The car shaped the looping entry to the FDR Drive, and Matthew turned off almost immediately on 116th Street. Shouts and the metallic bang of a backboard reached them from a dimly lit basketball court. Tall brick projects rose up around them.
“This is Harlem?” Andreas asked.
“Spanish Harlem, I guess.”
“It’s ugly.”
“Yeah, well.”
“This is an ugly city.”
“So is Athens.”
“A strange comparison. Have I offended your local pride?”
“Modern cities are ugly. New York has some beautiful places.”
“ Athens has history.”
“Too much history.”
“It’s true. It’s true that the Greeks are undermined by their history; it is a common phenomenon in Europe. Americans are more willing to attempt things. This is their strength, but it also leads them into much foolishness. They change friends constantly, abandon old allies. This is why the world distrusts America.”
Matthew had heard it all before but was pleased to have the old man sounding like himself.
“What is the latest news?” Andreas asked.
The looming black monolith of Mount Sinai appeared on the left, checkered with tiny squares of light. Heaviness fell upon Matthew at the sight of it, dulling his mind like an anesthetic.
“Apparently his blood cell count is stable, but they don’t know why, and it could drop again any time. The infusions don’t seem to do much good anymore.”
“So they cannot help him?”
Matthew balked, rolled his shoulders. One could go day to day without ever asking that question. His mother never wanted to know the long-term prognosis. She simply prayed to God the Father, Christos, Panayitsa, the whole useless crew. Yet it was a fair question, and the father of his father had every right to ask.
“They’ve made some progress, but the toll on his body has been pretty heavy. After every one of those treatments he’s just…I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth it.”
“They should send him home. A man should be at home to face a thing like this.”
“It’s not that simple, Papou.” The sharpness in his voice surprised him. “We can’t give up on him improving. And I’m not even sure he’s strong enough to go home. Mamá would have to do everything for him, which she would try to do, but she’s a wreck right now herself.”
Andreas patted his shoulder.
“Do not think too much about things before it is time to face them.”
At that hour upper Fifth Avenue was nearly empty, and they were able to park near the hospital entrance. The long, tangled branches of elm trees swayed overhead, softly clacking. Andreas looked up at them for a few moments. Then Matthew took his arm and they went in together.
They had shaved the beard, but a heavy stubble had grown back. Where there had once been thick waves of black hair, only a thin gray buzz cut remained. His cheeks were sunken, and the body beneath the sheets seemed to have lost a good deal of mass. To say that Andreas did not recognize his son would be wrong. The forehead, long nose, sullen mouth, the small scar on the chin remained instantly familiar, but the general alteration of the body was terrible. What, fifty-three now? His ancestors had lived well into their nineties, as Andreas grimly expected to do. The son should not precede the father.
The old man stood rooted in the doorway. Had Alekos been awake, Andreas would have strode purposefully into the room, giving nothing away; but since the boy slept, he allowed himself a little time. He had not watched his son sleep since he was a child. He had not seen Alekos at all in five years. That last visit they had put some of the past bitterness behind them, reached some understanding common to their shared sadness. Yet a truce was not a friendship. They had not made the effort to know each other years before, and it was impossible to bridge the distance all at once. With the ocean between them, they had grown apart once more. Perhaps there had been another revelation of past shame, from Fotis, or from Irini, the wife. Perhaps it was simply old hurts that had been picked at again and festered.
Matthew went around the bed and stood by the window. Andreas could not see what the boy saw, but he knew from the turns they had taken that he faced east, toward the river. From the back, his grandson-broad shoulders, round head, black hair-looked like his father. The resemblance was otherwise slight, nor did Matthew particularly look like his mother. His grandmother, Andreas thought, not for the first time: my wife. The boy looked just like dear, dead Maria.
“Babás.” A dry whisper from the bed. The old man turned to face the narrow-eyed gaze of his son. Had he been awake all along?
“Ne,” Andreas answered. He did not trust himself to move swiftly, so he shuffled like an invalid to the bed.
Alex tried to pull himself up. Desperate to help, the old man hesitated for fear of a rebuke. Matthew came over instead, dragging his father upright. Andreas quickly rearranged the flattened pillows, and Matthew set Alex back against them. The sick man pointed to a cup on the bedside table, and Matthew filled it with water from a white plastic pitcher. Alekos took it with a steady hand and sipped slowly without looking at them, in no hurry to speak further. Andreas’ legs trembled, but he would not sit.
“How is that silent sister of mine?” Alex finally asked, in English, for Matthew’s sake, though the boy’s Greek was good.
“Well. The children keep her busy, you know, and the husband is no help.”
“Always defending her.” But Alex smiled, a tiny lift at the corners of his mouth.
“When I am with her, I defend you.” And then, as an afterthought: “She will be coming to see you soon.”
“Yes, as soon as you report on my condition. I have no doubt they will all be at my bedside, with holy water and a priest. I will count on you to keep the priest away.” Andreas knew better than to answer, and Alex looked to his own son. “You picked him up at the airport?”
“Fotis did,” Matthew responded.
“Of course. The conspirators.”
“He sends his best.”
“You must send mine back, at the next planning session.”
Matthew laughed. “What are we planning?”
“God knows,” Alex rasped. “Ask your Papou.”
“He sent a man to get me at the airport,” Andreas said. “I was not expecting him. I haven’t seen Fotis in years.”
“How was today?” Matthew asked quietly.
His father’s hand flipped palm up, then palm under, a gesture both of the others recognized.
“The same. They did some tests. They say I may go home soon. Babás, sit down.”
Andreas nearly fell into the hard chair. He unbuttoned his coat and put his hat in his lap.
“That’s great news,” Matthew answered. “So your blood looks better?”
“A little. It’s not worse, anyway.”
“But in that case, shouldn’t they go on with the therapy? How do they know it won’t continue to improve?”
“It might. They tell me it might, but they don’t believe it, and I don’t believe them.” Alex spoke without anger. Profound weariness seemed to be the controlling tone in his voice. “Anyway, I can’t take any more of the therapy now. I need a rest. I can’t rest in this place.”
“Of course not,” Andreas insisted. “You should be home.”
“Well now. I think you may be the one who needs a rest, old man. You look worse than me.”