Golden Icon_The Prequel

by Janet Pywell

  ‘We divided up the goods. We had no idea how much any of the pieces were worth. After the war, I settled back in Germany. I never married. I had girlfriends but I could never trust anyone with the truth. We didn’t even trust each other. Not after Terry got shot.’

  ‘Michael killed Terry?’ I wipe perspiration from my lip.

  ‘Nein, nein, Michael didn’t kill Terry. Maximilian killed Terry.’

  ‘Thank goodness. Michael was a doctor. He saved lives. He was the only man I ever trusted.’ I am surprised at my outburst and at my honesty. I am tired.

  ‘Maximilian became an underworld antiquity dealer. A middle man: an importer, exporter, art specialist - you name it, he did it. He asked us to sell our stuff to him and Terry was the first to sell.’ He stretches his legs. ‘One day Terry phoned me. He told me Maximilian was fiddling him on each deal and he said he was going to confront him. A week later he was dead.’

  ‘So you don’t know for sure it was Maximilian?’

  ‘Soon after Terry died, Maximilian went to Michael but Michael refused to sell. He had no way of getting all his possessions back to Ireland so I kept some of them safe for him here in Germany. A week later his house in Dublin went on fire. One son was very badly burned; his head and face, he was in intensive care for months. Michael was beside himself with grief and fear. His wife and other son managed to escape with less severe burns but Michael was scared. He knew what Maximilian was capable of,’ he pauses.

  I think of William’s scarred forehead and remember Seán telling me of a fire in their home as children. William had spent weeks in intensive care and in the burns unit. They had been fortunate to save his life.

  Dieter continues speaking, ‘So, Michael decided to give Maximilian an ancient manuscript, and a ruby encrusted necklace, and tells him it is all he has left. Michael is happy, until Maximilian says that if he is lying he will come back and kill his eldest son, Seán. You see, that is when we both started hoping to outlive Maximilian because once he is dead, we can continue to sell our pieces but with him alive, we can’t. It means that we have these precious things but we can’t sell them. For if we do Maximilian will know we are lying and he will kill us.’

  ‘So, Michael never sold anything else?’

  ‘Yes, of course he did,’ he smiles. ‘Michael was very shrewd. He was a wily old devil. He waited for the fuss to die down and then his patience paid off. Europe was changing. The Berlin wall came down, the Russians had the Glasnost, and once again we were living in a different Europe. Private collectors began to spring up all over the place; Russian oligarchs and the nouveau riche. Europeans were filled with celebrity snobbery. There were rich Albanians and suddenly all the ordinary people wanted paintings, statues, busts, or they bought jewellery and precious stones. Everything was purchasable for a price.

  ‘Michael leaked his goods little by little and over the years he managed to sell or dispose of everything, all except one item.’

  I sit up a little straighter. My back is aching and my headache is turning to a migraine.

  ‘Last year Maximilian’s nephew Ian visited Michael. He’s a nasty piece of work. His main trade is importing Eastern European girls into brothels in the West but after a stint in jail he is now his uncle’s flunky. Perhaps Maximilian wants to provide a better future for his nephew or Ian wants to involve his father in his seedy business, I don’t know, but I do know that Ian is ruthless and dangerous. He is a killer like his uncle. He tells Michael that he knows he has the ultimate treasure, and that Maximilian will stop at nothing to get it. He has nothing to lose. Like me, he is old and he is going to die soon.’

  I am wondering if Michael financed the early part of my career with money from these stolen items. It is illegal and morally wrong. How could Michael have been involved in this?

  ‘I’m not taking a stolen painting back to Ireland.’ I say, standing up pulling my cotton trousers. Perspiration has made them stick to my legs and I wipe my damp palms on my blouse.

  ‘Let me show you something.’ Without waiting for an answer Dieter grabs my elbow and when I resist he squeezes my skin. I am shocked by his sudden energy and strength as he pulls me toward the front door until I realise the apartment is L-shaped. I had assumed that where we sat in the living room and the small kitchen was the entirety of the flat but it isn’t. At the front door we turn right into the longer part of the L-shape corridor and the air is cooler. Our path is illuminated automatically by small overhead lights that I guess are made active by body sensors as we pass.

