Days Like Today (15 page)

Because of the icon, Stratis was still very young when he began to think that there might be many things – events or institutions or people and their emotions – about which the surface presented to the world was no truer nor more important than what was kept from sight. Later, when he
was in his early teens, his grandfather – in the middle of a conversation – swiveled his chair around, saying, ‘Let me show you something.’ He pulled the curtains apart. ‘Didn’t know this was there, did you? It’s so simple, no one would ever bother to look.’

‘You had it on show six years ago,’ Stratis said. ‘Christmas and Easter, remember? And I saw it once, a long time ago, when you must have stepped out of the room for a minute.’

‘You didn’t say anything.’

‘Like what?’

‘You didn’t ask me about her.’

‘I guess I must have been afraid you’d think I was snooping.’

‘She’s brought me luck. I took her with me after the war.’ He meant after the First World War, after Athens but before Marseilles, Paris, Manchester and Cairo. ‘I’ve always liked her face,’ he said.

Stratis made up something about the attractiveness of the Madonna, the spiritual but loving, warm look in her large eyes. He was good at that kind of off-the-cuff speech; just short of glib. And in his grandfather’s company he hardly had to think about the wording in order to please. He was the favorite. The old man loved even his bad qualities, many of which sprang from character faults that he himself had suffered from before he learned to take life calmly

He’d done terrible things: unfair, childish, cruel and spiteful. He’d hurt the people who had loved him. He’d done it like a man in a fight – to show them that they didn’t
love him enough or in the right way. What had been wrong with him? What was wrong with Stratis? Whatever it was, it was the same malady. Most of it could be ascribed to youth, which you wouldn’t really want to wish away. He sympathized.

As for Stratis, like everyone else, he revered the old man; but he also felt an affection for him that was stronger than his love for any other member of his family. He’d once come upon a photograph of his grandfather dating from a holiday in the south of France, sometime in the 1920s: in bathing costume and smiling for the camera. There was the athletic build, the dark hair and eyes, the smile full of beautiful teeth. And Stratis had thought:
Who is this? He looks exactly like me.

Hearing his grandfather approach, he stepped back, and coughed to announce himself.

‘Stratis?’ the old man said. ‘Come see me.’

He heard his grandfather turning around. He followed. They went to the study.

Most of their talks were informal. Stratis would drop in twice a day to gossip and chat. He was seldom summoned; the serious matters would be mixed in with everything else. Just recently the same question kept coming up in their talks: what profession Stratis should train for.

His grandfather broached the subject with relaxed approval. It was clear to him that his grandson was going to be exceptional but there was still some question about the direction he’d take. Back in October, when he’d met the girl, Stratis had wanted to be a poet; in March he’d agreed that
maybe being a poet wasn’t a career that could support a wife and children, not that he’d want either at the moment. Besides, he’d just begun to realize that poetry was too difficult. He had to concede that it shouldn’t be his choice or, rather, that it hadn’t chosen him. But he had no desire to go into business. He couldn’t believe that, feeling no interest, he had an ability for it.

‘You could be a lawyer,’ his grandfather suggested.

‘A good lawyer should be able to argue a case either way. I couldn’t do that. Some things strike me as really wrong. And others aren’t important. And all that paperwork. I wouldn’t mind being a doctor if I didn’t have to watch people being cut open.’

‘There are all kinds of doctors.’

‘But most of them are practical, aren’t they? I’d only be good on the theoretical side. I’d like to help people but – not if it means having to stitch up wounds and hammer back pieces of bones and stuff. I really don’t have what it takes to deal with fixing up people who’ve been crushed and burned and torn up.’

‘Well, there are specialists: lungs, heart, ears –’

‘No, no. I can’t imagine that I’d be any good at it.’

‘You’re good at everything, Stratis. Then you get bored. I was the same. But an occupation isn’t like a girlfriend: you don’t pick it up and pursue it till you lose interest.’

‘So it’s like falling in love?’

