Matthew was silent, staring out the windshield. He would never be uncivil, but this talk had made him uncomfortable. Matters might have progressed further than Andreas had anticipated. He would have to speak more openly, but not now.
“Are you free anytime this week, my boy? Tomorrow, even?”
“Tomorrow is tough. I’ll call you when I see how things are shaping up.”
“Very well.”
“Come on, let’s get you checked in.”
4
In the beginning was the word. In the end, words weren’t worth much. At the church services he surreptitiously attended, Matthew quickly lost the thread of the words spoken, sung, lost his grip on the Greek language, found it transformed into pure music, pure sound. Sound mixed with the smell of incense, the glint of pale lamps off gold leaf, the dark eyes of saints in the iconostasis. Some days it was enough to invoke a sort of trance, which was soothing to the soul or at least the psyche. Was it faith? He knew that if he followed the words, if he attempted the journey in any sort of intellectual manner, it all felt ridiculous. He had to let himself go. His former girlfriend Robin, a lapsed Catholic, had experienced the same phenomenon. Christ Hypnotist, she called it.
In Greece, in his grandfather’s village, an old priest had shown Matthew a poor black-and-white photograph of the Holy Mother of Katarini, taken before the war, before its disappearance. His godfather’s descriptions, the text he had read in a handful of books, words, had all been rendered pointless by a single glance at a sixty-year-old, five-by-seven image. In an instant, he had understood everything. The longing, the hope, the despair, all present in the swirl of deep gray color, in those black eyes. Now, if his godfather was right, he was mere minutes from seeing the real thing. And words would fail once more.
The brownstone looked like several others on the street, except for the iron bars on the windows and the discreet surveillance camera by the door. The buzzer made no noise audible from the outside, but Matthew waited. His attention was focused on the grill of the speaker when the door swung open.
She wasn’t the maid, that was certain. Early thirties, attractive, dark blond hair, circles under her pale blue eyes, an expensively casual beige suit. The granddaughter. She seemed startled to see him but spoke his name.
“Mr. Spear?”
“Yes. Ms. Kessler.”
“That’s right. You look surprised to see me.”
“I was going to say the same thing.”
She laughed, a short, uninhibited burst of sound.
“Come in.” He stepped into the cramped entry and stood very close to her while she continued to speak. “Preconceptions are funny. Who were you expecting?”
“I don’t know, a maid, I guess.”
“No maid.”
A dark, wood-paneled library stood immediately to the right of the entry, but the rest of the place was remarkably light. He followed her down a narrow corridor of warm wood and white paint. Framed prints covered the walls, maps of medieval cities; the dead man’s taste, no doubt. She hadn’t yet put her own touches on the place, he noted, then realized he didn’t have a clue what her own tastes might be. As Robin would have told him, he was trying to construct a personality without yet knowing the person. It was a bad habit of his.
“The cook is deaf, and he’s not here now. I let the nurse go after my grandfather died, so it’s just me. Would you like coffee?”
The kitchen was bright, the windows admitting as much light as the massive plane tree in the courtyard would allow. Matthew hesitated. This was his first solo house call, and he wasn’t certain of protocol.
“Only if you’re having some.”
“Any excuse for a cup of coffee. Please sit down.”
Into two blue china mugs she poured stale coffee-he could smell it-from a cheap plastic coffeemaker on the counter.
“Milk, sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
“I’m glad you said that, because there is no milk and I don’t know where the sugar is.”
He took a sip and set the mug aside. No one in his family would serve coffee like that to his worst enemy. What was it with rich people and food?
“So who were you expecting,” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“ Tweed jacket? Gray hair and spectacles?”
“That’s right. Maybe a pipe.”
“Not on the job. Don’t want to get smoke on those delicate surfaces.”
“Of course. I was really just expecting someone older.”
“I’m working on it, every day.”
She laughed again, and he realized that he was going to have to resist the impulse to keep making her do that.
“Have you been with the museum long?”
“Three years. Not long. You can be there ten years and still be the new guy.”
“But you’re a curator?”
“Assistant curator.”
“That’s impressive for someone as young as you, isn’t it?”
He understood now. This wasn’t small talk, he was being interviewed. Was he equal to the job of assessing her grandfather’s work?
“Not really. They needed someone who knew Eastern Orthodox art, and that’s been my primary focus. I was at the Byzantine Museum in Athens for two years before this.”
“Interesting.” She seemed to tire quickly of her own questioning. “This coffee is terrible, I’ll make some fresh.”
“I’ve had plenty this morning.”
“You want to get to work and I’m dragging my feet.”
“There’s no rush.” He had to be careful. “It’s not an easy matter, exposing work that has a strong emotional connection to a complete stranger. It’s one thing to contemplate parting with it, another to watch some so-called expert sizing it up, reducing it to a piece of commerce.”
“Is that what you do, Mr. Spear?”
“I hope not. I was trying to see it from your side.”
“You’re very understanding. You must do this a lot.”
“No, actually.”
“The thing is, the icon is downstairs in this sort of chapel my grandfather built. It’s a very private place. No one went in there but him.”
“I see. Well, we, or you, could take it out of there and I could examine it up here. The light would probably be better, anyway.”
“Sorry, I hadn’t even thought about the light. I can’t imagine seeing it any kind of way but the way it is now, in that strange room. I guess that’s why I haven’t moved it.”
“Now you’ve made me curious.”
“I’m making too much of it. It’s just a little chapel, an old man’s indulgence. I mean, who builds a chapel in their home anymore?”
“Your grandfather was obviously a medievalist at heart.”
“Yes, he was.”
“May I see it?”
She looked at him blankly for a moment. She was tired, sleep-deprived probably, fully formed thoughts coming slowly to her upper consciousness.
“The chapel? Absolutely, I want you to. Then we can take the icon someplace with better lighting, so you can examine it properly.”
“Great.”
“OK.” She stood up, paused again. “I guess what I’m trying to explain is that this wasn’t a valuable artwork to my grandfather. It was a sacred object, to be worshiped.”
Matthew felt a tingling in the back of his skull, and an impulse, contrary to his nature, to reveal something of himself.
“That was its original purpose,” he said quietly. “That’s why it was created.”
They were the right words. She seemed calmed, though she continued to stand there.
“It’s odd. He was raised Catholic, but he preferred Orthodox art. It’s as if his aesthetic tastes led him into a different kind of religious belief. Which might make you doubt his sincerity, except I think all art, even secular art, was spiritual to him.”
He smiled, aware that no response was necessary.
“I hope,” she said hesitantly, “that religious talk isn’t offensive to you.”
“Not at all. My family is Greek, religion is in the blood.”