The Mastersinger from Minsk

by Morley Torgov

  I turned about to find myself face to face with Cosima Wagner. “I happened to be in the neighbourhood,” I said, adding quickly, “on an investigation. I assure you I had no intention to intrude. It’s just that your house looked so inviting.”

  She pretended to be dismayed. “Don’t tell me that villain Eduard Hanslick is on the loose again. I thought he was confined to a prison for the criminally insane for the rest of his life.”

  I pretended to be humble. Bowing my head as though in disgrace, I said, “I give you my word, Madam Wagner, we used every device in our torture chamber … the ones especially reserved for unrepentant music critics … but Herr Hanslick refused to recant. We had to let him go, however. It seems he kept whistling Brahms’s Hungarian Dances day and night until the prison warden couldn’t stand it any longer.”

  Cosima Wagner smiled knowingly. “Ah, yes, Hanslick, the bane of Richard’s existence. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Inspector. There’s a character in Richard’s new opera … name’s Beckmesser. A stodgy pretentious ridiculous hidebound fool. And a thief to boot! Guess who Beckmesser’s modelled after? Need I say more? We have our ways of getting even. Now come, Inspector, have some Champagne before the bubbles disappear.” She crooked her finger and instantly a servant appeared with a flute of Champagne, but before my lips could touch the rim of the glass there stood Hershel Socransky, smiling broadly, a welcoming hand outstretched. “Inspector Preiss! How flattering! I trust this is an unofficial visit?”

  “On the contrary,” I replied, smiling back, “I’ve come to arrest you, Herr Schramm.”

  “Oh? On what charge?”

  “Hitting a wrong note.” I tried to look grave.

  “You must have keen ears, Inspector.”

  “Keener than you think, Herr Schramm. I’m also gifted with a keen sense of smell … in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Cosima Wagner broke into a laugh. “You two obviously enjoy bantering. I wish more people had a talent these days for jocularity. I’ll leave you to the pleasures of your own company.”

  Off she went, leaving the two of us alone. Making certain first that no one was within hearing range, I said, almost in a whisper, “Where the devil were you? I was at the station as agreed —”

  “As agreed? I don’t recall any agreement.”

  We were smiling at one another, forced smiles. “Don’t get technical with me. We had a firm understanding.”

  Our smiles were waning now.

  “At the risk of sounding technical,” Socransky said, “there is a distinction between an agreement and an understanding, is there not? I’m not a man of the law, Inspector, but the way I look at our last conversation is this: I understood your position, and you understood my position. That does not add up to an agreement.”

  “Don’t take me for a simpleton, Schramm,” I said, still keeping my voice just above a whisper. “I know exactly why you’re here, here in the house of Richard Wagner. There’s an ancient Chinese proverb: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

  “Nothing wrong with that bit of wisdom,” Socransky said, as though trumping me.

  “But the Chinese have another saying you’d be wise to heed: A person who sets out on a path of revenge should first dig two graves.”

  “You quite certain that wasn’t said by a Russian?”

  “Take my word for it,” I said, “Confucius was definitely not Russian.” I took hold of Socransky’s arm and gave a rather forceful tug. “Now be a good fellow, Schramm, and bid goodnight to all these lovely people. You’re spending the rest of this night where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “But that’s out of the question, Preiss,” Socransky said, shaking free. “You see, I was invited to be the Wagners’ house guest. I’m sure you went to the rooms I occupied and found I’d checked out. Well, Inspector, here I am, and my belongings, and here is where I intend to spend the rest of the night.”

  “You must be out of your mind,” I said, barely able now to keep my voice down, “to think I’d let you —”

  Before I could finish my sentence I felt a firm clap on my back. “See here, Preiss, you’re as welcome as the birds in spring, but you have no right to monopolize my heldentenor like this.” Richard Wagner, still astonishingly genial, pushed the singer aside as though shielding him. “This man needs a good night’s sleep. As Shakespeare said, ‘tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.’ I forget the rest of the line but no matter.” Wagner turned to Socransky. Gruffly, but affectionately, he ordered, “Off to bed with you now, Schramm.”

