by Neil Olson
“I want this to be about us, Matthew. I want there to be some part of this that is only about us.”
She pulled his shirt up and pressed her breasts and belly against his skin. Her cool flesh and hard nipples demanded his attention. His body reacted, scorning his anger, ignoring the lack of instruction from his troubled, suspicious mind. Fotis’ words came back to him. Who knew what her own secrets were? At this moment, who cared? Her tongue found his; he remembered the night they had spent together. He wanted more of that, wanted to lose himself in her. The Mother of Christ receded, but did not disappear from his thoughts.
9
T he priest sat in a low chair in the corner, yet seemed to command the room. In the few minutes of small talk that accompanied everyone’s getting settled, Matthew learned that Father Tomas was Greek-born but ordained in the American branch of the church, and served Bishop Makarios in New Jersey. He had arrived alone, no aide accompanying him. Fifty-some-thing, gray temples and curly black hair, a lined, trustworthy face, and kind eyes. Little was said at first about his purpose here, but he produced documents from the Holy Synod in Athens that seemed to satisfy Ana’s lawyer, Wallace.
In the only bright corner of the dark study sat the Holy Mother, on an aluminum easel, staring out at all of them. Matthew had looked at her a long time before the priest came, while Ana and the lawyer conferred, but now he turned his chair away and tried to clear his mind. Tomas had examined the icon when he arrived, but since then had mostly ignored it, his eyes instead roaming over the massive oak bookcases, hardly settling anywhere but taking in a good deal.
“Your grandfather collected more than paintings, I see.”
“Yes,” Ana responded. “He was very proud of his book collection. Maybe even more than he was of the paintings. I think he felt closer to them.”
“Of course,” the priest agreed. “One can be more intimate with a book, hold it, turn its pages. A book is a friend. A painting simply hangs there, aloof.” He glanced upward again. “I see some friends of my own on these shelves. Dostoyevsky. Flaubert. Kazantzakis. And some rare titles. Maybe we can talk books after we talk art.”
“How about we take one transaction at a time,” Wallace cut in. Late sixties, gray-haired and rheumy-eyed, a gravelly voice and a hacking cough that bespoke a lifelong cigarette habit, recently kicked, judging by his fidgety fingers. Nothing in his slumped posture, shifty gaze, or false-friendly delivery conveyed trustworthiness to Matthew, but Ana seemed to rely on and defer to him.
“Indeed,” Father Tomas said.
“Now,” Wallace shuffled his notes to no purpose, “I assume we can take your satisfaction with the work as a given.”
“If you refer to its artistic quality, I am hardly the proper judge, yet I pronounce myself well pleased. Of course, it’s suffered much wear.”
“Over the centuries,” Matthew said. “Not in the last sixty years.”
“In any case,” the priest continued, “while this might put off a collector, for my purposes it merely helps to establish the work’s age. And adds to its mystery.”
The lawyer cleared his throat, seemed to want to spit.
“And you’re satisfied that this is indeed the icon you’ve been pursuing.”
“The Holy Mother of Katarini. Again, I am not an art historian, but it conforms in every way to the description. Some of my brothers in Greece know the work firsthand, and will be able to identify it. What does your own expert say?”
All three of them looked at Matthew. Though he had resisted pushing Ana toward a decision, he’d been aggressive in his support once she made it, fearing that the lawyer might change her mind. He had even asked to be present for these negotiations. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would be asking him questions.
“Well, it matches everything I know about the Katarini icon. Of course, I haven’t tested it for miraculous powers.” Only the priest laughed. “I can say with confidence that it’s pre-iconoclastic, which alone makes it extremely rare, and that it’s a work of high artistic achievement.”
“In your opinion,” quipped Tomas.
“And according to the standards for religious art of that time.”
“You are Greek?”
A harmless question, but Matthew hesitated. “Yes, I am.”
“Then I shall consider your opinion doubly valuable.”
“So we’re agreed on those points,” the lawyer insisted.
“Indeed, Mr. Wallace,” sighed Tomas, with a long-suffering smile. “We can move on to the financials, as I can see you’re eager to do.”
“We discussed a figure a few days ago.”
The priest created a dramatic pause by sipping from his water glass, staring hard once more at the object of his affection.
“Hardly a discussion. You simply named a figure. A very high figure.”
“We don’t think so.”
“Perhaps a million and a half dollars is a modest sum by your own standards. The church of Greece is a small church in a small country, and I understood this was to be taken into account. We have never heard of any icon selling for such a price.”
“I doubt that an icon this rare has been offered for sale in any of our memories.”
“Fair enough. Yet an icon of considerable reputation was sold a few years ago for less than a third of the sum you name. That is the highest price we know of. It is perhaps lamentable that these items which we revere are not held in the same regard by the art community as certain secular masterpieces, but there it is. No one pays such prices for icons.”
