Free The Icon by Neil Olson Page A

pushing ninety. Yet there was more than age at work, some deeper change was under way that came clear only from weekly contact. Fotis was ill. The old charmer—or schemer, as Alekos always called him—would never let on, but he was not well, and his illness was bound to add a sense of urgency to all his latest efforts. Matthew sat.
    “Kaliméra, Theio.”
    Fotis turned slowly and smiled at him.
    “It is a good morning. I can feel the sun. I think we have survived another winter.”
    “Winter was over weeks ago.”
    “You can never be certain. March is the worst month. It tempts you with warmth and flowers, then buries you in snow. April is better; I think we are safe now. How is your father?”
    “Improved. They may send him home.”
    “Excellent. And how was it between him and your grandfather?”
    “Not bad. A little tense. They sent me out of the room at one point, so I don’t know everything that happened, but they seemed to be communicating when I got back.”
    Fotis shook his head. “Poor man.”
    “How are you?”
    “The same, always the same.” He patted his godson’s knee. “That is my secret. Let us walk.”
    They went north, the sun at their backs. The wide path through the zoo grounds was full of shrieking children, and Matthew gripped his godfather’s arm protectively. Fotis smiled benevolently at the zigzagging horde, taking an old man’s delight in their youthful energy, even when a small boy collided with him. They watched the seals on their rock island, and caught a glimpse of the polar bear doing lazy laps in his pool.
    “Has the deal gone through on the house?” Matthew asked. Fotis had described a place in Armonk he was going to buy, and on a lark Matthew and Robin, who had grown up there, drove around the town until they found it. Just a few weeks back, days before she ended things.
    “The house.” Fotis seemed surprised. “I did not remember mentioning the house to you. No, I have decided not to purchase it after all. Too great an indulgence.”
    This was curious. His godfather had seemed extremely excited about the house when they last discussed it, and Matthew had the impression the deal was virtually done. Another of the old man’s little mysteries. Meanwhile, he realized it was up to him to raise the subject that was on both their minds.
    “I saw the Kessler icon yesterday.”
    “Tell me.”
    “It’s wonderful. I mean, it’s suffered a lot of wear, but there is something very powerful about it. Very moving.”
    “So, you would say its value is more spiritual than artistic?”
    “Not necessarily. I mean, value to whom?”
    “Precisely.” The older man paused before taking on a long, sloping incline in the path. “Will you recommend purchasing the work to your superiors?”
    “My department chief needs to see it, probably the director. The decision will get made at a higher level.”
    “Come now, you have no influence at all?”
    “I am the Byzantine specialist, I’m sure they’ll give me a voice. For its age alone we should buy it, and it’s also a great work of art. It could be the crown jewel of the new galleries.”
    “Certainly.”
    “But there are so many agendas. The museum can’t buy everything it should.”
    “You would like for them to acquire it.”
    “Speaking selfishly, I’d like to have it around, to be able to study it whenever I wanted. We don’t have a lot of icons, none like this one.”
    “There are none like it, I would guess. But will it go on a wall for all to see, or will it sit in a case in your wonderful temperature-controlled basement, for only scholars’ eyes?”
    “That’s a concern, I confess.”
    “I sensed as much. You’re a very conscientious boy. Now,” he took Matthew’s arm and began walking again, “tell me about the icon itself.”
    Matthew described the work while they proceeded, past a lush slope of yellow daffodils and white narcissi, through a small field of fruit trees, fat with just-splitting buds. He