Schramm raised a hand as if to halt the proceedings. “Dreams coming true, yes. But plans succeeding, no. You know what they say, Inspector: Man plans and God laughs. So I’ll drink to dreams only, if you don’t mind.”
It turned out that Schramm and Steilmann had lodgings within a short distance of one another and were able conveniently to share a carriage. I on the other hand preferred to return to my apartment on foot despite the late hour. I was counting on the bracing night air to clear my mind of all the wine and brandy I’d consumed, and indeed the long stroll through the dark quiet streets left me feeling fully awake by the time I reached my residence. Settling myself at my desk, I took a small notebook and pen and jotted down the following:
Henryk Schramm does not eat pork (claims to be allergic)
His first operatic role is in Nabucco, about Hebrew slaves
Father was — is? — a violinist
Has a habit of always answering a question with a question
Says Man plans and God laughs
I sat for a long while reading and rereading what I’d written. At last, I picked up the pen and added a final note:
Henryk Schramm … or whatever his real name is … is a Jew.
Chapter Five
The first object that caught my eye when I entered my office early on the morning following dinner at Bolliger’s was a note propped up at the centre of my desk, as though daring me to ignore it. The handwriting, as always, suggested the author was on the back of a runaway horse. The message, however, was clear and concise. “Preiss — I need to see you at once on a matter of urgency!” The signature, of course, was that of Commissioner von Mannstein. I let out a long loud groan (one of the privileges that comes with occupying a private office). Having spent yet another restless night (too much wine, too much rich food, too many lingering thoughts about Karla Steilmann), I regarded the prospect of beginning this day on a matter of urgency with the commissioner as less appealing than a march to the scaffold. Besides, I continued to be nagged by questions about this man Henryk Schramm. Detectives and cows have one thing in common: we are ruminants; we chew and chew again what has already been swallowed. The more I recalled fragments of our conversation over dinner, and turned over in my mind how at times he would look me squarely in the eye while at other times diverting his gaze when responding to a question, the more I doubted that Schramm was who he said he was.
Von Mannstein wasted no time getting to the point. “I have here a copy of an entry made in the daily log of Detective Brunner,” said the commissioner, waving a sheet of paper but not offering it to me to examine. “The entry records that Brunner was approached by one Otto Mecklenberg concerning a threat made against Richard Wagner. I gather, Preiss, this fellow Mecklenberg is what is known in musical circles as an impresario, one who manages the day-to-day business affairs of artists. Sounds like a nursemaid, if you ask me. At any rate, apparently this matter has fallen into your hands, Preiss. Correct?”
I hesitated, observing the deep scowl on the commissioner’s face. How to answer: yes? no? maybe? Perhaps all three? Rashly I chose the truth. “Yes, Herr Commissioner, that is correct.”
I was not prepared for what followed. Von Mannstein’s scowl vanished. “What a stroke of luck, Preiss! What perfect timing!” The commissioner was exultant. “It’s as though the gods had somehow intervened and ordained that you, Preiss, should come to the rescue of Munich!”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, sir —”
“Don’t you see, Preiss? Thanks to your involvement with Wagner … I understand he counts on you to find and arrest whoever is threatening to ruin him … you are in an ideal position to keep an eye on what the man’s up to. I don’t mean musically; frankly I don’t give a damn if Wagner composes operas or lullabies. Come to think of it, far as I’m concerned both kinds of music put people to sleep.”
The commissioner took a moment to chortle at his own wit, then carried on: “It’s Wagner’s political activity the mayor and I are concerned with. Also certain aspects of his social and personal life which are infelicitous to say the least. Bear in mind, Preiss, it is imperative that we amass sufficient grounds to rid Munich of Richard Wagner once and for all.” Von Mannstein paused and gave me a quizzical look. “Tell me, Preiss, when von Braunschweig and I met with you, why did you not disclose that you’d already become engaged in this Wagner affair? Frankly, I was distressed at first to learn about it from Brunner. No doubt he brought it to my attention because he was concerned about a possible conflict of interest; you know, the kind of thing that might have proved embarrassing to us, eh?”
