Red Square (37 page)

   
'Yes.'

   
'Then it's one of the few good things that did.'

   
He drew general agreement.

   
Was the painting a Malevich, Arkady wondered. Forget the amateur performance by Penyagin. Could the story of the crate be true? It was a fact that most of the Malevich works in existence had been hidden or smuggled to reach the museums where they now reigned. He was the outlaw artist of the century.

   
What provenance did Arkady have to show for himself? Not even a Soviet passport.

Margarita Benz played a strict but generous hostess, keeping people at arm's length from the painting, forbidding cameras, steering her guests towards a table of caviar, smoked sturgeon, champagne. Irina circulated from guest to guest, answering questions that sounded like hostile inquisitions. That was the German language to an outsider, Arkady thought; if this audience was unhappy, it would have left. All the same, watching her he was put in mind of a white stork walking among crows.

   
A pair of Americans in black tie and pumps communed over the plates of food. 'I didn't like that crack about the States. Remember, the Sotheby's sale of Russian avant-garde was a big disappointment.'

   
'Those were all minor works and mostly fakes,' the other American said. 'A major piece like this could stabilize the whole market. Anyway, if I don't get it, I will still have had a nice trip to Berlin.'

   
'Jack, this is what I wanted to warn you about. Berlin has changed. It's definitely dangerous.'

   
'Now that the Wall's down, it's dangerous?'

   
'It's full of - ' He glanced up, took his friend by the arm and whispered, 'I'm thinking of moving to Vienna.'

   
Arkady looked around for what could have scared them. There was no one but him.

An hour later, a continuing high noise level and a thick cigarette haze signalled the success of the show. Arkady retreated to the video theatre and watched a tape of prewar Berlin that was part footage of horse-drawn carriages on Unter den Linden, part photographs of Russian refugees. He played with the machine, running the tape forward and back. The figures on the screen were the most exotic and attractive refugees of their time, of course. All of them - writers, dancers and actors - gave off a hothouse fluorescence.

   
He thought he was alone until Margarita Benz asked, 'Irina was good tonight, didn't you think?'

   
'Yes,' he said.

   
The gallery owner stood in the doorway of the theatre with a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. 'She has a wonderful voice. You found her convincing?'

   
'Totally,' Arkady said.

   
She slipped inside. He heard her shoulder graze the wall as she approached. 'I wanted to get a good look at you.'

   
'In the dark?'

   
'You can't see in the dark? What a bad investigator you must have been.'

   
Her manner was a strange mix, coarse and imperious at the same time. He remembered the two contradictory identifications Jaak had made on her pictures: Mrs Boris Benz, German, staying at the Soyuz, and Rita, hard-currency prostitute, emigrated to Israel five years ago. She dropped her cigarette into her glass, set it on the VCR and gave Arkady matches so that he could light another for her. The tips of her nails were as hard as tines. When Arkady had first seen her in Rudy's car, he had said to himself, a Viking. Now he thought, a Salome.

   
'Did you make a sale?' he asked.

  
 
'Max should have told you that a painting like that isn't sold in a minute.'

   
'How long?'

   
'Weeks.'

   
'Who owns the painting? Who's the seller?'

   
She laughed on the exhalation. 'What rude questions.'

   
'This is my first show. I'm curious.'

 
  
'Only the buyer needs to know the seller.'

   
'If it's Russian - '

   
'Be serious. In Russia, no one knows who owns what. If it's Russian, whoever has it owns it.'

   
Arkady accepted the rebuff. 'How much do you think you'll get?'

   
She smiled, so he knew she would answer. 'There are two other versions of
Red Square
. They're each valued at five million dollars.' The number seemed to roll in her mouth. 'Call me Rita. My close friends call me Rita.'

   
Malevich appeared on the screen in a self-portrait, with a high collar, black suit and anxious shades of green.

   
'Do you think he was actually going to leave?' Arkady asked.

   
'He lost his nerve.'

   
'You can tell that?'

