The Mastersinger from Minsk

by Morley Torgov

  To Anna Pearl, Sarah Jane and Douglas,

  Carrie, Benjamin, Sydney Allison, Rebecca, and Marshall

  And in memory of Alexander Penn Torgov

  Prologue

  It must have struck the composer, the conductor, the chorusmaster, the stage director, the house manager, even the old impresario Mecklenberg who thought he’d seen and heard everything in his time — all of them solemnly assembled side-by-side in red, plush seats in the front row of the orchestra section — that what they were about to witness up there on the bare stage was nothing short of a medieval duel: two titans prepared to face each other at full tilt in mortal combat. Each combatant was a tenor; even in the dimness of the place (the house lights were only partly on) there was about each of them the enviable radiance of youth, physical strength, ambition, and readiness. Each hoped and silently prayed that when this was over he would be the one given the sign — an imperial nod from the man seated at the centre of that stern-faced company down there in the front row.

  To the tenor so touched by fortune would go the leading role in the composer’s new and long-awaited opera. To the other, the loser (if one could be said to be a loser in such auspicious circumstances), would go the secondary role, that of the character doomed to an ignoble downfall at the opera’s tumultuous climax. At the composer’s insistence, for this occasion the audition pianist had been discharged; the two tenors were to sing without the benefit of accompaniment, the better to test their ability to thread their way through the unconventional vocal twists and turns and changes of key which made the song assigned to them for this occasion unlike any other they had ever sung or dreamt they would be called upon to sing.

  The older of the two singers was stocky and broad-chested. Barely thirty, he was a bit on the portly side for a man of his years, but there were compensations: flaxen hair down to his shoulders, silvery-blue eyes, a light-skinned and fresh complexion. Almost perfect. Almost exactly what the composer envisioned when he conceived the part.

  The other candidate was taller, his figure carved like that of a Roman statue. Dark hair and blackish brown eyes set in an olive-skinned face were certainly the opposite of what the composer had in mind. His brief resumé gave his age as twenty-six; it contained only scant details of his career to date.

  Both singers performed with supreme confidence, even brilliance, the older of the two singing first in recognition of his seniority. Each exhibited the voice of a true heldentenor. Given the peculiarities of the music, the few flaws that were heard — the odd flatness or sharpness, perhaps a wrong inflection — were understandable (though to be sure the composer would have made a mental note of each slip, no matter how minor).

  So it would be close. Less than a heartbeat would separate the two when the choice was made.

  When the audition concluded, all eyes quickly turned to the composer. By his own tyrannical decree it was he and he alone who had the final word on every detail from the buckles on the choristers’ shoes to the colour of the sky on the painted backdrops to the most important detail of all — the casting of the principal roles and, in particular, the principal tenor role upon which the success, or failure, of the new opera would depend.

  The conductor, seated closest to the composer, dared to lean toward him to offer a whispered suggestion, only to be stifled with a dismissive wave of the composer’s hand. The others in the front row knew better than to venture their opinions. On the stage stood the tenors, maintaining a respectful and somewhat cautious distance from each other, their bodies rigid, their expressions tense.

  For a moment or two there was nothing but dead silence.

  Suddenly, startling everyone, the composer sprang from his seat. He was beaming, even ecstatic, as though he’d seen a miracle. “Henryk Schramm! Henryk Schramm!” He shouted the name over and over again, his voice echoing across the vast empty auditorium. Motioning excitedly for the young singer to advance to the apron of the stage, he called out, “You … you are my Walther von Stolzing, Schramm! Why have I not heard of you before? Never mind, Schramm, God Himself sent you here!” Still excited, the composer turned to the stage director. “The hair’s too dark, of course; he’ll need a blond wig. The eyes we can do nothing about, but the skin tone must be lightened. His height is just right, so the heels of his boots won’t need building up. And no padding in the shoulders of his costumes. The man’s got the physique if not the face of a true Franconian knight!” The stage director did not bother to agree or disagree. After all, what was the point?

