on.”
“Where do you find these places?”
“Friends recommend them.”
“They must be poor recommendations, since you never stay in the same place twice.”
“Just another habit of mine. Right there, I think. The green awning.” Andreas shifted in the seat to observe Matthew as they pulled into an open curb space before what appeared a pleasant old second-rate establishment. “I hope I have not offended you. You know I am fond of your godfather, but I say that with a full knowledge of who he is. He is not an easy man to understand. It would be better for you, and better for your father’s peace of mind, if you did not become involved in any business arrangement with Fotis. Not even an exchange of favors.”
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
I n 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
“Where do you find these places?”
“Friends recommend them.”
“They must be poor recommendations, since you never stay in the same place twice.”
“Just another habit of mine. Right there, I think. The green awning.” Andreas shifted in the seat to observe Matthew as they pulled into an open curb space before what appeared a pleasant old second-rate establishment. “I hope I have not offended you. You know I am fond of your godfather, but I say that with a full knowledge of who he is. He is not an easy man to understand. It would be better for you, and better for your father’s peace of mind, if you did not become involved in any business arrangement with Fotis. Not even an exchange of favors.”
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
I n 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
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