Peter Beagle - The Line Between

«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

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.»

And so we did wait, well into the fall, and we did trap them, inevitably: not like Aphrodite and Ares, in a golden net of a celestial cuckold's designing, but in the tangled, sweated sheets of their own foolishness. Lyudmilla Plaschka and her doctor never once suspected that they were under constant observation, if not by Sigerson and myself, what time we could spare from music, then by a gaggle of grimy urchins, children of local transients. Sigerson said that he had often employed such unbuttoned, foul–mouthed waifs in a similar capacity in other situations. I never doubted him. These proved, not only punctual and loyal, but small fiends for detail. Dr. Nastase's preferred hour for visiting his mistress (married himself, there were certain constraints on his mobility); Frau Andrichev's regular bedtime routine, which involved a Belgian liqueur and a platter of marzipan; even Volodya's customary practice schedule, and the remarks that he grumbled to himself as he tuned his cello — they had it all, not merely the gestures and the words, but the expression with which the words were pronounced. They could have gathered evidence for the Recording Angel, those revolting brats.