The Mastersinger from Minsk (27 page)

"W
hy
would Germans build an opera house that looks like a Greek temple? Is it because the operas are Greek as well?”

Constable First Class Emil Gruber (outfitted in civilian garb as I had specified) was taking a moment to study an edifice which, though it is one of Munich's foremost landmarks, he'd paid little attention to until now.

I shook my head. “Gruber, when was the last time you attended an opera?”

“To be honest, there's never been a
first
time.”

“Then let me enlighten you, Gruber. Germans compose operas. Italians compose operas. So do the French and Russians. Once in a while the odd opera trickles out of Scandinavia, the Low Countries, even tiny Lichtenstein. But Greeks? They give us colonnaded façades, Corinthian pillars, sculptures of Apollo, also fish and olive oil. As for music? Not one single note!”

“It doesn't make sense,” Gruber said, looking troubled.

“Gruber, you are a good loyal German,” I said, “but you are young. You will learn that the older you become the less
any
thing makes sense.
That
, Gruber, in a nutshell is what wisdom is all about.”

Staying clear of the Constabulary this day, I had sent for Constable Gruber to assist me in what I feared would be an almost impossible task: to apprehend Hershel Socransky before he could gain entry to the opera house; almost impossible because, having gone to great lengths to disguise himself earlier in the day, no doubt he would don an even more ambitious disguise in an attempt to slip through unnoticed.

Despite the enormity of the National Theatre, only two points of entry were available: the public entrance consisting of a row of massive bronze doors at the front of the building, and the stage door at the rear through which staff and artists came and went.

I assigned Gruber to maintain a lookout at the stage door, “You saw the man once,” I told him, “the morning you ushered him into my office when he announced Karla Steilmann had been murdered. But don't expect him to look the same, of course. God only knows how he'll turn up. My only advice, Gruber, is to keep a sharp eye for anyone who looks even the least bit suspicious. You'll likely come across a security guard there, big as an ox with a personality to match. Identify yourself to him; otherwise make yourself inconspicuous. I will patrol the throng as best I can here.” I glanced at my watch. “It's going on five o'clock. By six they will start pouring in.”

Looking troubled again, Gruber said, “With all due respect, Inspector, shouldn't you have sent for more constables for surveillance?”

“I'll explain later, Gruber,” I replied. This was not the time to reveal to him Commissioner von Mannstein's hostility to any plan aimed at eliminating risk to Richard Wagner's life. “I repeat: anyone who arouses a shred of suspicion, get back to me.”

As though obeying some invisible yet irresistible signal — or perhaps out of a habit of high society so ingrained that signals are superfluous — the advance parade of operagoers began to arrive at the stroke of six, decamping from an endless stream of gleaming carriages drawn by horses groomed as smooth as headwaiters. Women, many with brightly coloured gowns encircling their corseted figures like spun sugar, floated by, each leaving in my nostrils a whiff of her favourite perfume from Paris (thank God I'm not allergic!). Wickedly charming junior officers escorted the younger women so attentively and protectively one would think bullets were about to fly. Older women made do with aged retired officers, crusty men smelling here and there of cigar smoke, their bemedalled formal wear witness to days long past when backs were like ramrods and stomachs were more disciplined. Everywhere there was jewellery. Everywhere women's eyes darted back and forth checking one another's finery while mental charts were reviewed to determine who was wearing the same gown for a second or third time.

A perfect summer evening, the air filled with excited chatter of people of influence in Munich, a pleasurable sense of occasion and anticipation. What more could Richard Wagner ask of his gods?

The flurry of activity, the hearty commotion, the hustle-bustle which patricians feel privileged to indulge in … everything came to a sudden standstill. A hush fell over the assembly as they caught sight of the approaching carriage bearing King Ludwig, a midnight-blue jewel, its rooftop royal crest glowing gold as if Ludwig owned the sun. And suddenly, there to greet his monarch and benefactor, appeared Richard Wagner, Cosima at his side. It was no surprise to me, as I watched close by, that Wagner made no effort to rein in his taste for effusive utterances and movements when it came to the king. Such conduct, of course, is natural and expected in the grandiose territory of opera, but with King Ludwig himself on the scene Richard Wagner's celebratory gestures were on show in their fullest flower, even bordering on vulgarity. As the trio — Ludwig, Wagner, and Cosima — moved toward the bronze doors, the crowd parted like the Red Sea to grant them a clear path.

