He thought he was alone until Margarita Benz asked, “Irina was good tonight, didn’t you think?”

“Yes.”

The gallery owner stood in the doorway of the theater with a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. “She has a wonderful voice. You found her convincing?”

“Totally,” Arkady said.

She slipped inside. He heard her shoulder graze the wall as she approached. “I wanted to get a good look at you.”

“In the dark?”

“You can’t see in the dark? What a bad investigator you must have been.”

Her manner was a strange mix, coarse and imperious at the same time. He remembered the two contradictory identifications Jaak had made on her pictures: Mrs. Boris Benz, German, staying at the Soyuz, and Rita, hard-currency prostitute, emigrated to Israel five years ago. She dropped her cigarette into her glass, set it on the VCR and gave Arkady matches so that he could light another for her. The tips of her nails were as hard as tines. When Arkady had first seen her in Rudy’s car, he had said to himself, a Viking. Now he thought, a Salome.

“Did you make a sale?” he asked.

“Max should have told you that a painting like that isn’t sold in a minute.” “How long?”

“Weeks.”

“Who owns the painting? Who’s the seller?”

She laughed on the exhale. “What rude questions.”

“This is my first show. I’m curious.”

“Only the buyer needs to know the seller.”

“If it’s Russian—”

“Be serious. In Russia no one knows who owns what. If it’s Russian, whoever has it owns it.”

Arkady accepted the rebuff. “How much do you think you’ll get?”

She smiled, so he knew she would answer. “There are two other versions of ‘Red Square.’ They’re each valued at five million dollars.” The number seemed to roll in her mouth. “Call me Rita. My close friends call me Rita.”

Malevich appeared on the screen in a self-portrait, with a high collar, black suit and anxious shades of green.

“Do you think he was actually going to leave?” Arkady asked.

“He lost his nerve.”

“You can tell that?”

“I can tell.”

“How did you get out?”

“Dear, I fucked my way out. I married a Jew. Then I married a German. You have to be willing to do that sort of thing. That’s why I wanted to see you, to see what you’re willing to do.”

“What do you think?”

“Not enough.”

Interesting, Arkady thought. Maybe Rita was a better judge of character than he was. He said, “I had the idea from some of your guests that they’ve seen too many Russians since the Wall came down.”