The Mastersinger from Minsk (23 page)

O
ne
hour, as it turned out, exploded into two hours, at the end of which mutiny hung in the air like a thundercloud, the cast on stage whispering conspiratorially among themselves, the players in the pit shooting hostile glances at von Bülow who in turn shot hostile glances at Wagner. The soprano engaged to replace Karla Steilmann had earlier stormed off the stage in tears. The tenor engaged to replace Wolfgang Grilling in the role of Beckmesser followed closely in her footsteps vowing not to return until a suitable apology was offered (Wagner's choice of “lifeless” to describe his rendition of a particularly key passage had not sat well with him). Only the man known to Wagner as Henryk Schramm seemed, by some act of God, to escape the Maestro's scathing criticism. Only he, “Schramm,” despite evident fatigue, managed as he departed a courteous nod toward Wagner, then to the musicians below grumbling as they laid aside their instruments.

“I must say, Herr Schramm, you displayed extreme courage and coolness under fire. You possess amazing resolve.” We were seated now opposite one another at a table in a small quiet café on Odeonsplatz, not far from the opera house. The customary supper crowd would not arrive for an hour or so.

I ordered coffee and two cream buns.

“Make it three, I'm famished, please.”

“Good. One for me, two for my friend,” I said to the waiter.

“Oh, so now we're friends? In that case, Inspector, let's drop the ‘Schramm' business. You know my name is Hershel Socransky. You know my background. What more needs to be said?”

“Much much more,” I replied. “Consider the facts, Socransky: Your father was an outstanding musician tragically driven to suicide, for which you blame Richard Wagner. You are a Jew in a world of opera not widely hospitable to Jews, especially the world of Wagnerian opera. You come all the way from Minsk, and gamble that you will be hired to sing the leading role in this new production. You manage to add a threatening note into the picture hoping, no doubt, to unsettle Wagner, though the man already lives such an unsettled existence one wonders how on earth he manages to get out of bed every morning and face himself in the mirror!”

I waited for Socransky to deny any of this but he sat silent, looking me straight in the eye. The waiter arrived, set down two cups of coffee and a plate with the cream buns. “Will that be all, gentlemen?”

“I'd like a cognac,” Socransky piped up, as though catching his second wind. “A
large
cognac, please.” Returning to me, he said, “Please, Inspector, don't let me interrupt your train of thought.” I noted a slight smile on the young tenor's face, a mixture of patience and amusement. “Has the ‘train' arrived at the station?” he asked.

“Not quite,” I said. “There's one more stop on the route.”

A snifter of cognac arrived, which Socransky finished off in a single draught.

“That's
not
how they do it in France,” I said.

“That's how
we
do it in Russia,” he responded, biting hungrily into a bun. “Pardon me for speaking with a mouthful. Please go on, Inspector. You were saying there is one more stop —”

“Yes indeed. This woman Vanderhoute … remember her? Well, here's another fact, my friend. You knew her for some period of time before the night she died. She and my late colleague Detective Brunner had some prior contact with you. In fact, they were attempting to blackmail you … for money of course. You resisted. Somehow you learned that she was on a mission of her own that might involve killing Wagner. That would interfere with your own mission — whatever it was, or is — and so you decided to dispose of her. You lured her to your rooms and did away with her, making it appear that you killed her in self-defence.”

A smile returned to the tenor's face. “There's still one cream bun, Inspector. Care to share it with me?” I indicated my refusal with a shake of my head and waited while he ate it and finished the remains of his coffee as though we had all the time in the world. He used a snow-white linen napkin to dab the corners of his mouth and wipe his fingers clean of crumbs, then sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. “God bless Germany,” he said, “land of canons and cream buns! Now then, Inspector, let us suppose … just for the sake of argument, of course … that your theory is correct. What then?”

“You have two choices,” I replied. “One: Withdraw immediately from your role in
Die Meistersinger
. By immediately I mean today. There is a train which leaves tonight for Russia. Be on it. I will see to it that your necessary travel papers are in order. Two: Stay and face prosecution for the murder of Cornelia Vanderhoute, as well as for threatening the life of Richard Wagner.”

Socransky's eyes narrowed. “Something doesn't make sense, Preiss,” he said at last. “If you have proof, why would you offer me an opportunity to leave the country? Why wouldn't you simply do your duty, arrest me, imprison me while I await trial for my
alleged
crime? I don't understand what is happening here … I mean, what is
really
happening.”

