The Line Between

A full rehearsal was scheduled for the following night; I elected to cancel it entirely, rather than abridge it, musicians being easily distressed by interruptions in routine. There were some questions, some grumbling, but nothing I could not fob off with partial explanations. Sigerson and I were at the livery stable by ten o'clock, and it was still some minutes before eleven when the caleche drew up before the Andrichev house and the coachman blew his horn to announce our arrival.

The luggage was already on the threshold, as was an impatient Lyudmilla Plaschka, clad in sensible gray traveling skirt and shirtwaist, cleverly choosing no hat but a peasant's rough shawl, to hide her hair and shadow her features. She had, however, been unable to resist wearing what must have been her best traveling cloak, furred richly enough for a Siberian winter; it must have cost Volodya Andrichev six months' pay. She looked as eager as a child bound for a birthday party, but I truly felt my heart harden, watching her.

I stepped down from the caleche on the near side, Sigerson on the other, as Dr. Nastase came through the door. He was dressed even more nattily than usual, from his shoes — which even I could recognize as London–made — to his lambswool Russian–style hat. When he saw us — and the coachman on his box, leaning forward as though waiting like any theatregoer for the curtain to rise — he arched his eyebrows, but only said mildly, «I understood that this was to be a private carriage.»

«And so it is indeed," Sigerson answered him, his own voice light and amused. «But the destination may not be entirely to your liking, Doctor.» He came around the coach, moving very deliberately, as though trying not to startle a wild animal. He went on, «I am advised that the cuisine of the St. Radomir jail is considered — " he paused to ponder the mot juste, " — questionable.»

Dr. Nastase blinked at him, showing neither guilt nor fear, but only the beginning of irritation. «I do not understand you.» Lyudmilla Plaschka put him aside, smoothly enough, but quite firmly, and came forward to demand, «Just what is your business here? We have no time for you.» To the coachman she snapped, «The price we agreed on does not include other passengers. Take up our baggage and let them walk home.»

The coachman spat tobacco juice and stayed where he was. Sigerson said, speaking pointedly to her and ignoring the doctor, «Madam, you know why we are here. The hospice is closed; the masquerade is over. You would be well–advised to accompany us peaceably to the police station.»

I have known people whose consciences were almost unnaturally clean look guiltier than they. Lyudmilla Plaschka faltered, «Police station? Are you the police? But what have we done?»

My confidence wavered somewhat itself at those words — she might have been a schoolgirl wrongfully accused of cribbing the answers to an examination — but Sigerson remained perfectly self–assured. «You are accused of defrauding your husband of a large sum of money by feigning chronic, incurable illness, and of attempting further to flee the country with your ill–gotten gains and your lover. Whatever you have to say to this charge, you may say to the authorities.» And he stepped up to take her arm, for all the world as though he were an authority himself.

Dr. Nastase rallied then, indignantly striking Sigerson's hand away before it had ever closed on Lyudmilla Plaschka's elbow. «You will not touch her!» he barked. «It is true that we have long been planning to elope, to begin our new life together in a warmer, more open land — " the elbow found his ribs at that point, but he pressed on " — but at no time did we ever consider cheating Volodya Andrichev out of a single dinar, zloty, ruble, or any other coin. We are leaving tonight with nothing but what is in my purse at this moment, and supported by nothing but my medical talents, such as they are, and Frau Andrichev's vocal gifts. By these we will survive, and discover our happiness.»

Yes, yes, I know — he was not only an adulterer and a betrayer, but a very bad orator as well. And all the same, I could not help admiring him, at least at the time. Even bad orators can be sincere, and I could not avoid the troubling sense that this man meant what he was saying. It did not seem to trouble Sigerson, who responded coolly, «I will not contradict you, Dr. Nastase. I will merely ask you to open the small traveling case next to Lyudmilla Plaschka's valise — that one there, yes. If you will? Thank you.»