‘On the contrary. You have to have some interest, yes. But the important thing is to learn the profession. Training. It doesn’t matter what it is. And I think that while you’re
making up your mind, it would be a good idea for you to go to business school.’

‘Why?’

‘They teach you a lot of useful things: economics, the stock market, corporations. It might help me, too. We could talk about your studies together. You could tell me how things have changed in the business world. And maybe I could give you a few tips. Think about it. You can’t just dither, year after year. I realize that it isn’t easy to choose; there’s no reason why you can’t qualify for one thing and then go on to another. There’s time for more than one decision. Some people are lucky – they know very early what they want to do in life. I didn’t know. I only knew that no one was ever going to beat me. And I was willing to try anything. Why not try, Stratis? I think maybe your talents have to be awakened by use. You have brains. You can get your qualification in some discipline and then find your own way to practice it: make it better, more modern, more yours. Why not? You’ll like it. The world is very interesting, you know. You don’t have to have the shining object that’s hanging just out of your reach. Look at what’s already in your hand. Use that.’

Stratis always felt better after one of their talks. He still didn’t know what to do with his life, but he felt sure that someone else had faith in him. In his grandfather’s company he believed that his future was clear: if he couldn’t see it, at least his grandfather could.

The old man enjoyed their talks even when Stratis spouted wildly about the artistic life, the crooked businessmen,
the corrupt legal and political systems. ‘Yes, yes,’ he’d say, ‘but let me tell you about my friend, Nikos.’ And he’d illustrate some point with a story from his youth. All the time he’d be thinking:
Who can know the love I feel for this boy? He’s
myself when young, but better. He’s the one who is going to live for
me after I’m gone. I’m proud of him, but also nervous. He’s more
than I deserve.

One of Julia’s friends, a girl named Nina, telephoned Stratis. She wasn’t a very good friend. Sometimes he wondered if Julia knew what Nina was like; at others he suspected that she had actually told Nina to look after him in order to keep him a way from her – as if giving him another woman would erase her from his mind.

He’d already found two girls for himself. Sex wasn’t the problem. They were both fun but they weren’t Julia. It wasn’t love. Nina wasn’t love, either. And she wasn’t even fun.

‘Want to see a movie?’ she asked.

‘On a spring day, when the sun’s shining?’

‘I thought you said any time was good for seeing a good movie.’

‘I’d rather try a museum. Or just go for a walk.’

‘I know what: there’s an exhibition of icons … where was it?’

‘Oh, right. There was something about it in the papers. You really want to see that stuff?’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘You can translate.’

‘Don’t bank on it. I can barely transliterate.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The alphabet. They have different letters. What are you majoring in?’

‘Soc. Rel.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Social Relations,
he thought. Was he going to be cultural research as well as the object of her desires? That could be another kind of slumming:
From Greece to the USA: A Case
Study of Four Generations
. He didn’t think Nina was smart enough for anything like that.

He took a taxi to the gallery. She was waiting at the door and she handed him one of the free leaflets. He started to skim the text on the way in but as soon as they got through the doors, the light fell away and sounds were hushed. If anyone spoke, it was in a whisper. The place felt like a church or even a tomb. It wasn’t just the presence of the icons, nor the half-darkened surroundings, that produced the atmosphere of awe. Something in the attitude of the onlookers contributed to the impression of sanctity. The dimness was merely a practical necessity, as the paintings could be damaged by strong light.

The show turned out to be huge. The most beautiful icons, and apparently the most unusual, were from Crete. Stratis knew nothing about the historical side of the painting – the monasteries, the tradition of the workshops, the composition of the materials used – but he could tell that the artistry itself was of a higher caliber than in other icons he’d seen. The excellence of the workmanship drew him to the characters portrayed and to the stories as well as the look of the people. He suddenly understood the strangeness and glory
of sainthood as a naturally occurring complexity of spirit and emotion, unchangingly present in a world where religion was imposed from without. He’d always thought of the saints’ legends the way his grandfather described them: the product of ignorance and poverty. ‘Once people have running water and central heating, comfort and plenty,’ his grandfather used to tell him, ‘their belief changes. Religion may still mean something to them, but it’s no longer personal. That’s what all that belief is for – to compensate for the things you don’t have in this world.’

