Read The Icon for Free Online

previously, and despite the poor light and his imperfect knowledge of art, he guessed that some were quite valuable. A winter landscape. A small, very old-looking religious work, the Annunciation or some such. Gold leaf from what could only be an Orthodox icon threw reflected light from a dark corner. His old friend had many identities, many roles he liked to play. Fotis the spy, Fotis the exiled politician, Fotis the respectable businessman. Now it appeared to be Fotis the collector.
    “How was your flight?” Dragoumis asked, switching from English to their native tongue.
    Andreas shrugged. “I’m here.”
    “It’s hard on old men, and you are younger than me. Even once a year I find too much now. I may not see Greece this spring.”
    “Oh, I think you will go.”
    Blackbeard returned with a glass of tepid water, which was how Andreas preferred it.
    “That is all, Anton,” said Fotis, and the young Russian left the room again.
    “How is the restaurant?” Andreas asked.
    “The restaurant,” the other groaned. “Quite successful. We have our loyal customers, you know, from the neighborhood, and now we are getting young people from Manhattan. Apparently, we have been written up somewhere as the best Greek food in Astoria.”
    “Congratulations.”
    Fotis waved a hand. “What the hell do those people know about food? Anyway, I am not involved much with the restaurant these days.”
    “No?”
    “I have an excellent manager, who doesn’t even steal. And I have other concerns.”
    It was an invitation, but Andreas was not interested. He knew about his friend’s various activities, and if there were some new ones, it was no matter. Ambition did not impress him, nor even audacity in the pursuit of it. There was a sort of sad desperation in Fotis’ extralegal dealings—the desperation of a dying man trying to stave off fate with accomplishment.
    “My son is ill,” Andreas said.
    Fotis looked at him hard, sympathy vying with annoyance at the change in subject.
    “I know.”
    Of course he knew. Matthew, Andreas’ grandson, was also Fotis’ godson. Irini, Matthew’s mother, was Fotis’ niece. The two old men were hopelessly entangled. There was no chance of escaping each other.
    “Matthew tells me that it’s bad,” Andreas went on, needing to speak. “Alekos is not responding to the treatment.”
    “Maybe he needs better doctors.”
    “They are supposed to be the best at that place. Mount Sinai.”
    “There are better ones in Boston. But then, science can only do so much.”
    “We do not have such illnesses in my family.”
    “You must have faith.”
    Was it a taunt? Spoken with such gentleness, it was more likely an old man’s forgetfulness.
    “I do not think I am likely to acquire it so late in life.”
    Fotis stared at him, unreadable, the ever-present jade worry beads clacking in his hand.
    “My poor Andreou.”
    They sat in silence for a minute or two, comfortable with it. Andreas sipped his water and finally decided to indulge the other man.
    “Some of these paintings are new.”
    Fotis’ eyes lit up. “I have become more involved in collecting the last few years,” he said eagerly. “I think it is my true calling.”
    “Ah.”
    “Never mind that, I know what you’re thinking. Only a fool would collect art for money. Too unstable. I enjoy it. I enjoy pursuing my own peculiar tastes, and I enjoy being surrounded by beautiful things.”
    “This landscape?”
    Fotis shifted to look. “Dutch. A student of Bruegel, I’m told. Beautiful, yes?”
    “Very beautiful. And I see you have an icon.”
    “A few of them. Not very old, or valuable. They have been greatly overproduced in recent centuries. This one is Russian.”
    “You would like to collect some authentic Byzantine examples, no doubt.”
    Dragoumis turned back around, a smile both cold and satisfied on his long, regal face.
    “There is no real trade in Byzantine icons. Not enough of them in private hands. It’s all museums and