The Mastersinger from Minsk (22 page)

E
very
May, when the sun has finally ended its annual winter game of hide and seek and bursts from behind April's clouds as if to shout “Surprise!” Munich spreads itself bare under the warming rays so that by the time May has slipped effortlessly into June the city once more blooms with newborn gardens. There is a sense that every blade of grass, every leaf of every tree, every petal of every flower is out to prove that Nature, which has treated the city with callous indifference over the long winter months, possesses a softer side after all. Total strangers, having shed the constraints of cold weather along with their heavy coats and hats and boots, pass one another in the streets and smile. On the surface, Munich at this time of the year is a collection of sunbeams and greenery and charm and civility.

Crime, on the other hand, possesses no softer side. Indeed, this spring, which brought balmier-than-usual temperatures, inspired Munich's denizens of the underworld to burst forth from
their
hiding places with a kind of vigour and audacity not seen here in recent years. In the Old Town, almost within the shadows of the onion-shape domes of the ancient Frauenkirche Cathedral, petty thieves were stealing their daily bread regularly at the stalls of the Viktualienmarkt, helping themselves brazenly as well to expensive meats and vegetables, fruits and cheeses. Nothing but the best for these non-paying gourmands! Climb the high tower of nearby Peterskirche for a view of the area and, if you had sharp eyes, you would catch sight of pickpockets here and there following closely on the heels of affluent pedestrians like stray dogs, waiting for the right moment to capture a fat wallet or snatch a loosely held purse, their skills revived after months of inactivity due to the cold. As June's temperatures climbed, so did both the quantity and quality of lawlessness in the city. At the beer gardens frequented by ruffians, evenings of heavy drinking intended to afford relief from the heat erupted into quarrels, which in turn led to vicious beatings and stabbings, many with fatal results.

Once again a rapist was creating fear, this time in the vicinity of the Botanical Gardens adjacent to the Schloss Nymphenburg, a favourite spot of young couples for a romantic stroll after dusk. The method was the same in every one of a half-dozen cases: the rapist, described as having the build of a professional wrestler, would attack the male from the rear, dispatching him with a single blow to the head; the female would then be dragged off behind a hedgerow. If she were lucky she would lapse into unconsciousness before her assailant was finished.

In many of these crimes, one way or another I found myself involved, all as part of what Commissioner von Mannstein regarded as my rehabilitation — that is, my return to “real” police work. My reward for acquiescent behavior came in the form of ever more “real” police work thanks to von Mannstein's determination to “save” me from the temptations that had led me astray earlier in the year.

I'm forced to admit the odd moment of gratification. Remembering how a disguise worked to my advantage in the Friedensplatz rape cases, I once again resorted to disguise, this time as a young student (no easy feat at my age) in the typical garb of university students — a small felt cap with the school insignia on the badge, a high-button jacket worn open with a collarless shirt, narrow striped trousers. The young “woman” with whom I strolled arm-in-arm was actually Constable Emil Gruber who, dressed in headscarf, flowing dirndl, a light shawl about the shoulders, made a remarkably appealing female companion. Sure enough, as Gruber and I ambled along, our arms interlocked, we heard footsteps behind us on the remote and deserted path we'd chosen at the Gardens. The expected blow to the back of my head was interrupted, however, by the swift swing of a truncheon Gruber produced from under his skirt. As a result it was the rapist's head, not mine, that ended up cracked. For the swiftness of his response, Gruber received a promotion to constable first class, along with my heartfelt thanks.
My
reward came in the form of a magisterial note from von Mannstein granting me a three-day leave of absence to — as he put it — “enjoy a respite and refresh yourself for the challenges to come.”

Three days. Seventy-two hours. What can a weary worn-out, fed-up aging police inspector accomplish in such a short time span? I asked myself.

Düsseldorf … Helena Becker! That was the answer. I would send a telegram immediately. “Dearest Helena … a bit of luck …” I would pack quickly, make a dash for the late afternoon train. Seventy-two hours of heaven!

I began hastily to tidy up my office, humming a passage from Schubert's “Trout,” the second movement, a happy little tune that reflected my mood perfectly. Finished, I looked about, saw that everything was in order, blew a kiss to my modest workplace, whispered, “Auf Wiedersehen,” and prepared to leave.

