The Line Between

Sigerson had the presence of mind to press a drink into his hand, while I sat just as slack–jawed as Lyudmilla Plaschka and Dr. Nastase themselves at the sight of the money they were accused of swindling from Lyudmilla's besotted husband. Andrichev peered around the glass at us in an odd, coy way, his eyes now glinting with a sly pride that I had never seen there before.

«Yes, revenge," he said again, clearly savoring the taste and smell and texture of the word. «Revenge, not for all the men, all the deceptions, all the silly little ruses, the childish lies — they are simply what she is. As well condemn a butterfly to live on yogurt as her to share the same bed forever. Her doctor will learn that soon enough.» And he smiled, tasting the thought.

The words, the reasoning, the sound — they were all so vastly removed from the Volodya Andrichev I was sure I knew that I still could not close my mouth. Sigerson appeared much cooler, nodding eagerly as Andrichev spoke, as though he were receiving confirmation of the success of some great gamble, instead of receiving proof positive that he and I had been thoroughly hoodwinked. He said, «The doctor made it different.»

Andrichev's face changed strikingly then, all the strong features seeming to crowd closer together, even the forehead drawing down. He repeated the word different as he had the word revenge, but the taste puckered his mouth. «That fool, that wicked fool! For that one, she would have left me, gone away forever. I had to stop her.»

But he sounded now as though he were reassuring himself that he had had no choice.

«The money," Sigerson prompted him gently. «That was indeed your money that I found in the steamer trunk?»

The furtively smug look returned to Andrichev's face, and he took a swig of his drink. «Oh, yes, every bit of it. Everything I could raise, no matter what I had to sell, or pawn, or beg, no matter how I had to live. The cello — that was hard for me, but not as hard as all of you thought. One can get another cello, but another Lyudmilla…» He fell silent for a moment, looking at the floor, then raised his eyes to us defiantly. «Not in this life. Not in my life. It had to be done.»

Nor will we find another such cellist, I thought bitterly and selfishly. Sigerson said, «It was you alone who spread the story of Frau Andrichev's chronic mortal illness. She and Dr. Nastase knew nothing.»

«Progorny was a great help there," Andrichev said proudly. «It was easy to circulate the tale, but difficult to keep it from reaching Lyudmilla's ears. Progorny is a real friend — " he looked directly at me for the first time " — though he will never be a real cellist. But I am happy that he has the Fabregas.»

I realized that I had been constantly shaking my head since he began speaking, unable truly to see this new Volodya Andrichev; trying to bring my mind into focus, if you will. I asked, lamely and foolishly, «Progorny put the money into the trunk lid, then?»

Andrichev snorted derisively. «No — when would he have the opportunity for that? The tickets under the woodpile, that was Progorny, but all the rest was my idea. The police were prepared to stop them on the road — " here his voice hesitated, and his mouth suddenly rumpled, as though he were about to cry " — just when they were thinking themselves safe and … and free.» He took another deep swallow. «But you two made that unnecessary. I had not counted on your interference, but it was the last touch to my plan. Having two such reputable, distinguished witnesses to their crime and their flight — even having one of them find the money— that closed the door behind them. That closed and locked the door.»

«Yes," Sigerson said softly. «And then, with your plan successful, your revenge accomplished, your faithless wife and her lover in prison, you attempted to kill yourself.» There was no question in his voice, and no accusation. He might have been reading a newspaper aloud.

«Oh," Andrichev said. «That.» He said nothing more for some while, nor did Sigerson. The kitchen remained so quiet that I could hear the tiny rasping sound of a mouse chewing on the pantry door. Andrichev finally stood up, swaying cautiously, like someone trying to decide whether or not he is actually drunk. He was no longer sweating so dreadfully, but his face was as white and taut as a sail trying to contain a storm. He said, «I do not want to live without her. I can, but I do not want to. The

revenge … it was not on her, but on myself. For loving her so. For loving her more than the music. That was the revenge.» Once again he held his hands out to Sigerson for invisible manacles. «Get her out of that place," he said. " Him, too. Get them out, and put me in. Now. Now.»