Friedrichstrasse was different in the daylight. In the dark, Arkady hadn't seen how many government offices were gutted. One was a wooden front with painted windows around the foundation of a Gallery Lafayette that was taking its place. Another was swaddled in five storeys of heavy canvas. Though the street was relatively empty compared to the Ku'damm, from every direction came the sound of a hidden traffic of earthmovers, pile-drivers, cranes.
Arkady asked, 'Do you own the building we stayed in last night?'
Max laughed. 'You're too suspicious. I look for vision, you look for fingerprints.'
There were still Trabis under the lime trees, but they were outnumbered by VWs, Volvos, Maseratis. Out of open buildings floated the dust of sheet rock and the whine of electric drills. Whitewashed windows bore announcements of future offices of Mitsubishi, Alitalia, IBM. Across the street at the Soviet embassy, the steps were empty and the windows were dark. On a side street, a café had set white chairs and tables on the pavement. They sat and ordered coffee.
Max checked his watch, a diver's chronometer with gold links. 'I have an appointment in an hour. I'm the agent for the building you slept in. For a former Soviet, real estate is almost the redemption of life. Do you have any investments?'
'Aside from books?' Arkady asked.
'Aside from books.'
'Aside from a radio?'
'Aside from a radio.'
'I inherited a gun.'
'In other words, no.' Max paused. 'Something can be arranged. You're intelligent, you speak English and a little German. With decent clothes you'd be presentable.'
A coffee pot came with poppyseed rolls and strawberry jam. Max poured. 'The problem is, I don't think you appreciate how much the world has changed. You're a specimen from the past. It's as if you'd arrived from ancient Rome, chasing someone who offended Caesar.
Your idea of a criminal is to say the least, out of date. To stay, you'd have to let go of all that, to erase it from your mind.'
'Erase it?'
'Like the Germans. West Berlin was levelled, so they started afresh and built it into a showcase of capitalism. Our response? We built the Wall, which of course was a pedestal for West Berlin.'
'Why don't you invest in West Berlin?'
'That's thinking in the past. Frankly, West Berlin is nothing. It's an island, a club for freethinkers and draft dodgers. But a united Berlin will be the capital of the world.'
'That does sound visionary.'
'It is. Forgive me for saying so, but the Wall was an even larger reality than your investigation. Now the Wall has gone and Berlin is finally free to bloom. Think of it: over two hundred kilometres of Wall erased, an extra thousand square kilometres in the centre of Berlin to be developed. It's the greatest real-estate opportunity of the second half of the twentieth century.'
There was such conviction in Max's eyes that Arkady realized he had encountered a salesman. Max was selling the idea of the future, and it was compelling. Evidence of the future lined the street. Urgent sounds of it echoed everywhere. The only silent building was the Soviet embassy hulking like a mausoleum above the trees.
Arkady said, 'Does Michael share this vision of yours? For a man who is the radio station's deputy director for security, he welcomed you back pretty quickly.'
'Michael is a little desperate. If the Americans drop the station he'll be left with a European lifestyle and no particular skills. He doesn't have a graduate degree in business administration; he simply has a Porsche. If he can adapt to a new situation, so should you.'
'How would I?'
'Your investigation got you here. What you do from this point on is an entirely different question. Do you go forward or do you turn back?'
'What do you think?'
'I'll be honest,' Max said. 'It wouldn't matter to me except for Irina. Irina is part of Berlin. She stands to benefit. Why do you want to take that away from her? She's never had a chance to enjoy money.'
'She can do that with you, enjoy money?'
'Yes. I don't describe myself as a completely innocent person, but fortunes are not made with "thank you" and "please". I bet that when the wheel was invented, it rolled over someone.' Max wiped his mouth. 'I understand the hold you have on Irina. Every émigré feels guilty about somebody.'
'Really? Who do you feel guilty about?'
A good salesman was not discouraged by rudeness. Max said, 'It's not a matter of morality. It's not even a matter of you or me. It's just that I have the capacity to change and you don't. Maybe you're a heroic investigator, but you're a figure from the past. There's nothing for you here. I want you to be honest and ask yourself what's best for Irina, going forward or going back?'
