Trinity Icon

It was Saturday afternoon before I could keep my promise to the priest. I knew where Boris would be. I found him where he spent most of his waking hours, in a run-down restaurant across the street from the high school. Two years after leaving (not graduating) school, he still sat in a corner booth, nursing cokes and pots of coffee, making each dollar last two hours, meeting a dwindling roster of his contemporary cronies, and coaching a growing number of younger admirers from the high school.

  I approached his table, sat down opposite him, and was granted an audience. After explaining myself and asking a few questions, I was convinced of one thing: Boris was far too stupid to steal a twenty thousand dollar icon.

  "You know," said Boris, "You're not as ugly as you were in school, man. I bet if you took off them glasses, you might even...." He reached across the table. "Naw. I guess not."

  I retrieved my glasses from his dirty paw and wiped at the greasy thumbprint he had left. I succeeded only in smearing it, sighed, and put them back on. I had begun to slide out of the booth to get away from this bum as quickly as possible when I realized someone was standing at our table.

  "Vasily, my man!" said Boris with what seemed forced enthusiasm.

  "Hello, Nick," said the man. I detected an accent even in these two words, and for a moment wondered who Nick was.

  "Hey, siddown, man," said Boris. "Don't mind the ugly broad. She's just leaving." To me he said, "So I don't know nothing about no icon, okay? See ya."

  Having resolved the origin of "Nick" in "Nikitin," Boris's last name, I turned my attention to this man, Vasily. He was, even through the haze of one greasy lens, magnificent. Everything that Boris was not, this man was. He was muscular, well dressed, and apparently intelligent.

  "Icon?" He stared at me intently.

  I melted.

  "Yeah." Boris leaned toward me. "Scram, Sasha," he whispered.

  "No, please, don't leave because of me," said the stranger. He sat on the booth seat next to me, effectively preventing me from going. He regarded me with penetrating light gray eyes. I noticed that two fingers were missing from his right hand. It seemed to be his only flaw. His jaw was firm, his features even, he was about thirty. I was flustered and immediately infatuated. I struggled to maintain some dignity.

  "Sasha," he said, "Are you Russian, then?"

  "No," I managed to squeak. "I'm American. Please call me Alex. "I immediately regretted the automatic response, registering his slavic brow and accent and sensing that he might be offended. He did not seem to be, though, so I asked, "Are you Russian?"

  "No." He did not elaborate.

  "What icon is it that you know nothing about, Nick?" he asked Boris.

  "Oh, I dunno. Some icon's gone missing at St. Sergius' Church. I told her I don't know nothing. I ain't even been in there in ages. Listen, about that guy you asked me about...."

  "What icon is missing, Alex?" Vasily asked me.

  I stumbled over every other word of explanation. I was puddled and incoherent under his gaze, wishing my intelligence would present itself and draw his attention away from my unruly hair and big nose, knowing it never would unless I could get hold of myself. I was in agony as I heard my voice screeching, tried to modulate it, forgot half of what I meant to say, said the other half stupidly, and finally gave up without saying much of anything.

  "Is it valuable?" he asked.

  "Yes. Someone offered Father twenty thousand for it the day before it was stolen."

  "Twenty grand!" Boris was suddenly interested.

  "Who?" asked Vasily.

  "I...don't know." I began to recover as it occurred to me that there was a lot I didn't know. The exercise of mentally listing the questions I needed to ask Father Paul restored me to my normal distracted state and I did not immediately notice the intensity of Vasily's stare.

  He made me notice it though, when he began asking me questions about myself. His gaze seemed to search me, his questions probed me. He seemed interested in me and that interest struck something deep inside that I had not known was there. This had never happened to me before and it deepened my first infatuation.

  Vasily was soft-spoken, understated, but in a way that suggested tremendous power, as if he were accustomed to having his own way. His spare conversation did not come from reticence; it came instead from an expectation of obedience and the self-assurance of a man with control over himself and others. He seemed to have a wry sense of humor as well. He spoke to Boris in circles, while he questioned me directly. He was making Boris uncomfortable, and seemed to be enjoying it, in the way a cat plays with a mouse before killing it, as an interest in life, a natural way to have fun before business begins.

  When I told him I was a Chemistry major, Vasily became more animated, brought out an expensive pen, and began writing, left-handed, equations on a napkin. I was in my element now, and we had some fun with combinations. He was an expert chemist.

  He asked what my last name was, and I told him breathlessly hoping yet disbelieving that such a man could be interested in me. His reaction when I answered was striking. He was clearly disturbed and uncomfortable, and gave me a piercing stare as if I had insulted him in some way.

  "I am sorry I have kept you," he said, rising abruptly. "It was nice meeting you, Alex, and I hope I will see you again."

  I did not see how this was going to be possible. Although I had answered his questions about many things, I hadn't told him where I lived and he never asked me for my phone number. I didn't have a phone, but I was disappointed he didn't ask.

  "I'll talk to you later, Nick," he said to Boris.

  "Sure." Boris watched him leave.

  I wanted to watch Vasily, too, but Boris drew my attention instead. It was something in his expression, something I didn't understand, servility, certainly, nervousness, yes, and...fear?

  CHAPTER FIVE