“I have to tell you, Father, that we have already received an unsolicited offer of that much from a private buyer.” Wallace clearly enjoyed the silence which followed his little bombshell. Matthew was as stunned as the priest, and wondered if it was true. “Mind you,” the lawyer continued, “we haven’t pursued it, and it is not our desire to go private with this thing, but a number like that commands respect. Look, the Russian market is drying up. They’ve stolen everything they can out of that country. The price for all icons will rise, but for an extraordinary one like this…”
“Of course, one cannot account for the eccentricity of collectors,” Tomas said, recovering his composure. “I was under the impression that our only competition was institutional. Tell me, was the Metropolitan Museum prepared to pay anything close to this price?”
The priest was not looking at him, but Matthew wondered if he was supposed to respond. Instead, Wallace jumped in once more.
“We never got to that stage. For all I know, they might.”
“Even if it turned out the work was stolen?”
“You know,” Wallace said, lowering his voice threateningly,
“you are the only source for that rumor we’ve heard from.” His eyes went absolutely flat.
“It is a fact, sir, not a rumor,” the priest answered coldly.
“I’ve never seen evidence. And it’s an awfully convenient tool for driving down the price.”
“We can provide the evidence, I assure you.”
“You’ll forgive me if I remain dubious. In any event, the estate has certain minimum financial requirements, and if we have to turn to private buyers to fulfill those, so be it. I don’t think the collector we heard from would be troubled by this issue.”
“You would seriously consider such a move?” Tomas’ indignation filled the room.
“We are earnestly trying to avoid it. We are giving you the opportunity to keep the work available to the public and return it to its native soil, but you have to work with us, Father. Ms. Kessler has obligations to her grandfather’s estate which she must meet.”
Matthew realized that most of this was simply negotiating hardball, but the alternative which the lawyer threatened was exactly the one he feared, and he had to work hard not to convey his panic to Ana. Tomas became quiet again. Then the beatific smile returned.
“Let me, as they say, put my cards on the table. I have clearance to offer up to seven hundred thousand U.S.
dollars. I am reasonably confident that with a telephone call to Bishop Makarios here and a few others in Athens, I could get that number to something very near one million. Beyond that, they will not go.”
Wallace readjusted his glasses and sat up in his chair.
“Well, that’s movement. We’ll take that as an encouraging step, Father.”
“Please do not misunderstand, Mr. Wallace. I have been straight with you; do not abuse me for it now. I have given you our best offer.”
“It’s enough.” Ana’s voice surprised them all. “Arthur, I think it’s enough.”
Nobody spoke for a moment.
“My client and I need to talk,” Wallace finally said. The priest shrugged.
“No,” Ana said quietly. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I know my mind here.”
“There is absolutely no reason for haste. We have some options to weigh.”
“I understand, someone else might pay more. It’s not important.”
“There are other issues.”
She looked at Matthew. “What do you think?”
He took a deep breath and made himself block out his fears, ignore the heat on the back of his skull from that ancient painted gaze across the room.
“Mr. Wallace is right. If you’re satisfied on the price, fine, but there are additional things you need to know.”
“Such as?” queried Tomas.
“What will her access to the work be after the sale? Will it be available for possible exhibitions of her grandfather’s collection?”
“Yes, I have those points here,” said the lawyer, tapping his legal pad.
“Where will the work be displayed?” Matthew continued.
“What sort of access to it will the general public have? What steps will you take for its protection and preservation?”
“Excellent points.” The priest nodded. “None of which I can answer definitively at this moment, except to say that I suspect we can satisfy you on most of them.”
“Let’s run through them anyway,” the lawyer grumbled, reasserting himself.
“Certainly any request by Ms. Kessler for a private viewing would be favorably heard. As for loaning the piece for an exhibition, I doubt the Synod would commit to such a thing.”
“I don’t care about that,” said Ana.
“The icon would likely hang in the cathedral in Athens. Wherever it is, it would be on display to the faithful. It is not our intention to hide it, that would contradict its purpose. Yet we will need to take measures to safeguard it, so that we do not again suffer its loss.”
“Of course,” Wallace answered mechanically. “I can put all the details into a draft of the contract.”
“Leaving us sufficient latitude, I trust. I am already agreeing to more conditions than most buyers would permit.”
“That’s part of the compromise,” the lawyer said evenly.
“These are the conditions we’re demanding in return for giving you a bargain price.”
“A bargain,” the priest scoffed. “Mr. Wallace, you could sell rugs in a Turkish bazaar.”
“You flatter me.”
“Not a bit. Do I take it we have an agreement?”
“There is no agreement until you see the terms, and your superiors approve the money. But I’d say we have an understanding. Ana?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
The priest checked his watch. “I do not know if I can reach my people this evening.”
“See what you can do,” the lawyer said. “I’ll draft the paperwork, and we’ll wrap this up in the next few days.”
“Very good. I am most pleased by this. Most pleased.”
The priest smiled at all of them. If he was stunned by the speed of the negotiation, or his supposed good fortune, he was doing a good job of concealing it. Everyone stood to shake hands, and Matthew relaxed somewhat. It was happening. Now he had to keep his eye on the old men until the icon hung in the Athens cathedral. Then he could truly let it all go.
