The Mastersinger from Minsk

by Morley Torgov

  “Our dream?” I said. “You mean Germany’s dream about possessing a more suitable location for exiles?” Of course I knew exactly what “our dream” referred to, but every moment of delay was precious to me, given that the report I was about to deliver was not one that the commissioner would be able to present “proudly” (as he put it to Brunner earlier) to Mayor von Braunschweig.

  “No no!” the commissioner said testily. “I’m asking you about Wagner.”

  “Richard Wagner —?”

  “Good heavens, Preiss, how many Wagners are there?”

  “Well, sir, as a matter of fact, I have been looking into that very question. Genealogically speaking, it seems the name can be traced back to the invention of the wheel, which of course led to the invention of wagons. Hence the name Wagoner, or Wagner. It is especially interesting to note —”

  “Damn it, Preiss, I didn’t summon you here to deliver a lecture.”

  “Pardon me, Commissioner, I was only about to add that, in the course of peeling back the layers of history, I discovered that one Erich Langemann von Mannstein back in the late 1700s had married into a family of Wagners in the city of Essen, owners of the largest and most prosperous carriage business in that part of the country. Am I correct that Erich Langemann von Mannstein was your grandfather, sir?”

  “I’ll thank you to keep that information under your hat, Inspector,” von Mannstein said. “The last thing I need is for word to spread to the effect that the name von Mannstein is tied to the name Wagner by even the thinnest thread of coincidence! Under your hat, Preiss!”

  “Understood, sir. Under my hat. Absolutely!” I recalled that the commissioner had recently lauded me as a man of “exquisite discretion” after I had recognized him departing from Madam Rosina Waldheim’s whorehouse. I was comforted, facing the unpleasant task ahead of me at the moment, knowing that I now possessed additional capital in my mental ledger, another asset to fall back on, a card to be played, so to speak, in the likely event that von Mannstein, hearing the report I was about to give, threatened demotion (at best) or outright dismissal (at worst).

  “Once again then, Preiss, where do we stand with Richard Wagner?” The chill in the commissioner’s grey eyes was palpable as he sat forward in his high-backed seat expectantly.

  I began slowly. “Well, sir, perhaps the word ‘stand’ is not quite appropriate. I would have to say that … well, we are leaning rather than standing. In fact, it’s probably more accurate to describe our present posture as sitting … yes, that’s more like the reality of our situation regarding Maestro Wagner.”

  Glowering at me, von Mannstein brought both fists down hard on his side of the desk. “Leaning … sitting … what the devil are you talking about, Preiss? No, don’t bother to answer. I’ll answer my own question. What I am hearing is the sound of failure, miserable incompetent inexcusable failure! Look here, Preiss —” The commissioner drew a piece of stationery from a file that lay before him. I could see that the file bore the official gold seal of Mayor von Braunschweig. “This arrived this morning by special courier,” von Mannstein said, “marked ‘Urgent.’” Von Mannstein’s hands shook as he read aloud:

  “It has come to the attention of the Government of Bavaria that the musician and revolutionary Richard Wagner is about to embark on a fresh course of attacks against the existing regime with ever more radical ideas about German unification that could lead to a loss of autonomy for our State as well as of our beloved traditions. It is therefore incumbent upon the City of Munich to deal with the Wagner crisis with utmost dispatch, failing which payment of certain appropriations set aside by the State, in particular to subsidize the completion of new waterworks and gasworks for the city, will regrettably be suspended for an indefinite period of time.”

  “The letter,” von Mannstein said, “is addressed to the mayor and signed by the governor of the state. So what we have here, Preiss, is an abundance of communication — from the governor to the mayor, from the mayor to the commissioner, from the commissioner to the chief inspector Hermann Preiss. Meanwhile, it is apparent, Preiss, that your report to me this morning is as devoid of content as a … as a —”

  “Tabula rasa?” I offered.

  “Damn it, Preiss, I don’t speak Italian —”

  “Tabula rasa is Latin, sir —”

  “I don’t care if it’s what Jesus Christ said to the Pope!” von Mannstein shouted. “Have you nothing you can report this morning?”