   
'I can tell.'

   
'How did you get out?'

   
'Dear, I fucked my way out. I married a Jew. Then I married a German. You have to be willing to do that sort of thing. That's why I wanted to see you, to see what you're willing to do.'

   
'What do you think?'

   
'Not enough.'

   
Interesting, Arkady thought. Maybe Rita was a better judge of character than he was. He said, 'I had the idea from some of your guests that they've seen too many Russians since the Wall came down.'

   
Rita was scornful. 'Not too many Russians, too many other Germans. West Berlin used to be like a special club, now it's just a German city. All those East Berlin kids grew up hearing about Western lifestyles, so now they come over and want to be punks. Their fathers are unregenerate Nazis. When the Wall came down, they poured in. No wonder West Berliners are lifting their skirts and running.'

   
'Are you thinking of running?'

   
'No. Berlin is the future. This is what Germany is going to be. Berlin is wide open.'

They sat, a foursome, around a late dinner on the patio of the restaurant on Savigny Platz. Max was enjoying the slow dissipation of excitement the way a director of a theatrical production savours an opening night, and was as doting and admiring of Irina as if she were his star. She carried the glow of celebration; she seemed to be circled by candles and crystal. Rita was in the same chair she had sat in on the videotape. As she looked at Max, Irina and Arkady, she seemed concerned over a basic problem of arithmetic.

   
For Arkady, Max and Margarita kept fading away; all he could see was Irina. Their eyes would meet as palpably as a touch, so he kept up his part of the conversation even in silence.

   
The waiter set down his tray next to Max and nodded towards two men in shiny suits approaching along the park. They moved slowly, as if they were walking a dog', but there was no dog.

   
'Chechens. Last week, they broke up a restaurant down the block, the quietest street in Berlin. They killed a waiter with an axe in front of the customers.' He rubbed one arm. 'With an axe.'

   
'What happened afterwards?' Arkady asked.

   
'Afterwards? They came back and said they would protect the restaurant.'

   
'Outrageous,' Max said. 'Anyway, you're already protected, aren't you?'

   
'Yes,' the waiter was quick to agree.

   
The Chechens crossed over to the restaurant. Arkady had seen one eating with Ali at the Jump Cafe, and the other was Ali's younger brother Beno, who had the size and swagger of a jockey. 'You're Borya's friend, aren't you? We heard you had a place here.'

   
'Go
you
have a place here?' Max acted amazed.

   
'A whole suite.' Beno had inherited his grandfather's shrewd eyes and force of concentration, Arkady realized: this was the next Makhmud, not Ali. The way he focused on Max, Arkady doubted that he noticed anyone else at the table. 'You're having a party? Can we join?'

   
'You're not old enough.'

   
'Then we'll get together later.'

   
Beno led the older Chechen down the street, two world travellers at their ease.

When Rita started to sign the dinner bill Max insisted on paying for generosity's sake, and also to demonstrate that he was in control. He wasn't in control, though, Arkady thought. Nobody was.

Chapter Thirty-One

In the middle of the night he woke, aware that Irina was in the room with him. She was in a raincoat, her feet bare in the thin milk of moonlight that covered the floor. She said, 'I told Max I was leaving him.'

   
'Good.'

   
'It's not. He says he knew as soon as you came to Munich this could happen.'

   
Arkady sat up. 'Forget about Max.'

   
'Max has always treated me well.'

   
'We'll go somewhere else tomorrow.'

   
'No, you're safe here. Max wants to help. You don't know how generous he can be.'

   
'Her presence was overwhelming. On her shadow he could have drawn her face, eyes, mouth. He smelled her and tasted her in the air. At the same time he knew how tenuous his hold on her was. If she caught his slightest suspicion about Max, he would lose her in a moment.

   
'Why don't you like Max?' she asked.

   
'I'm jealous.'

   
'Max should be jealous of you. He's always been good to me. He helped with the painting.'

   
'How?'

   
'He brought the seller to Rita.'