At which point the door was thrown open and in came Gruber, his young face flushed with excitement. “Inspector Preiss, you won't believe what's happened,” he yelled, as though I were stationed in some remote section of Bavaria instead of a metre or two away. “You know Detective Brunner, Detective
Franz
Brunner?”

“Of course. What about him?”

“He's been murdered.”

I
f
I were a wagering man I would have bet my last pfennig that the person who had just confessed to murdering Detective Franz Brunner was incapable of slaying a common house fly, let alone an overweight human being. She was at least a head shorter than her victim and her physique was anything but robust. Indeed, so thin was she that, had it been possible, I would have interrupted my interrogation and ordered up a square meal for the woman. Lines of exhaustion fanned out across her brow and her hollow cheeks were barely supported by a drooping mouth and weak chin. It was not difficult to understand the state of her appearance. I had only to look about me to realize that, despite the modesty of the place, and despite the burdens of raising four young children, there was not so much as a speck of dust or a crumb to be seen anywhere. If one needed evidence that fastidiousness has nothing to do with affluence, here was proof absolute! Throughout the small house, part of a row of similar small houses in Munich's working-class district, there were signs that this woman must have spent all her waking hours cleaning — when she wasn't busy cooking, that is. Even the children's rooms were as orderly as military barracks. I wondered where their playthings were stored until it occurred to me that there probably were
no
playthings. I wondered also who could have imposed such a pattern of tidiness, such a standard of perfection. (Even I, who admire good housekeeping, doubted that I could maintain this level of cleanliness and neatness in such confined quarters.)

“My husband was sloppy and clumsy but insisted his home be as spotless as a clinic. The only thing that interested him about children was the act of conceiving them, if you must know the truth, Inspector.”

But this was not all Helga Brunner had to say about the man she had just slain. We were seated at a plain wooden dining table in the kitchen. Between us, at the centre of the table, lay a large butcher's knife. Not surprisingly, its blade and handle were spotless, Franz Brunner's blood having been typically scrubbed off. (Brunner's body had already been carted away for an autopsy, and the Brunner children dispatched to the nearby house of their grandmother.)

“He would routinely arrive home from work with his clothing rumpled and messy and stained,” Helga Brunner went on, “and always with the same excuse. ‘Ours is not a life of tea parties, Helga,' he would say. ‘Be happy you're a housewife, Helga,' and he would hand me his shirt to wash and his suit to clean and press as best I could. I must say, Inspector Preiss, you don't seem to fit the picture my husband painted about police life.”

“So that is how you happened upon this photograph and a note pinned to it?”

“I was going through the pockets of his jacket, you know, and came to the inner pocket where apparently you detectives normally carry your identity cards and badges. I always did this before starting to iron out the creases. And yes, the picture and note were there. Obviously he'd forgotten to remove them.”

I asked, “Is it possible that he actually
intended
you to see these? That he deliberately —”

Before I could finish my question Helga Brunner tossed aside the suggestion with a harsh and bitter laugh. “Not a chance of that! He was too stupid. Anyway, a woman can always tell when her husband is unfaithful, especially when her job is to look after his clothes. This certainly was not the first time I came across signs — signs I would rather not have to describe to you in detail, Inspector, disgusting signs — signs that he was doing with other women what he'd stopped doing with me, may he rest in hell!”

“I take it,” I said, holding up the photograph for both of us to see, “that this, and the woman's note, were the last straw —”

“I have no regrets, Inspector. I'll probably burn in the same hell that I've sent him to, but this … this, as you say, was the last straw.”

“Does the woman in the photograph mean anything to you?” I asked.

“No, nothing at all.”

“Her name was Cornelia Vanderhoute,” I said.

“
Was
?”

“She, too, is dead, though her death had nothing to do with your husband,” I said. “Or so I thought, until now. It is clear to me now that your husband was much more involved with this Vanderhoute woman than I was led to believe, and for a much longer time.”

“The note says something about the two of them working together and hoping … how does she put it? … hoping to make progress soon with H. S. Who or what is ‘H.S.'?”