“I’m certain Brunner acted with the best of intentions, sir,” I said. (At the same time I made a vow to myself. Someday, preferably in the very near future, I would see to it that Munich saw the last of Detective Franz Brunner once and for all.)
Von Mannstein shook his head reassuringly. “Well, Preiss, have no fear in that respect,” he said. “I set Brunner straight, of course. I know you to be a man of exquisite discretion. In all likelihood you did not consider it prudent to reveal such confidential information in the presence of the mayor.”
The commissioner was certainly correct in one respect. With good reason he knew me to be a man of exquisite discretion. It was his bad luck, and my good luck, that during my lengthy vigil to catch the Friedensplatz rapist I happened to come across von Mannstein as he was departing the off-limits establishment of Madame Rosina Waldheim. Despite the black wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his brow and the turned-up collar of his civilian greatcoat, I had recognized him immediately. Besides he retained the bearing and swagger of a cavalry officer (which he indeed was in his earlier days) and his stride, as he took leave of that elegant whorehouse, left not a shred of doubt in my mind that the man was none other than my superior at the Constabulary. We exchanged quick but meaningful glances, said not a word to each other, and he took off in a waiting carriage. Neither of us ever spoke of this afterwards; however, this fleeting and accidental encounter, later enriched by Madame Waldheim’s revelation that he was a frequent and generous patron, created a silent bond between von Mannstein and me.
I returned to my office relieved on one hand that Franz Brunner’s sly attempt to scuttle my career had not only failed but might have actually contributed a gold star to my service record. On the other hand I had to face an uncomfortable truth: Just as Henryk Schramm and Karla Steilmann were drawn to Richard Wagner like moths to a flame, so too was I caught up in that irresistible force.
Walking a thin line is not new to me. I’ve broken a law or two in my time, and stretched moral judgment to the point where it snaps like a dry tree branch, all for the sake of catching a criminal. I’ve learned to accomplish this with a minimum of agonizing about it before, during, and afterward. But the thin line now lying before me was one I was not accustomed to tread. I wondered: would this prove to be my ruination?
Chapter Six
The studio of Sandor Lantos occupied the ground floor of a two-storey house that squatted in the overpowering shadow of the Opera House. Lantos’s living quarters took up the second storey. One wall of the studio consisted almost entirely of windows, which not only admitted natural light much needed for Lantos’s line of work but afforded a view of the façade of the Opera House that must have served as a daily inspiration to him. Noticing that I was struck by that view, Lantos said, “Hardly a day goes by that I don’t pause and stare at that sight, Inspector. Just imagine: Mozart’s Idomeneo had its premiere in that very place. And Maestro Wagner has had five — five — of his operas introduced there!” He gave a deep sigh. “Alas, Inspector Preiss, you and I … yes, and Wagner too … will be long gone and that edifice will still be standing. If only God, when He was creating Man, had made us as enduring as brick and stone.”
“Oh, but He did,” I said, “only He did it in the form of music.”
Lantos looked at me with astonishment. “Pardon my frankness,” he said, “but I was not expecting a philoso
pher to respond to the note I sent you. I mean, after all, as a police inspector —”
With a reassuring smile I said, “I’m not the least offended. Nor, I hasten to add, do I consider myself a philosopher. As for God and music, I’m not certain whether God invented music or music invented God. Most of the time I believe they’re one and the same. Which is why I attend concert halls but not churches. And now that I’ve bared my soul to you, Lantos, perhaps you’d satisfy my curiosity. I’ve never before been in the studio of a costume and set designer. If you will pardon my frankness —”
“You were expecting more romantic surroundings, eh? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, I’m not disappointed at all,” I lied, unable to ignore the pockmarked plaster walls where Lantos habitually pinned or nailed his sketches, the stained floorboards, the strong smell of oil paints and turpentine, an easel and adjoining worktable spattered with every colour and mixture of colours known to man. It was difficult to imagine that the grandiose productions staged so close by owed much of their splendor to what was created in this stuffy and unruly place.
