorgos continued after he had washed the remnants away with a large swallow of champagne and refilled his glass. “No; his past is the Christian empire. Byzantium, in other words. He and the motley collection of lunatics he associates with want to take back Istanbul. If Leningrad can become St Petersburg, why should Istanbul not become Constantinople again?”’

  Fostiropoulos picked up another fistful of nuts, then changed his mind and poured the entire bowlful into his palm and swept them all into his mouth and sat there chewing no
isily and smiling at Flavia to reassure himself that she had got the point.

  “He’s got a big project, then.”

  “As I say, you go back to the old certainties. Don’t underestimate them. Religion, history and dreams of glory make a heady brew for some people.”

  “You’re not concerned about this, are you?”’

  “Officially, no. Not least because he is still protected by his father, and he is not a man to annoy. Unofficially, five Muslims were burned to death in Thessaloniki a few months back, and we’re sure these people had something to do with it. There’s not many of them, they’re not powerful, but they are getting stronger. And yes, we are concerned.”

  “Do you know where he is?”’

  He shook his head. “Not in Greece, that’s for sure. We know he was, that he made a three-day trip to London three weeks ago, came back to Athens and then vanished. No one’s seen him for over a week.”

  “Went to London, did he?”’

  He nodded. “Does that concern you? Why?”’

  “Just an idea. Could you do me a favour?”’

  “Of course.”

  “These pictures that alarmed the director of your museum. In Charanis’s collection. Could you find out what they are?”’

  “A pleasure,” he said, looking at his watch. “Anything else?”’

  “I wouldn’t mind a decent photograph of this man as well. One which isn’t so hazy.”

  Gyorgos smiled, and reached into his pocket. “Nothing easier,” he said handing over an envelope. Flavia opened it up. “If you meet him again, do let me know. We are very interested in him, you know.”

  “I will.”

  “Now I must go. It has been a delight meeting you, signorina.”

  And then he left, leaving Flavia with the remains of the nuts and just enough champagne in the bottle for another glass. What the hell, she thought, and poured it out.

  Buoyed up by a pep talk of thanks and encouragement over breakfast from Flavia—who thought she might start learning the business of man-management with an easy target—Argyll returned to do battle with the intricacies of medieval handwriting and the complexities of dog Latin in a more determined frame of mind than he had managed the previous day.