he said quietly. “That’s why it was created.”
They were the right words. She seemed calmed, though she continued to stand there.
“It’s odd. He was raised Catholic, but he preferred Orthodox art. It’s as if his aesthetic tastes led him into a different kind of religious belief. Which might make you doubt his sincerity, except I think all art, even secular art, was spiritual to him.”
He smiled, aware that no response was necessary.
“I hope,” she said hesitantly, “that religious talk isn’t offensive to you.”
“Not at all. My family is Greek, religion is in the blood.”
“I should have known that. My lawyer knows your godfather, or something?”
“That’s right.”
“Then Spear is…?”
“Spyridis. My grandfather still hasn’t forgiven my father for that.”
“Right.” She sat again, yet he sensed forward progress. “So you’re Greek Orthodox?”
“Yes, I mean, so far as I’m anything. My father isn’t religious, and I had only limited exposure to religion growing up.”
“And your mother?”
“She’s a believer, mostly, she and my godfather. Worry beads and calendars of the saints and all that. They took us to church at Easter, made sure we knew what it was about.”
“‘Us’ is…?”
“Me and my sister.”
“Is your sister religious?”
Where the hell was she going with this?
“No. She has my father’s scientific mind.”
“And are you of the scientific or spiritual mind-set, Mr. Spear?”
“I try to blend the two. My training is scientific, but there’s no real understanding of this kind of work without comprehending the religious purpose.”
“What a careful answer.”
“I write them down on my sleeve for quick reference.”
“In case you get grilled by some rude creature like me,” she laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to get to know you better. And I guess I’m stalling.”
“If you’re not comfortable doing this now, we can make another appointment. I confess I’d be disappointed, but—”
“No, it’s fine. You are being incredibly patient.”
“Please call me Matthew, by the way.”
“Matthew. Good. I usually answer to Chris.”
“Usually, huh?”
“Usually.”
“Is that what I should call you?”
He could take her long stare so many ways that he decided to ignore it. She carried both mugs to the sink and stood for awhile with her back to him.
“No, I guess not. Call me Ana.”
“Ana. All right.”
“Follow me, Matthew.”
The chamber was not large, maybe twenty feet deep by twelve wide, the darkness within accentuated by the brightness elsewhere in the house. The only illumination came from scattered streaks of blue, red, and yellow light from six small stained-glass windows. Matthew could make out a bench, candelabra, square panels on the walls. Details were visible on several of the near panels, figures in a crowd scene, a leaning cross against a gray-blue sky. Of the larger panel, directly opposite the arched entry, he could make out no details until his companion turned a dial in the room behind, and the Holy Mother of Katarini slowly emerged from darkness.
The icon, about twenty-four by thirty inches, was badly chipped and at first glance appeared nearly abstract: a luminous gold field with a maroon wedge emerging from the bottom and covering most of the panel. The wedge soon revealed itself as a robe wrapped about the torso and head of a woman. Her forearms were raised before her chest, her long hands raised in prayerful supplication. The shape of her hood could be made out clearly, but the details of her face were murky. Except for the eyes. The eyes drew you in, and Matthew realized that he had walked more than halfway across the chamber without any awareness of moving. Not even the photograph had prepared him for these eyes floating within that cowl. Large, dark brown almost to black, and almond-shaped, in the favored Eastern style. Penetrating, all-knowing, forgiving, or rather ready to
They were the right words. She seemed calmed, though she continued to stand there.
“It’s odd. He was raised Catholic, but he preferred Orthodox art. It’s as if his aesthetic tastes led him into a different kind of religious belief. Which might make you doubt his sincerity, except I think all art, even secular art, was spiritual to him.”
He smiled, aware that no response was necessary.
“I hope,” she said hesitantly, “that religious talk isn’t offensive to you.”
“Not at all. My family is Greek, religion is in the blood.”
“I should have known that. My lawyer knows your godfather, or something?”
“That’s right.”
“Then Spear is…?”
“Spyridis. My grandfather still hasn’t forgiven my father for that.”
“Right.” She sat again, yet he sensed forward progress. “So you’re Greek Orthodox?”
“Yes, I mean, so far as I’m anything. My father isn’t religious, and I had only limited exposure to religion growing up.”
“And your mother?”
“She’s a believer, mostly, she and my godfather. Worry beads and calendars of the saints and all that. They took us to church at Easter, made sure we knew what it was about.”
“‘Us’ is…?”
“Me and my sister.”
“Is your sister religious?”
Where the hell was she going with this?
“No. She has my father’s scientific mind.”
“And are you of the scientific or spiritual mind-set, Mr. Spear?”
“I try to blend the two. My training is scientific, but there’s no real understanding of this kind of work without comprehending the religious purpose.”
“What a careful answer.”
“I write them down on my sleeve for quick reference.”
“In case you get grilled by some rude creature like me,” she laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to get to know you better. And I guess I’m stalling.”
“If you’re not comfortable doing this now, we can make another appointment. I confess I’d be disappointed, but—”
“No, it’s fine. You are being incredibly patient.”
“Please call me Matthew, by the way.”
“Matthew. Good. I usually answer to Chris.”
“Usually, huh?”
“Usually.”
“Is that what I should call you?”
He could take her long stare so many ways that he decided to ignore it. She carried both mugs to the sink and stood for awhile with her back to him.
“No, I guess not. Call me Ana.”
“Ana. All right.”
“Follow me, Matthew.”
The chamber was not large, maybe twenty feet deep by twelve wide, the darkness within accentuated by the brightness elsewhere in the house. The only illumination came from scattered streaks of blue, red, and yellow light from six small stained-glass windows. Matthew could make out a bench, candelabra, square panels on the walls. Details were visible on several of the near panels, figures in a crowd scene, a leaning cross against a gray-blue sky. Of the larger panel, directly opposite the arched entry, he could make out no details until his companion turned a dial in the room behind, and the Holy Mother of Katarini slowly emerged from darkness.
The icon, about twenty-four by thirty inches, was badly chipped and at first glance appeared nearly abstract: a luminous gold field with a maroon wedge emerging from the bottom and covering most of the panel. The wedge soon revealed itself as a robe wrapped about the torso and head of a woman. Her forearms were raised before her chest, her long hands raised in prayerful supplication. The shape of her hood could be made out clearly, but the details of her face were murky. Except for the eyes. The eyes drew you in, and Matthew realized that he had walked more than halfway across the chamber without any awareness of moving. Not even the photograph had prepared him for these eyes floating within that cowl. Large, dark brown almost to black, and almond-shaped, in the favored Eastern style. Penetrating, all-knowing, forgiving, or rather ready to
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