The Mastersinger from Minsk (19 page)

T
here
was only one thing to do now: warn Richard Wagner that he was at greater risk for his safety than before. But what if he should demand to know why? How could I explain truthfully?
Well, you see Maestro, it's like this: formerly you were an ordinary target for murder, but as of the latest orders from my superior you are now what might be termed a government-approved target for murder. What? You say you find this outrageous? Sorry, Maestro, but it's God's will …

I headed straight for the opera house assuming (correctly) that at this hour of the day Wagner could be found there keeping a watchful eye on rehearsals for the new opera. Unnoticed, I slipped into an aisle seat in the rearmost row of the main parterre.

The Maestro had stationed himself at the railing in front of the orchestra pit, his back to me, facing the conductor von Bülow, the orchestral musicians, and a company of singers on stage. Although the hall is renowned for its flawless acoustics (a hiccup in the fifth gallery, it is said, resounds like a cymbal-crash backstage), Wagner chose to bellow in the manner of a drill sergeant castigating cadets for sloppiness on parade.

“You … members of the chorus … you are failing to pay proper attention to the way I have placed words under the musical notes! Failing miserably! You are cutting short many of the words and destroying the flow of the text as well as the music! My score is quite clear and the words must be sung precisely as I have written them. If Beethoven would not stand for singers who took careless liberties in the choral movement of the Ninth Symphony, why should I have to tolerate second-rate work?
Third-rate
, in fact!”

Turning his attention to the orchestra and conductor, Wagner ranted on, “The overture … God in heaven! … I create an elaborate climax where the three main themes are interwoven … and what do I hear?
What
, I ask you?”

Wagner then began, in a high-pitched raspy voice, to imitate what he heard, his right hand pretending to saw wood, his other hand clutched to his left ear as though hoping to shut out his own noise. “This is music that conveys youthful passion. You are playing it as though it's dinner music.” The Maestro then proceeded to demonstrate, this time in a baritone voice, how the opening fanfare, intended to symbolize the nobility of the Mastersingers, should be played. “Full-bodied, generous, proud!” he shouted. His hands punching the air, he sang out the first four notes. “This …
this
… is what I wrote.
This
is what I expect to hear!”

Dropping his shoulders, looking and sounding exhausted, Wagner said, addressing von Bülow quietly, “Tomorrow let me hear something far better.”

It occurred to me, watching Wagner's tirade, that any one among the assembly both in the orchestra pit and on the stage could be regarded as a potential assassin of the man, and with good reason. I could even envision a fatal attack by the group collectively, like the slaying of Julius Caesar. Yet not a single person dared to speak up, express resentment, challenge, or even politely beg to differ.

Without another word to the cast and players, he turned and started up the aisle. Catching sight of me, his face darkened into a scowl. “Preiss, what are
you
doing here?” he demanded.

“Maestro, I must speak with you.”

“Not now, Preiss. Thus far this has
not
been a productive day, as you could no doubt surmise if you were sitting here long enough. I need to get out, get some fresh air, enjoy a bit of a stroll.”

“Then I'll join you,” I said.

“I was hoping to go alone, Preiss.”

“This cannot wait.”

“In case you hadn't noticed, Preiss, I'm not accustomed to having my plans interfered with.”

“Nor am I, Maestro Wagner. The English Garden is close by. Shall we?”

I hailed a carriage and we rode in silence along the short route to the expanse of greenery that lies on the west bank of the Isar River, Wagner looking disgruntled all the way. But once we came in sight of the place, a sudden smile lit up his face, and as we dismounted and readied ourselves for our stroll he pointed his walking stick at the lawns and shrubbery spread out before us. “You see, Preiss,
this
is what
Die Meistersinger
is really about … the greatness of German culture, of German art. Look at the planting, the designs of the flowerbed. Why why
why
do so many Europeans try to emulate the French and English when we Germans have so much more to offer the world?” (I was tempted to remind him that the English Garden was modelled after a similar London park, but decided to hold my tongue.) Shaking his head with a mixture of frustration and disgust, he added, “And for saying this, I'm told that I have no business engaging in political issues. But art and politics are inseparable, don't you see?”

