Archie Langstreet and his wife were taking a vacation while his lawyers in Geneva sought to amass the final sheaf of documents in a legal battle of long-standing. As a senior official in the WHO, Langstreet had been assigned to see the case through. His official title was Director of ACDW (Against Commercialisation of the Developing World). The case was due to come to court in November, after three years’ work. Nentelstam had done everything in its power to delay and muddle the issue. Langstreet was dedicated to concluding the case, and winning it, before his retirement.
Nentelstam was well known for selling its formula powdered milk to mothers in the Third World. That breast-feeding obviated the danger of many diseases and the risks of becoming pregnant again was considered by the powerful international company to be none of their business. If Langstreet hated anyone, it was the faceless Nentelstam corporation, with its ruthless drive to open up more markets.
New scientific evidence had recently come to light, fortifying his case against the corporation.
He told his wife now that no ikon was going to make Nentelstam change its mind or its policies.
‘But an ikon of Jesus being breast-fed,’ Kathi urged.
‘There’s no ikon, my dear.’
‘So you said. But wouldn’t it be a powerful persuader for your cause? “Breast-feeding could turn your son into a Saviour…” ’ She sketched the sentence in the evening sky with a finger. ‘Don’t you see, Archie? If there were an ikon, it could be reproduced all over the world.’
‘It’s a good idea, Kathi. Brilliant, now I come to think of it. But – if there were an ikon… Only there’s not.’
‘If there were an ikon – ’
‘If there were an ikon?’ He regarded her grimly, not smiling.
She stood up. ‘We’ll go shopping in the morning.’
Cliff was up early next day. The sound of his singing in the shower woke Kathi. She slept naked. Drawing a silk robe about her, she went on deck to survey the scene. Distantly, two fishing boats had drawn in, and there were men working at the nets. The boats were painted light blue, with eyes under the raised prows. Otherwise, the harbour was deserted. The sky was overcast with light mackerel cloud. A breeze toyed with her light brown hair. She inhaled deeply before going below to brew coffee and wake her husband.
After breakfast, Cliff went off to find his new love. Langstreet and his wife went ashore to find a priest. Of the people they saw, the tourists wandered as if lost, whereas the locals were more purposeful, though unhurried. Gaining the main street, they asked a waiter in the nearest coffee shop where a priest might be found. The waiter obligingly walked with them for a hundred metres before pointing up a side street and giving them directions.
They walked up a street lined by mutilated trees. Taking a turn to the right, they entered among ranks of smaller houses, most of them decked with flowers. The last house in the line, standing in a small garden in which honeysuckle flowered, was the one described by the waiter as the priest’s house. It was in no way distinguishable from its neighbour. Kathi rang the doorbell.
They waited.
‘Shall I ring again?’
‘He may be out.’
‘Doing good?!’
‘Doing no harm, we hope.’
The door opened. The priest emerged, to stand there blinking benevolently at them, turning a blue-streaked rag over in his hands. He wore the customary black robes of the orthodox priest, and the customary round black hat. His face was wrinkled, its rich brown colouration setting off his white beard. He pursed his lips and raised his dark eyebrows in mute question.
‘We need your advice, sir,’ said Langstreet. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘What nationality have you?’ enquired the holy man, narrowing his eyes to scrutinise Langstreet. ‘English? German?’
‘We’re English,’ Kathi told him. ‘We have a religious question to ask you, if we may.’
He gestured largely, and began to walk slowly towards the garden at the side of the house. As they followed, he said, ‘You see, I decorate my house. I have some paint. Therefore I cannot ask you inside it. We shall sit in my garden. There you can speak.’
The side garden was untidily bright with pink and blue flowers, among which courgettes and peppers grew. In the garden, sheltered by vines, stood a ramshackle table and chairs. The faded blue cushions on the seats of the chairs had once borne a pattern, now all but obliterated by wear and weather. The priest gestured to them to sit down. He seated himself after they had done so. A small bell hung from a chain by his right hand. This he shook once or twice. It gave off musical notes. A small bird in a wooden cage nearby echoed the sound.
The priest asked courteously how he could assist them.
‘In the hills above Kyriotisa, I came across a painting in an old chapel which interests me greatly. It portrays the infant Christ being suckled by his aunt Anna,’ Langstreet began.
The priest raised his hand immediately. ‘Pardon. Agia Anna is not the aunt of Jesus Christ. She is his grannie.’
Kathi snorted with concealed laughter. ‘His grannie? On which side of the family?’
The priest, without relaxing his good-humoured expression, said, ‘Is not that rather a silly question, madam?’
Langstreet interposed hurriedly, saying that a monk had told him Anna was the aunt of Jesus.
‘The monks are poor men. They are good but they are countrymen, you understand. They have not much learning. Only a few scriptures by heart. They sometimes lack even Biblical knowledge.’
Langstreet remarked that he did not recall the legend of Anna giving the infant Jesus suck in the Bible.
‘You must look in the Protovangelium of James, in the second century. There it is clear. Grannie, no aunt. Saint Anna. Mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Her relics are preserved in a chapel in Rome, as I recall.’
‘Well, that makes that clear,’ said Kathi, regarding her husband with merriment in her eyes. Langstreet evaded her glance.
A sturdy old lady, with an apron over her black, ankle-length dress, appeared around the rear corner of the house, carrying a tray. She smiled graciously at her husband’s guests and set down the tray before them. Her brief journey had disturbed the arrangement of some biscuits on a patterned plate. She set them into a star pattern, smiling absently as she did so. With gestures of invitation, she then retreated.
Cups of coffee and small cakes lay before them, beside the biscuits in their neat pattern. The priest, whispering a word of grace, invited them to help themselves.
‘So this grannie still had breast milk when her daughter had run dry?’ Kathi said.
‘Such is the report of James,’ the holy man said. He then looked enquiringly at Langstreet, who asked why this legend was not better known.
‘Is no a legend, but history. Wait, I have it in a history book, which I will fetch. Please enjoy your coffee.’ He rose and disappeared around the corner of the house. Kathi chose a small cake, while Langstreet selected a biscuit.
‘Jesus’ grannie!’ Kathi exclaimed in a whisper. ‘Ask him if there’s an ikon. There must be!’
The priest returned, leafing industriously through a heavy volume bound in black leather. He had put on a pair of rickety spectacles and, having seated himself again, he stared at the pages through which he leafed, muttering to himself.
Finally, raising a finger, he looked up.
‘Here we have the details. This is an English History of Byzantium. I bought it during my stay at Oxford, some period of time before. It has been written by Doctor George Layton. Listen!’
He proceeded