Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

I shrugged. “So what’s the problem, Lantos?”

“The problem is that the singer hired to play the role of Beckmesser, a tenor by the name of Grilling, Wolfgang Grilling, took one look at my work and reacted so violently that I was frightened to death. He threw the papers on the floor and if I hadn’t bent down quickly to pick them up I swear he would have trampled them. ‘I’ll be the laughingstock of Munich!’ he yelled. Oh my God, Inspector, the man was furious. Said the costumes would make him appear like the village idiot. Worse still, he claimed the audience would take him for a Jew! You see, the Maestro insists that the Beckmesser character must have this somewhat prominent hooked nose. Which is precisely how I’ve depicted the face in the sketches.”

“You explained to him that you were simply carrying out Wagner’s orders?”

“Yes yes, of course. But Grilling was in no mood to listen to reason. So I appealed to his manager — ”

“His manager was present?”

“Yes. You know how most opera singers are, Inspector; they must have their lackeys in attendance at all times, like valets and footmen are to royalty. Grilling’s manager is Friedrich Otto, a man I’ve known for years. A gentle, decent man, really. Poor fellow was terribly embarrassed by Grilling’s outburst, especially when Grilling began uttering threats and curses. Otto suggested a meeting with the Maestro to request alterations in costume and make-up.”

“Is that a possibility?”

“You mean will Richard Wagner consent to changes? Ask me if palm trees will ever grow in the Alps, Inspector.”

“But if Grilling was Wagner’s choice to sing such an important role, one would think the Maestro would be eager to placate the fellow.”

“Wrong, Inspector. Firstly, Richard Wagner placates nobody … nobody except where there’s money to be borrowed. And even then , Wagner manages to convince the lender that he, Wagner, is doing him a great favour! Secondly, you must understand that the role of the loser, Beckmesser, is as vital in a way as the role of Walther von Stolzing, the winner. After all, Beckmesser is a scoundrel, a thief, an imposter, and, yes, more than a bit of a fool. In every respect he is the opposite of Walther. So it’s absolutely essential that a strong contrast between the two be made clear right down to their stockings. No, Otto may have the best of intentions but he’ll be wasting his time.”

“And if, as you predict, Otto fails, what will Grilling do?” I asked.

“He said … and these are his exact words, Inspector … he said ‘The world will never hear a single note of Die Meistersinger. I’d rather burn down the Opera House than walk onto that stage looking like this!’”

“But Lantos,” I said, “you of all people must be familiar with artists’ temperaments. All fuss and bother. How did Shakespeare put it: ‘Full of sound and fury — ’”

“Signifying nothing,” Lantos cut in. “Ah, but that’s not the case here. I heard the anger in Grilling’s voice and saw it in his eyes. There was enough fire there to burn down Munich, I tell you!”

Lantos paused and I could tell there was something else on his mind. I said, “Is there another point you wish to make, Lantos? If it’s a matter of strict confidence, you can trust me.”

Suddenly Lantos took a step forward and gripped my arm. It was the kind of physical gesture that normally would have caused me to shrink back (I dislike being a captive audience). And yet there was a look of such desperation in Lantos’s face that I resisted the impulse to remove his hand. “You must help me, Inspector Preiss. This is a terrible situation for me.”

“For you? How so?”

“I have invested all of my time and energy for months now to create designs for the new opera. I’m speaking literally of dozens of costume designs because Die Meistersinger calls for a huge cast and chorus. Sets too, I’ve completed several thus far and several others are nearly complete. And to date I’ve not been paid one pfennig. Not one pfennig! I have a wife and five children. If this production fails to go on, well, Maestro Wagner is not famous for recognizing financial obligations nor is charity a compelling part of his life. That is why I need your help, Inspector.”

“My help? I told you before, my dear man; I’m not a philosopher, I’m not an art critic, and I’m not a bill collector. Believe me, I deeply sympathize with you, but — ”

“But you are in a position to do more than sympathize, don’t you see?” Lantos said, releasing his grip on my arm, much to my relief. “You are Chief Inspector of Munich. Your reputation is well-known. Go to Wolfgang Grilling. Go to Friedrich Otto too. All you have to do is warn them — warn Grilling in particular — that nothing must be done that would interfere with the premiere of Die Meistersinger . Warn him that you are aware of his threat — ”

I shook my head. “Lantos, listen to me. My business is crime. If I had to arrest every foul-mouthed hothead who uttered a threat, there wouldn’t be a prison in Germany large enough to hold the crowd.”

“And if Grilling carries out his threat, how will you feel, Inspector? What will be your answer then?” Lantos cast his glance upward to the second storey, where his wife and five children presumably were staring at an empty larder as we spoke. “When was the last time you sat down at a supper table that had no bread, Inspector?”

I wanted to tell Sandor Lantos that a breadless table was a routine occurrence throughout my childhood. Instead, I said, “Very well, I will go to Grilling and to his manager.”

At these words, Lantos did it again; gripping my arm, and looking intently into my eyes, he said in a quiet voice, “If Wolfgang Grilling does anything to stop this opera, I will kill him with these hands.”

Munich's hotels that cater to the upper class, like Munich’s better restaurants, go to desperate lengths to distance themselves from their stolid German roots, but in a different manner. Where local restaurateurs take liberties with French and Spanish names for their places of business, local hoteliers, with a kind of presumptuousness that knows no shame, christen their edifices with the names of foreign royalty — kings, queens, emperors and empresses, as well as lesser ranks — stopping short only when it comes to popes, cardinals, and archbishops (although why the nobility of the church are excluded from such honours is beyond my comprehension).

The Eugénie Palace is no exception to this tradition. If anything, it has elevated the tradition to heights other hostelries in the city cannot hope to attain. Its public areas are paved with more Italian marble than Caesar’s eyes ever beheld; its French crystal chandeliers and mirror-backed wall sconces fill each room with sunshine even on the dullest days. Rumours abound, of course. It’s said that the crimson carpets were dyed in the blood of a thousand slaves a century ago in Constantinople. A printer is said to have been shot dead for negligently omitting the accent in “Eugénie” on the hotel stationery. True or not, such rumours have lent an aura of grandeur to the Eugénie Palace which its guests acknowledge with proper respect when paying extravagant bills at the end of their stay. I swear that I do not have a socialist bone in my body and yet, whenever for some reason or other I find myself a visitor, I cannot resist being repelled by the unabashed hedonism that oozes from every pore of the place.

I was in the midst of expressing these deep-seated feelings to Helena Becker when, giving me a look that told me she’d had enough of my self-righteousness, she pressed a finger to my lips and said, “Hermann, darling, do shut up!” Following which she rather forcefully removed my hat and coat and pushed me in the direction of a generously pillowed four-poster complete with satin canopy. In a while, after we had finished testing the limits of that fine piece of furniture and lay catching our breaths, Helena whispered into my ear, “There now, Hermann, the Eugénie Palace isn’t all bad, is it?”