The Mastersinger from Minsk (28 page)

"H
elena!
But how did you —”

“Slipped in at the last minute by way of the stage door,” she explained, looking quite pleased with herself. “He arranged passes for Vronsky and me. She's up in the second tier. I preferred to be here, backstage.”

“Then you must know where I can find him,” I said. “I need to talk with him … urgently.”

“There is nothing you can say to him, Hermann, that he hasn't already said to himself.”

“Good. Then I take it you've succeeded in driving some sense into his head.”

“I've done nothing of the sort,” she shot back, as though what I had just said was preposterous. “Whatever happens in the next hour, let it happen, Hermann, and be done with it once and for all.”

“Out of the question!” I began angrily, prompting one of the stage managers to rush over. Dishevelled and perspiring, he had the look of a man born to worry. “Please!” he said in a loud whisper, addressing the two of us, “we need this space clear.” He pointed to an out-of-the-way corner where stage properties from other operas, draped in white dust covers, huddled together in silence and darkness like a gathering of ghosts. “You can stand over there if you wish,” he said, “but you must keep your voices
down!
”

Helena and I complied but before I could continue she said, “It's pointless for you to stay here —”

“She's right, Inspector. It
is
pointless —” These words came at me from a disembodied voice. Then, out of the shadows, as though he were a spirit materializing before my eyes, Hershel Socransky emerged. “I hate to be inhospitable, Preiss, but you really are not welcome here.” He was wearing the costume for his appearance in the song contest, the black and silver cape and matching cap, the long sword. Every inch the perfect Franconian knight. Every inch the personification of Richard Wagner's vision of a German hero.

“I don't give a damn whether I'm welcome or not,” I said. “You've given me the slip twice today but now you've run out of luck.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Twice, you say?”

“At the public baths, that
was
you with the red beard and the large straw hat, of course. And tonight … the extra bass player with the forged note.”

Socransky smiled, his expression one of mordant amusement. “And here I thought I was making life so very interesting for you, Preiss. After all, you must be sick to death of dodgers who lack imagination.”

“We haven't time for smart chit-chat,” I said. “Give up your plan. If Wagner has committed a crime you believe needs punishing, it is up to me, not you, to deal with it.”

“Preiss, my friend,” Socransky said, “there isn't a police force in the world capable of bringing Richard Wagner to justice for the crime he committed against my father. That is a special mission for me, and for me alone. I would not let that maniacal woman Vanderhoute stand in my way. Nor will I let you!”

Back came the stage manager looking more upset than before. “My God, what is going on here?
Please,
we cannot have this!” To the tenor he said, “Herr Schramm, you are due for your entrance in exactly one minute!” Socransky nodded curtly, tugged at his cape and tunic to make certain they were snug, checked his cap to make certain it was centred, leaned forward to brush a kiss on Helena's cheek, and said quietly to her, “Wish me luck.” He started to move forward in the wings in readiness for his next appearance on stage.

Hastily reaching out, I managed to take a firm hold of his shoulder and spin him around. “Listen to me, Socransky. You're right. You and you alone can mete out the right punishment. But let me tell you how. Sing the ‘Prize Song,' sing it as brilliantly as you can. Turn the evening into a total triumph for Wagner —”

“Are you
mad
, Preiss —?”

“Be quiet and listen to me. As soon as it's over tonight, and Wagner is basking in all the glory … when it seems that all Munich is at his feet … no,
all Germany
… then tell him who you are, who you've been all along … Hershel Socransky, Mastersinger from Minsk. Let him know that a Jew was responsible for his success. Do as I say, I beg you!”

The stage manager beckoned frantically. “Herr Schramm,
now
—”

Shaking loose from my grip, Socransky said, “I must go.”