'That's up to Irina.'
'See, Renko, that's an admission that you do know the right answer. Of course the decision is up to Irina. The point is, you and I know what's best. We just came from Moscow. We both know that, even if she goes back, I can protect her better than you. I doubt you'd survive a day back there. So we're speaking of an emotional regression, aren't we? The two of you as poor but loving refugees? With the Soviet embassy trying to deport you? I think you'd need an influential sponsor and, frankly, no one comes to mind but me. The moment you decide to stay you'd have to drop your investigation. Irina would leave you in an instant if she thought you'd stayed for anything else but her.'
'If you know that, why haven't you told her I was after you?'
Max paid homage with a sigh. 'Unfortunately, Irina still has a high opinion of your abilities. She might think you were right. We're on the horns of a dilemma – you on one horn, me on the other. We're coexisting. That's why morality is so beside the point. That's why we'll have to work out some arrangement.'
After Max paid the bill and left, Arkady went alone through the trees to the Brandenburg Gate, where Victory wore her daytime tint of verdigris. Swifts circled around her, feeding on insects. He slipped among tourists to the meadow. Although his shoes and cuffs were damp, a summer warmth radiated from the ground. The grass had tassels of white flowers and miniature ripples of insects escaping from each footfall. Bees rushed between balls of clover, making up for the down time of wet weather. A cycle path had been laid out; cyclists in helmets and skin-tight outfits rode in single file, flying like flags on a motorcade. Were they aware that they were trespassing on the site of Max's New Berlin?
Since he had time, Arkady walked the Ku'damm to Zoo Station. He felt as if he had fallen into an army of East Berliners who had invaded in good order but had fallen apart at the first pavement display of running shoes. West Berliners retreated behind the railings of cafes, and even there they were pursued by Gypsies with tambourines and babies. A pair of Russians pushed a rack of uniforms. Arkady picked over an assortment of pieces of the Wall with documents attesting to their authenticity. On another table he found an autopilot and altimeter from a Red Army helicopter. He supposed he might find the entire helicopter if he went up and down the Ku'damm long enough. He arrived at Zoo Station right at noon and called Peter's number. This time there was no answer.
Overhead, a train had arrived, releasing yet more regiments of Ossies down the steps to the street. Out of indecision, Arkady was swept up by the crowd and marched across the street to the base of the memorial church, grey and shattered as a tree trunk struck by lightning, where backpackers sprawled on the stairs to watch a street magician. A Japanese tour bus aimed a broadside of cameras.
The old Berlin had been divided in half and ruled essentially by Russians and Americans. He hardly saw an American tourist now. Maybe he could stay as a statue, he thought: The Last Russian, posed as if he were trying to sell a pin of Lenin.
Arkady was returning over the meadow when he saw four sections of the Wall left standing like gravestones. So Max was wrong, he thought; not everyone wanted to erase the Wall and turn without pause to the cash register. Someone thought a memorial was appropriate.
Next to the section was a construction crane with a double-jib for tall building
s. About seventy metres up, at the crown of the top jib, the block and tackle held a square basket. Against the sky Arkady saw a figure climb over the edge of the basket and jump. Arms and legs spread, he plunged through the air and disappeared behind the sections.
Arkady walked over quickly. Closer, the sections were each four metres square and elaborately spray-painted with every colour of peace symbol, and airbrushed with Christs, gnostic eyes, prison bars, names and messages in different languages. Behind the cement slabs people sat at tables set on gravel. A sign said, jump café.
A van offered sandwiches, cigarettes, sodas and beer. The customers were bikers, some older couples with dogs leashed to their chairs, a pair of businessmen dark enough to be Turks and a circle of teenagers, the sun sparkling on the rivets of their jackets.
The jumper, a boy in a tank top and fatigues, was swaying upside down a few feet above the ground. Arkady realized that he had never hit it and that he was connected by elastic cords running from his ankles to the top of the crane. The jib lowered to let him settle on the earth, hands first. He released the cords and staggered dizzily to his feet to applause from the bikers and tribal whoops from his friends.