Lantos, reading my mind, said, “You see, Inspector, I am a humble man doing a humble job in a humble location.” There was not so much self-pity as ruefulness in Lantos’s voice. No doubt in his youth he had ambitions to be another Rembrandt and was forced, by limitations in his talent, to settle for set and costume design. A man I judged to be in his late fifties, he was spending whatever years were left to him in the service of one patron, Richard Wagner, not a pretty fate for any artist.
“Your note said you have something of extreme importance to tell me,” I said, glancing at the same time at my pocket watch.
“I’ll come directly to the point,” Lantos said. “Here, please look at these sketches, if you will —” Lantos reached behind him, then handed me a dozen sheets of heavy art paper which had been lying on the worktable. “These are my designs for costumes for a character called Beckmesser in Maestro Wagner’s new opera Die Meistersinger. I believe you already possess some knowledge of the work.” Lantos gave me a look as if to say he knew more about my involvement than I suspected. Knowing that gossip is as much a part of the world of music as notes and time signatures, I didn’t bother to question the source of his information. “What do you think of them, Inspector? Please be honest, sir.”
“Why would you seek my opinion?” I said. “I’m a policeman, not an art critic.”
“Humour me anyway,” Lantos urged.
I thumbed through the sketches. “Very colourful, very professional. I’m not surprised that Maestro Wagner has retained you all these years as his principal designer.”
“Ah, but that’s the point I’m getting to. These are his designs, based on his ideas and his alone. I am merely the instrument that puts them on paper.”
I shrugged. “So what’s the problem, Lantos?”
“The problem is that the singer hired to play the role of Beckmesser, a tenor by the name of Grilling, Wolfgang Grilling, took one look at my work and reacted so violently that I was frightened to death. He threw the papers on the floor and if I hadn’t bent down quickly to pick them up I swear he would have trampled them. ‘I’ll be the laughingstock of Munich!’ he yelled. Oh my God, Inspector, the man was furious. Said the costumes would make him appear like the village idiot. Worse still, he claimed the audience would take him for a Jew! You see, the Maestro insists that the Beckmesser character must have this somewhat prominent hooked nose. Which is precisely how I’ve depicted the face in the sketches.”
“You explained to him that you were simply carrying out Wagner’s orders?”
“Yes yes, of course. But Grilling was in no mood to listen to reason. So I appealed to his manager —”
“His manager was present?”
“Yes. You know how most opera singers are, Inspector; they must have their lackeys in attendance at all times, like valets and footmen are to royalty. Grilling’s manager is Friedrich Otto, a man I’ve known for years. A gentle, decent man, really. Poor fellow was terribly embarrassed by Grilling’s outburst, especially when Grilling began uttering threats and curses. Otto suggested a meeting with the Maestro to request alterations in costume and make-up.”
“Is that a possibility?”
“You mean will Richard Wagner consent to changes? Ask me if palm trees will ever grow in the Alps, Inspector.”
“But if Grilling was Wagner’s choice to sing such an important role, one would think the Maestro would be eager to placate the fellow.”
“Wrong, Inspector. Firstly, Richard Wagner placates nobody … nobody except where there’s money to be borrowed. And even then, Wagner manages to convince the lender that he, Wagner, is doing him a great favour! Secondly, you must understand that the role of the loser, Beckmesser, is as vital in a way as the role of Walther von Stolzing, the winner. After all, Beckmesser is a scoundrel, a thief, an imposter, and, yes, more than a bit of a fool. In every respect he is the opposite of Walther. So it’s absolutely essential that a strong contrast between the two be made clear right down to their stockings. No, Otto may have the best of intentions but he’ll be wasting his time.”
“And if, as you predict, Otto fails, what will Grilling do?” I asked.
“He said … and these are his exact words, Inspector … he said ‘The world will never hear a single note of Die Meistersinger. I’d rather burn down the Opera House than walk onto that stage looking like this!’”
