Arkady recognized the trees of the Botanischer Garten. As soon as the BMW stopped at a light, he got out and reached back to stuff a piece of paper into Peter’s jacket. “That’s a Munich fax number. Find out who it belongs to, if that’s not against the law. On the other side is a phone number. You can call me there at five.”

“Your number at the consulate?”

“I won’t be there. It’s a private number.” My private minute at the booth, Arkady thought.

“Renko!” Peter shouted as Arkady reached the sidewalk. “Stay away from the bank.”

Arkady kept walking.

“Renko!” Peter added another warning. “Tell Federov what I said.”

Armed with soap and string, Arkady returned to the pension, washed his clothes and hung them up to dry. From the floor below came the sweet smell of spiced lamb. He wasn’t hungry. Such lethargy came over him that he could barely move. He stood by the window looking down the street and toward the railroad yard at the trains sluggishly moving in and out. The rails were as silvery as snail tracks, perhaps fifty parallel lines and as many switches shunting an engine from this line to that. How easily, without noticing, a man finds himself parallel to the life he meant to have, then arrives, years later, to find the band gone, flowers dead, love past. He should be ancient, bent and bearded, disembarking with a cane instead of merely being too late.

He dropped onto his bed, and at once fell into a black sleep. He dreamed he was in a locomotive. He was the engineer, stripped to the waist and sitting at a cockpit of gauges and controls. Blue sky sped by the window. A woman’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder. He didn’t look back for fear that she might not be there. They were running along the seashore. Somehow, without tracks, the engine plowed through the beach. Faraway waves reflected rows of sunlight, nearer waves curled lazily over each other and collapsed on the sand, perfect gulls plunged into the water. Was it her hand or the memory of her hand? He was happy not to look and keep the train moving by sheer will if necessary. But the wheels ground to a stop. The sun was sinking. Waves mounted in towering black walls that carried along dachas, cars, militiamen, generals, Chinese lanterns and birthday cakes.

In panic, Arkady opened his eyes. He was in bed in the dark. He looked at his watch. Ten P.M. He had slept ten hours, right through the call to the booth from Peter Schiller—if he had ever called.

Someone was knocking at the door. Getting up, he brushed aside the drying shirts and pants hanging in his way.

He didn’t recognize the visitor, a heavyset American with stringy hair and a tentative smile.