The Mastersinger from Minsk (26 page)

T
his
being the first day of summer, I was expected to attend a noon-hour meeting of senior staff traditionally presided over by von Mannstein at the commencement of each new season. From past experience I knew what would be uppermost on the agenda. Fair weather never failed to bring to Munich's surface two things: flowers and crime. After hibernating like bears during the winter months, the city's underworld were in full blossom. Therefore extra duties were the order of the day, a decree that would invariably be met with stifled groans and rolled eyes. This would be followed by the commissioner's recital of unsolved cases and his recommendations for demotions among the lower ranks. Congeniality at these briefings was never in the air. On the other hand, protocol called for full dress uniform to lend pomp to the occasion, not that von Mannstein's arm had to be twisted when it came to sporting one of his beloved uniforms and his array of decorations (all earned in peacetime).

I knew — oh, how well I knew! — that the case of Richard Wagner would raise its Medusa head at some point, most likely in a private dressing-down afterward, for the commissioner still preferred that his and the mayor's strategy concerning the infamous troublemaker be carried out sub rosa for the time being. Faced with a choice — to attend or to be truant — I chose the latter. I therefore dispatched a note by messenger to Constable First Class Emil Gruber (whose gratitude to me for his recent promotion was still eternal) requesting him to inform the commissioner that I was indisposed due to a severe urinary infection. Von Mannstein possessed a special sensitivity about such male disorders, having exposed his own organs on more than a few occasions to extra-curricular risks and consequences, and could be counted on to feel a pinch or two of sympathy. This would leave me free to concentrate on what was at the very top of
my
agenda … the hunt for Hershel Socransky.

It was now well past noon and time was shrinking fast. I had learned that Wagner's new opera was longer than most, taking up some five hours from start to finish. The curtain would therefore rise earlier than usual, that is, at seven o'clock. Being a stickler for punctuality the Maestro would not tolerate even a minute's delay.

I was absolutely certain that nowhere in Munich was there to be found the kind of Russian bathhouse Madam Vronsky described. Granted Munich was a remarkably cosmopolitan city, its restaurants and bakeries influenced by the French, its gardens and parks influenced by the English, its architecture influenced by the Romans and Greeks, but one foreign influence thus far had failed utterly to take hold in Munich: Russian-style bathhouses.

Think of the next closest place, then … there must be a public bathhouse somewhere in this city that offers similar facilities …

I could think of only one — Müllersches Volksbad, on the banks of the Isar in the south part of the city, steps from Ludwig's Bridge and not at all distant from the opera house. A popular tourist attraction and highly visible thanks to its tall white tower with clocks on all four sides, it houses the most beautiful indoor swimming pool in the country. But was there somewhere in that imposing edifice anything even vaguely resembling a Russian-style steam bath?

Entering the main reception hall I spotted an information kiosk occupied by a uniformed attendant, his peaked cap sitting squarely on a massive head, which in turn sat on massive shoulders without the benefit of a neck, features typical of retired military veterans blessed in old age with government patronage. I knew such men to be invariably sour, bored, rude, and bullies to the core. This attendant turned out to be an exception; he had all of the aforementioned qualities multiplied by ten!

“I wonder if you can help me, sir,” I said.

“What sort of help? You don't strike me as somebody who needs help. I suppose you're from the Office of Civil Service Administration, eh?”

“No, sir, I am
not
.”

“That's what they all say. Tricky bunch, sending around inspectors disguised as ordinary civilians, checking up on us, writing their damned reports. That's how your type get promoted, of course. Well, go ahead, ask me what it is you need to know and let's get it over with.”

At this point I realized I had been standing before him hat in hand like a suppliant. To repair my image, I adopted a harsh authoritative tone. “I'm not here to listen to your life story. I need to know if there is a Russian-style steam bath on these premises. It's a matter of great urgency.”

“A
Russian
-style steam bath, you say? That's ridiculous. I've had some dealings with Russians. Never known a single one of 'em to take a bath, steam or otherwise. Anyway, what's so urgent?”

