The Mastersinger from Minsk (25 page)

J
une
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 here. 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.”

"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.”

“I fail to see the humour in all this,” I said. “Nor do I have time for your charming little guessing games, Helena.”

“Then I take it you won't be staying long,” Helena said. “Well, perhaps it's just as well, seeing you're in such a foul mood, Hermann.”

“You would be in a foul mood too if you'd been made a fool of.”

“Are you suggesting that somehow
I
made a fool of you?”

“Apparently people who are total strangers knew of your arrival in Munich while I — I of all people — knew nothing.”

“The way I hear it, Hermann, if anyone made a fool of you it was you yourself. It seems there were two things you couldn't resist last night: Champagne and Cosima Wagner. You indulged in far too much of one, and couldn't get enough of the other. In fact, as she was bundling you into a carriage for your ride home you embraced her so effusively even the
horses
snickered!”

“Nonsense. Besides, you weren't there, so you could not possibly know what —” I halted in mid-sentence. In the few moments of awkward silence that followed, I found myself staring at Helena as though she were part of a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces were suddenly and strangely falling into place. In a quiet voice I said, “
He
told you all this, didn't he?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation.

“Are you
lovers
then?”

“Lovers? I'm not sure what that word means. Looking back on our past, yours and mine, I would say ‘lovers' is impossible to define … something on-again, off-again … here today, gone tomorrow, who-knows-what the day after.” Helena looked away, a wistful smile on her face. She seemed to be reflecting. “Remember that night at Maison Espãna —”

“I remember it all too well. Soon after, you said to me, ‘He is everything you are not … kind, considerate, charming, not to mention handsome.' Your exact words. Hard to forget. So now, Helena, I have acquired a new title: Hermann Preiss, Inadvertent Matchmaker. I suppose I have only myself to blame. After all, I did throw the two of you together. But I never dreamed it would come to this. It's all wrong, you know. The man isn't who he says he is. Worse still, he hasn't the slightest compunction about making promises and breaking them. He's a master of obfuscation. He's convinced his own moral code is all that matters. Hardly ideal credentials for a lover, wouldn't you say?”

“Say what you will, Hermann. The fact is all of us — even you — bend the truth from time to time when it suits us.”

“So let's speak of the truth then. I suppose Schramm was honest enough to reveal all about the Vanderhoute woman, the one you were so incensed about the night he broke his appointment with you? How she was an obstacle lying directly in his path of revenge? And how very convenient for him was her sudden death?”

“I don't understand what you mean by convenient, Hermann. What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that getting rid of an obstacle is not what I would call bending the truth. In my circles it's called murder, pure and simple.”

“And in my circles, Hermann, people are more concerned about the kind of brutality Wagner inflicted on Hershel Socransky's father. So whatever Hershel has done, allowances must be made.”

“But he has no right to take the law into his own hands, Helena. None!”

Angrily, Helena said, “Please, Hermann, spare me your policeman's sermon about right and wrong, and especially those off-duty musings of yours about the artist being one thing and his art being quite another! There is
no
distinction! When will you ever learn this truth? If Hershel Socransky brings the opera crashing down tonight, then he brings Richard Wagner crashing down with it. The two are inseparable, and that is exactly as it should be.”

“You said, ‘
If
Hershel Socransky brings the opera crashing down —' You mean
when
, not if, don't you, Helena? Crashing down can only mean one thing: in the final scene … the ‘Prize Song' … the defining moment, according to Wagner … he's deliberately going to foul up the ‘Prize Song,' sing it so badly that the entire opera will be turned into a laughingstock, and Wagner along with it.”

With a coldness I had never before witnessed in her, Helena gave a contemptuous laugh. “Well, why not? Anyway, that hardly amounts to a crime. My God, Hermann, if singing a song badly were a crime, half the tenors and sopranos in the country would be in prison.”

“I'm not an idiot, Helena. Of course ruining a song is not a criminal offense.”

“Then why do you care what he does tonight? For God's sake, Hermann, let him be! Let him do what he must do.”

“We're not speaking here merely about ruining an opera, Helena. If Socransky killed once as part of his mission here in Munich, he will likely kill again. This time his victim will be Richard Wagner. I'm sure of it.”

“Then so be it, Hermann. Look at it this way: by leaving Hershel Socransky alone to do what he has to do,
you
, Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss, will actually be looked on as a hero in the eyes of the mayor and police commissioner. You complained to me not long ago that they had — as you put it — dumped the future of Munich on your doorstep, remember? Well, beginning tomorrow, perhaps the shadow of Richard Wagner will no longer darken Munich. And whom will the grateful population of Munich have to thank for this happy turn of events? Inspector Hermann Preiss! Who knows? Maybe they'll appoint you von Mannstein's successor. Commissioner Hermann Preiss … how does that sound to you?”

“Very hollow. Very cynical.”