Wagner shook his head again. “Ach! Let's walk. Enough aggravation.”

It was at this point that my attention was drawn to the Maestro's walking stick. Made of ebonized wood, it was topped with a gold handle engraved with scrolling rococo foliage and Wagner's initials in elegant script. “Your stick, Maestro,” I commented, “is another example of superior German craftsmanship, I presume.”

Wagner halted and handed it to me to examine more closely. With a twinkle in his eyes, and smiling sardonically, he replied, “Don't breathe a word of this, Preiss. I purchased it in London at a shop just off Piccadilly called, of all things, ‘Cane & Abel.' Like the French, the British take themselves and their role in the universe much too seriously. Still, the odd Englishman
does
have a sense of humour, eh?”

Our walk began at a leisurely pace, a kind of contemplative slow motion, and we soon found ourselves passing between two rows of tall trees standing at attention as though lined up for inspection, their early spring leaves leaving plenty of space for sunlight to speckle the walkway. A pair of hawks circled overhead complaining about another pair which had beaten them to the carcass of a tiny field mouse, bringing another sardonic smile to Wagner's lips. “Ah Nature! Now there's a death you should be investigating, Inspector Preiss.”

I had waited for an opening. Nature, in the form of two ravenous hawks and a dead field mouse, came to my assistance. “Speaking of investigations, Maestro, something has come up … something of a rather unusual … perhaps I should say unconventional or unorthodox —”

But Wagner was paying no attention, none whatsoever. As though he hadn't heard a word I'd said, he chuckled. “I gather you are no stranger to music, Preiss. What do you think of Johannes Brahms's stuff?” Without waiting for my reply, he went on: “To judge by what I've heard, the man's possessed by a burning desire for anonymity, don't you agree?” Again not waiting for my answer, he said, “Cosima and I are off to a concert tonight. The orchestra is from Weimar. The program opens with a Brahms symphony and I am so excited, Preiss!”

“But Maestro, your aversion to Brahms is well-known. From what you've often said about his music, in five minutes you'll be fast asleep.”

“Of course. That's why I'm so excited!”

We both stopped to laugh, Wagner beaming with pleasure over the wickedness of his own joke. And for the first time since our initial meeting, I detected beneath the sooty layers of his past misdeeds and his boundless self-centredness a few gratifying flickers of wit.

I waited for this rare moment to pass, then said, “Maestro, I regret having to change the subject, but —”

“Yes, yes, of course, Preiss. You did say we have something important to discuss. Well?”

“It concerns this woman Cornelia Vanderhoute —”

“You've found her?”

“I'm afraid not.”

Wagner halted abruptly. “But I don't understand, Preiss. Rotfogel was supposed to lead you to her. You twisted my arm until I agreed to rehire him, but the bastard didn't have the decency to show up today for rehearsal after all the upheaval he created. How do you explain that, I'd like to know.”

“Thilo Rotfogel is dead, Maestro. Murdered. I was going to add ‘in cold blood' but actually it appears the circumstances were hot-blooded, if you take my meaning.”

Wagner gave me a knowing smile. “You mean that poor excuse for a human male was done away with while trying to make love, don't you? Well, I'm not surprised. He was a brilliant hornist, Preiss. Brilliant! But I always suspected that his private life was a tunnel with no light at the end. And Cornelia … how does she fit into the picture?”

“I'm certain she killed him.”

“But why?” Wagner asked. “He was a strange man in many ways, certainly not the easiest musician I ever worked with. In fact, he was annoying much of the time. But the woods aren't full of great French horn players, so I put up with him. If
any
one wanted to kill Rotfogel, it was I who had good reason, believe me. But Vanderhoute —?”

