Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [143]
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.
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 anymore. There’s nothing political to be afraid of.” He turned to Irina. “I’m sorry, there really isn’t. You can go back anytime 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 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