The Icon

by Neil Olson

  “Thanks,” he said, “that wasn’t necessary.”

  “It’s not Greek coffee, of course. I’m not sure how to make that.”

  “You need the right grounds, like espresso. Better just to go someplace where they make it well.”

  “And do you know the right place?”

  Ana carried two mugs to the table and sat across from him. Her face still appeared drawn, yet there was something strong in her, beneath the weariness. She wore it well.

  “I know a few.”

  He was so certain that she would ask where those places were, ask him if he would take her to them sometime, that he was faintly embarrassed when she did not.

  “Thanks for coming by,” she said, staring into her coffee, her tone businesslike. “I know I only lured you with the chance to see the icon again, but the price you have to pay is talking some things through with me. Informally. I understand your allegiance is to the Met.”

  “I’d be happy to be of use.”

  “Can you tell me how serious the museum is?”

  “We’re interested, no question. I’m not sure yet how deep the interest goes.”

  “You mean it depends on the price.”

  “That’s a factor, of course. The chief curator of my department needs to see the work. The director as well.”

  “Then I won’t be negotiating with you?”

  “I’ll be involved, but this will get done above my head.”

  “What a shame,” she said flatly. “We get along so well.”

  He laughed nervously. She was so direct in her approach, yet so quicksilver in her moods, that he had no idea what to make of her.

  “You could insist upon it. People do things like that. We had one eccentric old lady who would only speak to our junior legal counsel, because he went to her dead husband’s alma mater.”

  “That’s brilliant.”

  “The director didn’t think so.”

  “Shall I do that? Would it help your career?”

  “You know,” he said carefully, “you should probably leave the negotiating to your lawyer.”

  “My lawyer. He’s a tricky guy, my lawyer. He may rob both sides blind.”

  “Shouldn’t you have a lawyer you trust?”

  “Oh, I guess I trust him.” She averted her eyes to the table before taking a sip from the mug. “He’s been taking care of Kessler business for thirty years, knows all the secrets. I couldn’t get rid of him if I wanted to.”

  “Do you have a price in mind?”

  “He does. Sounds high to me, but if the piece is as rare as you say, maybe not. I wish I could ask you what was fair.”

  “I wish I could tell you. Fair is what the market will bear.”

  “But we’re not testing the market.”

  “I can’t believe your lawyer wouldn’t put out feelers.”

  “You think we should be fishing around?”

  “It would be a natural thing to do.”

  “Talk to those pimps at the auction houses?” She spoke sharply. “They’ll promise the sun, moon, and stars.”

  “They might get them.”

  “What are you telling me, Matthew? That I should go to some rich private collector?”

  Her stare was intense, and he found himself struggling with his unease, compelled by an impolitic honesty.

  “Actually, I think that would be a terrible idea. Not for you, necessarily.”

  “Don’t waffle.”

  “It’s just, the thought of that work being locked away from the world, stuck up on someone’s wall…”

  “Like it is now,” she pressed.

  He exhaled slowly. “Yes. Like it is now. It would be a sad choice. It should be where a lot of people can see it.”

  “A museum.”

  “A museum would be the most obvious call.”

  “But will a museum give it the attention it deserves?”

  Fotis’ question again, and Matthew had no better answer for it this time.

  “You can attach conditions to the sale. It’s done all the time.”

  Ana shook her head. “My lawyer says we don’t have leverage with just the one painting. If I were donating the whole collection I could make demands. Or if it were a Picasso or a Rembrandt, maybe. Tell me if I’m wrong here.”

  “You’re probably right.” He shrugged. “It’s still worth discussing.”

  “Does it annoy you that Byzantine doesn’t get treated with the same respect as the Old Masters, or the Impressionists, or all of that popular stuff?”

  “You know, I never considered popularity when I got into the field. I just studied what interested me, fool that I was.”

  “But it must piss you off. The people who made this icon, it was like life and death for them, right? They held these things up before their armies when they went into battle. They died to defend them. Did anyone ever die over a Renoir?”

  She was leaning over the table, eyes wide, hand gesturing fiercely. He wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of her argument, but it was impossible. She was so sincere, so fully present in her emotions that it was he who felt ridiculous, made small by his own restraint.

  “That’s true, except that it was really about religion. They killed and died over what the icon represented, not over its beauty.”

  Ana sat back, nodding slowly at his words, or in acceptance of some new thought.

  “That is what it comes down to, isn’t it? You can’t take religion out of the equation.”

  She went to the counter, retrieved the coffeepot, and topped off their mugs, though neither had drunk much. The suit was gone today, she wore faded blue jeans and a white shirt, and he found himself distracted by the long arc of her leg in the tight fabric as she returned the pot to the counter. She remained there a few moments, her back to him.

  “So Matthew, since we won’t be negotiating directly, I want to ask your advice about something. I know you’ll be straight with me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  She came to the table and sat down again, watching his eyes as she spoke. “Somebody from the Greek church called Wallace, my lawyer. They want the icon.”