  The composer shot a steely glance at the impresario. “What are you waiting for, Mecklenberg?” he demanded. “I want a contract for this man ready for signature before I leave for lunch.”

  The victorious tenor took a step forward. “Maestro Wagner?” His voice was timid, a far cry from the voice with which, only minutes earlier, he had won the coveted lead role. The composer didn’t appear to have heard him, so he repeated, a bit more forcefully, “Maestro —?”

  The composer swung around to glare at the singer. It occurred to Schramm that the man he was looking down at from the stage — a man considered (grudgingly by some, admiringly by others) the musical giant of the century — was anything but a physical giant. If anything prominent stood out, it was, of all things, his chin, a sharp outcropping of skin and bone which, combined with the fierceness of his eyes, was enough to discourage any form of challenge to his authority, even from men who towered over him in body or in rank. His mouth was a simple slit unsoftened by lips. Everything converged around a hawk-like nose. Taken together, the features of his face left a large question as to whether he had ever been a child, or laughed, or made love.

  “Well, what is it, Schramm?” the Maestro snapped. That was something the young tenor would have to learn: Maestro Richard Wagner was not accustomed to being interrupted. “Well, speak up.”

  “I just wanted to thank you for —”

  Wagner cut him off. “You can thank me by singing the ‘Prize Song’ on the night of the premiere the way you sang it here this morning; only better, of course.”

  To the other tenor, the older and shorter one, now waiting awkwardly off to one side of the stage, Wagner announced, “You will do nicely for the role of Beckmesser, Grilling.”

  Wolfgang Grilling was not pleased, nor was he able to conceal his displeasure. “But Maestro,” he said, coming forward, “with all due respect, may I remind you that you yourself chose me to sing the role of Erik in The Flying Dutchman just two summers ago in Dresden. Surely —”

  “Surely what? Do you want the part of Beckmesser or not, Grilling? Yes or no?”

  “But the simple fact is —”

  Again Wagner cut in. “The simple fact, Grilling, is that I have spent sixteen years of my life giving birth to this opera. It is my career, not yours, that is at stake. Do you understand? For the last time, then, yes or no?”

  Grilling replied with a sullen yes, then glared at his manager cowering in the shadows. The manager responded with a hapless shrug as if to say One might just as well argue with the wind.

  It was an effort for Wagner to climb the half-dozen steep steps to the stage. The early spring dampness which seeped into Munich’s ancient buildings, including the opera house, also found its way into Wagner’s bones, moving him to mutter curses as he completed the ascent and hobbled to centre stage. Once there, however, he was every inch in command.

  What followed had all the pomp and import of a royal proclamation. “I want everyone’s attention,” he began, pausing until he was satisfied that the hall was as quiet as a tomb. He continued: “I have concluded all the necessary arrangements with management. The first performance of Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg will be given here, in Munich
, on the evening of June twenty-first —” He paused again, then added “in the year of our Lord 1868,” as though somehow this mention of the divine lent extra significance to the scheduled date. “This means we have barely three months to prepare for the premiere. I will be putting the finishing touches to the libretto and score over the next several days, following which rehearsals will commence promptly at nine o’clock in the morning one week from today. Of course the solo and choral parts will rehearse at first with piano accompaniment only, but in the meantime I shall expect the orchestra to be thoroughly prepared by the beginning of the second week of May.”

  Wagner planted a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez onto the narrow bridge of his nose and squinted down at Hans von Bülow, the conductor. “Is that understood, von Bülow?”

  The conductor edged forward in his seat and seemed about to question the feasibility of Wagner’s plans; then, obviously having second thoughts, he sank back, resigned. “Understood, Maestro,” von Bülow replied, sounding as though he were an ordinary foot soldier about to die for king and country.

  Like a field marshal, Wagner barked, “Schramm, stay, I want a word with you. The rest may go. Remember … one week today, here, nine in the morning … sharp. That is all.”

  Wolfgang Grilling, clutching the music for the ‘Prize Song’ in one hand, used the other to scoop up his cloak from a nearby stool. Passing in front of his rival he paused long enough to murmur, “Good luck, Schramm. Believe me, you’re going to need it!”