  “Maestro,” I pleaded, “it’s so rare that I have an opportunity to converse with a young artist with such talent and charm … please spare him for a moment or two longer.”

  “Believe me, Preiss,” Wagner replied, quietly, as though taking me into his confidence, “you will have countless opportunities to spend time with this man. After tomorrow night, the name ‘Henryk Schramm’ will be on everyone’s lips for years to come. But now I must insist that he rest.”

  Wagner turned to Schramm. “The servants have made up the guest room for you, Henryk. It happens to be directly across the hall from our own bedroom.” With mock severity, and wagging a warning finger, he added, “And I’m seeing to it that our doors are locked for the night … ours and yours, Schramm. I’ve seen how Cosima looks at you!”

  Socransky, extending Wagner’s jest, gave me an apprehensive look. “Tell me, Inspector,” he said, “what’s the penalty for breaking and entering?”

  I directed my answer to Wagner. “A word of advice, Maestro. There’s an old Russian proverb: Be friends with the wolf, but keep one hand on your axe.” I punctuated this by giving Wagner a solemn wink.

  Wagner looked at me for a moment as though wondering how I could possibly be serious. Then, with a slow smirk, he said, “You know what your trouble is, Preiss? You’ve lost your sense of humour. What a pity!”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Perhaps Wagner was right. Perhaps I had lost whatever knack is required to coax laughter out of life’s ironies. And so the scene which next unfolded — a scene which under different circumstances would have inspired a playwrights to pen a comedy of errors — inspired in me instead a renewed and deeper sense of foreboding.

  We are in the vestibule, Richard Wagner and I, standing almost shoulder to shoulder, a benign fatherly smile on the Maestro’s face, looking on as “Henryk Schramm” dutifully marches off to bed. When he reaches the broad carpeted stairway that curves gracefully up to the second storey, one hand fingering the polished mahogany railing, he pauses at the first step, turns, and calls out “Bon soir, Monsieur Inspector, and pleasant dreams!” then energetically bounds up the stairs two at a time.

  A thought crosses my mind: out of sight but not out of mind when suddenly those very words spill out of me, a purely involuntary utterance, barely whispered, but picked up nevertheless by the alert ears of the Maestro. With a quizzical look, Wagner asks, “Meaning what, Inspector?”

  I grope for an explanation. “It’s — uh — only an expression, Maestro. You know, ‘out of sight, out of mind’ —”

  “But you said ‘not out of mind,’ Preiss.”

  “Did I? Well, a slip of the tongue, I suppose. It’s been a long day.”

  Wagner frowns; my hastily concocted excuse is less than convincing. In a tone of mild reproof, he says, “You know, Preiss, even a slip of the tongue can sound ominous, especially when it’s from the tongue of a chief inspector.” In a sudden change of mood, he gives me a good-natured poke in the ribs. “You’re welcome to stay anyway, Preiss. Come join us. I trust your rules of conduct don’t forbid the occasional glass of Champagne.”

  “A word first, if I may,” I say. “I’m curious about your tenor. I was wondering about the reason for his giving up his lodgings and imposing himself —”

  “Imposing himself? Nonsense, Preiss, it was at my insistence. We needed an hour or two of private time, just he and I, for some fine tuning, especially in the final scene
of the opera. You must understand that Die Meistersinger is a totally new and different venture for me. It’s serious one moment and comic the next, and the character played and sung by Schramm has to reflect the right balance throughout, which is a delicate feat, believe me. But when the throng on stage in the final scene is hushed and Schramm steps forth to sing the ‘Prize Song’, German art will ascend to glorious heights. I tell you, Preiss, this opera is not my work alone but part of the gods’ master plan!”