A second wave, well turned-out though less patrician, soon followed; then a third, the last-mentioned representing the “infantry” of opera, that is, those hardy folk who, lacking gold and glitter, made it to the National Theatre on foot, then faced a climb of five long flights to their seats in the uppermost tier.

It was now a quarter of seven. The ushers, under Maestro Wagner's standing orders to show no mercy to latecomers, slammed shut the heavy doors, at the same time foreclosing any hope I held of catching “Henryk Schramm” mingling with the surging patrons. Not one man gave me reason to think he was here under false pretenses, although several times I was compelled, as the crowd filed past me, to steal an extra glance at someone's face to satisfy myself that a beard or mustache was genuine, or at someone's paunch to be certain that the fellow was truly overweight and not concealing a pillow under his tunic.

Hoping that Gruber had better luck, I made for the stage door only to find him shaking his head and shrugging.

“No sign of him here either?”

“None,” Gruber said. “Not so much as a hair out of place on anybody. Not a nervous twitch, not a stammer, nothing.”

“Did you ask the guard to let you inspect his roster?”

“His roster?”

“Part of his duty is to check everyone as they enter … he has a list of the company staff, chorus, principal singers, orchestra, stagehands, everybody connected with the production.”

Gruber's face reddened. “Sorry, Inspector, I had no idea —”

The guard, recognizing me, was not pleased when I commanded him to hand over the list. “It's all in perfect order,” he said, his tone belligerent. “Only thing missing are the mice that live in the basement. You'll have to get their names yourself.”

As I expected, the roll was long, taking up three pages and containing some two hundred names all carefully sorted according to their departments and specific occupations. Members of the orchestra were grouped according to their instrumental sections. I ran a finger down the list page by page. It seemed the guard was right after all. Everything appeared in perfect order.

Until my finger landed on the section of the orchestra headed “Double Bass.”

I turned to the guard. “Since when are there nine double basses in the orchestra?”

“What do you mean nine? There are only eight.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I've been here often enough to know there are always eight. Your list shows
nine
.”

The guard thought for a moment. “Ah, I remember. There
was
an extra double bass player … showed up almost at the last minute. Name's there … Horst Schmidt. Said the Maestro hired him because the music called for more sound from the double basses. Showed me a note signed by Maestro Wagner himself.”

“So you admitted him?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“He carried a case for his double bass?”

The guard gave me a look of disgust. “Well what else would he use to carry a double bass, a snuff box?”

“You inspected the contents of the case?”

The guard took a deep breath. “Now why would I do a thing like that? I'm not in the habit of poking my nose into people's instrument cases. God in heaven! I suppose next thing you'll want to know is whether I make sure their instruments are
tuned
.”

“What did he look like?”

“About your height only in better shape, I'd say. You know, you have to be strong to handle a double bass. Wore one of those French-type berets. Spectacles too, the kind with silver rims. Evening clothes like all the others, white bow tie and so on. Oh yes, he had a flaming red beard and mustache. If I hadn't known better I would've said he painted them, that's how red they were.”

“Did you happen to see where he went from here?”

“Where everyone else in the orchestra would go, naturally. There is a large chamber down below … I mean just under the pit … where they get ready, tune up, whatever they do. When it's time, they go up a set of steps into the pit and wait for the conductor. I expect you'll find who you're looking for there.”

I reached the players' chamber just as they were beginning to file up the narrow set of stairs leading to the pit. Not one among them even came close to fitting the guard's description. I spotted, propped against one wall, a row of double bass cases. I counted eight. My eyes fell on the rearguard inching their way toward the steps, the bass players, their bulky instruments and thick bows in hand. There were eight.

Gruber said, “He must be in the dressing room putting on his costume.”

“No, Gruber, that is one place he
won't
be. I guarantee you he carried the first of his costumes in the instrument case, sword and all. His other costume, the one he wears in the very final scene, must be set aside in the dressing room. He's probably deposited the case in one of the dark corridors in the basement with his suit of evening clothes.”

