by Neil Olson
“Congratulations.”
Fotis waved a hand. “What the hell do those people know about food? Anyway, I am not involved much with the restaurant these days.”
“No?”
“I have an excellent manager, who doesn’t even steal. And I have other concerns.”
It was an invitation, but Andreas was not interested. He knew about his friend’s various activities, and if there were some new ones, it was no matter. Ambition did not impress him, nor even audacity in the pursuit of it. There was a sort of sad desperation in Fotis’ extralegal dealings—the desperation of a dying man trying to stave off fate with accomplishment.
“My son is ill,” Andreas said.
Fotis looked at him hard, sympathy vying with annoyance at the change in subject.
“I know.”
Of course he knew. Matthew, Andreas’ grandson, was also Fotis’ godson. Irini, Matthew’s mother, was Fotis’ niece. The two old men were hopelessly entangled. There was no chance of escaping each other.
“Matthew tells me that it’s bad,” Andreas went on, needing to speak. “Alekos is not responding to the treatment.”
“Maybe he needs better doctors.”
“They are supposed to be the best at that place. Mount Sinai.”
“There are better ones in Boston. But then, science can only do so much.”
“We do not have such illnesses in my family.”
“You must have faith.”
Was it a taunt? Spoken with such gentleness, it was more likely an old man’s forgetfulness.
“I do not think I am likely to acquire it so late in life.”
Fotis stared at him, unreadable, the ever-present jade worry beads clacking in his hand.
“My poor Andreou.”
They sat in silence for a minute or two, comfortable with it. Andreas sipped his water and finally decided to indulge the other man.
“Some of these paintings are new.”
Fotis’ eyes lit up. “I have become more involved in collecting the last few years,” he said eagerly. “I think it is my true calling.”
“Ah.”
“Never mind that, I know what you’re thinking. Only a fool would collect art for money. Too unstable. I enjoy it. I enjoy pursuing my own peculiar tastes, and I enjoy being surrounded by beautiful things.”
“This landscape?”
Fotis shifted to look. “Dutch. A student of Bruegel, I’m told. Beautiful, yes?”
“Very beautiful. And I see you have an icon.”
“A few of them. Not very old, or valuable. They have been greatly overproduced in recent centuries. This one is Russian.”
“You would like to collect some authentic Byzantine examples, no doubt.”
Dragoumis turned back around, a smile both cold and satisfied on his long, regal face.
“There is no real trade in Byzantine icons. Not enough of them in private hands. It’s all museums and churches, so it is hard to set a price. Their true value is spiritual.” Fotis the pious.
“Of course.”
“You know that Kessler is dead.”
Andreas sighed. It had occurred to him from the start that Kessler and the icon were behind this forced visit.
“I had heard.”
“Keeping up those contacts. Good.”
Andreas shrugged. Why bother saying he’d read it in the New York Times? Fotis assumed that all information must come through intelligence channels. Let him think that Andreas was still plugged into the network.
“So,” Fotis continued, “what does our fine government of Greece think of this development?”
“What should they think? All they would know of Kessler is what you told them.”
“You believe so? In that case the file is empty, because I told them absolutely nothing about Kessler. Why would I?”
“Neither did I. Perhaps they have other sources. You won’t learn anything from me.”
They became quiet again. Andreas wondered where the bathroom was.
“The granddaughter is executor.” Dragoumis slid a long brown cigarette from the pack and lit it. “She is looking to have the whole collection appraised.”
“Have you offered your services?”
Fotis laughed, blowing swirling orbs of smoke.
“I’m a small-time collector. I assumed she would go to one of the auction houses.”
“Logical.”
“But it seems she has loftier goals. Her lawyer has been speaking to some of the major museums. I can see it now, the Kessler Wing of the Metropolitan.”
Andreas’ radar began sounding.
“Why the Metropolitan?”
“Just an example, but it’s the most obvious choice. Kessler concentrated on medieval. There aren’t many places in this country that could do justice to that. None of the other New York museums.”
“Why New York? Why not Europe?”
“Perhaps they will try Europe. New York was his home, though. Bad history across the Atlantic. The Swiss wouldn’t touch him. Probably not the Germans, either. Anyway, you’ll never guess whom the Met is sending over to look at a few things.”
He did not have to guess.
“Your grandson,” Fotis continued. “The world is small, my friend, no?”
Andreas managed not to show alarm, but he was unnerved. Dragoumis was older, sicker, self-deluding, but here was why he had always been better at these games. He was relentless, and he constantly found new ways to unbalance you.
“Fotis,” he said quietly, without either threat or plea, “leave Matthew out of this.”
“My dearest Andreou, what have I to do with it? You think they consult me?”
“How do you know about it?”
“Matthew told me. Look now, the chief medievalist is an old man, not young and handsome like our boy. Byzantine is his specialty; that’s your doing, not mine. All those years taking him to churches and museums. Of course they would send Matthew. The girl will love him, the museum will get the icon, and our boy gets the credit. Where is the harm?”
“No harm. If that is all there is to the story.”
“Truthfully? I begin to wonder.” The old man waved his cigarette around casually. “Because here you are.”
