This night, for some unspoken reason, I passed up my own house and walked on silently with Sigerson, all the way to the Ridnak farm. The Widow and her sons were already asleep. Sigerson invited me into the back kitchen, poured us each a glass of the Widow's homebrewed kvass, and we toasted each other at the kitchen table, all without speaking. Sigerson finally said, «A sorry business indeed, Herr Takesti. I could wish us well out of it.»
«But surely we are," I answered him, «out and finished, and at least some kind of justice done. The magistrate has already passed sentence — three years in prison for the woman, five for the man, as the natural instigator of the plot — and the money will be restored to Volodya Andrichev within a few days. A miserable matter, beyond doubt — but not without a righteous conclusion, surely.»
Sigerson shook his head, oddly reluctantly, it seemed to me. «Nothing would please me better than to agree with you, concertmaster. Yet something about this affair still disturbs me, and I cannot bring it forward from the back of my mind, into the light. The evidence is almost absurdly incontrovertible — the culprits are patently guilty — everything is properly tied–up … and still, and still, something…» He fell silent again, and we drank our kvass and I watched him as he sat with his eyes closed and his fingertips pressed tightly against each other. For the first time in some while — for there is nothing to which one cannot become accustomed — I remembered to be irritated by that habit of his, and all the solitary self–importance that it implied. And even so, I understood also that this strange man had not been placed on earth solely to puzzle and provoke me; that he had a soul and a struggle like the rest of us. That may not seem to you like a revelation, but it was one to me, and it continues so.
How long we might have remained in that farm kitchen, motionless, unspeaking, sharing nothing but that vile bathtub brandy, it is impossible to say. The spell was broken when Sigerson, with no warning, was suddenly on his feet and to one side, in the same motion, flattening his back against the near wall. I opened my mouth, but Sigerson hushed me with a single fierce gesture. Moving as slowly as a lizard stalking a moth, he eased himself soundlessly along the wall, until he was close enough to the back door to whip it open with one hand, and with the other seize the bulky figure on the threshold by the collar and drag it inside, protesting, but not really resisting. Sigerson snatched off the man's battered cap and stepped back, for all the world like an artist unveiling his latest portrait. It was Volodya Andrichev.
«Yes," Sigerson said. «I thought perhaps it might be you.» For a moment Andrichev stood there, breathing harshly, his blue eyes gone almost black in his pale, desperate face. Then with dramatic abruptness he thrust his hands towards Sigerson, crossing them at the wrists and whispering, «Arrest me. You must arrest me now.»
«Alas, all my manacles are old and rusted shut," Sigerson replied mildly. «However, there is some drink here which should certainly serve the same purpose. Sit down with us, Herr Andrichev.»
A commanding person, as I have said, but one who did not seem to command. Andrichev fell into a kitchen chair as limply as he had rolled out of the wagon, only an hour or two before. He was sweating in great, thick drops, and he looked like a madman, but his eyes were clear. He said, «They should not be in prison. I am the one. You must arrest me. I have done a terrible, terrible thing.»
I said firmly, «Andrichev, calm yourself this instant. I have known you for a long time. I do not believe you capable of any evil. Drunkenness, yes, and occasional vulgarity of attack when we play Schubert. Spite, vindictiveness, cruelty — never.»
«No, no one ever believes that of me," he cried out distractedly. «I know how I am seen: good old Volodya — a bit brusque, perhaps, a bit rough, but a fine fellow when you really get to know him. A heart of gold, and a devil of a cellist, but all he ever thinks of is music, music and vodka. The man couldn't plan a picnic — let alone a revenge.»
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.»