I handed the man my identification badge. “I am here on police business. If there is not a Russian-style steam bath here, is there anything of that nature available to the public?”

Regarding me with open disapproval, the attendant replied, “As a police officer, are you not ashamed to be involving yourself in that kind of business?”

“What kind of business?”

“
That
kind of business. You know as well as I do what goes on in such places. My God, what's society coming to when a chief inspector spends his time in a bath house? That's no place for a
real
man.”

“I am
not
here to engage in ‘that kind of business!'”

My protest was in vain; the man simply could not overcome his disgust. “Third floor,” he snarled, “south end of the building. Supervised by a man from Sweden or someplace like that. You'll know when you're getting close; you can feel the heat.”

He was right. I was met by an invisible wall of heat as I approached the entrance to the steam bath. I wondered why any sane person would want to indulge in such a punishing exercise on one of the balmiest days in months. I wondered, too, about my own sanity. Here I was, after years of pursuing bizarre people doing bizarre things in bizarre places, about to engage in the bizarre act of hunting for a suspect in a hellishly hot public steam bath on a warm day in June! Report this to von Mannstein and my next “promotion” would be to an asylum.

Behind a tower of thick white towels sat another attendant, small metal cash box at his feet, next to it a bowl containing bars of soap giving off a strong carbolic scent.

“You wish to take a steam bath, sir?” the attendant asked, speaking German with an inflection peculiar to Swedes. There was an eagerness about him which was explained when I glanced at the open cash box and observed a fifty-pfenning coin lying there in solitary confinement.

I presented my badge. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “I'm looking for someone, a young man who may be here —”

The attendant shook his head. “Young men seldom come here in warm weather. They prefer
other
places. Today I have only one customer, an older man, but he's been here almost one hour so I expect he'll be getting dressed and ready to leave.” I must have looked skeptical for he added quickly, “You can go in and see for yourself if you don't mind the heat.”

I removed my hat, loosened my collar, unbuttoned my jacket, and started through the narrow entrance. Not more than a half-dozen steps in, I halted and stood aside to let the man whom the attendant described pass on his way out. He was indeed an older man with an impressively full beard and a generous handlebar mustache that functioned like a bridge joining one cheek to the other. He wore sensibly light clothing, and on his head a broad-brimmed straw hat favoured by fashionable Italians in summer. He carried a satchel. We nodded to one another, he went his way, I went mine.

A search of ten private dressing rooms yielded nothing. As for the steam room, three tiers of wooden benches lay idle in the fog. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Again I wondered why any man in his right mind would subject himself to this kind of self-inflicted torture. Mopping my brow, I mentioned this to the attendant as I was about to leave.

“Odd you should say that, Inspector,” he said. “The fellow who just left complained that the steam was not hot enough and the water not cold enough.”

“Then he must truly be a mad man,” I said.

“Or a Russian,” said the attendant, winking as though he and I shared some measure of disdain for Russians.

Or a Russian —

That beard, the mustache, the satchel large enough to contain a complete change of clothing … who better than an opera singer would know about costumes and disguises? Such people lived day and night in a make-believe universe of costumes and disguises. The man behind the beard and mustache, his face partly concealed by that oversized Italian straw hat … he had to be Hershel Socransky.

M
y
second encounter with the attendant in charge of the information kiosk was no more genial than the first. “Oh, it's
you
again,” he growled, squinting at me as though I were a tax collector. “What is it now?”

“Did you happen to see a man with a beard and handlebar mustache wearing a large straw hat and toting a satchel pass by on his way out?”

The attendant cast a frowning glance from one end of the main reception hall to the other, the place swarming by this time with people coming and going, many with bundles of swimming attire tucked under their arms or carried in satchels. Throwing up his arms, he said, “Look around you, for God's sake. I probably see a
hundred
men who fit that description on a warm day like this.”

“I mean in the last minute or two —” My mind added, “you idiot.”