Arkady was interested in the two businessmen. Their suits were good, but they had massed bottles of beer on their table in a gluttonous volume. They had thick bodies and slouched with their heads tucked in a familiar attitude. Though they sat looking away from him, one of them had memorably ugly hair, long at the back, short at the sides with an orange fringe on top. Though they didn't clap, they watched with close attention.
A second figure was still in the cage high above the tables. He pulled in the loose cords and seemed to sit down. A moment later, he climbed on to the edge of the cage and balanced himself with one hand on a cable. A schnauzer yapped and its owner plugged its mouth with wurst. The figure on the cage looked as if he was trying to pick a place to land.
'Dvai!' shouted the man with the bad hair, fed up with waiting. 'Come on!' The way fishermen shout when someone is slow pulling a net.
The figure jumped. He dropped with his arms and legs windmilling. This time Arkady saw cords playing out loosely behind. He assumed that careful calculations took into account the weight of the jumper, the distance to the ground, the full extension of the cords. The face hurtling down was white, eyes first, mouth peeled open. Arkady had never seen anyone so full of second thoughts. He heard an audible chord as the elastic went taut, then the diver was rising, in reverse, a quarter of the way back. He bounced lower, more slowly and more crazily. Now his face was red and the oval of his mouth resumed human shape. Two girls in leather jackets ran forward to help their hero down. Everyone else applauded except for the two businessmen, who laughed so hard they coughed. The one with the hair leaned back to catch his breath. He was Ali Khasbulatov.
Arkady had last seen Ali with his grandfather Makhmud at the South Port car market in Moscow. Ali smacked the table with his hand like a body hitting the ground and started to roar all over again. When an empty bottle rolled off the table on to the gravel, Ali didn't deign to pick it up. The other man at the table was also Chechen, older with eyebrows brushed like fans. The kids in leather jackets found the laughter offensive, but after some cautious glances left the two men alone. Ali spread his arms like wings, pretended to flutter, then to drop. Waved away praise for his acting from the man across the table. Lifted his glass and lit a cigarette with satisfaction.
No one else wanted to jump for Ali's entertainment. After fifteen minutes, he and the other Chechen left and walked to Potsdamer Platz, where they got into a black VW Cabriolet and drove away. Arkady couldn't follow on foot, but he turned back in the direction of the Ku'damm with a freshened eye.
In front of the Ka-De-We department store he found two Chechens resting on the fender of an Alfa-Romeo. Up the Ku'damm, outside the great glass rectangle of the Europa Centre, four Lyubertsy mafiosos were squeezed together in a Golf. A sidestreet called Fasanenstrasse had elegant restaurants with French doors and wine stands, and also small, hairy Chechens tucked in the booth of one of them. On the next block a Long Pond mafioso patrolled the boutiques.
Arkady went to Zoo Station again. The telephone books and the operator had no listings for TransKom or Boris Benz. There was a number for a Margarita Benz. Arkady called.
On the fifth ring Irina answered, 'Hello?'
'This is Arkady.'
'How are you?'
'I'm fine. I'm sorry to bother you.'
'No, I'm glad you called,' Irina said.
'I was wondering when this event was tonight. And how formal it is.'
'At seven. You'll come here with Max and me. Don't worry about formality. Do what German intellectuals do: when in doubt, wear black. They all look like widows. Arkady, are you sure you're all right? Is Berlin completely confusing?'
'No, actually it's starting to look familiar.'
The address for Margarita Benz was only two blocks away, on Savigny Platz. On the way Arkady passed a short commercial section of electronics shops with notices in Polish. Polish cars were parked in front. Men unloaded aromatic bags of cheap Socialist sausage and loaded VCRs.
He found the address at a genteel doorway just off Savigny. The legend below the third-floor button was gallerie benz. He hesitated, then turned away.