  In the time I’ve been exposed to Wagner, albeit short, I have never seen him so afire with hope, and I tell him so. He gives me an earnest look, his head inclined toward me revealing deep lines of stress carved into his face, connecting like rivulets just above that jutting defiant chin. “Let me tell you something in confidence, Preiss,” he says quietly. “Die Meistersinger is my miracle opera, miraculous because I have completed it during a period of my worst luck and my worst feelings of depression. The world has not been kind to me … so much criticism, so much vilification, not just about my work but about me, even about my beloved Cosima. But I am back, Preiss, and stronger than ever. And soon not only Germans but people of culture everywhere will bless me for Die Meistersinger. Mark my words.”

  Wagner glances at his pocket watch. “Time to offer our friends one final round, then off to bed. I’ve a very full day ahead. I trust I have satisfied whatever it was you were curious about … I mean about Schramm?”

  “To be honest, Maestro, yes, and no —”

  “Then it will have to wait, I’m afraid. You really must excuse me now.”

  I attempt to restrain him, my hand on his arm. “Another minute of your time —”

  “Not now, Preiss.”

  “But there is a matter of some urgency —”

  “If you’re referring to that stupid note threatening my ruination, I’ve decided to ignore it, Preiss. I’ve come this far unscathed, have I not? And Cosima, too, thank heaven. So to hell with anyone who tries to stop us now!” Wagner’s eyes are cold steel.

  I begin to protest. “But Maestro —”

  “Please, Preiss, no buts. Now come along before there’s not a drop left in the house.”

  Abruptly he turns away and heads for the living room. I watch him melt into the golden glow of that chamber, his re-entry hailed with cheers and whistles, the sounds of men and women gaily tossing sobriety to the winds.

  Above me, in the second-storey guest room, “Henryk Schramm” is surely smiling with satisfaction. How well it is all working out! he says to himself. There he is, going through the motions of bedding down for the night just steps from where his unsuspecting host will himself presently settle for the night.

  What could possibly be more opportune!

  I have no choice now but to intercept him. I start toward the stairway intending to confront him when suddenly I am stopped in my tracks by a firm hand on my shoulder. “You’re travelling in the wrong direction,” Cosima Wagner says. “Come, Inspector Preiss, join the party.”

  “Thank you, Madam Wagner, but —”

  “You have the look of a man who’s desperate for the company of law abiding citizens. I refuse to take ‘no’ for an answer, Inspector.”

  Though I am a head taller than her, and perhaps twice her weight, I find myself in the unyielding tow of this woman and moments later I too have melted in the golden glow.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  June 21st.

  I awoke with a start, my eyes stabbed by pointed rays of the sun, and the thought sprung to mind that, among Nature’s myriad cruelties — earthquakes, famine, disease, pestilence, to list but a few — none is more cruel than the first light of day when one has drunk too much the night before. Nor was there much comfort in the discovery that, with the exception of my boots which must have magically removed themselves from my feet, I had fallen asleep fully clothed. I dropped my head back on my pillows and lay for a time lifeless, overwhelmed by a wave of self-disgust, and cursing myself for having allowed my persuasive hosts Richard and Cosima Wagner to ply me not just with one but three brimming flutes of Champagne. (I made a silent vow that, given a next life, I would be born into aristocracy, for only aristocrats wallow in intemperance without shame.)

  It required a Herculean effort to pull myself together, make myself as presentable as possible, find a carriage and head straightaway for the Wagner residence, all the while dreading what I might find on my arrival there. The night before, I had attempted several times discreetly to draw Wagner aside and warn him about his guest in the second-storey bedroom, only to be rebuffed each time. Wagner simply would not be brought down to earth. The final rehearsal earlier that day had gone better than expected, news I was astonished to learn recalling his unrelenting displays of ill temper back at the opera house. This was a different Wagner now, a man aloft in some starry domain with his beloved gods, wrapped in a mist of euphoria. Sixteen years it had taken him to give birth to this new opera! After a gestation period of that length, the man had every good reason to celebrate, and who could deny him?