   
'Do you know who the seller is?'

   
'No. Max knows a lot of people. He can help you if you let him.'

   
'Whatever you want,' Arkady said.

   
She stooped and kissed him. Before he could stand up, she was gone.

Orpheus had descended into the underworld to save Eurydice. According to Greek legend, he found her in Hades and led her through endless, slowly rising caverns towards the surface. The only stricture laid by the gods on Orpheus for this second chance was that he not look back until they had reached the surface. On the way, he felt her start to change from a wraith to a warm, living body.

   
Arkady thought about the logistical problems. Orpheus, obviously, had gone first. As they manoeuvred along the ledges of their subterranean route, had he held her hand? Tied her wrist to his as if he were stronger?

   
Yet when they failed the fault wasn't Eurydice's. Even as they approached the light of the mouth of the cave through which they could make their final escape, it was Orpheus who turned, and with that backward glance condemned Eurydice to death again.

   
Some men had to look back.

Chapter Thirty-Two

At first Arkady couldn't tell whether Irina's visit had been real, because outwardly nothing seemed changed. Max led them to breakfast at a hotel on Friedrichstrasse, praised the renovation of the restaurant, poured the coffee and laid out newspapers by importance of reviews.

   
'The timing was good and the show made both
Die Zeit
and the
Frankfurter Allgemeine
. Two cautious but positive reviews, harking back to the long-standing debt that Russian art owes to German support. A bad review in
Die Welt
, which doesn't like modern art or Russians. A worse one in
Bild
, a right-wing rag that prefers news events about steroids or sex. It's a good start. Irina, you have interviews this afternoon with
Art News
and
Stern
. You do better than Rita with the press. More important, we're having dinner with some Los Angeles collectors. Americans are only the beginning; the Swiss want to speak to us next. The nice thing about the Swiss is that they don't flaunt the art they buy; they prefer it in a vault. Which reminds me, we'll pull the painting off public exhibition by the end of the week to make it more accessible for serious people.'

   
Irina said, 'The show was supposed to run a month so the public could see it.'

   
'I know. It's a matter of insurance. Rita was afraid to show the painting at all, but I told her how strongly you felt.'

   
'What about Arkady?'

   
'Arkady.' Max sighed to indicate this was a lesser subject. He wiped his mouth. 'Let's see what we can do. When does your visa run out?' he asked Arkady.

   
'In two days.' He was sure Max knew.

   
'That's a problem because Germany doesn't accept political refugees from the Soviet Union any more. There's nothing political to be afraid of.' He turned to Irina. 'I'm sorry, there really isn't. You can go back any time you want to. Even if there's a charge of treason against you, nobody cares. At the worst they won't let you in. If you were with me, there'd be no problem at all.' He returned to Arkady. 'The point is, Renko, that you can't defect, so you'll have to get an extension of your visa from the German Foreign Police. I'll take you. You'll also need a work permit and a resident's permit. This is all assuming, of course, that the Soviet consulate will cooperate.'

   
'They won't,' Arkady said.

   
'Oh, then that's a different story. What about Rodionov back in Moscow? Doesn't he want you to stay longer?'

   
'No.'

   
'Strange. Who are you after? Can you tell me that?'

   
'No.'

   
'Have you told Irina?'

   
'No.'

   
Irina said, 'Max, stop it. Someone is trying to kill Arkady. You said you were going to help.'

   
'It's not me,' Max said. 'It's Boris. I talked to him on the phone and he's very unhappy about you and the gallery getting involved with someone like Renko, especially when we're about to see the culmination of all our work.'

   
'Boris is Rita's husband,' Irina told Arkady. 'A typical German.'

   
'Have you ever met him?' Arkady asked.

   
'No.'

   
Max seemed pained. 'Boris is afraid that your Arkady is in trouble because he's involved with the Russian mafia. A hint of that and the show would be a disaster.'

   
'I have nothing to do with the gallery,' Arkady said.