“My son is ill.”
“Your son has been ill for months. Kessler died ten days ago.”
Andreas leaned back in his chair, desperately wanting to be out of this place, to be anywhere else but in the lair of this sad, scheming creature. “You have lived too long, Foti, you see plots everywhere. I came to see my son, no other reason.” He stood. “Have your man take me to my hotel. I can never find a taxi in this neighborhood.”
Dragoumis stubbed out his cigarette and looked up at his old friend with large, watery eyes, seemingly on the verge of tears. As if he were the injured party! Despite himself, Andreas almost clapped his hands at the performance. Fotis the wronged.
“I have offended you, I am sorry. Please, sit. Please, my friend, let us not part in anger.”
Andreas sat, but his mind was made up to go.
“I withdraw my question,” Fotis continued. “If I have expressed doubts, there are reasons. I must trust that you too have reasons for not sharing your plans with me. Now that you understand Matthew is involved, you may adjust your actions in a way that will not direct harm to his interests.”
“What the hell is it that you think I’m up to? You think the Greek government wants that icon? You think they would send me to get it?”
“What have you heard of Müller?”
Now Müller. The man was shameless.
“Only that he’s dead.”
“Really. I have heard that he is here, in New York.”
Andreas shifted uneasily in his chair, willing himself not to respond, but failing. “From whom?”
“An unreliable source, I admit. Still, another thing I thought you should know. It would make sense that he would come. You never believed that he was dead.”
“I don’t want to discu
ss Müller. I need to see Alex.”
“Yes. I have been to the hospital twice. He refused to see me the first time.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“But not surprised. He may resist seeing you also. Are you prepared for that?”
Prepared for it. How did one prepare for rejection from an ill son, a possibly dying son? Andreas had lived through many terrible things, but he could imagine nothing worse than such a rejection, and would not let his mind dwell on it.
“With Matthew’s support, I hope to overcome resistance.”
“Excellent. Look now, let us forget this gloomy talk for an hour. Come into the parlor and have a cognac with me.”
“I should see Alekos immediately.”
“Visiting hours are late. We’ll all go, after we eat.”
“No, I will go with Matthew.”
“Of course. He is joining us for dinner. Then you will both go to see Alex.”
The schemer had thought of everything. Anyway, the food would be good, and Matthew’s company would make the evening tolerable. Andreas did not drink, but he would have a cognac with Fotis. It seemed like just what he needed.
“You have the good Metaxa?”
“Better. Remy Martin XO.”
3
T he night before, Matthew had the dream again. A painting vanished, a masterpiece of the collection which he was expected to find, but he couldn’t remember what it looked like. A group stood before the empty wall, declaiming the lost portrait’s beauty, the lips, the eyes, the otherworldly flesh tones, and he tried to build an image in his mind, but it shifted, eluded him, like faces do in dreams. The museum he knew so well became an impenetrable maze, with no Ariadne to help him. Darkness came down. Strange sounds distracted. The search went before and behind, he chased, he was pursued. In a dim basement chamber he saw what must be the image on the far wall, but the path was uncertain, no course took him directly there. No help, he was alone. And then not alone, as a terrible presence filled his consciousness. He always woke then.
They drove in silence, Matthew at the wheel of his colleague Carol’s borrowed Taurus, Andreas settled deeply into the passenger seat. The life had gone out of the old man as soon as they stepped through Fotis’ front door into the cool evening air, and it became clear that the animation he had shown over dinner was an act, for Fotis’ benefit. They were always performing for each other. Coming off the Triboro Bridge, Matthew paid the toll and accelerated away, glancing at his grandfather. Hat and collar obscured his face, and shadow alternated with pink streetlight across the barely visible features. Matthew had seen Andreas in Athens two years before and been struck once again by how little he aged. Still sharp-eyed, clear-minded, grip like a vise. At seventy-seven he could have passed for a vigorous sixty. This night he seemed old, stoop-shouldered and shuffling. His eyes wandered, as did his mind. Of course, it could be fatigue from the flight.
The car shaped the looping entry to the FDR Drive, and Matthew turned off almost immediately on 116th Street. Shouts and the metallic bang of a backboard reached them from a dimly lit basketball court. Tall brick projects rose up around them.
“This is Harlem?” Andreas asked.
“Spanish Harlem, I guess.”
“It’s ugly.”
“Yeah, well.”
“This is an ugly city.”
“So is Athens.”
“A strange comparison. Have I offended your local pride?”
“Modern cities are ugly. New York has some beautiful places.”
“Athens has history.”
“Too much history.”
“It’s true. It’s true that the Greeks are undermined by their history; it is a common phenomenon in Europe. Americans are more willing to attempt things. This is their strength, but it also leads them into much foolishness. They change friends constantly, abandon old allies. This is why the world distrusts America.”
Matthew had heard it all before but was pleased to have the old man sounding like himself.
“What is the latest news?” Andreas asked.
The looming black monolith of Mount Sinai appeared on the left, checkered with tiny squares of light. Heaviness fell upon Matthew at the sight of it, dulling his mind like an anesthetic.
