The Mastersinger from Minsk (24 page)

E
ncore!
Encore! Bravo! Bravissimo!
Mass adoration … there is no other way to describe the audience's reaction to the handsome young tenor's rendition of the waltz. It didn't seem to matter that the lyrics to “The Blue Danube” (penned by some poet whose obscurity was well-deserved) were as banal as bratwurst, or that the music itself was a mere cut above a beer garden drinking tune. Sung by “Henryk Schramm” in a voice that was pitch perfect and surprisingly spirited given the late hour, this “Blue Danube” outdid the river for which it was named.

Hoisting their glasses of Champagne in a toast to the singer, the crowd persisted with cries of
Encore!
Wagner, however, rose from the piano bench and, smiling genially, waved his arms to signal that a second chorus was out of the question. Moving to Socransky, he placed a fatherly arm around the young man's shoulders. “We must let our
heldentenor
rest now,” he declared. Then, addressing Socransky directly, Wagner intoned, “Tomorrow you will do yourself honour; you will do me honour; you will do all of Germany honour!”

Someone shouted “The ‘Prize Song,' Maestro … let us hear the ‘Prize Song,' just once,
please
! …”

Suddenly the room erupted with cries of “The ‘Prize Song' … the ‘Prize Song' …”

Socransky looked at Wagner and shrugged as if to say “Well, I'm willing if you are …” But the Maestro was firm. “Sorry, dear friends,” he said, waving his arms again. “For the ‘Prize Song' you must wait until tomorrow night, but I promise you it will be worth the wait. I make no pretense to modesty. It is simply the greatest song I have ever composed. You will not be disappointed.” Glancing down at Cosima, he said, “Am I not right, my darling?”

Cosima Wagner responded by springing up from the piano bench and wrapping the Maestro in a girlish embrace, her lips planted on his cheek, giving rise to warm applause. But then she turned to Socransky and repeated the gesture, her arms locked about his waist, her lips on his cheek. At this the crowd broke into cheers and loud whistles while the man known to them as Henryk Schramm stood motionless, as though stunned, the flush on his face a sign that this sudden and extraordinary attention paid him was overwhelming.

“And now,” Wagner proclaimed, “more Champagne everyone. King Ludwig has graced our house with a case of his finest and issued a royal decree that the entire lot is to be consumed before this night is over!” Ever the person in command, he gave a curt nod to his servants who moved quickly to circulate among the guests with freshly uncorked bottles, filling slender crystal flutes held out by eager hands.

I had purposely stayed at the back of the room, preferring to remain as inconspicuous as possible, while hoping at the same time that I could lure Socransky away, perhaps with some discreet signal. But this was not to be, for by this time he was pinned against the grand piano by a bevy of women, some young, some middle-aged, one or two old, all of them worshipful. Meanwhile their male counterparts stood on the sidelines, some with smiles of approval, some with solemn nods of tolerance, all of them — I was certain — filled with envy. It seemed I had no choice but to venture into the crowd and somehow attach myself to the object of their admiration without disclosing the fact that I was about to place him under arrest. Before I could do so, however, a familiar voice called out from somewhere behind me. “Why, Inspector Preiss! What a pleasant surprise! But what brings you here?”

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!”

P
erhaps
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.