Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [142]
“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 savors 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 toward 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 ax in front of the customers.” He rubbed one arm. “With an ax.”
“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 Café, 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.”
“Do 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 travelers at their ease.
When Rita started to sign the dinner check, Max insisted on paying the bill for generosity’s sake, and also to demonstrate that he was in control. He wasn’t in control, though, Arkady thought. Nobody was.
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 someplace 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, 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 toward 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.