“I don't owe you an explanation,” I said, “but I suppose it would be unfair that you be exiled to Minsk only to spend the rest of your days wondering why.”

“Excuse the interruption,” Socransky said politely, “but aren't you being a bit presumptuous? You
did
offer two choices —”

“Don't be a fool, Socransky. I have enough evidence to convince a court of law that you had a perfect motive and a perfect opportunity to do away with the woman, and that you have an equally perfect motive to take some drastic form of revenge against Wagner and need only a perfect opportunity … which I am
not
about to hand you. No, my young friend, go east, and leave Richard Wagner's fate to others. Trust me, Socransky: the authorities to whom I answer have their priorities well set when it comes to Wagner. Trying one murderer for murdering another murderer doesn't rate so much as a single phrase on their agenda.”

“In other words,” Socransky said, without bitterness, “you can't wait to get rid of
me
—”

“Yes, I suppose that sums up my message pretty succinctly —”

“— while Richard Wagner remains at large, so to speak.”

“For the time being, yes.”

Socransky studied me for a few moments, then stared into his empty coffee cup, biting his lips, mulling over the choices. Then, looking up, he gave me a smile best described as a sign of subtle defiance. “One of the things I've learned about you, Inspector Preiss, is that you have a reputation for making allowances for people whom you regard as special … geniuses like Robert Schumann, his wife Clara, and now Wagner. Why in God's name would you take it upon yourself to shield a villain like him?”

“A villain, yes,” I replied, “but a rare villain, one who does
not
besmirch everything he touches. Even
you
must admit that.”

“I admit no such thing. You cannot separate the man from his creation no matter how great his music. To me that is crystal clear, and if you will pardon my frankness, Inspector, I'm shocked that you show such ambivalence.”

“When you have spent years and years dealing with every kind of human emotion imaginable, as I have, you learn — if you have any brains at all — that a healthy dose of ambivalence is like a tonic. Clarity, on the other hand, often comes back to haunt you and stop you in your tracks. Take my advice, Socransky. Whatever grievance you have, leave it to destiny. Destiny, if you let it be, eventually veers toward some kind of just resolution.”

I signalled to the waiter for the cheque. “And now, enough talk,” I said. “You need time to get your things in order, pack, and so on. I should let you go about your business.”

“You
do
appreciate that today is June twentieth, Inspector,” Socransky said. “Tomorrow night, seven o'clock —” He shrugged.

“The world will not come to an end,” I said. “Besides, the tenor hired to replace Grilling as Beckmesser is familiar with your role.
His
understudy can sing the part of Beckmesser.”

“So you have it all neatly figured out, I see. You Germans are so efficient!”

“Efficiency is our religion,” I said, “although that, too, often comes back to haunt us. Your train leaves for the east at ten. I will meet you a half-hour earlier at the
Ostbahnhof
and clear the way for you with the officials. By the way, I've arranged a first-class ticket for you, courtesy of the taxpayers of Munich. It's a long journey, but at least it will be a comfortable one.” The Ostbahnhof is the second largest railway station in Munich and handles most of the railway travel towards the east. I hoped to see Socransky at one of those trains.

“And how do you propose to break the news of my sudden departure to the Maestro?”

“Ah yes,” I replied with a rueful chuckle, “that little detail will be attended to the moment you and I wave our last goodbyes to each other.” I gave the young tenor a playful jab on the arm. “You see, Socransky, whenever you ask me a question, unlike you I respond with an answer, not another question. Nine-thirty at the Ostbahnhof?”

Socransky returned the playful jab. “Why not?” he replied.

A
t
the Ostbahnhof I took a position in the rotunda directly under the ornate gold dome, a central spot that enabled me best to keep my eyes on the constant waves of humanity flooding in and out of the terminal. There is a clock mounted on the wall just above the main entrance, its face large and bright as the sun, its classic Roman numerals giving time an extraordinary measure of elegance. When it announces the hours and half-hours, the terrazzo floor underfoot trembles and one would swear God Himself had struck the chimes.

