Free The Icon by Neil Olson Page B

attempted to keep his language technical, yet feared that too much of his emotional response to the image showed through. It seemed impossible to use the academic voice, to keep that professional distance when speaking or even thinking of this particular piece, and he had yet to address with himself what that might mean. The older man listened quietly, his face neutral, until they paused at the Seventy-second Street crosswalk.
    “Marvelous. I would very much like to see it again one day.”
    “I’m sure that can be arranged, wherever it ends up.”
    Fotis looked at him with damp eyes, which may just have been from the wind.
    “I knew you were the right one to look at that icon.”
    “I should thank you for putting in a word with their lawyer. It was a nice coincidence that you knew him.”
    “We are in the same club, but it’s nonsense to thank me. The museum would have sent you in any case.”
    “Maybe the family wouldn’t have thought of the museum if you hadn’t mentioned it. Whatever happens now, I’ve been able to see it, so I’m satisfied.”
    “I am told that you made a very favorable impression upon Ms. Kessler.”
    “The lawyer told you that?”
    “Why should it be a secret? In fact, she may want you to come back and do a second examination. For herself this time.”
    Matthew shrugged uncomfortably.
    “That really wouldn’t be kosher while the museum is considering.”
    They crossed the road and started down the steep, looping path to the boat pond.
    “Unless I am mistaken, it is she and not the museum who will decide the work’s fate.”
    “Of course.”
    “And she will need help with that decision. She trusts you already.”
    “It’s awkward.”
    “You are assuming that you will be placed in a position contrary to your conscience. There is another way to look at the matter. Ms. Kessler may need to be told what to do.”
    “I don’t know that I understand you.”
    “You do not, yet.”
    They said no more before they reached the bottom of the path. Fotis gripped his arm more tightly, and Matthew realized that his godfather had a pained look on his face, physical pain, possibly quite acute. The jaw clenched and the eyes closed, and Fotis swayed a moment, breathing deeply through his nose.
    “Theio, are you OK?”
    Equanimity returned to the old man’s face after several moments.
    “The air is lovely today, is it not, my boy?”
    “Do you want to sit?”
    “A few minutes, perhaps.”
    They shuffled to a bench set back from the water’s edge, a little past where the hawk watchers huddled about their telescopes. Fotis sat heavily. Concerned as he was, Matthew said nothing more. This was not the first time he’d seen these symptoms, and questions would only make the old man retreat. His pain was his own, as jealously guarded as his other secrets. The pond’s surface was a dark glass, reflecting a shadowland version of the brick boathouse across the way. Behind that, tall trees, just touched with lime green, soared up well past the level of the street behind them, and above the trees the square stone towers of Fifth Avenue were bathed in yellow-white light.
    “Can I get you anything?” Matthew asked, but Fotis waved him off.
    “Fate is a peculiar thing. We believe that we command our own lives, but events will occur, again and again, which lead us in a certain direction. Do you not find this to be true? We can resist. We can go along, pretending we are still in control. Or, we can try to determine what fate wants of us, and help to make it happen.”
    “I’m not much of a believer in fate.”
    “That is because you are young. One must believe in one’s own power at your age. In another time, however, the young sought advice from the old. The old were understood to hold wisdom from experience. This is no longer the way.”
    Matthew took the hint and shut up.
    “You have said some interesting things today,” Fotis went on. “It is possible that your unconscious already perceives a