  Dieter produces a key, unlocks a door and subdued lighting fills a room. The windows are blacked out. There is one single chair placed in the centre of an immaculate pine floor.

  The paintings are originals; some are in gilt frames and others have simple frames. They are all numbered and catalogued with a square card on the wall. I release an involuntary cry of surprise and Dieter gives a hoot of pleasure. He hobbles to the chair and sits like a King on his throne.

  I walk slowly. My sandals click against the floor. I pause beside each one reading their names gazing at their beauty. I don’t know how long it takes me. There is a Degas, a Manet, a Cézanne, two Van Gogh paintings, and several sketches by Leonardo da Vinci.

  ‘Ja, I am pleased you are speechless,’ Dieter says, and I wonder how many hours he spends simply enjoying their beauty. I return my attention to a display in a small pine cabinet. There is a crown with a tiara entwined with serpents and thorns; a marble-bust like Michelangelo’s David; and a heavily embossed gilt-edged book.

  What takes my breath away, hanging on the wall above the glass cabinet, is a familiar Vermeer painting with three musicians: a young girl sitting at a harpsichord, a man playing a lute and a woman singing. I am familiar with the painting. It was stolen from a museum in Boston.

  ‘It’s called The Concert,' he says unnecessarily.

  ‘This cannot be the original,’ I say. ‘I–It was stolen, and it’s worth a fortune.’

  ‘It came from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum,’ he nods, ‘Ja, yes, the original is probably worth over two million dollars. I only got a fraction of the price for it when I sold it to a friend in London.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I had to finance the security of my home. I need to be protected,’ he says simply. Then he speaks more slowly, discussing the sketches by Leonardo da Vinci, the necklace worn by Cleopatra, and jewellery once belonging to a pharaoh in Egypt, but I barely absorb his words. I am lost in the art and their beauty. I am also shocked that an old man could be the guardian of this precious hoard.

  ‘Is this your share of the treasure?’ I ask.

  ‘Nein, nein. We probably only took six or eight pieces each but I have collected more over the years, and unlike Maximilian, I have been more discreet. He collects art to sell on for a profit or to subsidise a drug deal, but I am one of the few who collect art for its pure rare artistic appreciation and value.’

  ‘My goodness. They are all beautiful,’ I say truthfully.

  He coughs a laugh and scratches his chest.

  ‘Is Seán’s painting here?’

  ‘Seán’s?’ His voice is sharp.

  ‘Michael’s painting?’

  He stands shakily, leans against the wall and pushes a canvas to one side. It is Cézanne’s The Boy in the Red Vest. ‘This one is not valuable, it’s just a very good copy done by a friend of mine in Spain.’

  He opens a safe.

  I panic. How will I get a painting through customs? What if he gives me a copy? Is everything a forgery here? What if he gives me a worthless fake?

  Dieter thrusts a package the size of a shoe box at me. I am surprised by its weight and use both hands to hold it to my chest. He sinks back into his chair, relieved of the burden, breathing heavily.

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask.

  ‘This is the treasure Maximilian wants.’

  ‘This isn’t a painting.’

  ‘Who said it was a painting?’

  I remembe
r Seán sitting beside the unlit fire holding a wine glass. He is drunk. ‘He called it an heirloom; a family heirloom.’

  ‘Open it!’

  I place the box on the floor and remove the lid. Inside is a piece of worn and dirty linen held together by frayed string. I tug the knot and prise the cloth apart. The face of the golden Madonna is serene. She is looking at her infant son who is standing between the folds of her robe. Her right palm is open and her left hand holds the hand of the baby boy. His eyes too, are downcast, as if he is already aware of his destiny. The detail is magnificent; her pleated gown, her head scarf, his fingers and curls, are sculptured with such infinite detail it is hard to believe they are not real.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ I say.