“She may have had several motives,” I said, “robbery being one. We both know she wanted money, don't we, Maestro?” As I expected, Wagner made no comment. I continued: “Rotfogel's jewellery was missing and we have evidence she pawned some of it. But for the moment, Maestro, I'm more interested in another murder I'm certain she committed. I'm referring to the death of Karla Steilmann. Why would Cornelia Vanderhoute want to kill Karla Steilmann? And the answer that keeps flashing before my eyes is … jealousy. Now, why would Vanderhoute be jealous of Steilmann? Because Steilmann was a better singer, indeed your star soprano? From my conversation with your chorus master, she was aware of her limitations and quite content to be a member of the chorus. So what reason would she have to be jealous? Perhaps you have some idea, Maestro?”

Again Wagner remained silent, and looked away.

“Perhaps you have some idea?” I repeated, not pressing him, but not letting him stray from my question. “Well, Maestro?”

At last Wagner spoke up. “I need to walk a bit more, Preiss. The air and the exercise are good for these old bones of mine.”

We began to walk at the same measured pace as before, which gave Wagner an opportunity to avoid my gaze. Staring straight ahead of him, he said, speaking in such a matter-of-fact way one would have thought he was reading from a police report, “September, the year before last … Dresden … the opera house there … we were performing
Tannhäuser.
One of the leading female roles, that of the Venus, was to have been sung by my favourite dramatic singer, Wilhelmine Schroeder-Devrient. Alas, being somewhat past her prime, she was not up to the task either vocally and physically. Venus must be youthful, sensuous, and have a voice to match. Steilmann auditioned for the role. Long story short: audience fell in love with Karla Steilmann in Dresden.”

We walked on several more paces before Wagner added, in the same detached way, “I too fell in love with Karla Steilmann. The two of us spent a night together at our hotel in Dresden … one night only. Somehow — God knows how — Vanderhoute found out. When she — Vanderhoute, that is — tried to extract money from me, besides claiming to be carrying my child, she threatened to inform Cosima about Dresden.”

“And has Madam Wagner any knowledge of this?” I asked.

“God forbid!” Wagner said. “Listen to me, Inspector. I
love
Cosima, love her so deeply I cannot express it enough in words. For her next birthday, I am going to surprise her with a piece of music composed especially for her. Her birthday is on Christmas day, you know. The piece is titled
Siegfried Idyll
and I'm arranging — very secretly, of course — to have a small chamber group play it on the landing outside our bedroom. She will wake up to the sound of it, and the
music
will say to her what mere words cannot say, Preiss. So, am I a rogue who misbehaves now and then? Yes. But when I speak of true love, I speak only of Cosima!”

Coming to a sudden halt, Wagner, sounding remorseful now, said, “So it seems, Preiss, that Karla, and not I, has paid the price for what was really nothing more than one night in a hotel room in Dresden. You must find Cornelia Vanderhoute, Preiss. I trust the entire police force of Munich, including the commissioner no less, is on a mission to put her behind bars.”

How could I possibly inform Wagner that the very opposite was now true? “I assure you, Maestro,” I said, “that this matter is receiving the fullest concern at all levels of authority.”

“I take it, then,” Wagner said, “that the note I received when all of this began … the one threatening my ruination on June twenty-first … this must have been written by Vanderhoute.”

“We are still looking into that,” I replied.

Stunned, Wagner blurted out, “But that's ridiculous, Preiss! What is there to look into? Who else on God's earth would have written such a note?”

“We … that is, I … have a suspect, someone other than Fräulein Vanderhoute. Police policy, however, prohibits me from revealing names of suspects for fear that, if word gets out, they will flee.”

“But surely you can disclose this information to me, Preiss. I give you my word it will stay with me and no one else.”

The word of Richard Wagner? Now
there
was a phenomenon worthy of hours and hours of scrutiny! The man had already left a trail of broken promises from one end of Europe to the other: promises to lovers, to creditors, to fellow artists, to publishers, politicians, and yes, even to his own wife, Cosima, whom he professed to love with a passion that defied description.

The word of Richard Wagner? I think not
, I said to myself.

“I'm sorry, Maestro Wagner,” I said, “but I cannot violate departmental policy. I can say only that I have ruled out Vanderhoute as the author of the note.”