  “I can report, sir, that we are getting closer to solving the question of who has committed the murders of Sandor Lantos, Karla Steilmann, and Wolfgang Grilling and may be out to do similar harm to the Wagners. You previously expressed doubt that such killings could be the work of a woman —”

  “You’re referring to that business about the hatpin —”

  “Exactly, sir. But the fact is, the female in question is more and more a suspect and I have good reason to fear that either one or both of the Wagners may be on her list.”

  Suddenly the commissioner’s expression changed. It was as though he had just witnessed his first sunshine after days of rain. “Wait a moment, Preiss! Hold on! You say this woman may be out to do away with Richard Wagner? Is this a serious possibility?”

  “Yes,” I replied hesitantly.

  Von Mannstein was positively beaming now. His lips moved and he seemed to be talking to himself, seemed to be mulling over what I had just told him. In a quiet voice, his tone almost reverent, he said, “You see, Preiss, there is a God —”

  “There is?”

  “Yes, indeed. And He has just made his countenance to shine upon our fair city. Here are your orders, Preiss: You are not to arrest this woman, whoever she is. We’ll call her Fräulein Hatpin. Heaven has sent her to do the work we are forbidden to do. Let it be so. Do you follow me, Preiss? I will give you the proper signal when the proper time comes to arrest her.”

  I was incredulous. “Those are your orders, Commissioner?”

  “No, Preiss … that is God’s will!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I left Commissioner von Mannstein and made my way up three flights of stairs to my office, finding the climb more laborious than usual, shaking my head with disbelief all the way, pondering how bizarre it was to be handed an order so perverse as to be downright criminal while being assured at the same time by the commissioner that it was a manifestation of God’s will! Many impressions about von Mannstein had crossed my mind over the years, but never had he struck me as a man skilled in divinity. As far as I could tell, his sole connection to the supernatural consisted of being born into a family of sufficient wealth and influence that, following a lackluster decade spent in the militia, he was awarded a senior post in Munich’s civil service. There, thanks to his years in the army, he was delegated the onerous responsibility of overseeing the designs of dress uniforms for various municipal officials. It was soon said of him that he never met a brass button or a gold-encrusted epaulet he didn’t love. His own wardrobe of tunics, trousers, riding breeches, and ceremonial helmets, once he was appointed commissioner, made King Ludwig’s by comparison look like remnants from a royal rummage sale.

  This was the officer who would have me stand aside, complaisant as a batman, while the life of Richard Wagner was conveniently snuffed out by a deranged creature now given the code name Fräulein Hatpin. The irony of it all stuck in my throat. Cornelia Vanderhoute unintentionally does a favour of incalculable benefit for an eternally grateful realm, thus becoming in her own right an instrument of divine will!

  In the privacy of my office, behind a firmly closed door, I said aloud to myself over and over, “No, this cannot be!” Never imbued with an overwhelming curiosity about God (for a policeman steeped in the culture of solid evidence, there isn’t all that much to go on, is there?) I nevertheless could not bring myself to believe that the fate which von Mannstein proposed for Richard Wagner was something upon which God would bestow a smile of approval.

  Orders were ord
ers, yes. But this was one order I hadn’t the slightest desire to carry out. I had commanded Brunner to find Cornelia Vanderhoute and was not about to rescind that injunction. “To hell with von Mannstein,” I whispered to myself. “And to hell with the mayor and the governor. I will not be a partner in this nefarious business. Never!”

  This was how it would be: We — that is, Brunner and I — would continue to spare no effort to locate the Vanderhoute woman and put her out of commission. If my supervisor was displeased, well, then let him make his peace with God.

  With a warming sense of satisfaction over my decision, I sat down at my desk intending to pen a memorandum of my conversation with the commissioner for my private file, a self-serving measure that might stand me in good stead should my conduct come into question later by some higher authority. Scarcely had I touched pen to paper when I heard a knock on my door, called out, “Enter,” and was greeted by Franz Brunner shaking his head much the same way as I had shaken mine earlier.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said, laying aside pen and paper. “I can see by your expression that you’ve just had another of your random encounters with the Commissioner. Well?”