“But Lantos,” I said, “you of all people must be familiar with artists’ temperaments. All fuss and bother. How did Shakespeare put it: ‘Full of sound and fury — ’”
“Signifying nothing,” Lantos cut in. “Ah, but that’s not the case here. I heard the anger in Grilling’s voice and saw it in his eyes. There was enough fire there to burn down Munich, I tell you!”
Lantos paused and I could tell there was something else on his mind. I said, “Is there another point you wish to make, Lantos? If it’s a matter of strict confidence, you can trust me.”
Suddenly Lantos took a step forward and gripped my arm. It was the kind of physical gesture that normally would have caused me to shrink back (I dislike being a captive audience). And yet there was a look of such desperation in Lantos’s face that I resisted the impulse to remove his hand. “You must help me, Inspector Preiss. This is a terrible situation for me.”
“For you? How so?”
“I have invested all of my time and energy for months now to create designs for the new opera. I’m speaking literally of dozens of costume designs because Die Meistersinger calls for a huge cast and chorus. Sets too, I’ve completed several thus far and several others are nearly complete. And to date I’ve not been paid one pfennig. Not one pfennig! I have a wife and five children. If this production fails to go on, well, Maestro Wagner is not famous for recognizing financial obligations nor is charity a compelling part of his life. That is why I need your help, Inspector.”
“My help? I told you before, my dear man; I’m not a philosopher, I’m not an art critic, and I’m not a bill collector. Believe me, I deeply sympathize with you, but —”
“But you are in a position to do more than sympathize, don’t you see?” Lantos said, releasing his grip on my arm, much to my relief. “You are Chief Inspector of Munich. Your reputation is well-known. Go to Wolfgang Grilling. Go to Friedrich Otto too. All you have to do is warn them — warn Grilling in particular — that nothing must be done that would interfere with the premiere of Die Meistersinger. Warn him that you are aware of his threat —”
I shook my head. “Lantos, listen to me. My business is crime. If I had to arrest every foul-mouthed hothead who uttered a threat, there wouldn’t be a prison in Germany large enough to hold the crowd.”
“And if Grilling carries out his threat, how will you feel, Inspector? What will be your answer then?” Lantos cast his glance upward to the second storey, where his wife and five children presumably were staring at an empty larder as we spoke. “When
was the last time you sat down at a supper table that had no bread, Inspector?”
I wanted to tell Sandor Lantos that a breadless table was a routine occurrence throughout my childhood. Instead, I said, “Very well, I will go to Grilling and to his manager.”
At these words, Lantos did it again; gripping my arm, and looking intently into my eyes, he said in a quiet voice, “If Wolfgang Grilling does anything to stop this opera, I will kill him with these hands.”
Chapter Seven
Munich's hotels that cater to the upper class, like Munich’s better restaurants, go to desperate lengths to distance themselves from their stolid German roots, but in a different manner. Where local restaurateurs take liberties with French and Spanish names for their places of business, local hoteliers, with a kind of presumptuousness that knows no shame, christen their edifices with the names of foreign royalty — kings, queens, emperors and empresses, as well as lesser ranks — stopping short only when it comes to popes, cardinals, and archbishops (although why the nobility of the church are excluded from such honours is beyond my comprehension).
The Eugénie Palace is no exception to this tradition. If anything, it has elevated the tradition to heights other hostelries in the city cannot hope to attain. Its public areas are paved with more Italian marble than Caesar’s eyes ever beheld; its French crystal chandeliers and mirror-backed wall sconces fill each room with sunshine even on the dullest days. Rumours abound, of course. It’s said that the crimson carpets were dyed in the blood of a thousand slaves a century ago in Constantinople. A printer is said to have been shot dead for negligently omitting the accent in “Eugénie” on the hotel stationery. True or not, such rumours have lent an aura of grandeur to the Eugénie Palace which its guests acknowledge with proper respect when paying extravagant bills at the end of their stay. I swear that I do not have a socialist bone in my body and yet, whenever for some reason or other I find myself a visitor, I cannot resist being repelled by the unabashed hedonism that oozes from every pore of the place.
The Mastersinger from Minsk Page 5
