Rita was scornful. “Not too many Russians, too many other Germans. West Berlin used to be like a special club, now it’s just a German city. All those East Berlin kids grew up hearing about Western life-styles, so now they come over and want to be punks. Their fathers are unregenerate Nazis. When the Wall came down, they poured in. No wonder West Berliners are lifting their skirts and running.”

“Are you thinking of running?”

“No. Berlin is the future. This is what Germany is going to be. Berlin is wide open.”

They sat, a foursome, around a late dinner on the patio of the restaurant on Savigny Platz. Max was enjoying the slow dissipation of excitement the way a director of a theatrical production savors an opening night, and was as doting and admiring of Irina as if she were his star. She carried the glow of celebration; she seemed to be circled by candles and crystal. Rita was in the same chair she had sat in on the videotape. As she looked at Max, Irina and Arkady, she seemed concerned over a basic problem of arithmetic.

For Arkady, Max and Margarita kept fading away; all he could see was Irina. Their eyes would meet as palpably as a touch, so he kept up his part of the conversation even in silence.

The waiter set down his tray next to Max and nodded toward two men in shiny suits approaching along the park. They moved slowly, as if they were walking a dog, but there was no dog.

“Chechens. Last week, they broke up a restaurant down the block, the quietest street in Berlin. They killed a waiter with an ax in front of the customers.” He rubbed one arm. “With an ax.”

“What happened afterwards?” Arkady asked.

“Afterwards? They came back and said they would protect the restaurant.”

“Outrageous,” Max said. “Anyway, you’re already protected, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” the waiter was quick to agree.

The Chechens crossed over to the restaurant. Arkady had seen one eating with Ali at the Jump Café, and the other was Ali’s younger brother, Beno, who had the size and swagger of a jockey. “You’re Borya’s friend, aren’t you? We heard you had a place here.”

“Do you have a place here?” Max acted amazed.

“A whole suite.” Beno had inherited his grandfather’s shrewd eyes and force of concentration, Arkady realized: this was the next Makhmud, not Ali. The way he focused on Max, Arkady doubted that he noticed anyone else at the table. “You’re having a party? Can we join?”

“You’re not old enough.”

“Then, we’ll get together later.”

Beno led the older Chechen down the street, two world travelers at their ease.

When Rita started to sign the dinner check, Max insisted on paying the bill for generosity’s sake, and also to demonstrate that he was in control. He wasn’t in control, though, Arkady thought. Nobody was.