Days Like Today by Rachel Ingalls

Author:Rachel Ingalls [Rachel Ingalls]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571298471
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2013-10-14T04:00:00+00:00

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.

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