Once again a well-used excuse came to my aid. “I'm afraid that is a highly sensitive matter under police investigation which I am not at liberty to disclose.”

Helga Brunner received this reply with an air of resignation. “Then there's nothing left, I suppose, except for you to arrest me for murder. Does the law go easier if it's a crime of passion, Inspector?”

“I have to be honest with you,” I said. “Crimes of passion are a French phenomenon. We Germans go out of our way to avoid linking the two things … crime, and passion. I wouldn't count on too much leniency in our courts, but I
will
tell you this: I had the dubious honour of working with Franz Brunner, and I will do my very best to convince your judge that Detective Brunner was the kind of man that even a
saint
would have taken a knife to.”

I watched Constable First Class Emil Gruber take Helga Brunner into custody and leave the Brunner house in a cab destined for the Constabulary. I myself had other plans. Hailing another cab, I ordered the driver to take me to the opera house. At this hour of the day — it was just short of noon — I knew it was most likely that “H.S.” could be found there, participating in the last-minute frantic rehearsals that are part and parcel of an immense operatic undertaking like
Die Meistersinger
.

A
t
the stage door of the National Theater I was confronted by a security guard, posted there presumably at the behest of Maestro Wagner. A man of brutish demeanor with hands that could crush rocks, he demanded to know the purpose of my visit, his stance suggesting that nothing would have sweetened his day more than an excuse to send me — or
anyone
, for that matter — flying clear across Max-Joseph-Platz. So crestfallen was he when I presented my police identity card and badge that my heart bled a little for him.

Standing aside, he pointed with his thumb over his broad shoulder to the auditorium behind him. “Final dress rehearsal,” he grunted. “It's holy hell in there!”

Hell it was, and then some.

Surrounded by principal singers and choristers, while below in the pit members of the orchestra and conductor Hans von Bülow sat with eyes fixed up at him, Richard Wagner, at centre stage, was breaking his own record for verbal fire and brimstone. “Must I once again remind all of you,” he shouted, “that an octave contains twelve semitones … twelve equal parts of what is known as the chromatic scale … something with which I hoped you would be at least
vaguely
familiar, each and every one of you? Do you suppose I wrote certain notes in the score with the intention that singers and instrumentalists could ignore them at will? Listen to me: There are
no
throwaway notes in my score, absolutely
none
!
Singers
are dispensable.
Players
are dispensable. Yes, even
conductors.
But not
one
single semiquaver I take the trouble to insert in my score is dispensable! Is that understood?”

Without waiting for responses, and totally indifferent to the expressions of exhaustion and sagging postures of the cast, Wagner barked, “Von Bülow, the singers will take a pause … ten minutes. Meanwhile I want to hear again the introduction to the third act. Woodwinds and horns, remember: this is what I call the Renunciation theme. It is supposed to reflect the sadness and frustration experienced by the hero Walther, and by his mentor Hans Sachs, because hidebound tradition at this point in the opera seems to be triumphing over freshness and creativity. The opening phrase must be played with subtlety, do you hear? It must convey at one and the same time a sense of obstruction
and
a sense of hope! You must play the phrase loudly but not too loudly, firmly but with a feeling of compassion. Life is full of difficulty, but life is not coming to an end. That is what I want to hear from you.”

Turning to the singers, Wagner snapped his fingers. “All right, the rest of you … go … ten minutes and not a minute longer.”

As the singers began their retreat from the stage, I managed to catch Hershel Socransky's eye and signalled that I would meet up with him backstage.

He was not happy to see me. “What's this all about? As you can see, we're in the midst —”

“We have to talk,” I said firmly.

“Talk? About what? What is so important that —”

“Trust me, I would
not
be here if it weren't important.”

“Then tell me —”

“Not here. Not now. I will wait until the rehearsal is over. I'll be sitting at the back of the auditorium. You will join me there. Then we'll go where we can talk privately.”

“But the rehearsal will last at least another hour.”

“I said I would wait until it's over.”

“I'm very tired,” the young tenor pleaded. “As you can see, all of us are ready to collapse. Can't this wait?”

“It cannot. And I am in no mood for any foolishness. I'll be in the back row of the house. Be there!”