However, his attention had gone to the painting that hung alone on the far wall. It was a small square canvas painted red. There was no portrait or landscape or 'picture' in it at all. There was no other colour, only red.
Polina had painted six almost like it to blow up cars in Moscow.
Chapter Thirty
* * *
Arkady also recognized it as Red Square, one of the most famous paintings in the history of Russian art. It wasn't large and it wasn't a true square either, because the upper right-hand corner rose in a disorienting manner. And it wasn't just red; as he approached, he saw that the square floated on a white background.
Kazimir Malevich, the son of a sugar-maker, was perhaps the greatest Russian painter of the century, and certainly the most modern, even though he died in the thirties. He was attacked as a bourgeois idealist and his paintings were hidden in museum cellars, but, with the perverse pride that Russia took in the quality of its victims, everyone knew the images of Malevich. Like every other student in Moscow, Arkady had dared to paint a red square, a black square, a white square... and produced junk. Somehow Malevich, who did it first, created art, and now the world genuflected to him.
The gallery filled rapidly. A separate room was hung with other artists of the Russian avant-garde, the brief cultural explosion that had started with the last days of the tsar, heralded the Revolution, was stifled by Stalin and was buried with Lenin. There were examples of sketches, ceramics and book jackets, though none of the gum wrappers that Feldman had mentioned. The room was almost empty because everyone was drawn to the simple red square on a white field.
Irina said, 'I promised you the show would be beautiful.' In Russian, the word for 'beautiful' was the same as the word for 'red'
'What do you think?'
'I love it.'
'You said the right thing.'
The painting reflected Irina. She radiated.
'Congratulations.' Max arrived with glasses of champagne. 'This is a coup.'
'Where did it come from?' Arkady asked. He couldn't imagine the Russian State Museum lending one of its most valuable possessions to a private gallery.
'Patience,' said Max. 'The question is what will it bring?'
Irina said, 'It's priceless.'
'Only in rubles,' Max said. 'The people here have Deutschmarks, yen and dollars.'
Thirty minutes after the doors were opened, security guards herded everyone into the theatre section, where the video artist Arkady remembered from Tommy's party was waiting beside a VCR and a parabolic rear-projection screen. There weren't enough chairs, so people sat on the floor and crowded along the walls. From the back Arkady overheard some of their comments. They were devotees and collectors, far more knowledgeable than he, but one thing even he knew: there was not supposed to be any Red Square by Malevich outside Russia.
Irina and Margarita Benz went to the front of the theatre while Max joined Arkady. Only when the room was absolutely still did the gallery owner speak. She had a hoarse voice with a Russian accent, and though Arkady's German wasn't good enough to catch every word, he understood that she was placing Malevich at the level of Cezanne and Picasso as a founder of modern art, perhaps a little higher as the most relevant and challenging artist, the genius of his age. As Arkady recalled, Malevich's problem was that there was another genius residing at the Kremlin, and that genius, Stalin, had decreed that Soviet writers and artists should be 'engineers of the human soul', which in the case of painters meant producing realistic pictures of the proletariat building dams and collective farmers reaping wheat, not mysterious red squares.
Margarita Benz introduced Irina as the author of the catalogue, and as she stepped forward Arkady saw her looking over the seated rows at him and Max. Even in his new pullover he was aware that he looked more like an uninvited guest than a patron of the arts, while Max was the opposite, practically a host. Or were he and Max bookends, meant to be a pair?
The lights went out. On the screen was Red Square, four times its actual size.
Irina spoke in Russian and German. Russian for him, Arkady knew; German for everyone else. 'Catalogues will be available at the door and they will go into much greater detail than anything I say now. It's important, however, that you have a visual understanding of the study this painting has undergone. There are some details you can see on a screen that you wouldn't be able to find if we allowed you to pick up the painting and examine it by hand.'
It was both comforting and odd to hear Irina's voice in the dark. It was like hearing her on the radio.
The red square was replaced on the screen by a black-and-white photo of a dark man with serious brows, fedora and top coat standing before an intact Kaiser Wilhelm Church, the one that was now a war memorial on the Ku'damm.
Irina said, 'In 1927 Kazimir Malevich visited Berlin for a retrospective exhibition of his paintings. He had already fallen into disfavour in Moscow. Berlin at that time had two hundred thousand Russian émigrés. Munich had Kandinsky. Paris had Chagall, the poet Tsvetayeva and the Ballet Russe. Malevich was considering his own escape. The Berlin show contained seventy Malevich paintings. He also brought with him an undetermined number of other works – in other words, half of his entire life's output. However, when he was summoned back to Moscow in June, he returned. His wife and small daughter were still in Russia. Also, the Communist Party's Central Committee's agitation and propaganda section was putting artists under more pressure and Malevich's students appealed to him to protect them. When he boarded the train for Moscow, he left instructions that none of his art be returned to Russia.
'At the end of the 1927 Berlin show, all the works were crated by the art-transport firm of Gustav Knauer and sent for storage at the Provinzialmuseum in Hanover, which waited for further instructions from Malevich. Some works were exhibited there, but when the Nazis came to power in 1933 and denounced 'degenerate art', which included, of course, avant-garde Russian art, the Malevich paintings were returned in their Knauer crates and hidden in the museum cellar.
'We know that they were still there in 1935, when Albert Barr, the director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, visited Hanover. He purchased two paintings and smuggled them out of Germany rolled in his umbrella. The Hanover museum decided that possession of the rest of the Malevich collection was too dangerous and shipped them back to one of Malevich's original hosts in Berlin, the architect Hugo Haring, who hid them first in his house and then, during the Berlin air raids, in his home town of Biberach in the south.
