by Niles Kovach
Immersed in the splendor of the Divine Liturgy at St. Sergius's on Sunday morning, I set aside all earthly cares, thoughts of mother, Vasily, and Boris, and Boris' insults. For an hour and a half, I deliberately did not look at the conspicuously empty spot on the north wall where the Trinity Icon had been. I waited until after the final blessing to study it. My mother's continued refusal to speak to me gave me time to look at it closely. I was grateful.
I could picture the icon that was missing. It had been one of my childhood favorites. I remembered gazing at it during the long chants of the Liturgy. I could see it in the candlelight of the Liturgy of the Presanctified Gifts during Lent. It spoke to me of joy, humor, love, and the power of God.
Sarah stands in her tent, laughing, as three angels tell Abraham that Sarah, well into her nineties, will have a child. She laughs at the thought of an old woman pregnant and for the joy of having a son, for the love of her husband, and for the love of God who would bless them so. She is completely human in a divine circumstance, laughing at herself as she bows to the will of God.
The colors were still vivid after almost four hundred years, the gold more valuable than ever. The icon consisted of three pieces, two smaller sections hinged on either side of a large middle section so that the icon could be closed. Closed, it would be three feet square, too large to be inconspicuous. Opening it added another three feet to its width.
"I think your mother wants to talk to you," Erin said, interrupting my study of the blank wall.
"No she doesn't. She's not speaking to me."
"She keeps staring at you." Erin tried to shake off the four year old tugging on her skirt. She did not succeed, and another child attached himself to the other side.
Erin reminded me of a walking beehive. Her children hovered around her, buzzing.
"I'll talk to Mom later, at dinner," I said. "You're looking rather happy today."
"Happy? Well, yes, I suppose. I'm always happy, really."
Maybe, I thought, but then you hide it well.
"It's a shame about poor old Mara, isn't it?" said Erin.
"Mara?" I searched the few remaining people gathered at the door, looking for the old woman who had been as much a fixture in that place as the icons. "Where is she? She wasn't here today. Is something wrong?"
"She's dead."
"Dead?"
"Died Monday."
Father Paul walked over and whispered something to his wife. She walked away with two in tow, scooped up a third, and told a fourth to follow her. The child complied by running around her as she made her way to the door, completing the beehive effect, and leaving the church behind in comparative silence.
"Did you talk to him?" asked Father Paul.
"Yes, Father."
"And?"
"I'm sure he doesn't know anything about it." I hesitated, looked at the worried priest and asked, "Can I ask you a couple of questions, Father?"
"Sure." His word was open, but his expression had closed.
"How did the thief get in?"
"Picked the lock, I suppose."
"It was locked then?"
"Of course." He seemed distracted.
"And the windows?"
"No sign there."
"You have the only key?"
"No," he said with great patience. "The Parish Council president has one, but he's been in Florida for two weeks."
"One more question — no, three more. First, who offered to buy it?"
"I don't remember his name, but he gave me his card." Father Paul searched his pockets. He opened his wallet and handed me a business card. "Do you want it?"
On the one hand, though I had been asked to help, it wasn't really any of my business. On the other hand, I was curious. I took the card. The name on it did not begin "Vasily."
"Second question," I said, "Was his the first offer you've had?"
"For this icon? Yes. I'm negotiating several offers for some others, but none of them are nearly as valuable."
"Others? You're selling some others?"
"Yes, the Council decided it was the only way to raise the money to fix the roof before it falls in."
"But you turned down this..." I looked at the card, "this guy Brent Grayson. Surely the sale of one icon would have taken care of everything."
"Not that icon."
"Why not?"
"I can't. I won't sell that icon. Some things are more important to this church, to my work." His expression closed more than ever. "What's your third question?"
"My third? Oh, yes. Who else knows about the offer? Who have you told besides me?"
"Nobody." The priest thought for a moment. "I did mention it to the bishop's secretary that evening at my house. But he wouldn't have had time to tell anybody else before it went missing. He didn't leave my house until after ten, and the icon was gone by six in the morning."
"The bishop's secretary! Why was he here? Is the bishop coming?"
"You said three questions, Alex." He covered this evasion with a smile. "We'd better get some coffee before it's gone."
That afternoon, I had dinner at my parents' house. When I climbed into my old Volkswagen afterward, I hugged the wheel before trying to start it. Dinner had been a disaster. The first course consisted of a long sulk seasoned with sighs of martyrdom. Next came a rushing stream of hysterical accusations, half in Russian, half in English, covering every misdemeanor I had committed since the day I stopped wearing diapers. For dessert there was a virulent curse topped by a violent door slam. I did not stay for coffee.
The street lights had just come on when I parked in front of my studio apartment. I walked upstairs, unlocked my door, stepped from the bright hallway into the sepia gloom of the apartment, navigating by memory across the room to turn on a light. I had turned on the light and put the kettle, full and sizzling, on the tiny stove before I noticed Vasily sitting on the sofa bed in a shadowy corner, watching me silently.
CHAPTER SIX