The Line Between

None of us ever saw Lyudmilla Plaschka at all anymore — the doctor, a Romanian named Nastase, kept her quarantined in all but name — but we read her worsening condition, and the wasteful uselessness of each new treatment, in Andrichev's face. He shrank before our eyes, that bear, that ox, call him what you like; he hollowed and hunched until there seemed to be nothing more to him than could be found inside his cello. Less, because the Fabregas, and even the DeLuca, made music of their emptiness, and Andrichev's sound — there it is again, always the sound — grew thinner, dryer, more distant, like the cry of a lone cricket in a desert. I still squirm with bitter shame to recall how hard it became for me to look at him, as though his despair were somehow my doing. My only defense is that we were all like that with him then, all except his comrade Progorny. And Sigerson, remote and secretive as ever, who, nevertheless, made a point of complimenting his playing after each performance. I should have done that, honesty be damned — I know I should have. Perhaps that is why the memory of that man still irritates me, even now.

Then, one late summer afternoon, with Sigerson's comment, «We are more alike than you may think, Herr Takesti," continuing to plague me, I determined to pay a call on Lyudmilla Plaschka myself. I even brought flowers, not out of sympathy, but because flowers (especially a damp, slightly wilted fistful) generally get you admitted everywhere. I must say I do enjoy not lying to you.

Andrichev's house, which looked much as he had in the good days — disheveled but sturdy — was located in the general direction of the Widow Ridnak's farm, but set some eight miles back into the barley fields, where the dark hills hang over everything like thunderheads ripe with rain. I arrived just in time to see Dr. Nastase — a youngish, strongly built man, a bit of a dandy, with a marked Varna accent — escorting a tattered, odorous beggar off the property, announcing

vigorously, «My man, I've told you before, we're not having your sort here. Shift yourself smartly, or I'll set the dogs on you!» A curious sort of threat, I remember thinking at the time, since the entire dog population of the place consisted only of Lyudmilla's fat, flop–eared spaniel, who could barely be coaxed to harass a cat, let alone a largish beggar. The man mumbled indistinct threats, but the doctor was implacable, shoving him through the gate, latching and locking it, and warning him, «No more of this, sir, do you understand me? Show your face here again, and you'll find the police taking an interest in your habits. Do you understand?» The beggar indicated that he did, and meandered off, swearing vague, foggy oaths, as Dr. Nastase turned to me, all welcoming smiles now.

«Herr Takesti, it must be? I am so happy and honored to meet you, I can hardly find the words. Frau Lyudmilla speaks so highly of you — and as for Herr Andrichev…» And here he literally kissed his fingertips, may I be struck dead by lightning this minute if I lie. The last person I saw do such a thing was a Bucharest chef praising his own veal cutlets.

«I came to see Frau Lyudmilla," I began, but the doctor anticipated me, cutting me off like a diseased appendix.

«Alas, maestro, I cannot permit sickroom visits at the present time. You must understand, her illness is of a kind that can so very, very easily be tipped over into — " here he shrugged delicately " — by the slightest disturbance, the least suggestion of disorder. With diseases of this nature, a physician walks a fine line — like a musician, if you will allow me — between caution and laxity, overprotectiveness and plain careless negligence. I choose to err on the side of vigilance, as I am sure you can appreciate.»

There was a good deal more in this vein. I finally interrupted him myself, saying, «In other words, Frau Lyudmilla is to receive no visitors but her husband. And perhaps not even he?» Dr. Nastase blushed — very slightly, but he had the sort of glassy skin that renders all emotions lucid — and I knew what I knew. And so, I had no doubt, did Volodya Andrichev, and his business was his business, as always. I handed over my flowers, left an earnest message, and then left myself, hurrying through the fields to catch up with that beggar. There was something about his bleary yellowish eyes…

Oh, but he was positively furious! It remains the only time I ever saw him overtaken by any strong emotion, most particularly anger. «How did you know?» he kept demanding. «I must insist that you tell me — it is more important than you can imagine. How did you recognize me?»

I put him off as well as I could. «It is hard to say, Herr Sigerson. Just a guess, really — call it an old man's fancy, if you like. I could as easily have been wrong.»

He shook his head impatiently. «No, no, that won't do at all. Herr Takesti, for a variety of reasons, which need not concern us, I have spent a great deal of time