“It’s possible that at Radio Liberty we have a better idea of what’s happening in Russia than you do,” Stas said.

“I hope so,” Arkady said. “People outside a burning house generally have a better view than the people inside.”

Irina said, “Don’t worry. I’ve already told Stas it hardly mattered what you said.”

The sigh of a tuba marked the start of a waltz. Musicians in lederhosen had appeared on the first floor of the pavilion. Otherwise, Arkady saw little besides Irina. The women at other tables were beer-fed, slim, brunette, white-blond, in slacks and skirts, and all of a German sameness and safeness. With her wide Slavic eyes and self-possession, Irina was unique, an icon at a picnic. A familiar icon. Arkady could have traced in the dark the line from the lashes of her eye over the curve of her cheek to a corner in the softness of her mouth; yet she had changed, and Stas had put a name to it. In Moscow she had been a flame in the wind, so desperately outspoken that she was a danger to anyone near. The woman Irina had become was someone colder and in control. The queen of Russian émigrés was only waiting for Stas to finish his beer so she could leave.

Arkady asked her, “You like Munich?”

“Compared to Moscow? Compared to Moscow, rolling in broken glass is nice. Compared to New York or Paris? It’s pleasant, but a little quiet.”

“It sounds as if you’ve been everywhere.”

“And you, do you like Munich?” she asked.

“Compared to Moscow? Compared to Moscow, rolling in Deutsche marks is nice. Compared to Irkutsk or Vladivostok? It’s warmer.”

Stas set down his empty stein. Arkady had never seen anyone so thin drain beer so quickly. At once Irina rose, in command, ready to hurry back to real life.

“I want to see you again,” Arkady said in spite of himself.

Irina studied him. “No, what you want is for me to say that I’m sorry if you suffered on my account. Arkady, I am sorry. There, I said it. I don’t think we have anything else to say.” With that she left.

Stas lingered. “I hope you are a son of a bitch. I hate it when lightning hits the wrong man.”

Because she was tall, Irina seemed to sail between tables, her hair back like a flag.

“Where did they put you up?” Stas asked.

“Across from the train station.” Arkady mentioned the address.

“Sort of a dump,” Stas said, surprised.

Irina finally disappeared into a crowd arriving on the other side of the tower.

“Thanks for the beer,” Arkady said.

“Anytime.” Stas hurried after Irina, maneuvering around tables with a limp that seemed more a gesture of determination than a handicap.