“Then he must be in the wings by now, waiting to go on,” Gruber guessed. “Maybe there's still time —”

From the pit rose the familiar sound of the oboist's piercing “A,” the various sections of the orchestra tuning one by one … violins, violas, cellos, clarinets, horns, a pair of tubas gruffly clearing their throats … a swelling mélange of tones and half-tones … the players swooping up and down scales to warm up or fleetingly rehearsing yet again a handful of bars here and there that were especially tricky. Next a shower of applause from the audience, which meant the conductor von Bülow was threading his way through the first violin section en route to the podium. Any second now he would give two or three sharp raps of his baton on the music stand before him, extend his arms wide as though embracing his players, nod solemnly, and the opening strain of the overture would settle majestically across the silenced house.

“Maybe there's still time, Inspector,” Gruber urged.

“No, Gruber, it's too late,” I repeated. “Our man appears in the very opening scene. As we speak he's already in his place on the stage, ready the minute the curtain goes up. Get yourself up to the wings, tell whoever is in charge there that you're on police business but say no more, just stay put and don't let Socransky out of your sight, especially whenever he's off stage. I'm off to the first tier. Word has it that Wagner and his wife are seated with King Ludwig in the royal box. I'll stay as close to the Maestro as possible, even during intermissions when he'll be mingling with the high and mighty in the lounge.”

I took the stairs to the first tier two at a time only to be halted at the top by a pair of splendidly uniformed captains from the king's personal guard who, examining my police identification, and informed that I bore an urgent message for Maestro Wagner, allowed me to pass without further delay. A long carpeted corridor led to the royal box located at the centre point of the tier. Approaching the door to the box I noticed that it was slightly ajar, which I thought strange given that the king and his entourage customarily warranted absolute privacy. Strange too was the absence of additional guardsmen outside the box. Better to close the door, I thought, and I reached out intending gently to close it when a voice behind me said “No need to trouble yourself, Preiss. Just leave it —”

I swung about and found myself face to face with Commissioner von Mannstein. Next to him, wearing the medallion and sash of his office, stood Mayor von Braunschweig.

“You may consider yourself relieved for the remainder of the evening, Preiss,” von Mannstein said. “His Honour the Mayor and I are personally taking charge of Maestro Wagner's security. You may go now, Inspector.”

Both wore expressions that made it clear they would brook no nonsense.

I took no more than a half-dozen steps on my retreat when von Mannstein called out, “By the way, Preiss, tell Constable Gruber he too is relieved. See to it that you both leave the house at once.”

I
obeyed Commissioner von Mannstein's order to discharge Constable Gruber, said to myself, “That's more than enough obedience for one day,” and proceeded without wasting another minute to find for myself a shadowy out-of-the-way cranny under the first tier balcony, not the most comfortable observation post from which to carry out a five-hour watch, but ideal for my purposes. From this vantage point I gained not only an unobstructed view of the performance onstage but the equally important performance in the royal box. I suffered only one disadvantage here: it was impossible to eavesdrop on whispered conversations as people across the aisle and beyond stole glances at the occupants in the floral-draped box where Cosima Wagner, in blinding white, her upswept hair fixed into place by a diamond-studded tiara, was ensconced in one of the throne-like chairs, looking more regal than any trueborn queen. Of course the topic of the moment would be her desertion of von Bülow, her union with Wagner, the king's rumoured disapproval, as well as the disapproval of her father Franz Liszt. But on this sparkling night, although the great Liszt chose to be conspicuously absent, King Ludwig apparently chose to let bygones be bygones. Let the prim and the proper gasp; there sat the controversial couple now anointed with their monarch's approbation.

