'There's a kind of justice in making you a guardian of Russian art. Besides, it's a trade.' Arkady patted the jacket pocket with the passport and visa Peter had returned to him and the ticket he had bought with Ali's money.
There had been no difficulty in getting on the regular Lufthansa flight to Moscow. There was nothing like a military coup at a destination for decimating a passenger list. What Arkady still didn't understand was why leaders of the new Emergency Committee were allowing planes to land at all.
Stas limped off the Munich flight with a tape recorder and a camera. He was full of perverse good cheer. 'Such a glorious idiocy. The Emergency Committee didn't arrest any of the democratic leaders. Now it's a stand-off. The tanks are in Moscow, but they just keep circling around. Standards for oppression have really dropped.'
'How do you know what's happening?' Arkady asked.
'People are calling us from Moscow,' Stas said.
Arkady was amazed. 'The telephone lines are open?'
'That's what I mean about idiocy.'
'Does Michael know you're going?'
'He tried to stop me. He says it's a security risk and an embarrassment to the station if we're caught. He says Max called from Moscow to say that it's business as usual and there's nothing for me to be so excited about.'
'Does he know Irina's going?'
'He asked. He doesn't know.'
Though boarding had started, Arkady dove into a telephone booth. A recorded message on the phone repeated over and over that the international circuits were busy. The only way he could get through was to call continuously. As he was about to give up, he noticed a fax centre.
Polina had said she would take Rudy's fax machine. At the desk, he wrote her telephone number and the message 'Looking forward to seeing you. If you have a painting of Uncle Rudy's, could you bring it with you? Drive very carefully.' He added his flight number and arrival time and signed the message 'Arkady'. Then he asked for a fax directory and wrote a second message to Federov: 'Followed advice. Please inform City Prosecutor Rodionov of return today. Renko.'
The assistant's eyes opened as wide as a doll's. 'You must be anxious to get home,' she said.
'I'm always anxious when I go home,' Arkady said.
Irina waved him to the gate, where Stas and Peter Schiller were regarding each other like examples of different species.
Peter grabbed Arkady and pulled him aside. 'You can't leave me with this.'
'I trust you.'
'My short experience with you suggests that's a curse. What am I going to do with it?'
'Hang it some place with-a constant temperature. Be an anonymous donor. Just don't give it to your grandfather. You know, the story about Malevich wasn't a lie. He did bring his paintings to Berlin to keep them safe. For the time being, do what he did.'
'It seems to me that Malevich's mistake was going back. What if Rita calls Moscow and says you took the painting? If Albov and Gubenko know you're coming, they'll be waiting for you.'
'I hope so. I wouldn't be able to find them, so they have to find me.'
'Maybe I should go with you.'
'Peter, you're too good. You'd scare them away.'
Peter shifted reluctantly.
Arkady said, 'Life can't be all fast cars and automatic weapons. You finally have a task worthy of you.'
'They'll kill you at the airport or on the way in. Revolutions are for settling scores. What's an extra body? At least here I can throw you in jail.'
'That sounds inviting.'
'We can keep you alive and extradite Albov and Gubenko.'
'No one has ever successfully extradited anyone from the Soviet Union. And who knows what government will be in place tomorrow? Max might be Minister of Finance and Gubenko might be Minister of Sport. Besides, if there's a decent investigation into Ali and his friends, I think you'll be glad I'm far away.'
A soft gong announced the last boarding call. Peter said, 'Germany goes straight downhill even time Russians show up.'
'And vice versa,' Arkady said.
'Remember, there's always a cell waiting for you in Munich.'
'Danke.'
'Be careful.'
Peter scanned the boarding queue as Arkady joined Stas and Irina. From halfway down the ramp, Arkady could see Peter's head over the crowd, still carrying out the duty of a rearguard. At last glimpse, Peter took a fresh grip on the shawl and slipped away.
