The broken icons

The morning sun bled through the thin curtains of Myrto Zervou’s small Kaisariani apartment as she sipped her thick Greek coffee, the grounds swirling like dark omens at the bottom of the cup. Across from her, her son Aris, a broad-shouldered carpenter with sawdust perpetually clinging to his clothes, tore into a piece of toast.

“Another church vandalized last night,” he muttered, shaking the newspaper. “Saint Demetrios this time. Icons smashed, walls spray-painted. Politika, they say.”

Myrto’s lips pursed. “Politika, my foot. When men have no respect, they blame politics.” She set her cup down with a clink. “Who would do such a thing? A church is a home, too.”

Aris shrugged. “Some anarchist kids, maybe. Or worse, people trying to stir trouble before the elections.”

Myrto’s eyes narrowed. Trouble had a smell, and this stank worse than week-old fish.

*    *    * *    *    *

By noon, Myrto was marching down the narrow streets of Kaisariani, her black dress flapping like a crow’s wings. The neighborhood buzzed, old men in cafés muttered, women at the market crossed themselves. The vandalism had shaken them.

She found Father Nikolas sweeping broken glass from the church steps, his face ashen. “Kalimera, Patera,” she said. “Who would do this to God’s house?”

The priest sighed. “If I knew, I’d drag them here by the ear.” He pointed to the spray-painted words: “LIES IN GOLD.”

Myrto frowned. “Strange words for anarchists.”

“Not anarchists,” whispered Maria, the baker’s wife, sidling up. “I saw him, a man in a nice coat, slipping away before dawn. Not some punk.”

“A rich vandal?” Myrto’s eyebrow arched. “Now that’s interesting.”

*    *    * *    *    *

That evening, Myrto cornered Aris at the kitchen table. “I need your help.”

He groaned. “Mama, no. Last time, I ended up in a fistfight with a goat thief.”

“This time, just drive.”

They parked near Kolonaki, Athens’ wealthy district, where the streets gleamed too clean for Myrto’s taste. A name had surfaced, Leonidas Vouvalis, an art collector with a sharp tongue and sharper lawyers.

“Why would a rich man smash churches?” Aris muttered.

“Maybe he’s not smashing them,” Myrto said. “Maybe he’s stealing.”

*    *    * *    *    *

Breaking into Vouvalis’ gallery was easier than expected, Aris’ crowbar made quick work of a back window. Inside, Myrto’s flashlight danced over canvases, statues… and then, tucked in a hidden drawer, a small, ancient icon.

“Saint Demetrios,” she breathed. “The one ‘vandalized’ last night.”

A voice cut through the dark. “You’re smarter than you look, old woman.”

Vouvalis stepped into the light, a pistol glinting in his hand.

Myrto didn’t flinch. “You fake vandalisms, steal the treasures in the chaos. Clever. But greed is a bad thief.”

Aris lunged, Vouvalis fired. The shot went wide, shattering a vase. Myrto swung her handbag like a club, knocking the gun loose. By the time police arrived, Vouvalis was groaning on the floor, Aris sitting on his back.

*    *    * *    *    *

Back in Kaisariani, Myrto shared coffee with Father Nikolas. The icon had been returned, the neighborhood at peace.

“How did you know?” the priest asked.

She smirked. “A snake in a suit still sheds his skin.”

Outside, the church bells rang, and Myrto Zervou, the black-clad widow of Kaisariani, smiled. Another mystery solved.

The End