A
ny
moment now the curtain will rise on Act Three. Backstage, my presence no longer challenged by the stage manager thanks to my police credentials, I keep one eye on “Schramm,” the other eye on the royal box with the aid of opera glasses commandeered from the prompter (who has no need of them anyway in his mouse-hole). Nearby, though just out of reach, stands Helena maintaining her distance from me as though I am a leper. As for Commissioner von Mannstein and Mayor von Braunschweig, I have to rely on my imagination. I have visions of these two stalwarts posted outside King Ludwig's box, ready at a moment's notice to stand aside and look the other way should anyone —
anyone at all
— make a move to assassinate Richard Wagner.

Disaster, I am certain, is now inevitable. Yet through the glasses I see the composer and his wife, their hands clasped together on the railing of the box, exchanging jubilant looks, nodding as though saying to each other “Yes!” again and again.

At last, four hours and forty minutes since the opening strain, comes Scene Five, the final scene of
Die Meistersinger
.

The foreground is transformed into an open meadow, a narrow river winding through it. In the background lies the Town of Nuremberg. Suddenly the atmosphere is thick with festivity. From gaily decorated boats artisans representing various guilds disembark with their wives and children. Each guild displays its banners, waved to and fro boisterously by standard-bearers. To one side a raised stand is erected bearing rows of benches to accommodate the jury of Mastersingers. Dead centre stands a mound about which flowers have been strewn. Here the two competitors for the prize will sing. The Mastersingers' youthful apprentices lead the merrymaking decked out in ribbons and prancing about with slender wands which they twirl high into the air and catch like circus acrobats. Now the principal guilds — Shoemakers, Bakers, Tailors — take turns parading across the stage proclaiming their contributions to the good life of the town's burghers. All of this is sung and danced in high spirits. Colour is everywhere: in the set, the costumes, the lighting. I think to myself: if only Sandor Lantos were alive to savor the fruits of his labour.

Now Eva, led by her father, takes her seat near the judging stand. The apprentices call for silence. Hans Sachs, magisterial in the flowing blue and gold robe of head Mastersinger, declares in his authoritative baritone: “Let the Song Contest begin.”

First to the mound is Beckmesser, by all appearances the unlikeliest candidate for the hand of Eva Pogner. Still, as an accredited Mastersinger he is entitled to his turn before the jury. Having earlier stolen the poem written by Walther, but lacking the slightest idea of the music to which it is to be sung, Beckmesser nevertheless plunges into the piece improvising a tune at best unoriginal, at worst silly. Immediately it becomes apparent he hasn't the slightest understanding of the
words
either.

The jury of Masters is confounded. “What's this?” they murmur to one another. “Is he out of his mind?”

Beckmesser plods on, his performance growing more grotesque by the minute, making a complete and utter fool of himself. Outraged by what they've just suffered through, the jury wants no more of this outlandish piece of work. But Hans Sachs persuades them to be patient and give the young knight who wrote it his chance. Skeptical, they nonetheless agree out of deference to Sachs.

On stage there is silence again. Sachs calls out, “Herr Walther von Stolzing, come forth!” Dazzling in his black and silver costume, Walther steps firmly onto the mound. The moment is ripe with expectancy. The orchestra offers him an introductory note played serenely by strings and harp. But Walther stands motionless, his lips sealed. He looks up at the royal box where King Ludwig has leaned forward in his throne-like seat, his hands folded on the railing of the box as though he can scarcely wait for the opening words and music of the much-talked-about “Prize Song.”

From the royal box, Walther, still not uttering a sound, lets his eyes roam across the vast audience in the main partère. Then he glances up, up, up, one tier at a time, until his gaze is fixed on the uppermost tier. His lips part slightly, but still no sound.

Wagner too is leaning forward in his seat. Cosima is biting her lip. At the conductor's podium in the pit von Bülow clears his throat noisily. He raises his baton and, at his bidding, the orchestra replays the introduction. But the tenor is indifferent to the cue and remains mute. Here and there throughout the audience an uncertain chuckle can be heard. Perhaps this is yet another comic turn in the opera?

Wagner's face darkens. What is happening down there? Has his heldentenor forgotten the words? Or mistaken the cue? Or worse still lost his voice?