  “I’ve been instructed in no uncertain terms to halt the search for Vanderhoute,” Brunner said. “No explanation, Preiss, not a word. Just like that, von Mannstein corners me upstairs in the lounge, no one else present, I’m just sitting there minding my own business … well, with a mouthful of a leftover chicken leg, actually, and His High And Mighty gives me one of those looks, you know, where his eyebrows and mustache come together, and he says to me, ‘Brunner, I’ve issued an order that Chief Inspector Preiss and you are to waste no further time on the alleged killer Vanderhoute.’ He used the word ‘alleged,’ Preiss. What the devil is going on?”

  I explained the commissioner’s motivation for ordering a temporary cessation to the hunt for Vanderhoute.

  “The search for the woman goes on unabated, Brunner,” I said. “You and I took the same oath to uphold justice and neither of us needs the blood of Richard Wagner on our hands. Call off the search? Not for one moment, Brunner. In fact, we are going to double our efforts. It is the right thing to do. This is one of those times, Brunner, when conscience comes before obedience to orders.”

  From Detective Brunner I expected an instant pledge of support. After all, von Mannstein’s directive should have been as repellent to him as it was to me. (Besides, if Brunner owed anything to anybody, his debt of gratitude to me for my earlier forbearance surely ranked ahead of all other debts.)

  I should have known better.

  Instead of a pledge of support, Brunner gave me a look of bemused skepticism. “Our oath to uphold justice … the right thing to do … conscience before obedience …” Stroking his mustache, rubbing his chin, he seemed to be turning over these phrases in search of hidden meanings.

  A bit impatiently, I asked: “Is there something you don’t understand, Brunner? I thought I spoke plainly.”

  “Plainly?” Brunner said. “I would have thought a better description would be sanctimoniously. Yes, sanctimoniously is more like it. Oaths to uphold justice … doing the right things … putting conscience ahead of obedience. My God, Preiss, you sound more like an archbishop than a chief inspector. But I wasn’t born yesterday, Preiss. I see what’s behind that little homily of yours. You want me to ignore the commissioner’s order, you want me to double my efforts, and then when I produce the woman … ah, then you have the immense satisfaction of thinking you’ve ‘done the right thing’ while I, Franz Brunner, end up scrubbing the Constabulary latrines … or worse. Well, Preiss, if this is how you are scheming to get rid of me, think again. And as for the future safety and welfare of this man Wagner, frankly I care more about the safety and welfare of the organ grinder’s monkey!”

  I rose from my chair behind the desk, strode purposefully to my office door, and threw it open. Quietly I said, “You’d better get out, Brunner, before I kill you.”

  Fortunately for both of us, Detective Brunner didn’t need a second invitation.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  There was only one thing to do now: warn Richard Wagner that he was at greater risk for his safety than before. But what if he should demand to know why? How could I explain truthfully? Well, you see Maestro, it’s like this: formerly you were an ordinary target for murder, but as of the latest orders from my superior you are now what might be termed a government-approved target for murder. What? You say you find this outrageous? Sorry, Maestro, but it’s God’s will …

  I headed straight for the opera house assuming (correctly) that at this hour of the day Wagner could be found there keeping a watchful eye on rehearsals for the new opera. Unnoticed, I slipped into an aisle seat in the rearmost row of the main parterre.

  The Maestro had stationed himself at the railing in front of the orchestra pit, his back to me, facing the conductor von Bülow, the orchestral musicians, and a company of singers on stage. Although the hall is renowned for its flawless acoustics (a hiccup in the fifth gallery, it is said, resounds like a cymbal-crash backstage), Wagner chose to bellow in the manner of a drill sergeant castigating cadets for sloppiness on parade.

  “You … members of the chorus … you are failing to pay proper attention to the way I have placed words under the musical notes! Failing miserably! You are cutting short many of the words and destroying the flow of the text as well as the music! My score is quite clear and the words must be sung precisely as I have written them. If Beethoven would not stand for singers who took careless liberties in the choral movement of the Ninth Symphony, why should I have to tolerate second-rate work? Third-rate, in fact!”

