Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, sir — ”

“Don’t you see, Preiss? Thanks to your involvement with Wagner … I understand he counts on you to find and arrest whoever is threatening to ruin him … you are in an ideal position to keep an eye on what the man’s up to. I don’t mean musically; frankly I don’t give a damn if Wagner composes operas or lullabies. Come to think of it, far as I’m concerned both kinds of music put people to sleep.”

The commissioner took a moment to chortle at his own wit, then carried on: “It’s Wagner’s political activity the mayor and I are concerned with. Also certain aspects of his social and personal life which are infelicitous to say the least. Bear in mind, Preiss, it is imperative that we amass sufficient grounds to rid Munich of Richard Wagner once and for all.” Von Mannstein paused and gave me a quizzical look. “Tell me, Preiss, when von Braunschweig and I met with you, why did you not disclose that you’d already become engaged in this Wagner affair? Frankly, I was distressed at first to learn about it from Brunner. No doubt he brought it to my attention because he was concerned about a possible conflict of interest; you know, the kind of thing that might have proved embarrassing to us, eh?”

“I’m certain Brunner acted with the best of intentions, sir,” I said. (At the same time I made a vow to myself. Someday, preferably in the very near future, I would see to it that Munich saw the last of Detective Franz Brunner once and for all.)

Von Mannstein shook his head reassuringly. “Well, Preiss, have no fear in that respect,” he said. “I set Brunner straight, of course. I know you to be a man of exquisite discretion. In all likelihood you did not consider it prudent to reveal such confidential information in the presence of the mayor.”

The commissioner was certainly correct in one respect. With good reason he knew me to be a man of exquisite discretion. It was his bad luck, and my good luck, that during my lengthy vigil to catch the Friedensplatz rapist I happened to come across von Mannstein as he was departing the off-limits establishment of Madame Rosina Waldheim. Despite the black wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his brow and the turned-up collar of his civilian greatcoat, I had recognized him immediately. Besides he retained the bearing and swagger of a cavalry officer (which he indeed was in his earlier days) and his stride, as he took leave of that elegant whorehouse, left not a shred of doubt in my mind that the man was none other than my superior at the Constabulary. We exchanged quick but meaningful glances, said not a word to each other, and he took off in a waiting carriage. Neither of us ever spoke of this afterwards; however, this fleeting and accidental encounter, later enriched by Madame Waldheim’s revelation that he was a frequent and generous patron, created a silent bond between von Mannstein and me.

I returned to my office relieved on one hand that Franz Brunner’s sly attempt to scuttle my career had not only failed but might have actually contributed a gold star to my service record. On the other hand I had to face an uncomfortable truth: Just as Henryk Schramm and Karla Steilmann were drawn to Richard Wagner like moths to a flame, so too was I caught up in that irresistible force.

Walking a thin line is not new to me. I’ve broken a law or two in my time, and stretched moral judgment to the point where it snaps like a dry tree branch, all for the sake of catching a criminal. I’ve learned to accomplish this with a minimum of agonizing about it before, during, and afterward. But the thin line now lying before me was one I was not accustomed to tread. I wondered: would this prove to be my ruination?

The studio of Sandor Lantos occupied the ground floor of a two-storey house that squatted in the overpowering shadow of the Opera House. Lantos’s living quarters took up the second storey. One wall of the studio consisted almost entirely of windows, which not only admitted natural light much needed for Lantos’s line of work but afforded a view of the façade of the Opera House that must have served as a daily inspiration to him. Noticing that I was struck by that view, Lantos said, “Hardly a day goes by that I don’t pause and stare at that sight, Inspector. Just imagine: Mozart’s Idomeneo had its premiere in that very place. And Maestro Wagner has had five — five — of his operas introduced there!” He gave a deep sigh. “Alas, Inspector Preiss, you and I … yes, and Wagner too … will be long gone and that edifice will still be standing. If only God, when He was creating Man, had made us as enduring as brick and stone.”

“Oh, but He did,” I said, “only He did it in the form of music.”

Lantos looked at me with astonishment. “Pardon my frankness,” he said, “but I was not expecting a philosopher to respond to the note I sent you. I mean, after all, as a police inspector — ”

With a reassuring smile I said, “I’m not the least offended. Nor, I hasten to add, do I consider myself a philosopher. As for God and music, I’m not certain whether God invented music or music invented God. Most of the time I believe they’re one and the same. Which is why I attend concert halls but not churches. And now that I’ve bared my soul to you, Lantos, perhaps you’d satisfy my curiosity. I’ve never before been in the studio of a costume and set designer. If you will pardon my frankness — ”

“You were expecting more romantic surroundings, eh? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, I’m not disappointed at all,” I lied, unable to ignore the pockmarked plaster walls where Lantos habitually pinned or nailed his sketches, the stained floorboards, the strong smell of oil paints and turpentine, an easel and adjoining worktable spattered with every colour and mixture of colours known to man. It was difficult to imagine that the grandiose productions staged so close by owed much of their splendor to what was created in this stuffy and unruly place.

Lantos, reading my mind, said, “You see, Inspector, I am a humble man doing a humble job in a humble location.” There was not so much self-pity as ruefulness in Lantos’s voice. No doubt in his youth he had ambitions to be another Rembrandt and was forced, by limitations in his talent, to settle for set and costume design. A man I judged to be in his late fifties, he was spending whatever years were left to him in the service of one patron, Richard Wagner, not a pretty fate for any artist.

“Your note said you have something of extreme importance to tell me,” I said, glancing at the same time at my pocket watch.

“I’ll come directly to the point,” Lantos said. “Here, please look at these sketches, if you will — ” Lantos reached behind him, then handed me a dozen sheets of heavy art paper which had been lying on the worktable. “These are my designs for costumes for a character called Beckmesser in Maestro Wagner’s new opera Die Meistersinger. I believe you already possess some knowledge of the work.” Lantos gave me a look as if to say he knew more about my involvement than I suspected. Knowing that gossip is as much a part of the world of music as notes and time signatures, I didn’t bother to question the source of his information. “What do you think of them, Inspector? Please be honest, sir.”

“Why would you seek my opinion?” I said. “I’m a policeman, not an art critic.”

“Humour me anyway,” Lantos urged.

I thumbed through the sketches. “Very colourful, very professional. I’m not surprised that Maestro Wagner has retained you all these years as his principal designer.”

“Ah, but that’s the point I’m getting to. These are his designs, based on his ideas and his alone. I am merely the instrument that puts them on paper.”