«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.»
Lyudmilla Plaschka and Dr. Nastase were released from prison as soon as the magistrate who sentenced them could be located. This is a remarkable story in itself … but I can see that you wouldn't be interested. Lyudmilla Plaschka threatened to sue her husband, the court, the town, and the Duchy of Bornitz for a truly fascinating sum of money. Dr. Nastase must have prevailed, however, for she hired no lawyer, filed no claims, and shortly afterward disappeared with him in the general direction of New South Wales. I believe that a cousin of hers in Gradja received a postal card.
Volodya Andrichev was formally charged with any amount of undeniable transgressions and violations, none of which our two St. Radomir lawyers knew how to prosecute — or defend, either, if it came to that — so there was a good deal of general relief when he likewise vanished from sight, leaving neither a forwarding address nor any instructions as to what to do with his worldly goods. One of the lawyers attempted to take possession of his house, in payment for unpaid legal fees; but since no one could even guess what these might have been, the house eventually became the property of the Greater Bornitz Municipal Orchestra. It is specifically intended to accommodate visiting artists, but so far, to be quite candid … no, you aren't interested in that, either, are you? You only want information about Herr Sigerson.
Well, I grieve to disappoint you, but he too is gone. Oh, some while now — perhaps two months after Volodya Andrichev's disappearance. As it happens, I walked with him to catch the mail coach on which he had arrived in St. Radomir. I even carried his violin case, as I recall. Never friends, colleagues by circumstance, we had little to say to one another, but little need as well. What we understood of each other, we understood; the rest would remain as much a mystery as on that very first evening, and we were content to leave it so.
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.