“I’m sorry,” Ana said.
The lawyer looked up from packing his briefcase, then gave her his most paternal smile.
“Nothing to be sorry for. I wish that we had been a little clearer on strategy beforehand, but no matter. As long as you’re happy with the result.”
“I’m happy to have it over with. I couldn’t stand squeezing him, he’s a priest.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Matthew said, gently placing a drop cloth over the icon. There was an immediate sense of relief as the image vanished. “The Greek church is rich. Maybe not cash-rich, but certainly rich in holdings. They can afford it.”
“He just seemed so vulnerable, all by himself.”
“Vulnerable,” laughed Wallace. “Vulnerable as an iron safe.”
“Yeah, I agree,” said Matthew. “Vulnerable is not the word I would use, but I was surprised by the lack of advisers. I thought there would be a whole entourage.”
“Didn’t need them.” Wallace snapped his case shut. “He’ll have their lawyers vet the agreement before he signs, you can be sure. Meantime, he’s trusting his own judgment. I think they wanted to get this done quickly, and involve as few people as possible.” He wrestled himself into a tired green overcoat, coughing furiously. Then he patted Ana on the shoulder. “I’ll have a draft of the paperwork for you to look over soon. Take care, dear.”
She saw him to the door. Matthew wanted to walk out with the lawyer and ask a few more questions, but a look from Ana made him remain where he was.
“Thanks for being here,” she said when they were alone.
“Those were good questions.”
“Wallace had them covered.”
“I just needed you around.” She reached for his hand and he stepped closer to her. “Are you going to be in trouble with the museum?”
“Don’t worry about that.” In fact, if his role in this became public he could be in trouble with all sorts of people, but Matthew had put that thought aside whenever it came up. His work had suffered terribly in the last ten days, and he’d come to believe that he would never be able to focus on it again until this matter with the icon was settled, in a way which left his mind at peace.
“Stay awhile,” she said.
He’d had no intention of doing so. This business was eating up his life; he’d stolen time to be here, was behind on everything. The pressure of her hand held him. He could not leave her alone now, and he knew that in a few moments he would no longer wish to.
The connecting flight in Frankfurt had been delayed, and Father Ioannes arrived at JFK hours later than expected. Makarios was supposed to send a driver to get him, but Ioannes did not know where they were to meet and had not been able to find a working telephone. His baggage was lost briefly, then found on the wrong carousel. Leaving the men’s room, he became disoriented and could not find the Arrivals area. This is what hell must be like, he mused. This is when he needed the patience they had taught him on the mountain, but it came less and less easily as time passed. He would pray for peace of mind as soon as he was done silently cursing.
On the mountain they had taught him of a God very different from the one the village priests knew. The old priest’s God had been sad and angry in turn, like the man himself. The young priest also had preached a God of his own fiber, a passionate spirit who spoke to the needs of the moment, the need to resist, to survive. These deities fulfilled a purpose generated by man; they did what was required of them. On the mountain, they were not above invoking the angry God, to frighten the novices. Fear was known to sharpen the senses, and fear kept a boy in line until the mind, fed on incense and sacred visions, had grown sufficiently to accept the full depth and breadth of the true God, in all his glory. Ioannes had needed more time than most to achieve this readiness but had absorbed the lessons deeply. The terrors which defined his youth, which had initially held him back, became his sustenance once the path was discovered, became the fuel for the fire lit in his mind. Darkness was banished, and a door opened
in his soul directly into the world of spirit. He would have been more than content to spend his life in isolation and explore the way.
The squat, balding young man in the leather jacket did not inspire confidence, but he knew the priest on sight, took his luggage, and guided him out to the parking garage.
“I’m Demetrios, by the way,” he said.
“I bet they all call you Jimmy here.”
“Yes. I know why you’ve come, I know what’s going on.”
“Indeed?”
“I work very closely with Bishop Makarios. I’m not just a driver.”
“I see.”
It was somehow appropriate that his masters would wrench him from his solace at the moment he had fully embraced it, and reintroduce him to the world. Ioannes hated them for it at first, yet came to know after many years that it was consistent with their message, consistent with the way. The world of spirit must reside within him; he must take it with him into the world of flesh and allow it to inform his decisions. Anyone could maintain faith within the quiet of sanctuary walls. The flock lived outside the walls, and the Word must go to them.
“You’re here to check up on Tomas,” Jimmy persisted as the luggage went in the trunk and they settled into the needlessly large black vehicle; the American bishops always had cars like this. “Forgive me for saying that you’re a little late.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one has been able to reach him for a few days. It could mean nothing, of course,” the burly driver added, unconvincingly.
The difficulty arose when the old masters died, and instruction now came from men younger than himself, men who did not have the inner fire in their eyes. What was required of a man when the inner voices no longer matched the commands of the outer voices? Ioannes had been feeling his way along for years now, but he sensed that this latest assignment would challenge his entire way of being. Maybe it was time.
“I have an appointment with Tomas tomorrow,” the old priest said.