For a third time von Bülow lifts his baton. For a third time the strings and harp deliver the opening note. Only then does the tenor seem to find his voice. But the “Prize Song” begins uncertainly, the melody wavering, the words muffled. The unimaginable is happening!

In the royal box Wagner has gotten to his feet. Cosima tugs at his elbow urging him to sit, to calm himself.

Falling silent again, Walther stares pensively down at von Bülow. After what must be an agonizing pause for the entire cast and orchestra, “Schramm” calmly nods to the conductor. Von Bulow taps his music stand once again with his baton, bringing it down loudly this time like a drumstick. The orchestra repeats the introduction. The singer pulls himself erect. He takes a deep breath. His lips part. And he begins:

Shining in the rosy light of morning,

the air heavy with blossom and scent,

full of every unthought of joy,

a garden invited me to enter

and beneath a wondrous tree there

richly hung with fruit

to behold in a blessed dream of love,

boldly promising fulfillment

to the highest of joy's desires —

the most beautiful woman:

Eva in Paradise! …

Here's a very different rendition! The jurors are impressed. As for “Henryk Schramm,” standing poised and proud, his right hand clasped over his heart, his left hand lightly cupped over the handle of his knight's sword, he is now in full command. His singing is exquisite, transcendent even; so fervent one moment, so delicate the next, that at times it sticks in my throat.

A second stanza and the crowd on stage is abuzz with excitement. The hall begins to swell with the music, and the space seems barely able to contain the sound.

The third stanza brings the “Prize Song” to a thrilling conclusion. I tell myself this will be chiselled into my memory until my dying breath. Forgetting myself, I exclaim in a loud whisper, “Schramm's done it! The bastard's done it!” To which the stage manager, disregarding my police credentials, stamps his foot angrily and hushes me as if I'm an unruly child. Disregarding the stage manager, I turn to Helena and repeat in the same loud whisper, “The bastard's done it!” But Helena's face betrays no emotion. I cannot tell whether she is pleased or disappointed.

Of course the prize goes to Walther. One final tribute to German art is sung by Hans Sachs. The orchestra reprises the triumphant opening chords of the overture as the finale. The curtain begins slowly to descend on
Die Meistersinger
and a tumultuous ovation shakes the National Theatre to its foundations. In the royal box the king shoots to his feet applauding vigorously and motioning Wagner to rise. Of course Wagner holds back, playing the role of reluctant genius modestly declining to don the garland, but very soon he too is on his feet, lifted out of his seat by his persuasive monarch, bringing a fresh roar of approval from the house.

Now the curtain rises. First on stage come the chorus, followed by secondary characters, all bowing and smiling as applause washes over them. Then the principals come from the wings for solo bows at centre stage: Hans Sachs, Beckmesser, Eva, each greeted with unrestrained cheering, clapping, foot-stamping. This is more than applause; this is an outpouring of love!

And now the winner of the prize appears for his solo bow centre stage. I wonder whether the architect who designed this opera house took into account the effects of sustained thunder on a structure of this kind. Will the ceiling fall? Will the walls collapse? Will the floors crumble? Here and there voices call out, “Henryk Schramm!” and before long the tenor's name is shouted in unison throughout the house. Time and time again he bows low, accepting humbly the acclaim showered on him. In the royal box, Cosima, on her feet too, throws him kiss after kiss while Wagner, beaming, tosses him an informal salute.

But unlike his fellow cast members, the tenor (whose name repeatedly pounds across the apron of the stage like a tidal wave) is not smiling. The expression on his face is difficult to define. Serious, yes. But is there a touch of sadness too? His mouth has a resolute set, the lips sealed. His eyes appear to be focused on some object beyond the confines of the opera house. He seems to be here and elsewhere at the same time.

“Henryk Schramm!” the crowd chants, but the young man has stopped bowing. He raises his arms, the palms of his hands toward the audience, as though he is pleading for silence. At first the audience ignores his plea, but after a minute or two the shouting dies down. The house goes quiet. The young tenor looks directly at the royal box, at King Ludwig who has taken his seat, at Cosima Wagner who has taken hers, at Richard Wagner who remains standing.