The canvas bag fitted in the overhead compartment. Arkady sat on the aisle, Stas by the window, Irina in between. When they took off, Stas's face took on an even more ironic expression than usual. Irina held on to Arkady's arm. She looked exhausted, blank, not unhappy. Arkady thought the three of them resembled refugees so confused that they were going the wrong way.
A number of passengers seemed to be journalists and photographers burdened with hand luggage. No one wanted to spend two hours at baggage reclaim while a revolution was going on.
Stas said, 'The Emergency Committee starts off by saying Gorby's sick. Three hours later, one of the ringleaders drops from hypertension. This is a strange coup.'
'You don't have visas. What makes you think they'll let you off the plane?' Arkady asked.
Stas said, 'You think any reporter here has a proper visa? Irina and I have American passports. We'll see what happens when we get there. This is the biggest story of our lives. How could we pass it up?'
'Coup or no coup, you're on a list of state criminals. So is she. You could be arrested.'
'You're going,' Stas said.
'I'm Russian.'
Though Irina's voice was soft, it possessed finality. 'We want to go.'
Germany stretched below, not the straight roads and quilted farms of the West, but narrower, more winding lanes and shabbier fields the further east they flew.
Irina rested her head on Arkady's shoulder. The feel of her hair cushioned against his cheek was so normal it was overpowering, as if he were briefly travelling through an alternative life he had missed. He never wanted to come down.
Stas talked nervously, like a radio at low volume. 'Historically, revolutions kill the people at the top. And usually Russians overdo it. The Bolsheviks killed the ruling class and then Stalin killed the original Bolsheviks. But this time the only difference between Gorby's government and the coup is that Gorby isn't in it. Did you hear the complete statement of the Emergency Committee? They're seizing power to protect the people from, among other things, "sex, violence and glaring immorality". Meanwhile, troops keep moving into Moscow and people are erecting barricades to protect the White House.'
The White House was the Russian Parliament building on the river at the Red Presnya embankment. Presnya was an ancient neighbourhood given the honorific 'Red' for building barricades against the tsar.
Stas said, 'That won't stop tanks. What happened in Vilnius and Tbilisi were rehearsals. They'll wait until night. First they'll send in Internal troops with nerve gas and water cannons to disperse the crowd, and then KGB troops will storm the building. The Moscow commandant has printed three hundred thousand arrest forms, but the Committee doesn't want to use them. They expect people to see the tanks and slink away.'
Irina asked, 'What if Pavlov rang a bell and his dogs ignored him? They'd change history.'
'I'll tell you what else is strange,' Stas said. 'This is the longest I've ever seen so many journalists stay sober.'
Poland spread as dark as an ocean floor.
Food trolleys blocked the aisles. Cigarette smoke circulated along with theories. The army was moving already, to offer the world a fait accompli . The army would wait until dark to carry out its attack so that there would be fewer photographs. The Committee had the generals. The democrats had the Afghan vets. No one knew which way the young officers just back from Germany would lean.
'By the way,' Stas said, 'in the name of the Committee, City Prosecutor Rodionov has been rounding up businessmen and confiscating goods. Not all businessmen, just those against the Committee.'
&
nbsp; When Arkady closed his eyes, he wondered what kind of Moscow he was returning to. It was a rare day that offered so many possibilities.
Stas said, 'It's been so long. I have a brother I haven't seen in twenty years. We call once a year, at New Year's. He called this morning to tell me he was going to the Parliament building to defend it. He's a little fat man with kids. How is he going to stop a tank?'
'Do you think you can find him?' Arkady asked.
'He told me not to come. Can you imagine that?' Stas stared out of the window for a long while. Vapour had condensed into balls of water between the double panes. 'He said he'd wear a red ski cap.'
'What is Rikki doing?'
'Rikki went to Georgia. He put his mother, daughter, TV and VCR in his new BMW and they went tootling off. I knew he would. He's a lovely man.'
• • •
The closer they got to Moscow, the more Irina looked like the girl who had left it, like someone returning to a fire with a particular glow. As if the rest of the world were an unlit, interim place. As if she were coming back with a vengeance.
