Peter Beagle - The Line Between

We were silent during most of the wait for his train, until he said abruptly, «I would like you to know, Herr Takesti, that I will remember my time here with both affection and amusement — but also with a certain embarrassment.» When I expressed my perplexity, he went on, «Because of the Andrichev matter. Because I was deceived.»

«So was I," I replied. «So was the entire orchestra — so was everyone with any knowledge of the business.» But Sigerson shook his head, saying, «No, concertmaster, it is different for me. It is just different.»

«And that is exactly why I recognized you in your beggar's disguise," I responded with some little heat. «It is always somehow different for you, and that so–called difference will always show in your eyes, and in everything you do. How could you

possibly have guessed the secret of Volodya Andrichev's revenge on his wife and her lover? What is it that you expect of yourself, Herr Oscar Sigerson? What — who —are you supposed to be in this world?»

We heard the train whistle, so distant yet that we could not see the smoke rising on the curve beyond the Ridnak farm. He said, «You know a little of my thought, Herr Takesti. I have always believed that when one eliminates the impossible, what remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth, the one solution of the problem. In this case, however, it turned out the other way around. I will be considering the Andrichev matter for a long time to come.»

The train pulled in, and we bowed to each other, and Sigerson swung aboard, and that is the last I ever saw of him. The mail coach runs to and from Bucharest; beyond that, I have no idea where he was bound. I am not sure that I would tell you if I did know. You ask a few too many questions, and there is something wrong

with your accent. Sigerson noticed such things.

* * *

A Dance for Emilia

For Nancy, Peter and Jessa, And for Joe

First published as a small standalone gift book several years ago, I am pleased to see «A Dance for Emilia» in wider circulation at last. This is the story within these pages that means the most to me. It's fiction, certainly, and very much a fantasy in its nature; but it's also as autobiographical as anything I've ever written, and it was born out of mourning for my closest friend, who died in 1994. His name was Joe Mazo, and we did meet in a high–school drama class, as Jake, the narrator, and his friend Sam do. But Joe was a frustrated actor, not a dancer (just as l'm a writer who, like most writers, would love to be a performer), and who became in fact a well–known dance critic and the author of three highly respected and influential books on modern dance. Jake and Sam's daily lives are as different from Joe's and mine as they were meant to be; but the relationship between them is as close to the way things were as I could write it. As for the original of Emilia, I couldn't really do justice to her, and her love for Joe, but I tried my best.

The Cat. The cat is doing what? Believe me, it's no good to tell you. You have to see. Emilia, she's old. Old cats get really weird sometimes. Not like this. You have to see, that's all.

You're serious. You're going to put Millamant in a box, a case, and bring her all the way to California, just for me to … When are you coming? I thought Tuesday. I'm due ten days'sick leave…

No. This isn't how you do it. This isn't how you talk about Sam and Emilia and yourself. And Millamant. You've got hold of the wrong end, same as usual. Start from the beginning. For your own sake, tell it, just write it down the way it was, as far as you'll ever know. Start with the answering machine. That much you're sure about, anyway…

The machine was twinkling at me when I came home from the Pacific Rep's last–but–one performance of The Iceman Cometh. I ignored it. You can live with things like computers, answering gadgets, fax machines, even email, but they have to know their place. I hung up my coat, checked the mail, made myself a drink, took it and the newspaper over to the one comfortable chair I've got, sank down in it, drank my usual toast to our lead — who is undoubtedly off playing Hickey in Alaska today, feeding wrong cues to a cast of polar bears — and finally hit the play button.

«Jacob, it's Marianne. In New York.» I only hear from Marianne Hooper at Christmas these days, but we've known each other a long time, in the odd, offhand way of theater people, and there's no mistaking that husky, incredibly world–weary sound — she's been making a fortune doing voice–overs for the last twenty years. There was a pause. Marianne could always get more mileage out of a well–timed pause than Jack Benny. I raised my glass to the answering machine.

«Jacob, I'm so sorry, I hate to be the one to tell you. Sam was found dead in his apartment last night. I'm so sorry.» It didn't mean anything. It bounced off me— it didn't mean anything. Marianne went on. «People at the magazine got worried when he didn't come in to work, didn't answer the phone for two days. They finally broke into the apartment.» The famous anonymous voice was trembling now. «Jacob, I'm so terribly … Jacob, I can't do this anymore, on a machine. Please call me.» She left her number and hung up.

I sat there. I put my drink down, but otherwise I didn't move. I sat very still where I was, and I thought, There's been a mistake. It's his turn to call me on Saturday, I called last week. Marianne's made a mistake. I thought, Oh, Christ, the cat, Millamant — who's feeding Millamant? Those two, back and forth, over and over.

I don't know how late it was when I finally got up and phoned Marianne, but I know I woke her. She said, «I called you last. I called his parents before I could make myself call you.»

«He was just here," I said. «In July, for God's sake. He was fine.» I had to heave the words up one at a time, like prying stones out of a wall. «We went for walks.»

«It was his heart.» Marianne's voice was so toneless and uninflected that she sounded like someone else. «He was in the bathroom — he must have just come home from Lincoln Center — "

«The Schonberg. He was going to review that concert Moses and Aron — "

«He was still wearing his gangster suit, the one he always wore to openings — "

I was with him when he bought that stupid, enviable suit. I said, «The Italian silk thing. I remember.»

Marianne said, «As far as they — the police — as far as anyone can figure, he came home, fed the cat, kicked off his shoes, went into the bathroom and — and died.»

She was crying now, in a hiccupy, totally unprofessional way. «Jacob, they think it was instant. I mean, they don't think he suffered at all.»

I heard myself say, «I never knew he had a heart condition. Secretive little fink, he never told me.»

Marianne managed a kind of laugh. «I don't think he ever told anyone. Even his mother and father didn't know.»

«The cigarettes," I said. «The goddamn cigarettes. He was here last summer, trying to cut down — he said his doctor had scared the hell out of him. I just thought, lung cancer, he's afraid of getting cancer. I never thought about his heart, I'm such an idiot. Oh, God, I have to call them, Mike and Sarah.»

«Not tonight, don't call them tonight.» She'd been getting the voice back under control, but now it went again. «They're in shock; I did it to them, don't you. Wait till morning. Call them in the morning.»

My mouth and throat were so dry they hurt, but I couldn't pick up my drink again. I said, «What's being done? You have to notify people, the police. I don't even know if he had a will. Where's the — where is he now?»

«The police have the body, and the apartment's closed. Sealed — it's what they do when somebody dies without a witness. I don't know what happens next. Jacob, can you please come?»