“My performance tonight,” he announces in a calm clear voice which easily carries throughout the hall, “is dedicated to the memory of the late Simon Socransky. Perhaps his name is familiar to you, Maestro Wagner?”

Wagner shrugs as though he hasn't the faintest idea what the young man is talking about. “I'm sorry, but the name is not familiar to me, not at all. In fact, I've never heard the name before,” he replies, treating the question with indifference. He shoots a glance at the king and shrugs again. He is the picture of innocence.

“Let me refresh your memory, Maestro,” Socransky calls back. “Simon Socransky was a member of the symphony orchestra in St. Petersburg. You were a guest conductor there … in 1862, yes?”

Wagner is suddenly all smiles, eager to make light of this. “Ah yes, St. Petersburg, yes indeed. I believe I taught that band of balalaika players a thing or two about music on that occasion.” His quip is met with the odd discreet chuckle here and there, much less than the outbreak of laughter he expected.

Socransky whips off his cap and flings it aside. He steps to the edge of the stage, the silver buckles of his shoes glinting in the light. He slips his ceremonial sword from its sheath and lets it drop to the boards beside him, but all the while his eyes never leave Wagner. “Simon Socransky was no mere balalaika player, Maestro Wagner,” he says. His tone is defiant yet he is firmly in control of his emotions. “On the contrary, Simon Socransky was a great violinist.”

“The name means absolutely nothing to me, I tell you,” Wagner says, a note of irritation creeping into his denial.

Now there is a stir in the audience. People turn to one another shaking their heads as though wondering if this is some kind of ruse. After all, Richard Wagner has never been above resorting to theatrical antics, no matter how bizarre, in order to gain attention. Limelight has always been his favourite form of illumination, even when what it reveals may turn out to be less than praiseworthy.

Socransky becomes more insistent. “But you
must
remember him, Maestro. You were responsible for his dismissal from his position as concertmaster of that orchestra
on that occasion
— ''

A weak smile on his face, Wagner says, his voice becoming a bit hoarse, “My dear fellow, you are mistaken —”

“No, Maestro, I am
not
mistaken. It was you who caused him to be dismissed. It was you who
killed
him.”

“That's a lie! He killed himself!”
Wagner blurts out. Then, in a voice barely audible, he repeats, “He killed himself.” He turns stiffly to the king seeking the monarch's endorsement, bending slightly toward him, almost beseeching. But King Ludwig has no stomach for what is rapidly giving off a strong smell of scandal. Abruptly he rises and without waiting for so much as a syllable of explanation he makes a hasty exit from the royal box, leaving Wagner and Cosima stranded there, strangely isolated in the midst of the attendant throng. An eerie silence falls across the theatre, disturbed only by the shuffling of feet as row upon row of operagoers leave their seats and begin an exodus. They seem to move mechanically, as though in obedience to some unspoken royal command. The cast on stage has already evaporated. The orchestra has quietly vanished from the pit. The house stands deserted … except for three people who occupy that immense space now: Richard Wagner, Cosima Wagner, and the heldentenor they thought they knew.

“Why? Why have you done this?” Wagner shouts, his voice echoing throughout the empty house. “Why should Henryk Schramm give a damn about an obscure fiddler from Russia?”

“Because my name is not Henryk Schramm. It is Hershel Socransky. Simon Socransky is —
was
— my father.”

“Then rot in hell!” Wagner says. “No … better still … if there is a hell beneath hell, rot
there
!” Almost roughly, he takes Cosima by the arm and the two of them start from their box.

At centre stage, Hershel Socransky, hands on hips, watches their departure until they are out of sight. Only then does he leave the stage, moving with the confident stride of a man who believes he has finally completed what he set out to do. Yet when he approaches Helena and me, there is no air of satisfaction about him. Behind him the shards of Wagner's great new opera lie scattered throughout the grand auditorium. On the young tenor's face I see only the sour aftertaste of revenge.