  Once the others had departed, leaving Wagner and Schramm alone on the stage, everything about the composer seemed suddenly to soften, his face, even his voice. Clearly intrigued by the young tenor, he asked: “Why am I not in the least familiar with you, Schramm? Your resumé states that you’ve sung in several foreign cities … Prague, Budapest, even Moscow of all places! I cannot imagine that it stops snowing long enough in Moscow for a singer to utter a sound! How did you manage in Russia?”

  “Alas, Maestro,” Schramm said, pretending to be crestfallen, “like Napoleon, I retired half-frozen and fully defeated.”

  For the first time the composer broke into a laugh, reminding Schramm of the sudden collapse of a stone wall. Just as suddenly, Wagner’s expression tightened into a serious scowl. “You know how much the success of Die Meistersinger means to me, Schramm. There were one or two rough edges in your performance of the ‘Prize Song’ this morning … nothing serious, mind you … but we’ll work on it together, you and I, until it’s perfect. I trust you appreciate how much depends on you now.” Laying a fatherly hand on the tenor’s shoulder, Wagner issued his final order of the day: “Now go rest that golden voice of yours, Henryk Schramm.”

  He had nothing to eat prior to the audition and was starved. After lunch (his first experience with sauerbraten … these robust German midday meals would take some getting used to) Henryk Schramm wrapped himself in a heavy woollen cape and, feeling restored, strode briskly from the restaurant to his lodgings in the nearby artists’ quarter of Munich, a distance of only a few short blocks but long enough for the April winds to penetrate the dense weave of the cape. He should have been accustomed to this kind of weather, given where he was born and raised. Nevertheless, twenty-six harsh winters had strengthened his resolve: as soon as he was famous enough and rich enough, he would restrict his appearances to opera houses and concert halls in cities where palm trees lined the boulevards and gentle breezes blew only from the south the whole year round.

  At a small writing table in his modest room, he set out paper and pen and began to write:

  My dear Peter:

  You will no doubt be pleased to learn that the audition this morning went well, in fact, better than either you or I could have expected. Who would have imagined that W. (my God, what a formidable presence he is!) would make up his mind on the spot! I thought surely I would be kept in suspense for several days at least, especially bearing in mind that my competitor for the role of Walther was himself a tenor of exceptional talent whose Nordic features are obviously more appropriate for the part of a German knight than my own. So I was fully prepared to be sent packing (in which event this entire gamble of mine would have come to nothing). Instead, the role is mine!

  You were right, of course, about the “Prize Song.” It is so different and so difficult to sing. Yet, as you pointed out when you played it through and I heard it for the first time, it is incredibly beautiful … all the more astonishing when one considers the personality of its creator. Your coaching stood me in good stead; without it my voice would not have been up to the task nor would I have fully grasped the meaning of the song.

  Do I dare, Petya, to believe that the gods are smiling favourably upon my plan? My course is now set, and I am steadfast in my resolve. The premiere of Die Meistersinger is scheduled for June twenty-first here in Munich and I will try to keep you posted as we progress.

  Do write to me soon, dear Petya, but for the moment the less said to my mother the better if you happen to see her.

  My fellow contestant this morning is a tenor from these parts by the name of Wolfgang Grilling. He made no secret of his bitterness about having been relegated to the secondary role of Beckmesser and I anticipate some difficulties with him along the way. If he turns out to be troublesome … well, I will deal with him if it should become necessary.

  How I long for an early return and the resumption of our long-standing arguments about the relative merits of Verdi, Mozart … and of course W. himself!

  Your devoted —

  H.S.