Nina asked about a couple of words written at the top of a painting. After he’d spelled out the names of the saints for her, she reciprocated by making some remarks about the icons and the era from which each of them came. There was a typed information card on the wall at the side of every exhibit but Stratis paid no attention to them. Nina started a system: she’d take a brief look at the work itself and then go to the card and read aloud in a low voice while he continued to concentrate on the painting. Almost immediately she’d join him and whisper a comment. Gradually he began to ask questions and her answers became longer, as did his questions.

Why did they make everything in those weird shapes, he wanted to know; what was the purpose of arranging the city buildings in the background to look like a bouquet of flowers? And the rocks or mountain crags, or whatever they were: why did they look like pieces of planking? And that orange color? And the black leaves over there?

She talked about the light and what it meant and which
part of the icon it came from. She told him that certain colors were traditional and that, in addition, some pigments faded or became unstable. And as for the shape of things, the general design: she said, ‘These paintings aren’t realistic. But they aren’t supposed to be. They had the technique to paint realistically, so this is what they wanted. They liked it this way. It’s a style. It’s meant to be beautiful and inspirational, not photographic. There are times when artists and their patrons begin to distrust work that’s highly accomplished in a kind of slick way, so that it seems to be lacking in feeling. Then the fashion changes to portraits that are more sort of blunt. And that can change too, until it develops into a style where, let’s say, the use of color is subtle but the line is deliberately … if you look over here: the general effect is polished, but the perspective – have you ever seen any Persian miniatures?’

‘As far as all this painting goes, I’m a hick. You know, I like movies.’

‘Everybody likes movies.’

‘But this is interesting. You really care about this kind of thing, don’t you?’

She cared because she didn’t have the rest. She wasn’t good-looking, not even faintly pretty, and she loved handsome men.

She said, ‘Most of that stuff is from a course I took last summer. I just thought it would be great to go to Europe with a group of other students, but we were studying for three weeks before we even got on the plane and I guess a lot of it stuck.’

He could imagine it: everybody else would be going out at night and getting laid, while Nina was rereading her books. He said, ‘It never grabbed me before. I think I’ll get the catalogue.’ He’d buy the catalogue for the pictures and because some of the relatives might want to see it. He probably wouldn’t open it more than once himself.

They moved to other rooms. After the Cretan paintings, the rest were disappointing. Stratis was still interested but he’d begun to feel that he’d seen a lot of icons for one day.

Nina pointed to a far wall, saying, ‘That must be where the missing ones were supposed to be.’ A row of three spaces led to the corner; one was blank, the next had a photograph pinned at the center of it and the last displayed a piece of paper.

She approached the empty space. It would have held a famous, miracle-working painting if the people of its island had been willing to let it go. They hadn’t even sanctioned a reproduction.

The black and white snapshot to its right was of an icon out of a private collection; the object was too fragile to be transported. The photograph showed many places of wear and a missing edge.

‘It’s still good,’ she said.

‘Too bad it isn’t in color.’

‘Color never reproduces right. Sometimes it’s better to have black and white. But probably the reason is that the owner doesn’t want anybody trying to copy it. Art forgery is a big industry.’

He walked ahead and stood in front of the piece of paper. Now that they were closer, it was obvious that it was a photostat of a lightly penciled sketch. Stratis looked, while Nina read the information card.

‘This is the stolen one,’ she whispered. ‘It was taken from its island and ever since then the place has had bad luck – the harvests fail, the children die, there are outbreaks of disease, the water goes bad and all they pray for is that the Madonna will come back to them.’ She moved closer, peering at the sketch. ‘Well, we didn’t miss much there,’ she decided. ‘It must have been one of those purely religious objects. But it’s sad that they’ve lost everything. They should stop hoping to get it back. They should paint a new one and start again.’