“Don't pretend the thought doesn't appeal to you,” Helena said. “That splendid office with the fine view of the city, the handsome desk and a carpet on the floor, heels clicking to attention as you pass your underlings at the Constabulary. Admit it, Hermann, it would be everything you've always yearned for.”

“Am I ambitious? Yes. Can I stand by and leave your new hero free ‘to do what he has to do'? I'm afraid not. Sorry to disappoint you, Helena. I must find him and there's not a moment to lose. If you know where he's gone, you must tell me.”

“I have no idea,” Helena said. “But even if I did know, I would not tell you, Hermann.”

“A moment ago you painted a picture of my future if Socransky's mission were to succeed. Now let me paint a picture of
your
future. Let's say if he's
lucky
, he will be deported under police escort back to Russia because the authorities find it convenient to rid the country of him. So you follow him to Russia, to godforsaken snowbound Russia. I can see it now, Helena: you with a babushka on your head, dining on boiled cabbage three times a day, dwelling on a farm the size of a stable, taking your turn behind the plow, and fending off attacks by Cossacks. Is that what Hershel Socransky has to offer?”

Helena shot me a defiant look. “And what have
you
got to offer, Hermann? Years and years of on-again off-again? And before we know it we're both too old and dried out to make love. So what's left for me? The thrill of watching you sift through the cinders of your career after you've retired? Thank you, no!”

“Then there's nothing more to be said?”

Helena handed me my hat. “Nothing.”

As I turned to leave there was a knock on the door. A voice called out, “It's me, Helena, I've just arrived —”

I recognized the voice of Madam Vronsky. “I didn't know you were expecting company, Helena,” I said.

“I'll get the door,” Helena said quickly. Admitting Madam Vronsky, she said, “You must be exhausted, my dear. Hermann is just leaving —”

“I
am
exhausted. The night train from Düsseldorf, you know —” Madam Vronsky shrugged, as though shaking off a bad experience. “But Inspector Preiss, what a pleasant surprise!”

Helena planted herself between Madam Vronsky and me. “Yes, well the Inspector was just on his way out.”

Madam Vronsky said, “What a pity. Oh well, I'm sure we'll see one another this evening.”

“So you've come to Munich for the premiere?” I asked.

Before Madam Vronsky could reply Helen interjected. “Hermann, the poor woman is a wreck after her overnight journey. This is no time for interrogations. Go, and let her get some rest, for heaven's sake!”

“By all means,” I replied. “But first, a question for
my
sake, Helena.” Gently pushing Helena aside, I confronted Madam Vronsky. “Perhaps you can help me, old friend. I know it's been a while since you lived in your homeland, but they say ‘once a Russian, always a Russian,' so tell me: if a Russian man wishes to get away from everything, to relax, maybe even to hide out for a bit, where does he go and what does he do?”

My question brought a mischievous smile to Madam Vronsky's face. “Are you suggesting that somehow I, Madam Vronsky, a humble piano teacher, have some special acquaintance with the dark side of Russian men, with their intimate habits?”

“Madam Vronsky,” I said, “one of the reasons you are a
great
piano teacher is that you are a true woman of the world, a Russian one at that.”

“Ah, Inspector, Russian women — unless they are peasants, of course — are raised in bird cages. We are not women of the world in the way that women are in France, or England, or Italy. But for what my knowledge is worth, if I were a typical Russian man and wanted, as you say, to get away from everything, there is one place I would go —”

“And that would be —?”

“To a Russian bathhouse.”

“I beg your pardon. To
what
?”

“A place that has plenty of hot steam, boiling hot in fact, and pails of cold water. Russian men love to scald themselves alive until every pore in their bodies is screaming for relief. Then comes the pail of ice-cold water. Sometimes they do this for hours until their flesh is almost beet red. My own father was addicted to this routine. Spent nearly every Sunday doing it. My mother would pack him some bread, a couple of chicken legs, and a flask of vodka. ‘There you go, Alexei, off to the cookery' and we wouldn't see him again until suppertime.”

“I believe I know Munich from one end to the other,” I said, not hiding my disappointment, “but I can't recall ever coming across a Russian bathhouse.”

“Don't look so discouraged,” Madam Vronsky said. “Think of the next closest place, then. There must be a public bathhouse somewhere in this city that offers similar facilities, surely.”

Hastily Helena attempted once more to position herself between Madam Vrosnky and me. This time I placed a restraining hold on her arm that made her wince. “Madam Vronsky, I won't detain you another moment. You've been most helpful.”

Smiling, Madam Vronsky piped up, “I suppose the Russian man you're speaking of is that handsome young tenor?”

“How would you possibly suspect that?” I asked, smiling back. “Now, if you will excuse me —”

Very nervously Helena said, “Where are you going in such a hurry, Hermann?”

I settled my hat carefully on my head. “
That
, my dear Helena, is none of your business,” I replied.