“This
is
some kind of test, isn't it?”

“
Yes or no
—?”

“Yes, damn it!”

“Yes
what
—?”

“There
was
a man … stopped by to ask me a question. Said he was a visitor to Munich and could I recommend a good hotel.”

“A good hotel where?”

“Some place close to Schloss Nymphenburg. Said he heard the castle and grounds were especially nice this time of year. I used to be a guard there. Told him there are any number of decent tourist lodgings in that district.”

“Did you recommend one?”

“No. I suggested he try Romanstrasse or Prinzenstrasse. There's at least a dozen inns and hotels within walking distance of the castle.”

Nymphenburg
…

In that blink of an eye when we passed each other it would have occurred to Socransky that my turning up at the baths — of all places — had to be more than mere coincidence. Never mind how or why I found my way here. What mattered was how to throw me off his trail. Figuring (rightly) that I would question the old attendant, what better way than to plant a false inquiry about hotels in a section of Munich far west of the National Theatre and Müllsersches Volksbad, indeed almost at the opposite end of the city. An amateurish ruse? Probably. But then again, if by the slimmest of chances he were serious, what then? At this busy period of the day a journey across the city would be no easy accomplishment. A search of numerous hotels and inns, not to mention the palace and its surroundings park, would exhaust what few precious hours remained until curtain time, a gamble I could ill afford.

Once outside the Volksbad I paused. To Nymphenburg, or not?

My thoughts flew back to that initial visit to the studio of Sandor Lantos … to sketches of two costumes for Walther von Stolzing: one consisting of a plain workaday blouse and breeches; the other a dashing black tunic with silver trim and a matching cap; with both costumes a long slender ceremonial sword, its ornate handle protruding from the scabbard at the knight's left flank. Knowing Wagner's passion for authenticity, the sword would be a real weapon. No fake. No plaything. I pictured “Henryk Schramm” inspecting Lantos's drawings with approval, gloating inwardly.
Motive. Opportunity. And means!
The gods — not Richard Wagner's but Hershel Socransky's — were smiling favourably upon his plans.

I could see it unfolding:

It begins with the tenor mangling the “Prize Song,” both the melody and the lyric, reducing Wagner's masterpiece to a grotesque pile of musical rubble. The audience is momentarily stunned. Seconds later there's an eruption of derisive laughter that rises from the main floor to the uppermost tier. Even the walls seem to be shaking with laughter. Thousands of glinting crystals in the enormous central chandelier rattle with laughter. On stage the cast are motionless, dumbstruck. The orchestra sit lifeless at their places in the pit, their instruments frozen in their hands. Mouth open in disbelief, the conductor stands limp at the podium, baton at his feet. Backstage there is utter chaos. Orders and counter-orders are shouted back and forth: Bring down the curtain! No, leave it up! …

In the wing, stage left, the composer works himself into a state of near-collapse, railing and wailing against the perfidy that has destroyed his work, his hopes, his dreams. Shepherded off to his private lounge, an anxious Cosima hovering over him as a mother hovers over a stricken child, he demands that the errant knight be brought before him at once. If there is a hell beneath the hell to which ordinary sinners are consigned, may Henryk Schramm descend to that lower purgatory before this hour is out! …

The young tenor is duly summoned. Does he resist? Not for one moment. Indeed, he heeds the summons with a willingness that borders on alacrity! …

Now they are alone in Wagner's private quarters, just the three of them, Wagner, Cosima, and Hershel Socransky, the singer still in costume. At his side the ceremonial sword. This is Hershel Socransky's time, his moment when all of his stars are aligned in vengeful confluence, when his plan will wax to its full malignance and the ghost of his aggrieved father will finally be laid to rest …

To Nymphenburg then?

No.

Sooner or later “Henryk Schramm” would have to make his way back to the opera house, and avoid being seen by me. That much, and only that much, was certain. I would have to figure out how to recognize him among the masses of cast and theatregoers thronging through the doors of the National Theatre.