Tucked securely under my arm was a leather portfolio containing all the necessary paperwork hastily prepared to clear the way for Socransky's return to Russia, including a personal note from Commissioner von Mannstein addressed to the German border authorities certifying the young tenor to be a visitor of good reputation bound for his homeland with the blessing of the entire population of Munich. (Shaking his head as he handed me the note, von Mannstein muttered, “I'll never for the life of me understand why these Slavs love their country.”)

As I had promised Socransky, I arrived precisely at nine-thirty, just in time to feel the ground beneath the Ostbahnhof quaking as the big clock did its job.

At precisely ten o'clock the train leaving Munich for the east departed, right on schedule. On the station platform now, I watched the last passenger car grow smaller and smaller, heard the train's whistle grow fainter and fainter, until there was nothing but darkness and silence at the end of the tunnel leading away from the terminal.

Everything was accomplished on schedule. Everything was in perfect order … with only one exception: Hershel Socransky was not aboard the train. In fact, he failed to show up at all.

And so I was left standing on the platform, now nearly deserted, my arms limp at my sides, one hand still clutching a sheaf of crisp official documents I had gone to much trouble to procure, all in vain, all useless. I would have cursed every bone, every drop of blood in Hershel Socransky's body for betraying my trust in him, had I not been too busy cursing every bone and every drop of blood in my own body for having trusted him in the first place. Our parting words earlier in the day came back to me:

Nine-thirty at the
Ostbahnhof
?

Why not?

Always …
always
… a question answered with a question! Of course the man hadn't the slightest intention of leaving on that train. Even a fledgling police cadet would have seen through Socransky's vaporous response.

An unseen hand forcefully pushed me out of the Ostbahnhof. A voice belonging to someone … was it mine? … hailed a cab and ordered the driver to deliver me to the place where the young tenor had rented lodgings since his arrival in Munich. There I was met by the superintendent, at this hour already in his nightclothes and bathrobe.

“Oh, you mean that nice young man, Schramm is it? Well, I'm sorry, Inspector, but he checked out just before the supper hour. Paid his rent right up-to-date like a decent fellow. You know, Inspector, most of the time those itinerant types leave in the middle of —”

“Never mind that,” I snapped. “I need to see his rooms.”

Another disappointment. There was not so much as a speck of lint or a single strand of hair as evidence that Hershel Socransky had inhabited the place.

“Did he leave any forwarding address?”

“None,” replied the superintendent. “All he said was, if any mail came for him, I was to put it away, and he would arrange to have it picked up, maybe in a week or two. As far as I can remember, he only received one or two letters the whole time he was here, so I guess there's not much chance of any mail showing up.”

“Was he carrying anything … luggage, that kind of thing?”

“Only one bag, a large canvas one, looked quite heavy. I offered to fetch him a carriage but he said he didn't need one, that he could manage.” The old man chuckled. “I was once young and strong like him, but I don't think
any
body could get far lugging a bag that size.”

Clever bastard, Socransky.
Even at this late hour of the night there are at least a hundred carriages for hire in Munich. No doubt he preferred to take one well out of the superintendent's sight. Take one where? There are at least a thousand destinations — hotels, rooming houses, hostels, taverns — where the man could find temporary refuge. What was the point, then, in commencing a search, even if I were to enlist a small army of police constables to hunt him down?

But what about the residence of his target, Richard Wagner?

It was almost midnight when a cabdriver deposited me on the curb outside Wagner's house. To my surprise, the place was aglow. Every window on the main floor was filled with light.

As I climbed the few steps leading to the door I could hear clearly sounds of merriment from within, as though a celebration were in progress. There was laughter and applause, and someone was playing a waltz, pounding out the rhythm in three-quarter time in an exaggerated fashion, on the Maestro's grand piano. I recognized the piece: it was Strauss the Younger's “Blue Danube Waltz,” introduced a year earlier in Vienna and by this time a favourite in every dance hall in Europe. I knocked on the door and was admitted by Wagner's housekeeper who escorted me into the living room, where a throng of men and women holding glasses of Champagne were humming and swaying in time with the music. At the keyboard sat the Maestro, and next to him on the bench Cosima. Wagner, grinning, began to launch zestfully into a repeat of the waltz. (This was a sight I never expected to behold: Richard Wagner playing dance tunes written by a composer with Jewish blood in his veins!) After a slow introductory passage, he gave a cue to the young man standing in the curve of the piano. On cue, the singer began the lyric:

Oh Danube so blue …

I recognized the singer at once.