“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 toward 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 still will 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 signaled the success of the show. Arkady retreated to the video theater and watched a tape of prewar Berlin that was part footage of horse-drawn trolleys 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.