  ‘The Golden Icon. It is the most precious of them all.’ Dieter leans forward and extends his hand and I pass it to him. ‘Solid gold; almost six kilos. This is the gem of all gems. Only a few people know that it survived the war. It was modelled on Michelangelo’s, Madonna of Bruges, do you know it?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  He hands me back the Madonna and wipes his mouth, and says. ‘Underneath is the stamp of the Vatican. With a magnifying glass you will see the date, eighteen twenty-nine,’ he says, like a teacher to his pupil.

  ‘It belongs to the Vatican?’ I turn the icon with both hands. The figures are crafted onto a solid gold plinth. I cannot decipher the seal or the engraved signature.

  ‘Not if you are Irish.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘What has this to do with Ireland?’

  ‘Patience Josephine, patience.’ It is the first time he has said my name and it sounds strange coming from his lips. He dabs the saliva at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘The Vatican was concerned about the situation in Ireland. They wanted the support of the Irish Catholics and they intended to fund an Irish Rebellion after the Catholic Relief Act of 1829. They felt sure that if they sent money to fund a revolution against the British, the rebel Irish would win and the Vatican would have more support in Europe.

  ‘They didn’t want to send sacks of gold and they didn’t have the resources or inclination to send an army, so instead they had this Golden Icon made with the Pope’s seal of approval.’

  ‘So, how did the statue end up here in Germany?’

  ‘Rumour says that the Priest who was entrusted to deliver the Golden Icon was robbed and killed in Ireland before he managed to deliver it.

  ‘Grave robbers took the Golden Icon to Cardinal McCade who lived with his son, a doctor at the Royal College of Surgeons and his brother’s orphaned daughter in Dublin. The orphan girl had a friend who died of Typhus. It was a time of body snatchers, and the church versus science, and when the body was stolen for dissection the girl stole the Golden Icon and fled from her Uncle.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘She smuggled it to France. She later died of typhus in a convent in Holland. For many years the Golden Icon stayed in the convent protected by the Dutch Cellite sisters. During the war the convent was turned into a makeshift hospital and the Golden Icon was smuggled out, hidden from the Nazis and sent to the East, near Cleves. The local people had promised to keep it safe with other hidden artwork, and by coincidence we found out about it. During the confusion of the latter days of the war it didn’t take us long to commander it.’

  ‘You stole it,’ I argue.

  Dieter shrugs. ‘That’s a matter of opinion. Then we drew straws and picked the items we would keep. Michael had first choice.’

  ‘But you don’t display the Golden Icon in here?’

  ‘Nein, nein.’ He waves his hand and scratches poking his fingers between the buttons of his shirt. ‘You must be careful. Seán must be careful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Anyone who has attempted to use it for their own gain has suffered or died quickly.’

  ‘And Michael knew this?’

  ‘Ja, he knew, he knew. That’s why he didn’t want to sell it. Now you must take it.’ Dieter grips the arm of the chair and rises.

  ‘No! I am not taking it. Seán can collect it when his leg is out of plaster.’

  ‘Plaster?’

  ‘Yes, he had an accident.’

  ‘Accident? What sort of accident?’

  ‘He was almost knocked down by a car.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just after Michael died. Two maybe three days ago.’

  Dieter groans. ‘That was no accident. They are after the Golden Icon. Come, quickly! You must take it and leave now.’ He takes the box and wraps the soiled linen around the icon. ‘Come, come, hurry. It was a warning. You must take it to Seán immediately.’ He pulls me from the room and pushes me along the illuminated corridor to the front door. ‘Get your bag,’ he orders, nodding toward the living room. ‘Quickly.’

  I grab my bag and the photograph of the four men in uniform falls to the floor.

  ‘Hurry,’ shouts Dieter.

  I run back to the front door, the bag in my hand.

  ‘Take this,’ he says, thrusting the shoe box at me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must.’ His breath is fetid on my face. ‘You must take it to Seán. Maximilian will kill you. Ian is a murderer. They will stop at nothing.’ His skeletal fingers grab my wrist. ‘How did Michael die?’

  ‘Seán never – his heart?’

  ‘They killed him,’ he says. ‘Take this and go! Get it to Seán and return to your opera.’

  ‘Opera?’

