The Line Between

perfecting the arts of concealment. Camouflage lies not nearly so much in costumes, cosmetics — such as the drops in my eyes that make them appear rheumy and degenerate — but in the smallest knacks of stance, bearing, movement, the way one speaks or carries oneself. I can stride like a Russian prince, if I must, or shuffle as humbly as his ostler — " and he promptly demonstrated both gaits to me, there in the muddy barley fields. «Or whine like a drunken old beggar, so that that scoundrel of a doctor never took me for anything but what he saw. Yet you…» and here he simply shook his head, which told me quite clearly his opinion of my perceptiveness. «I must know, Herr Takesti.»

«Well," I said. I took my time over it. «No matter what concoction you may put in your eyes, there is no way to disguise their arrogance, their air — no, their knowledge —of knowing more than other people. It's as well that you surely never came near Lyudmilla Plaschka, looking like that. That doctor may be a fool, but she is none.» It was cruel of me, but I was unable to keep from adding, «And even a woodwind would have noticed those fingernails. Properly filthy, yes — but so perfectly trimmed and shaped? Perhaps not.» It was definitely cruel, and I enjoyed it very much.

The head–shake was somewhat different this time. «You humble me, Herr Takesti," which I did not believe for a minute. Then the head came up with a positive flirt of triumph. «But I did indeed see our invalid Lyudmilla Plaschka. That much I can claim.»

It was my turn to gape in chagrin. «You did ? Did she see you ?» He laughed outright, as well he should have: a short single cough. «She did, but only for a moment — not nearly long enough for my arrogant eyes to betray me. There is a cook, especially hired by Dr. Nastase to prepare nutritious messes for his declining patient. A kindly woman, she let me into the kitchen and prepared me a small but warming meal — decidedly unhealthy, bless her fat red hands. When her attention was elsewhere, I took the opportunity to explore that area of the house, and was making a number of interesting discoveries when Lyudmilla Plaschka came tripping brightly along the corridor — not wrapped in a nightgown, mind you, nor in a snug, padded bed–jacket, but dressed like any hearty country housewife on her way to requisition a snack between meals. She screamed quite rightly when she noticed me, and I was rather hurriedly removing myself from the premises when I ran into the good doctor.» He made the laugh–sound again. «The rest, obviously, you know.»

I was still back at the moment of the encounter. «Tripping? Brightly?»

«Frau Plaschka," Sigerson said quietly, «is no more ill than you or I.» He paused, deliberately theatrical, savoring my astonishment, and went on, «It is plain that with her lover, Dr. Nastase, she has conceived a plan to milk Volodya Andrichev of every penny he has, to cure her of her non–existent affliction. Perhaps she will induce him to sell the house — if he has sold his cello for her sake, anything is possible. You would understand this better than I.»

A sop to my own vanity, that last, but I paid it no heed. «I cannot believe that she

that anyone could do such a thing. I will not believe it.»

Sigerson sighed and, curiously enough, the sound was not in the least contemptuous. «I envy you, Herr Takesti. I truly envy all those who can set limits to their observation, who can choose what they will believe. For me, this is not possible. I have no choice but to see what is before me. I have no choice.» He meant it, too — I never doubted that — and yet I never doubted either that he would ever have chosen differently.

«But why?» I felt abysmally stupid merely asking the question. I knew why well enough, and still I had to say it. «Andrichev is the most devoted husband I have ever seen in my life. Lyudmilla Plaschka will never find anyone to love her as he does. Can she not see that?»

Sigerson did not reply, but only looked steadily at me. I think that was actually a compliment. I said slowly, «Yes. I know. Some people cannot bear to be loved so. I know that, Herr Sigerson.»

We became allies in that moment; the nearest thing to friends we ever could have become. Sigerson still said nothing, watching me. I said, «This is unjust. This is worse than a crime. They must be stopped, and they should be punished. What shall we do?»

«Wait," Sigerson said, simply and quietly. «We wait on circumstance and proper evidence. If we two — and perhaps one or two others — set ourselves to watch over that precious pair at all times, there is little chance of their making the slightest move without our knowledge. A little patience, Herr Takesti, patience and vigilance.» He touched my shoulder lightly with his fingertips, the only time I can recall even so small a gesture of intimacy from him. «We will have them. A sad triumph, I grant you, but we will have them yet. Patience, patience, concertmaster.»