Arkady thought he could be swept up by her and follow. Happily, once he was done with Borya and Max.
How much of all this was his private score, to atone in some small measure for Rudy, Tommy and Jaak? The dead aside, how much was because of Irina? Dealing with Max wouldn't erase the years she had known him. He could call them émigré years, but seen from a height Russia was a nation of émigrés, inside and out. Everyone was compromised to some degree. Russia had a history of such confusion that when a few moments of clarity arrived, everyone naturally rushed to the event.
In any case, Max and Borya were more likely to be the thriving specimens of a new age than he was.
As they crossed into Soviet air space, Arkady expected the plane to be ordered to turn around. When they approached Moscow, he thought it would be directed to a military base, refuelled and sent home. When seat-belt signs lit, there was a general, last-second extinguishing of cigarettes.
Out of the window were the familiar low woods, power lines and grey-green fields that led to Sheremetyevo.
Stas held his breath like a man diving.
Irina held Arkady's hand as if she were the one bringing him home.
Part Four
MOSCOW
21 August 1991
Chapter Thirty-Seven
* * *
Arrival in Moscow was never a rose-strewn path, but this morning even the normal bleakness was accentuated. After Western lights, the baggage area was dark and cavernous, and Arkady wondered whether there had always been as much numbness in the faces, such a closed-down look to the eyes.
Michael Healey was waiting at the customs booths with a colonel of the Frontier Police. Radio Liberty's deputy director wore a trench coat of many belts and watched passengers through dark glasses. The Frontier Police was KGB; they wore green tunics with red tabs and faces screwed to perpetual suspicion.
Stas said, 'The winged shit must have taken the direct flight from Munich. Damn.'
'He can't stop us,' Irina said.
'Yes, he can.' Stas admitted. 'One word and the best that can happen to us is to be put back on the plane.'
Arkady said, 'I'm not going to let him take you back.'
'What are you going to do?' Stas asked.
'Let me talk to him. Just get in the queue.'
Stas hesitated. ''If we do get through, there's a car waiting to take us to the White House.'
'I'll meet you there,' Arkady said.
'You promise?' Irina asked.
In this setting, Irina's Russian seemed different, softer, with more dimensions. This was why beautiful ikons had plain frames.
'I'll be there.'
Arkady walked ahead to Michael, who followed his approach like a man pleased to find gravity working in his favour. The colonel seemed to be primed for more prosperous targets; he gave Arkady only passing notice.
Michael said, 'Renko. Good to be home? I'm afraid that Stas and Irina won't be able to stay. I have their tickets for the flight back to Munich.'
'You'd really point them out?' Arkady asked.
'They're ignoring orders. The station has paid them, fed them, housed them, and we're entitled to a little loyalty from them. I just want to make it clear to the colonel that Radio Liberty refuses any responsibility for them. They aren't assigned to this story.'
'They want to be here.'
'Then they're on their own and they can take their chances.'
'Are you going to cover the story?'
'I'm not a reporter, but I've been around reporters. I'll help.'
'You know Moscow?'
'I've been here before.'
'Where is Red Square?' Arkady asked.
'Everyone knows where Red Square is.'
Arkady said, 'You'd be surprised. A man here in Moscow got a fax just two weeks ago asking him, "Where is Red Square? "
Michael shrugged.
Ahead of Stas and Irina, photographers top-heavy with gear and hand luggage clattered forward. Stas slipped fifty-Deutschmark notes into his passport and Irina's.
Arkady said, 'The fax came from Munich. In fact, it came from Radio Liberty.'
'We have a number of facsimile machines,' Michael said.
'The message came from Ludmilla's machine. It was sent to a black-market speculator who happened to be dead, so I was the one who read it. It was in Russian.'
'I suppose it would be, a fax between two Russians.'
'That's what fooled me,' Arkady said. 'Thinking that it was between two Russians and that it was about Red Square.'
Michael seemed to have found something to chew on. His dark glasses maintained a smooth gaze, but his jaw was busy.