  He had guessed it before she spoke. Fotis was here before him, forcing the issue.

  “The Greek church in Greece?”

  “I’m not certain. The guy who called was an American priest, but it was on behalf of the church over there. I’m not really sure of the distinction.”

  “It’s murky even to them.”

  “Apparently, they hinted pretty heavily that the work was stolen from Greece, years ago.”

  She was staring at him so hard that he felt implicated in the crime. This was clearly what she had wanted to talk about all along.

  “Were you surprised to hear that?”

  She sipped, not breaking eye contact. “No.”

  “Are they offering to pay?”

  “They didn’t float numbers, but yes, they’ll pay.”

  “Where was it left?”

  “Nowhere. We’re supposed to get back to them.”

  “And what advice do you need from me?”

  Finally she wavered, looked away.

  “I’m just curious what you thought of the idea. I mean, I’m not seriously considering it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You think I should?”

  “Stop throwing all these questions back at me, and think about what you want.” He had barely raised his voice, but she seemed stung. “Listen, Ana, there is no ‘should’ about any of this. I’m simply curious why you wouldn’t consider the church a viable option.”

  “It’s a new idea to me, that’s all. I understand about dealers, collectors, museums. Then it’s just about the art. This is bringing a whole new element into it. They want the icon for totally different reasons. I have no way of comparing the two things.”

  His thoughts were pulled in all directions: Fotis’ plans, his own desires, what he should tell her, and when—he could not bring it all together.

  “I guess
one way to judge would be to think about who will get to see the work in each case, and what each group would get out of that experience. You need more information.”

  “But does that even matter? Let’s say the icon was stolen. Doesn’t it belong to them? And couldn’t they make serious trouble for me or for the museum?”

  He had been intentionally evading the issue, but there was no way around it. The mere whisper of “stolen Nazi loot” by the Greeks would cause the museum to drop its interest in a moment. There wouldn’t even have to be evidence.

  “Are those the arguments the church rep made to your lawyer?”

  “They were more subtle, I’m sure, but he understood. And he made sure that I did too.”

  “What is he recommending?”

  “He’s not one to be intimidated, Wallace. As far as I know, the museum is still the first option, but he wouldn’t have even mentioned the church if he didn’t expect me to consider it.”

  “Well,” Matthew struggled for words. “This is interesting.”

  “Is it? I find it rather nerve-racking, myself.”

  “You must be more undecided than you first let on.”

  “I go back and forth.” She ran a hand through her hair. “No choice seems like the right one. My lawyer gives me this maddening, contradictory advice in his completely neutral tone, and all you can do is ask questions.”

  “At least he’s getting paid. My advice is free.”

  “You want me to pay you?”

  “I’m asking questions that I think are going to help you know your own mind. I’m not in a position to tell you what to do.”

  “Right now, I’d like someone to tell me.”

  “I strongly suspect that if someone tried you would resist strenuously.”

  She rewarded him with her first smile of the day.

  “Do I seem that contrary?”

  He leaned back in his chair and returned the smile. “It’s what I would do.”

  “Really? Is there stubbornness lurking beneath that smooth exterior, Mr. Spear?”

  “So I’m told,” he said to the rust-colored floor tiles. Best to get off that topic quickly. “Have you considered simply holding on to it?”

  “The thing is, some of this stuff has to go. Despite how careful my grandfather was, there are estate taxes, other expenses. Pretty hefty ones.”

  “Why the icon? There’s plenty of other work, isn’t there?”

  “The modern I want to keep, that’s my thing. Of the older work, the icon is the most valuable piece.”

  “Maybe that’s all the more reason to hold on to it.”

  She placed both hands firmly on the table.

  “OK, you want the truth?”

  “Please.”

  “The thing gives me the creeps, it always has. I know, it’s just paint, but it feels as though there’s something more, something lurking inside. Then there’s my grandfather dying in front of it. I want it gone. So, I’ve said it. Now you can be disgusted with me.”

  “Hardly. All it means is that the work is affecting you. Maybe not in the way the creator would have wanted, but nevertheless.”

  She was pensive for a moment, then broke into another smile.

  “You mean the artist. Not the Creator.”

  He blushed for no reason.

  “That’s right. The little guy, not the big guy.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m punchy. I need a break from this.” She checked her watch. “God, it’s late. You didn’t need to go back to your office?”

  “I’m done for the day.”

  “Is there someplace you’re supposed to be?”

  “No,” but he sensed the kiss-off and got to his feet. “Just some reading to catch up on.”

  He went to the sink to wash out his mug, childishly annoyed about being denied another look at the icon. This obsessiveness wasn’t like him, and he felt unnerved. The visit had been about what she needed, not about him.

  “Leave that, I’ll do it.”

  “No problem.” He put the damp mug on the counter.

  “I was wondering if you want to have dinner. If you’re not too busy.”

  Matthew shook his head at his own stupidity. When had he become this slow? Why was he misreading her, making things harder?

  “It’s a nice idea.”