  Chapter One

  Beneath Munich’s polished surface of culture and prosperity and good manners, evil burrows its way through a thousand subterranean passageways. And because evil has no sense of time or timeliness, I find myself intensely engaged in my work at all hours of the day and night while men living more conventional (should I better say sensible?) lives are enjoying a Sunday afternoon stroll with their families, or an evening of cards at their favourite coffeehouses, or a middle-of-the-night spontaneous moment or two of lovemaking, matrimonial or otherwise. Being in demand around the clock, I am like a sentry on endless guard duty and dream of uninterrupted slumber the way a gambler dreams of an uninterrupted winning streak at roulette. (Indeed, the gambler stands a better chance than I of realizing his dream, I’m sure.) And yet even a policeman absorbed in the very down-to-earth business of crime and punishment is entitled to indulge in the occasional fantasy, is he not? Which is what I was doing on this April night. Winter was leaving its harsh aftertaste on the deserted streets in the form of a bitter wind, giving me the sinking feeling that if spring were to occur at all it would be on some planet other than our own. I was experiencing fatigue unlike any I had previously experienced, fatigue so profound that, though I hadn’t had time for a decent meal in the past three days, the thought of food was the furthest thing from my mind. My fantasy consisted of a warm bed, and eight hours at the very least of pure unadulterated sleep.

  Let me explain: Earlier in the day I had concluded a marathon effort to seek out and capture the perpetrator of a series of vicious rapes in the area around Friedensplatz, a small square in the south end of Munich frequented by prostitutes and, of course, by men seeking their favours. Posing as a pimp (a role I found uncomfortable not only because of its inherent odiousness but because I was obliged to wear such outlandishly tasteless attire) and under the generous guidance of an acquaintance, Rosina Waldheim, a madam of remarkably high principles given the nature of her enterprise, I carried on almost without pause a seventy-two hour surveillance which resulted in spotting the culprit as he was stalking an intended victim. The details of his arrest needn’t be spelled out. Suffice to say that word of my success spread quickly throughout the ranks of women who made their living in and around Friedensplatz. As I made my way by carriage back to my apartment for some much-needed peace and quiet, it occurred to me that I might soon be seriously considered for sainthood by a group of happily relieved (though unrepentant) sinners. Oh
well, I told myself, one takes one’s rewards wherever one finds them.

  I must explain, too, that this triumph of detection and arrest was not without its sour side. The mission had originally been assigned by my superior, Commissioner von Mannstein, to Detective Franz Brunner. What ensued was either the result of a fit of zeal on Brunner’s part, a shabby attempt to enhance his record of service, or downright incompetence. Whatever the reason, Brunner, with almost lightning speed, apprehended “the culprit” who turned out to be a member of the Norwegian delegation to an international conference in Munich held to discuss improved standards for the manufacture of dairy products. The unfortunate fellow was entirely innocent, a classic instance of the wrong man at the wrong street corner at the wrong time. True, he had ventured down to Friedensplatz for an hour or so of recreation (the work of a food scientist, after all, can be deadly serious) but his only crime, if it can be called a crime, was to get into a heated dispute over the question of price with one of the prostitutes during the course of which the prospective customer flung several insults at her. That this was conduct unbecoming of a Norwegian delegate is undeniable, but Brunner, who happened to observe the argument, saw it as sufficient evidence that the man was the sought-after rapist. Repercussions from the false arrest carried out by my colleague Brunner were felt at the highest diplomatic levels both in Norway and Germany, and the commissioner found himself bearing much of the blame for what the press headlined as “the Friedensplatz Fiasco.”

  This, then, is how I came to be involved in the case. “Preiss,” said Commissioner von Mannstein, rocking back and forth on the heels of his polished boots (a habit whenever he was agitated), “Germany expects that you will restore the reputation of our nation …”

  Restore it I did. But less than a year before the Friedensplatz affair I had been imported from Düsseldorf to take up the post of chief inspector in Munich, a post Franz Brunner, then a fifteen-year veteran of the city’s police force, had expected to be awarded. In a hundred different ways, Brunner has ever since demonstrated his deep resentment at having been passed over by an out-of-towner. My having caught and arrested the real villain of Friedensplatz, I was certain, would stoke the fire of Brunner’s animosity toward me into white-hot flames. It had been difficult enough all these months living and working side-by-side with Detective Franz Brunner. Now it would be impossible.