'Seventeen years later, the war over and Malevich dead, curators of Amsterdam's Stedelijk Museum traced the route of the Knauer crates to Haring, who was still alive in Biberach, and acquired the paintings that now comprise the largest collection of Malevich work in the West. But from photographs of the Berlin show, we know that fifteen major paintings are missing. We also know from the quality of the Amsterdam collection that some of the finest paintings Malevich brought to Berlin were not exhibited in the Berlin show at all. How many of those private works are missing we will never know. Did they burn during the Berlin Blitz? Were they destroyed in transit by a zealous postal inspector who had discovered 'degenerate art'? Or, in all the confusion of the war, were they simply crated, stored and forgotten in Hanover or in the East Berlin warehouse of the Gustav Knauer transport firm?'
Malevich was replaced on the screen by a battered box covered with stamps and yellowed documents. It was the one standing in the gallery. Irina said, 'This crate came to the gallery a month after the Wall came down. The wood, nails, style of construction and bills of lading are consistent with the Knauer crates. Inside was an oil-on-canvas painting, fifty-three centimetres by fifty-three. The gallery knew at once that it had found either a Malevich or a masterful fraud. Which?'
The crate faded and on the screen the painting reappeared in its actual size, a hypnotic beacon. 'There are fewer than a hundred and twenty-five oil paintings by Malevich in existence. Their rarity, as well as their importance in the hist
ory of art, accounts for their extraordinarily high value, especially such masterpieces as Red Square. Most of the Malevich paintings were suppressed in Russia for fifty years as "ideologically incorrect" art. They're still being released now, like political hostages finally seeing the light of day. The situation is complicated, however, by the number of counterfeits flooding the Western art market. The same forgers who once produced counterfeit medieval ikons now produce counterfeit works of modern art. In the West, we rely on provenance – exhibition catalogues and bills of sale that provide the dates when art was shown, sold and resold. The situation was different in the Soviet Union. When an artist was arrested, his work was confiscated. When his friends heard of his arrest, they hastened either to hide or to destroy whatever works of his they had. The artworks of the Russian avant-garde that exist today are survivors, with the unlikely stories that survivors have of being stuffed in false bottoms or hidden behind wallpaper. Many genuine works have no provenance at all in the Western sense. To demand the usual Western provenance from a survivor of the Soviet state is to deny its survival at all.'
On videotape, hands in rubber gloves gently turned Red Square over and delicately peeled a chip, which was analysed and found to be of German manufacture from the correct time period. Irina pointed out that Russians always used German art materials when they could.
There were paintings within paintings. Under X-ray, Red Square was a negative that revealed a rectangle painted over. Under fluorescent light, the border's lower layer of zinc white paint softened to a creamy hue. Under ultraviolet light, the brushwork of lead white turned to blue. Under oblique light, magnified brushstrokes were rapid horizontal commas with variations – a cloud of strokes here, a tidal swell of strokes there in a varying sea of different reds, broken by a crazing called 'craquelure', where red paint had not bonded to the yellow paint hidden underneath.
Irina said, 'While the work is unsigned, every brushstroke is a signature. Brushwork, choice of paints, repainting, lack of signature, even the "craquelure" is characteristic of Malevich.'
Arkady liked the word craquelure. He suspected that under the proper light he might show some 'craquelure' of his own.
The screen went white again, moving over a magnified weave of canvas and primer thrown into relief by oblique light to the telltale grain of a fingerprint faintly discernible through the paint. Irina asked, 'Whose hand left this mark?'
A face with deep-set, mournful eyes filled the screen. The camera pulled back to show the blue tunic and sorrowful face of the late General Penyagin. Hardly a person whom Arkady had expected to meet again, least of all in artistic circles. With a pen the general pointed to similar whorls and deltas in the enlargements of two fingerprints, one lifted from the gallery's Red Square and the other from an authenticated Malevich in the Russian State Museum. An off-camera voice translated. It occurred to Arkady that a German forensic technician would have been faster, but a Soviet general was more impressive. By now he had recognized the off-camera voice as Max's. It asked, 'Would you conclude these prints are from the same man?'
Penyagin stared straight into the camera and worked up forcefulness, as if he sensed how short his starring role would be. 'In my opinion,' he said, 'these prints are absolutely those of the same individual.'
As the lights of the room came up, the most kaiser-like guest in the audience rose and asked angrily, 'Do you pay a Finderlohn?'
'Finder's fee,' Max translated for Arkady.
Margarita answered the question. 'No. Though a Finderlohn is perfectly legal, we dealt directly with the owner from the start.'
The man said, 'Such fees are notorious ransoms. You know that I'm referring to the fees paid in Texas for the Quedlinburg treasure, which was stolen from Germany by an American soldier after the war.'
'No Americans are involved.' Margarita almost smiled.
'Only one of numerous examples of German art despoiled by the occupying forces. Like the seventeenth-century painting stored in Reinhardsbrunn castle and stolen by Russian troops. Where is it now? On the auction block at Sotheby's.'
Margarita assured him, 'There are no Russians involved either, except for Malevich. And, of course, I have some Russian background myself. You must be aware that it is absolutely against the law to export art of this period and quality from the Soviet Union.'
The art lover was mollified, though not without a parting shot. 'So it came from East Germany?'
'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.'
&
nbsp; '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.'
Red Square Page 32