  To my immense relief, I was greeted by Cosima Wagner, still in her nightclothes and robe and looking, as always, composed and graceful. But what about her husband? With a chuckle she replied, “I shooed him out of the house early this morning and ordered him not to return until he’d spent at least an hour with the barber … not one of those German barbers who make men look like military recruits but a new barber whom my father recommends, a fellow from Seville of all places! I said to Richard, ‘After this barber’s done with you, you’ll be writing operas and making money like Rossini!’”

  Struggling to conceal my anxiety, I asked, “And your guest Henryk Schramm —?”

  “He took his leave very early this morning saying he had an appointment with the wardrobe mistress, some problem about his knight’s tunic needing refitting. Mind you, Henry Schramm could wear a shepherd’s smock and look magnificent, don’t you agree, Inspector?”

  “You’d have to ask sheep about that, Madam.” I said. “I take it he left his belongings here, then?”

  “No, he insisted on taking everything. Said he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. Accepted a cup of coffee, exchanged a few pleasantries with Richard and me, then — poof! — he was off. Wouldn’t even let us arrange for a carriage. He did, however, take a moment to attend to this —” I took from Madam Wagner a small sealed envelope addressed to “Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss — Personal and Confidential.” Excusing myself, I turned my back to her, tore open the seal, and read:

  Good morning, Preiss. No doubt the first thing you will do before the rooster crows is show up at the Wagners’ house and find an excuse to search the room I occupied. You need not bother, however. I assure you that you will not find so much as a hair from my head. But do make a point of attending the premiere tonight. I wouldn’t miss it if I were you.

  The note was simply signed “HS.”

  I turned to face Madam Wagner. “I won’t take any more of your time,” I said. “I really must be off.”

  Eyeing me a little too sympathetically, she said, “Won’t you stay? You do look as though you could use a hot strong cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you, no. Perhaps another time.”

  I started to leave when she called out, “By the way, Inspector, you disappointed us last night.”

  “Disappointed you? How so?”

  In a gently chiding tone she said, “You have no hesitation when it comes to inquiring about — or perhaps I should say prying into — the private lives of others. But the least you could do, in return, is grant us a peek into your own.”

  “I am a public servant, Madam Wagner,” I said. “As such I do not have a private life.” I hoped this glib remark would close the topic.

  “Not true, Inspector. Not true at all.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand —”

  “You ought to have brought along your friend, the cellist —”

  “Helena Becker, you mean. Unfortunately she isn’t her
e. She lives in Düsseldorf, you see.”

  “Now you’re being coy, Inspector. Or simply dishonest. Friends of ours saw her earlier in the evening. They happened to be in the lobby of the Empress Eugénie and saw her signing the guest register.”

  “Your friends must be mistaken.”

  “Not at all. They recognized her from her performance recently with the Bavarian Quartet. But why do you go out of your way to keep her hidden?” She gave me a teasing smile. “I think I know why. The word is that men find her most attractive … with or without the presence of her instrument. Still, Inspector, it’s not right that you should be so possessive. It does you no credit, you know. Treasures are made to be shared.”

  I smiled back through gritted teeth. “Obviously you are very generous when it comes to sharing your pearls of wisdom,” I said. With a slight deferential bow, I added, “I will try to be a better man in the future.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  "H elena, what the devil is going on?”

  “Why Hermann Preiss, what a nasty way to say hello!”

  “Very well, I’ll begin again. Welcome to Munich. Now what the devil is going on?”

  Opening wide the door of her room, Helena Becker made a sweeping gesture, her arms extended invitingly, and curtsied like a ballerina. “Perhaps you’d like to step in … unless of course you want every single person in the hotel to overhear your ranting and raving.”

  I waited until she closed the door behind me. “Once more, then, Helena —”

  “— just what the devil is going on?” she said finishing the question. “I’m here to attend tonight’s premiere.”

  “Without so much as a word to me in advance?”

  “I didn’t know I required permission, Hermann. In case there’s some doubt, I am a German citizen. Let me take your hat while you examine my papers.”