   
Max went on. 'Boris thinks Renko is using you.'

   
'To do what?' Irina demanded.

   
She
had
come during the night, Arkady thought; it wasn't a dream. She watched Max for the least little misstep. New lines had been drawn and Max retreated over them as carefully as he could.

   
'To stay, to hide - I don't know. I'm only telling you what Boris thinks. As long as you want Renko here, I'll do my best to keep him here. That's a promise. After all, it seems that, as long as I have him, I'll have you.'

They played at being a Western couple. Their names could have been George and Jane. Tom and Sue. They shopped, buying a sports shirt for Arkady that he wore from the shop. Wandered through the Tiergarten to the zoo, where they ignored the lions and watched the pony carts. Saw no Chechens or art collectors. Neither tried to say anything exceptional. Normalcy was a spell too easily broken.

   
At two, Arkady delivered her to the gallery, then went to Zoo Station and put more coins in his locker. He tried calling Peter, but there was no answer. Peter was fed up or had lost interest. Either way Arkady had lost contact.

   
As soon as he put the phone back on die hook it rang. Arkady stepped back. Along the pavement, Africans were selling Ossies what appeared to be French luggage. Backpackers with long hair queued sleepily at the currency exchanges. No one came forward to answer the phone. He picked it up.

   
Peter said, 'Renko, you'd make a terrible spy. A good spy never calls from the same place twice.'

   
'Where are you?'

   
'Look across the street. See the man in the nice leather jacket talking on the phone? That's me.'

In good weather, the drive out of the city was like a summer jaunt. They went south through the evergreens of the Grünewald, then by the waters of the Havel and hundreds of small boats, their sails catching as much sun as breeze, at a distance looking like gulls.

   
'There are some benefits to being German. In the middle of your first call I heard a train on your end of the line. Being efficient people, the transport organization was able to tell me at what underground and surface stations around the city trains were arriving at exactly that time. I narrowed the list to Zoo Station because, of course, you're Russian. Zoo was the one station you were sure to know. You were bound to head to familiar places.'

   
'You're brilliant. It's undeniable.'

   
Peter didn't argue the point. 'When you called yesterday from Zoo Station I was there waiting for you. I followed you around Berlin. You noticed the city has changed?'

   
'Yes.'

   
'When the Wall came down there was such an intensity of celebration. East and West Berlin back together. It was like a wild night of lovemaking. Afterwards was like waking in the morning and finding this woman you had yearned for so long was going through your pockets, your wallet, taking the keys to your car. The euphoria was gone. That's not the only change. We were ready for the Red Army. We weren't ready for the Russian mafia. I was behind you yesterday. You saw them.'

   
'It's like Moscow.'

   
'That's what I'm afraid of. Compared to your gangsters, German criminals are a Salzburg choir. German killers clean up after themselves. Russian mafias just shoot each other on the streets. Boutiques are keeping doors locked, hiring private guards, moving to Hamburg or Zurich. It's bad business.'

   
'You don't seem upset.'

   
'They haven't reached Munich yet. Life was boring until you came along.'

   
Arkady felt that once again Peter had taken flight, and all that he could do was see where he would land. He didn't know how long Peter had followed him, and waited to hear the names of Max Albov, Irina Asanova, Margarita Benz.

   
Somewhere in the woods, among the cottages and country lanes, the road crossed the former East German border and Potsdam came into view. At least the part of Potsdam that was proletariat housing and might have appeared promising in an architectural rendering, but in reality was ten storeys of anonymous balconies with fractured cement.