  Turning his attention to the orchestra and conductor, Wagner ranted on, “The overture … God in heaven! … I create an elaborate climax where the three main themes are interwoven … and what do I hear? What, I ask you?”

  Wagner then began, in a high-pitched raspy voice, to imitate what he heard, his right hand pretending to saw wood, his other hand clutched to his left ear as though hoping to shut out his own noise. “This is music that conveys youthful passion. You are playing it as though it’s dinner music.” The Maestro then proceeded to demonstrate, this time in a baritone voice, how the opening fanfare, intended to symbolize the nobility of the Mastersingers, should be played. “Full-bodied, generous, proud!” he shouted. His hands punching the air, he sang out the first four notes. “This … this … is what I wrote. This is what I expect to hear!”

  Dropping his shoulders, looking and sounding exhausted, Wagner said, addressing von Bülow quietly, “Tomorrow let me hear something far better.”

  It occurred to me, watching Wagner’s tirade, that any one among the assembly both in the orchestra pit and on the stage could be regarded as a potential assassin of the man, and with good reason. I could even envision a fatal attack by the group collectively, like the slaying of Julius Caesar. Yet not a single person dared to speak up, express resentment, challenge, or even politely beg to differ.

  Without another word to the cast and players, he turned and started up the aisle. Catching sight of me, his face darkened into a scowl. “Preiss, what are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Maestro, I must speak with you.”

  “Not now, Preiss. Thus far this has not been a productive day, as you could no doubt surmise if you were sitting here long enough. I need to get out, get some fresh air, enjoy a bit of a stroll.”

  “Then I’ll join you,” I said.

  “I was hoping to go alone, Preiss.”

  “This cannot wait.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, Preiss, I’m not accustomed to having my plans interfered with.”

  “Nor am I, Maestro Wagner. The English Garden is close by. Shall we?”

  I hailed a carriage and we rode in silence along the short route to the expanse of greenery that lies on the west bank of the Isar River, Wagner looking disgruntled all the way. But once we came in sight of the place, a sudden smile lit up his face,
and as we dismounted and readied ourselves for our stroll he pointed his walking stick at the lawns and shrubbery spread out before us. “You see, Preiss, this is what Die Meistersinger is really about … the greatness of German culture, of German art. Look at the planting, the designs of the flowerbed. Why why why do so many Europeans try to emulate the French and English when we Germans have so much more to offer the world?” (I was tempted to remind him that the English Garden was modelled after a similar London park, but decided to hold my tongue.) Shaking his head with a mixture of frustration and disgust, he added, “And for saying this, I’m told that I have no business engaging in political issues. But art and politics are inseparable, don’t you see?”

  Wagner shook his head again. “Ach! Let’s walk. Enough aggravation.”

  It was at this point that my attention was drawn to the Maestro’s walking stick. Made of ebonized wood, it was topped with a gold handle engraved with scrolling rococo foliage and Wagner’s initials in elegant script. “Your stick, Maestro,” I commented, “is another example of superior German craftsmanship, I presume.”

  Wagner halted and handed it to me to examine more closely. With a twinkle in his eyes, and smiling sardonically, he replied, “Don’t breathe a word of this, Preiss. I purchased it in London at a shop just off Piccadilly called, of all things, ‘Cane & Abel.’ Like the French, the British take themselves and their role in the universe much too seriously. Still, the odd Englishman does have a sense of humour, eh?”

  Our walk began at a leisurely pace, a kind of contemplative slow motion, and we soon found ourselves passing between two rows of tall trees standing at attention as though lined up for inspection, their early spring leaves leaving plenty of space for sunlight to speckle the walkway. A pair of hawks circled overhead complaining about another pair which had beaten them to the carcass of a tiny field mouse, bringing another sardonic smile to Wagner’s lips. “Ah Nature! Now there’s a death you should be investigating, Inspector Preiss.”