A few minutes past seven the sconces and chandeliers began to dim, their brilliance reduced to a pale glow playing softly off the brocaded walls. In an instant the audience fell silent. Not a stir could be heard, not so much as a rustle of a program page being turned. It was as though everyone sensed that the eyes of Richard Wagner were upon them, that he was daring them to clear their throats, to cough, even to breathe! In the pit von Bülow's baton rose above his head, came down slowly like a magician's wand, and the majestic opening theme of the overture rolled like a gentle tide across the rows of hushed men and women. Before long the crimson and gold curtain lifted to reveal the interior of St. Catherine's Church in old Nuremberg. Eva, the heroine, was seated to one side; Walther, the hero, stood nearby, the two exchanging glances in the midst of a church service. Entranced by Eva's beauty, the young knight, in a voice pure and clear as crystal yet warm with desire, sang his first words: “Stay! A word! A single word!” …

As the curtain began its slow descent at the end of Act One there were a few seconds of hesitation, then a scattering of applause and murmured hints of surprise, followed here and there by cautious “Bravos.” These gave way to less restrained applause, the “Bravos” grew more enthusiastic and widespread, and very soon it became clear that the audience were intrigued, even excited, by this new Wagner, this Wagner who could mix the serious and the comic and make it work, this Wagner whose every musical phrase and motif came to life at precisely the right moment in every twist of the plot.

Hardly had the curtain begun its descent at the close of Act Two when the audience, from the main partèrre all the way up to “the clouds” in the fifth tier, sprang to their feet cheering, demanding that the principal singers return again and again for curtain calls. And whenever the Franconian knight — this previously unheard of tenor by the name of Henryk Schramm — stepped forward for a solo bow, women of all ages tossed aside their fans, discarded their dignity, and unabashedly threw kisses in his direction. And when “Schramm,” responding to his final call, brought a hand to his heart, it looked to me as though at least half the women in the theatre were on the verge of fainting with indescribable pleasure!

Up in the royal box King Ludwig too stood applauding, the tall benefactor smiling benignly down at his favoured beneficiary. At first Wagner remained rooted to his chair, seemingly overwhelmed. When finally he slowly eased to his feet, his exhibition of gratitude smacked of prior rehearsal: dramatically deep bows, hands modestly at his sides, chin buried deep in the ruffles of his shirtfront, eyes shut. Had I been closer I might have spotted a tear or two. I certainly would have bet anyone in the house that he'd practised these gestures days in advance before a mirror in the privacy of his bedroom.

The program explained that, due to the extraordinary length of the opera, the two intermissions would be shortened to ten minutes instead of the customary twenty, leaving barely enough time for women to tug their bodices and bustles back into shape while their male escorts grumbled about insufficient time to visit the bar. With Act Three about to begin in minutes, one option only was open to me: I would have to desert my place of concealment, find my way quickly backstage, and attempt to waylay Hershel Socransky.

According to the program, the Third Act would begin with the lengthy prelude which I'd heard in rehearsal, followed by Scene One during which Walther's mentor Hans Sachs, the town sage, broods about the state of the world and yearns for an era of enlightenment. Walther would make his next appearance in Scene Two. This would give me the opportunity I desperately needed to confront the tenor.

But confront him how? And with what?

An appeal to reason?
Look, Socransky, you have nothing to gain by deliberately mangling the “Prize Song.” And less than nothing to gain by making an attempt on the life of Wagner. Say you succeed in achieving revenge … then what? You leave your own future in ruins! …

Or what about threats?
Carry out this plan of yours, Socransky, and I will have no choice but to arrest you. Every law I can muster will come down on your head. On what charges? you ask. Fraud. Public Mischief. Willful destruction of property. Those are mere legal frills. Threats to Wagner's life. And then there's that business with Cornelia Vanderhoute, don't overlook that. I'm speaking of murder. You could be facing years in prison, years! …

There was one other card to play, one that I would play with great reluctance, a last resort that would be painful for me and leave me with a lifetime of self-disgust. But play it I would if necessary.
Helena Becker, Socransky … Helena Becker is in love with you. Carry out this plan of yours and the two of you will never see each other again except through prison bars! You and she are perfect soulmates. Deprive yourself of freedom and you deprive both of you of years of happiness! …

With the house lights dimming in anticipation of Act Three, I started out for the area backstage where I was certain Hershel Socransky would be awaiting his cue. In the darkening theatre I kept to the least visible passageways, feeling with all this stealth like a bit of a criminal myself. I found my way to a set of steps, the final approach to backstage, and was about to mount when what I caught sight of just beyond the upper step stopped me in my tracks. There, with her back to me, stood Helena, alone. But where was Socransky?