   
Old Potsdam was hidden in a canopy of beech trees. Peter parked on a leafy avenue in front of a three-storey town house. This was the kaiser's kind of mansion, with a wrought-iron gate and a portico wide and high enough for a carriage, marble stairs to double doors, classical stone facing, carved scrollwork above the windows that were high enough to show coffered ceilings, an artist's tower rising above a tiled roof. Except that so much of the facing had fallen off the bricks that a makeshift scaffolding covered the second floor. A wooden ramp ran down one side of the stairs; the other side was broken. Some windows were bricked in, some boarded up. A stunted tree and tall grass grew from the caved-in turret of the tower. The grounds had long been abandoned to rubble and weeds of opportunity. A ferrous powder compounded of rust, soot and the dust of decaying bricks covered the gate. But the building was inhabited; from head to foot, the balconies and surviving windows wore boutonnières of red geraniums, and dim lights and slow movement showed through the glass. By the gate was a sign that said
medical clinic.

   
'The Schiller house,' Peter said. 'This is it. This is what my grandfather sold out for, this ruin.'

   
Arkady asked, 'Has he seen it?'

   
'Boris Benz brought him a photograph of it. Now he wants to move back in.'

   
On both sides, the block was lined with mansions similar in design and disrepair to the Schiller house. Some worse. One was as masked by ivy as an ancient tomb. Another was posted
verboten! kein eingang!

   
Peter said, 'This used to be Bankers' Row. Every morning they would all go to Berlin, every evening return. These were cultured, intelligent people. They had a modest portrait of the Führer. They closed their eyes when the Meyers disappeared from this mansion over here or the Weinstein family vanished from that house over there. Later, they could get those houses for a good price. Well, you can't tell where the Jews lived today, can you? Now my grandfather wants us to trade with the devil again for this.'

   
A balcony door opened and a woman in a white cap and apron backed out with a wheelchair that she turned around. She put on the brake and sat down for a cigarette, mistress of all she surveyed.

   
'What are you going to do?' Arkady asked.

   
Peter pushed open the gate. 'I should take a look, don't you think?'

   
The driveway had once been laid in cobblestones and led to a reception arch of pillars. Now two ruts cut through the weeds, and one of the pillars had long since suffered a collision and been replaced by a standing sewer pipe. The front door had a red cross and a
ruhig!
sign for quiet, but it was open and the sound of radios and the smell of antiseptic drifted out. There was no reception desk. Peter's inspection tour took them down a hall of dark mahogany to a ballroom turned into a mess hall and an enormous kitchen divided by breeze blocks into a small kitchen with steaming vats and a second area of tiled baths and toilet cubicles.

   
Peter tried the soup. 'Not bad. They have good yellow potatoes in East Germany. I was in Potsdam last night, but I didn't get here.'

   
'Where were you?'

   
'In the archives of the Potsdam City Hall, looking for Boris Benz.' He let the ladle drop and moved on. 'There's not enough of him,' he said. 'I tap into the federal computer and I see his driver's licence, Munich residence, marriage licence. I see his registered ownership of a private company called "Fantasy Tours", with work, insurance and medical records in order, because his employees are examined for venereal disease once a month by law. What does not show up is his local education or work history.'

   
'You told me that Benz was born here in Potsdam and that many East German records weren't transferred yet.'

   
Peter bounded up the stairs. 'That's why I came here. But there are no records at all here for Boris Benz. It's one thing to plug a name into a computer file; you're only adding one more blip to the screen. It's more difficult to insert a name on an old, meticulously written school roll. As for work or military records, they don't matter if you're not looking for work or a loan from the bank. It only proves that Boris Benz has more money than personal history. Ah, this must have been the master bedroom.'

   
They looked into a ward with five beds on one side. Some of the beds were occupied by patients attached to IVs. Family photographs and crayon drawings were taped to the walls. The sheets looked clean and the parquet floor was mopped to a shine. Four elderly women in housecoats were playing cards. One of them looked up. 'Wir haben Besucher!' Visitors!

   
Peter nodded approvingly at each resident. 'Sehr gut, meine Damen. Schönen Foto. Danke.' They beamed as he waved and backed away.

   
The other bedrooms had been turned into wards and more zinc-lined baths. Cigarette smoke travelled out of the open fanlight of an office. They climbed to the third floor. In the ceiling of the stairwell where a chandelier had once hung was a fluorescent ring.