Arkady said, 'But just when you least expect it, Russians can be exact. For example, the fax asked where was 'Krassny Ploschad'? Now in English a square can be a place or a geometric figure, but in Russian the geometric figure is a quadrat. In the English language, Malevich painted Red Square. In Russian, he painted Krassny Quadrat. I didn't understand the message until I saw the painting.'
'What are you getting at?'
' "Where is Red Square the place?" makes no sense. "Where is Red Square the painting?" makes a great deal of sense when you're asking a man who thinks he will have the painting to sell. Ludmilla couldn't use the wrong word, no Russian could. Her office is next to yours, as I remember. In fact she works for you. How is your Russian, Michael?'
Siberians killed rabbits at night with torches and clubs. The rabbits would sit up and stare red-eyed at the beam until the club came down. Even through glasses, Michael had the transfixed attention of a rabbit. He said, 'All that proves is that whoever sent the fax thought the person on the other end was alive.'
'Absolutely,' Arkady agreed. 'It also proves that they were trying to deal with Rudy. Did Max put you and Rudy together?'
'There's nothing illegal about sending a fax.'
'No, but in your first message you asked Rudy about a finder's fee. You were trying to cut out Max completely.'
'It doesn't prove anything,' Michael said.
'Let's leave that up to Max. I'll show him the fax. It has Ludmilla's number on it.'
The customs queue shuffled forward again and Stas Kolotov, state criminal, stared directly through the glass at the officer, who compared eyes, ears, hairline, height to the picture in the passport, then riffled through the pages.
Arkady said, 'You know what happened to Rudy. It's not as if you'd be safer in Germany. Look what happened to Tommy.'
Stas got his passport back. Irina pushed her passport through the slot and presented a glare so defiant it invited arrest. The officer never noticed. After a professional frisk of the pages, her passport was returned and the queue moved forward.
'Michael, I don't think this is a time to call attention to yourself,' Arkady said. 'This is a time to ask, "What can I do for Renko, so that he won't tell Max?"
Despite Stas's urging, Irina stopped at the far
side of the booths. Arkady mouthed the word 'Go', and he and Michael watched Stas lead her through the exit.
It turned out that Michael did have something to say. 'Congratulations. Now that you got her in, she'll probably be killed. Just remember, you brought her back.'
'I know.'
A German television crew was negotiating the price of bringing in a video camera. The Emergency Committee, a colonel of customs informed them, had only that morning banned the transmission of video images by foreign reporters. The colonel accepted an informal bond of a hundred Deutschmarks to ensure that the crew didn't violate the Committee's laws. The other camera crews ahead of Arkady all had to make their own financial arrangements with customs and then race to their cars. Arkady's Soviet passport was a disappointment, a no sale.
Like a cashier, the customs officer just waved him through.
An open double door led to the waiting hall and a reception line of emotional families waving cellophane-wrapped bouquets. Arkady watched for dry-eyed men with heavy sports bags. Since Sheremetyevo's metal detectors were haphazardly manned, the only persons sure to be unarmed and unprotected were arriving passengers. He held the canvas bag to his chest and hoped that Rita's call saying that he had the painting had got through.
Arkady recognized a small figure in a raincoat sitting alone in a row of chairs halfway down the waiting hall. Polina was reading a newspaper – Pravda by the look of it. Not a difficult guess, he admitted, since most papers had been banned the day before. He stopped for a cigarette by the flight board. Amazing. Here was an entire nation that could go about its business and keep its eyes down. Maybe history was nothing but a microscope. How many people had actually stormed the Winter Palace? Everyone else was searching for bread, trying to stay warm, or getting drunk.
Polina pulled her hair away from her eyes to give Arkady a sharp glance, dropped her newspaper and marched out. Through the window, he watched her join a male friend who was sitting on a scooter at the curb. The friend came to attention and moved to the rear seat. Polina sat in front, stomped the starter pedal with more fury than weight and drove off.
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