  It is not until afterwards that I realise he uses my surprise and these valuable few seconds to open my travel bag.

  ‘Opera? You know?’

  ‘Ja, of course I know who you are. I recognised you immediately. Were you not world famous? Are you not Tosca?’ He begins to hum Vissi d’arte, and suddenly his hand is fondling and squeezing my nipple.

  I shove him against the wall, grab my bag and run down the three flights of stairs. I throw open the door but standing in front of me is a man whose eyes are dull and cold - the man from the bicycle shop.

  I scream.

  I am running toward the Hauptbahnhoff looking over my shoulder every few paces. Shadows greet me at every turn. Headlights blind me. Noises assail my senses. It’s as if I am running blind. Convinced I am followed. I take a side street. A man jogs toward me. He has piercing blue eyes like Glorietta’s. I lean closer to the wall and scrape my arm on the brick. Glorietta couldn’t run like me. She is twice my weight and half my height. He passes me and I begin to laugh. I cough. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I have a pain in my chest so I stop. I am panting heavily and when I look over my shoulder, a girl wearing headphones crosses the road, and a man on a bicycle passes by me. It is almost midnight. Where are they all going? A motorbike roars past and a bus pulls up to an empty stop.

  My body is shaking and my arms ache. I am standing beside a window and when I peer inside, faces drinking beer stare back at me. I walk slowly taking deep breaths forcing my diaphragm lower to control my panic. I turn frequently to look over my shoulder. My lips are dry and perspiration clings to my blouse.

  I am relieved when I reach the main road and the street lamps are brighter. At the entrance to the Meridian Hotel I pause and dart quickly inside. The concierge is busy. He doesn’t look up. I follow the signs to the Ladies toilet where I tidy my hair and add make up with shaking fingers.

  Although it is late I decide I will call Seán. In the bar I choose a table away from other guests and take out my mobile. I have several missed calls from an unknown number and two calls from Raffaelle. When the waiter comes to my table I pull my bag between my legs and order a gin and tonic with plenty of ice.

  Seán has put me in danger. I have the Golden Icon but I will leave it in the airport left luggage locker. He can collect it when his leg is healed. I am not travelling with a stolen solid gold icon of the Madonna and child made by the Vatican belonging to the Irish, certainly not to Dublin.

  I dial his number.

  ‘Seán?’


  ‘Who is this?’ It’s a woman’s voice.

  ‘Is Seán there, please?’

  ‘Is that you, Josephine?’

  ‘Is Seán there?’

  ‘It’s Barbara,’ she says.

  ‘I need to speak to Seán? It’s urgent.’

  ‘He’s dead.’ I hear her sobbing. ‘He’s dead.’ There is scuffling, confusion, muffled voices then a man’s voice.

  ‘Josephine, this is William, Seán’s brother.’

  I think of William’s scarred forehead and the fire.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  The waiter bends balancing my drink on a tray and places a glass on the coaster. He pours tonic over the gin, bows, smiles and walks away. Bubbles gather on the sliced lemon, glistening like tiny diamonds.

  ‘Josephine?’

  I drink quickly, gathering my thoughts and calming my voice before replying.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was a burglary. A man came to the house. A mourner. He shot Seán. We can’t believe it.’ William is struggling to regain his composure. ‘On the night of the Da’s funeral.’

  I am in someone else’s body leading someone else’s life. I should be at home sipping Prosecco on my terrace. I should be preparing for Tosca. I should be rehearsing with Cesare. I must sing. I am an opera singer.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Gardaí are here investigating. You know Seán had financial problems? They are in his office going through all his documents.’

  I think of my letter and I curse him aloud.

  ‘What was that? I can’t hear you?’ William is shouting but I hear him perfectly. ‘He stole the painting hanging in the study, the Turner.’

  I end the call. I circle the bag with my feet tucking it under the table. I signal to the waiter for another drink and I take out the black and white photograph from my pocket and stare at the faces of the young men; all thieves, crooks or murderers and I feel sick with disappointment.

  4

  Chapter 4

  All the earth doth worship thee: the Father everlasting - Te Deum, Tosca