Savigny Platz itself was a square with two matching mini-parks, each surrounded by a tall box hedge. A formal garden was laid out with marigolds and pansies. Set deep into the hedges were arbours designed for trysts.
Something about the neatly trimmed palisade of the hedge made him walk through the park and to a corner. Across the street were the outdoor tables of a restaurant under a filigree of shade lent by a beech. As he crossed, he heard the clatter of cutlery. A waiter poured coffee at a sideboard framed by honeysuckle grown over a yellow wall. Four tables were occupied, two by executive types efficiently eating, two by students resting heads in hands. The tables inside were hidden by reflections of the street. In the windowpanes the box hedge of the park looked like a solid wall of green.
It was the Bavarian beer garden from Rudy's tape. Arkady had thought it was in Munich because it had been inserted into a travelogue of the city, an assumption so stupid in retrospect that it made his stomach hurt. He was hungry, but it was stupidity that was sharp.
A waiter was staring at him. 'Ist Frau Benz hier?' Arkady asked.
The waiter checked the end table, the same one she sat at in the tape. Her regular table, obviously.
'Nein.'
Why insert Margarita Benz into the tape? The only reason Arkady could think of was identification if she had never met Rudy before and didn't want to give him her name. But she was the sort of woman who had her own table at an attractive restaurant on a stylish plaza in Berlin. What business could a Moscow money-changer have with her?
The waiter was still staring. 'Danke.' Arkady backed away, catching his own image in the glass, as if he had stepped into the tape, too.
On the way back to the flat, Arkady bought blankets, towel, soap and a pullover in intellectual black. At six thirty p.m. he was collected by Max and Irina on their way down to the garage.
'You're thin; you can wear something like that,' Max said. Covered by a jacket with brass buttons, he looked as if he'd stepped off a yacht.
Irina wore an emerald outfit that accented the red in her hair. She was so nervous and excited that in the lift she was like an extra light.
Arkady was fascinated by this whole new life she had. He said, 'This is a big affair. You don't want to tell me what it is?'
'It's a surprise,' she said.
'Do you know anything about art?' Max asked Arkady as if including a child.
Irina said, 'Arkady will recognize this.'
They drove in the Daimler along the Tiergarten to Kantstrasse. Irina turned around to Arkady, her eyes were huge in the shell-like gloom of the saloon. 'You are all right? It worried me when you called.'
Max asked, 'He called?'
'I'm looking forward to this, whatever it is,' Arkady said.
Irina reached back and took his hand. 'I'm glad you came,' she said. 'It's perfect.'
They parked at Savigny Platz. Walking to the gallery, Arkady became aware that he was approaching a cultural event of some size. Men so distinguished that they could have been the kaiser escorted matrons draped in beads and jewels. Academics in black marched with wives in knitted coats. There were even berets. Photographers crowded around the nondescript entrance to the gallery. Arkady slipped in while Irina endured a short bath of flashes. Inside, a queue had formed at a brass lift. Max led the way to the stairs and pushed along the banisters past people inching up.
On the third floor, a throaty voice called out, 'Irina!' Arrivals showed invitations at a desk, but Irina was waved forward by a woman with a broad Slavic face and dark eyes that contradicted a mane of golden hair. She wore a long purple dress that looked like the vestment for a cult. Her make-up shifted when she smiled.
'And your friends.' She kissed Max three times, Russian style.
'You must be Margarita Benz,' Arkady said.
'I hope so, or I'm at the wrong gallery.' She let Arkady touch her hand.
He considered mentioning that they had met before, car to car, she with Rudy and he with Jaak. No, he would be a good guest, he told himself.
The doors were opened. The gallery was a loft with a high ceiling and movable partitions stationed to create an open section on one side, a theatre on the other, and lead the eye in between. Arkady was aware of Irina, Max, waitresses, the alert faces of security guards, the anxious faces of employees right and left.
On a stand in the middle of the gallery was a weathered, rectangular crate of wood. Though the corners were chipped, it was obvious that it was well constructed. Through stains, Arkady could see a blurred stamp of the eagle, wreath and swastika of the postal authority of the Third Reich.
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