“Apparently his blood cell count is stable, but they don’t know why, and it could drop again any time. The infusions don’t seem to do much good anymore.”
“So they cannot help him?”
Matthew balked, rolled his shoulders. One could go day to day without ever asking that question. His mother never wanted to know the long-term prognosis. She simply prayed to God the Father, Christos, Panayitsa, the whole useless crew. Yet it was a fair question, and the father of his father had every right to ask.
“They’ve made some progress, but the toll on his body has been pretty heavy. After every one of those treatments he’s just…I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth it.”
“They should send him home. A man should be at home to face a thing like this.”
“It’s not that simple, Papou.” The sharpness in his voice surprised him. “We can’t give up on him improving. And I’m not even sure he’s strong enough to go home. Mamá would have to do everything for him, which she would try to do, but she’s a wreck right now herself.”
Andreas patted his shoulder.
“Do not think too much about things before it is time to face them.”
At that hour upper Fifth Avenue was nearly empty, and they were able to park near the hospital entrance. The long, tangled branches of elm trees swayed overhead, softly clacking. Andreas looked up at them for a few moments. Then Matthew took his arm and they went in together.
They had shaved the beard, but a heavy stubble had grown back. Where there had once been thick waves of black hair, only a thin gray buzz cut remained. His cheeks were sunken, and the body beneath the sheets seemed to have lost a good deal of mass. To say that Andreas did not recognize his son would be wrong. The forehead, long nose, sullen mouth, the small scar on the chin remained instantly familiar, but the general alteration of the body was terrible. What, fifty-three now? His ancestors had lived well into their nineties, as Andreas grimly expected to do. The son should not precede the father.
The old man stood rooted in the doorway. Had Alekos been awake, Andreas would have strode purposefully into the room, giving nothing away; but since the boy slept, he allowed himself a little time. He had not watched his son sleep since he was a child. He had not seen Alekos at all in five years. That last visit they had put some of the past bitterness behind them, reached some understanding common to their shared sadness. Yet a truce was not a friendship. They had not made the effort to know each other years before, and it was impossible to bridge the distance all at once. With the ocean between them, they had grown apart once more. Perhaps there had been another revelation of past shame, from Fotis, or from Irini, the wife. Perhaps it was simply old hurts that had been picked at again and festered.
Matthew went around the bed and stood by the window. Andreas could not see what the boy saw, but he knew from the turns they had taken that he faced east, toward the river. From the back, his grandson—broad shoulders, round head, black hair—looked like his father. The resemblance was otherwise slight, nor did Matthew particularly look like his mother. His grandmother, Andreas thought, not for the first time: my wife. The boy looked just like dear, dead Maria.
“Babás.” A dry whisper from the bed. The old man turned to face the narrow-eyed gaze of his son. Had he been awake all along?
“Ne,” Andreas answered. He did not trust himself to move swiftly, so he shuffled like an invalid to the bed.
Alex tried to pull himself up. Desperate to help, the old man hesitated for fear of a rebuke. Matthew came over instead, dragging his father upright. Andreas quickly rearranged the flattened pillows, and Matthew set Alex back against them. The sick man pointed to a cup on the bedside table, and Matthew filled it with water from a white plastic pitcher. Alekos to
ok it with a steady hand and sipped slowly without looking at them, in no hurry to speak further. Andreas’ legs trembled, but he would not sit.
“How is that silent sister of mine?” Alex finally asked, in English, for Matthew’s sake, though the boy’s Greek was good.
“Well. The children keep her busy, you know, and the husband is no help.”
“Always defending her.” But Alex smiled, a tiny lift at the corners of his mouth.
“When I am with her, I defend you.” And then, as an afterthought: “She will be coming to see you soon.”
“Yes, as soon as you report on my condition. I have no doubt they will all be at my bedside, with holy water and a priest. I will count on you to keep the priest away.” Andreas knew better than to answer, and Alex looked to his own son. “You picked him up at the airport?”
“Fotis did,” Matthew responded.
“Of course. The conspirators.”
“He sends his best.”
“You must send mine back, at the next planning session.”
Matthew laughed. “What are we planning?”
“God knows,” Alex rasped. “Ask your Papou.”
“He sent a man to get me at the airport,” Andreas said. “I was not expecting him. I haven’t seen Fotis in years.”
“How was today?” Matthew asked quietly.
His father’s hand flipped palm up, then palm under, a gesture both of the others recognized.
“The same. They did some tests. They say I may go home soon. Babás, sit down.”
Andreas nearly fell into the hard chair. He unbuttoned his coat and put his hat in his lap.
“That’s great news,” Matthew answered. “So your blood looks better?”
“A little. It’s not worse, anyway.”
“But in that case, shouldn’t they go on with the therapy? How do they know it won’t continue to improve?”
“It might. They tell me it might, but they don’t believe it, and I don’t believe them.” Alex spoke without anger. Profound weariness seemed to be the controlling tone in his voice. “Anyway, I can’t take any more of the therapy now. I need a rest. I can’t rest in this place.”
“Of course not,” Andreas insisted. “You should be home.”
