8

He was supposed to wait on the sidewalk for the black sedan to come rolling down Seventy-ninth Street, but it was a cold day, and Matthew sat in the coffee shop instead. The big glass windows commanded a view of the intersection, busy with vehicular and human traffic, shoppers and museumgoers, marching beneath the little sign that proclaimed this stretch Patriarch Dimitrious Way. The Greek consulate was just down the street.

His concentration was shot-lack of sleep and a not altogether unpleasant state of agitation. Without warning, his mind shifted back a few hours to the warmth of her bed, the unexpected heat of her body. She had been so ready for him that a simple touch had been enough, and he had continued to touch her, in various ways, for some time, totally consumed with pleasing. He didn’t make a conscious decision to stay, simply found himself there in the gray predawn, her weight upon him before he knew where he was. Half-asleep, they rediscovered their rhythm and proceeded in a steady, dreamlike fashion, Ana laughing in embarrassment at her own pleasure, thighs spasming against his hips, her whole body responding to his every motion. He had held her for a long time, not speaking, smelling her hair, her skin, his mind and muscles relaxing for what seemed like the first time in weeks. A blessedly uncomplicated sense of how right they had felt together still possessed him.

Over breakfast, they talked about the icon again, and she seemed to come to a decision. Matthew encouraged her not to make up her mind too quickly, but he had not been displeased. At the door, she wouldn’t let him go.

“This was reckless,” she’d said, squeezing his hand. “We hardly know each other.”

“Knowing takes time. We haven’t done too badly.”

“I don’t even know how old you are.”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

“OK, I’m fourteen,” he confessed. “Really, I’ve been shaving since I was eleven.”

Ana smiled, but her mind had already moved to something else.

“You wouldn’t marry her. That was the problem, wasn’t it?” Her words carried such certainty that he’d felt no need to respond. “That doesn’t make it your fault, Matthew. Just a decision.”

“I’m thirty.”

She’d made a show of being chagrined, but she couldn’t be that much older. Obviously used to being surrounded by older men. Eventually he had broken free and escaped into the frigid morning, but he could picture her still at the half-open door, in a gray cashmere robe, hair askew, blue eyes tracking him down the stairs, seeing him, knowing him in some deep and unsettling way.

There was a draft in the shop, and Matthew wrapped his hands around the porcelain coffee mug. When he looked up again Fotis was there on the sidewalk, just beside the bus shelter. The old man pretended to look around, but Matthew was certain he had spotted him there in the window before ever leaving his car. He stood, and Fotis looked directly at him, gestured for him to stay put.

“Am I late?” “No, I just didn’t want to stand in the cold.”

“We must get you a warmer coat. Why don’t we forget the walk and stay here?”

“Sure.” He hung his godfather’s coat and squeezed into the second chair across the table. It was a slow day, and the waiter was hovering instantly.

“This is the place with the good rice pudding?” Fotis asked.

“Best in New York,” Matthew confirmed.

“Two of those.”

The waiter slid the eight feet back behind the counter. Three of them worked in that small space, banging dishes, shouting at each other in some hybrid of Greek and Spanish.

“Now,” Fotis leaned across the table, “what is so urgent that it could not wait?”

“I would have told you on the phone.”

“These conversations are better had in person.”

Matthew tapped the speckled Formica table. He needed to pin the old bastard down.

“I’m pretty sure Ms. Kessler wants to make a deal with the church.”

The older man nodded slowly.

“This is excellent. You have done a good thing, my boy.”

“I didn’t do anything, except talk to her.”

“Did I not say that would be all that was required?”

“Anyway, I thought it would please you.”

“But not you, I fear.”

Matthew shrugged as the desserts were placed before them. Fotis began eating immediately.

“I think it’s the right choice,” the younger man continued,

“but I can’t help feeling that I’ve been dishonest. She doesn’t know anything about your connection with the church.”

“What is there to know? They asked for my help, it has proved unnecessary.”

“I thought I would tell her. About them talking to you, and you talking to me.”

Fotis continued eating methodically, pudding sticking to his huge mustache.

“You say she came to the decision on her own. If you tell her these things, you tell her to doubt her decision.”

“Maybe she should doubt it.”

The old man glanced up at him. “Why?”

“Because another buyer might pay her more. And a museum would be accountable for what it did with the work. Who knows what these Greeks will do?”

“Demand to know.”

“I’ve told you, I can’t demand anything.”

“Advise her. You’ve done well so far.”

“And why should I undermine my own museum’s interests?”

“That is a different issue.”

“I’m denying myself the chance to have this work at my fingertips, to examine it at length, any time I want. That’s a very appealing idea to me.”

“And that is a different issue still.” Fotis paused to chew as two large women with several colorful shopping bags each bustled into the tiny shop, gabbling in some Scandinavian tongue.

“Now we have the girl, the museum, and yourself. Who comes first?”

“It’s Ana’s icon.”

Matthew hadn’t meant to use her first name, but if the old fox noticed, he did not let on.

“Very good. She has taxes to pay, I understand, but her financial situation is sound. She has no real money needs. She may well have spiritual ones.”

“That’s not for us to conjecture about.”

“Her grandfather built a chapel to contain the icon.” The old man’s bushy eyebrows rose meaningfully. “Mother of God, what could be a clearer sign of his intentions than that? What could better honor his feelings for the work than giving it to the church? So there is the girl. The museum, truly, I must tell you that I don’t give a damn about them one way or another. Your loyalty is admirable, of course, but it is a big, rich institution which has no need of your protection. Eat your pudding.”

Matthew wasn’t hungry, but dutifully took a bite.

“As for what you need,” Fotis continued, the long spoon clattering in his empty dessert glass, “that concerns me greatly.” He wiped his face carefully and turned his eyes to the street. Always on the lookout, thought Matthew. For what? “The church will want to secure the icon before the girl has second thoughts, but they will not be able to take immediate possession. They have not made arrangements for transport, or for what happens to it over there. I can provide them with a neutral location to store it for a few weeks, insurance coverage, security. I do it for my own work anyway. And you may examine it during that time, whenever you wish.”

“There are companies that specialize in the storage and transportation of art. I could even recommend a few. I can’t believe they would leave that to you.”

“I tell you I can arrange it.”

Matthew squeezed his forehead. He needed sleep, needed to think clearly.

“Have you already arranged it? How deeply are you in with these people?”

“There have been discussions. Nothing has been agreed, but they will do as I suggest. I contribute generously to several of their causes, and unlike you, I am not ashamed to apply leverage. Anyway, they prefer to deal with countrymen, you know the Greeks.”

“And you’re doing this for what reason?”