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.»
I may or may not be a forbidding personality; he could certainly, when he chose, be a far more commanding one than I had ever imagined. I would have opened any kit of mine to his inspection at that point. Dr. Nastase hesitated only a moment before he silently requested the key from Lyudmilla Plaschka and turned it in the dainty silver lock of the traveling case. I remember that he stepped back then, to allow her to open the lid herself. Love grants some men manners, and I still choose to believe that Dr. Nastase loved Volodya Andrichev's wife, rightly or wrongly.
There was no money in the traveling case. I looked, I was there. Nothing except a vast array of creams, lotions, salves, ointments, unguents, decoctions … the sort of things, my doddering brain finally deduced, that an anxious Juliet, some years the senior of her Romeo, might bring along on an elopement to retain the illicit magic of the relationship. I had only to glance at Lyudmilla Plaschka's shamed face for the truth of that.
To do Sigerson justice, his resolve never abated for an instant. He simply said, «By your leave," and began going through Dr. Nastase and Lyudmilla Plaschka's belongings just as though he had a legal right to do so. They stood silently watching him, somehow become bedraggled and forlorn, clinging together without touching or looking at each other. And I watched them all, as detached as the coachman: half–hoping that Sigerson would find the evidence that Volodya Andrichev had been viciously swindled by the person he loved most; with the rest of myself hoping … I don't know. I don't know what I finally hoped.
He found the money. A slab of notes the size of a brick; a small but tightly packed bag of coins; both tucked snugly into the false lid of a shabby steamer trunk, as were the tickets he had discovered earlier. The faithless wife and the devious doctor gaped in such theatrically incredulous shock that it seemed to make their culpability more transparent. They offered no resistance when Sigerson took them by the arm, gently enough, and ordered the coachman to take us back to town.
At the police station they made formal protest of their innocence; but they seemed so dazed with disbelief that I could see it registering as guilt and shame with the constables on duty. They were placed in a cell — together, yes, how many cells do you think we have in St. Radomir? — and remanded for trial pending the arrival of the traveling magistrate, who was due any day now. The doctor, ankles manacled, hobbled off with his warder without a backward glance; but Lyudmilla Plaschka — herself unchained — turned to cast Sigerson and me a look at once proud and pitiful. She said aloud, " You know what we have done, and what we did not do. You cannot evade your knowledge.» And she walked away from us, following Dr. Nastase.
Sigerson and I went home. When we parted in front of my house, I said, «A wretched, sorry business. I grieve for everyone involved. Including ourselves.» Sigerson nodded without replying. I stood looking after him as he started on toward the Widow Ridnak's. His hands were clasped behind him, his high, lean shoulders stooped, and he was staring intently at the ground.
Our tour began the next day — we did well in Gradja, very well in Print, decently in Srikeldt, Djindji, Gavric and Bachacni, and dreadfully in Boskvila, as always. I cannot tell you why I still insist on scheduling us to perform in Boskvila every year, knowing so much better, but it should tell you at least something about me.
But even in foul Boskvila, Volodya Andrichev played better than I had ever heard him. I detest people who are forever prattling about art in terms of human emotions, but there was certainly a new — not power, not exactly warmth, but a kind of deep, majestic heartbeat, if you will — to his music, and so to all of ours as well. He said nothing to anyone about his wife's arrest with her lover, nor did anyone — including Sigerson and his friend Progorny — ask him any questions, nor speak to him at all, except in praise. We did not see St. Radomir again for a week and a half, and the moment we arrived Andrichev tried to commit suicide.
No, no, not the precise moment, of course not, nor did it occur just as the wagons rolled past the town limits. Nor did anyone recognize his action for what it was, except Sigerson. As though he had been waiting for exactly this to happen, he leaned swiftly forward almost before Andrichev toppled over the side in a fall that would have landed him directly under our team's hooves and our wagon's iron–bound wheels. A one–armed scoop, a single grunt, and Andrichev was sprawling at our feet before the rest of the company had drawn breath to cry out. Sigerson looked down at him and remarked placidly, «Come now, Herr Andrichev, we did not play that poorly in Boskvila.» The incipient screams were overtaken by laughter, quickly dissolving any suggestion of anything more sinister than an accident. At the livery stable, before shambling away, Andrichev thanked Sigerson gruffly, apologizing several times for his clumsiness. It was early in the evening, and I remember that a few snowflakes were beginning to fall, a very few, twinkling for an instant in his mustache.