  She was gazing at him serenely, and he waited for an excuse to roll off his lips. It was a terrible idea, in fact. There was this business matter between them, and she was an odd woman in a vulnerable place. Despite his sympathy for her, and even his fascination, he was made constantly uneasy in her presence. The hundred-year-old German grandfather clock in the dining room intruded a deep, resonant ticking into the expanding silence.

  “I promise not to talk about the icon,” she added, and he thought about the walk home, past the dry cleaners and Chinese restaurants to his empty apartment, while whatever lame excuse he concocted echoed around in this old brownstone, and she sat at the table drinking coffee all night.

  “OK,” Matthew said. “Sure, I’d love to. Where shall we go?”

  As it turned out, they didn’t go anywhere. Ana thought they could throw something together, the only difficulties being that there was little food in the house and that she didn’t cook. She did know the wine cellar, however, and went to retrieve a bottle while Matthew chopped mushrooms and whisked four eggs with a little cold water. Sliced apple, some parmesan, and in minutes he created a perfect omelet, which they ate with toasted bagels and a 1984 Châteaux Margaux.

  “This is the wrong wine,” Ana said.

  “Not if you like it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Very much, not that I’m an authority. Too much retsina forced on me at a young age.”

  “Retsina,” she groaned. “My God, that stuff is poison.”

  “This is where I’m supposed to say—with my chin in the air, like this—that you haven’t had the good stuff. ‘That export retsina, Theomou, scatá!’”

  “That’s good, you look like somebody.”

  “Marlon Brando.”

  “I was going to say Mussolini.”

  “Gee, thanks. The truth is, all retsina tastes like tree sap to me. Greek food, French wine.” He swirled the dark liquid in his glass. The cooking had eased some of his tension. “Everybody, do what they’re good at.”

  She stuffed a forkful of omelet into her mouth, as if she hadn’t seen food in days.

  “Do all Greek men know how to cook?”

  “It’s an omelet, Ana. Any single guy can make one, it hardly qualifies as cooking.”

  “To you. In this kitchen it’s the height of culinary achievement.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “Can I ask a rude question?”

  “Why start looking for permission now?”

  “Why are you single?”

  “Well, how do I answer that? Fate? I could ask you the same question.”

  “We’ll get to me.” She adjusted her wineglass on the table, minutely, precisely, as if it were an important engineering project.

  “So you’re not involved?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You can make a last-minute dinner date without having to answer to anyone.”

  “Maybe my girlfriend is out of town.”

  “Why make me guess?”

  “All right,” he conceded with a tight smile, “you’re correct. I am currently unentangled.”

  “Now how can that be? A handsome, intelligent guy like yourself.”

  She said it casually, as if he must be used to such compliments, but Matthew felt his face flush once more. Maybe it was just the wine.

  “This city is full of handsome, intelligent, lonely people,” he answered carefully. “It’s not such a mystery. Anyway, I just split with somebody I was with for a long time.”

  “Whose doing was that?”

  “Her doing. My fault.”

  “Why your fault?”

  “It was the Mussolini imitation, drove her nuts.”
/>
  “Come on.”

  “Too many questions, Ana.”

  “Sorry.” Her fork went down with a clatter. Her plate was empty.

  “Looks as if somebody hasn’t been eating.”

  “I forget, isn’t that pathetic? I’m a grown woman, but I forget to eat. When I’m in Santa Monica I have friends I always see for meals. Here, it’s more free-form. Actually, I used to have dinner with my grandfather a lot, before he became really ill.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m sitting in his chair.”

  “Eat in the kitchen, my grandfather? We always sat in that gloomy dining room, even when it was just the two of us. I don’t think he knew what the kitchen looked like.”

  “Who did the cooking?”

  “André. A sweet old guy, who I think I need to let go.”

  “Maybe you should keep him,” Matthew noted, pointing to her empty plate.

  “He’s almost eighty and wants to retire. I’ve already dumped Diana, that pain in the ass.”

  “She was the nurse?”

  “Thought she owned the place. My grandfather was sure she was stealing. I don’t know about that, but there was no reason to keep her. Gave her a nice severance and a good recommendation.”

  “And you’re left with no one to take care of you.”

  “And no one to take care of. I am also, how did you say it? Unentangled?”

  “Here’s to that.” They toasted with their half-empty glasses, crystal pinging against crystal. “Do you prefer it that way?” The wine was loosening his normally careful tongue.

  She stared off into space, seeming to consider the matter. “Not really. No.”

  “All that jetting around the world makes it hard to maintain a relationship?”

  “I never thought so, but it was definitely a problem for my exhusband.”

  “The plot thickens.” He refilled their glasses, working hard to keep his hand steady, making sure to give her more. Two of his fingertips were stained red from the wine. “What’s the story with that?”

  “Not much of a story. Married at twenty-four, divorced at twenty-eight. No kids, thank God. He was a painter, turned commodities trader. Not a bad guy, just immature and stupid. Almost as immature and stupid as I was. Tell you what.”

  “What?”

  “You did such a great job with dinner, why don’t you make the coffee?”