Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

“On the contrary,” I replied, smiling back, “I’ve come to arrest you, Herr Schramm.”

“Oh? On what charge?”

“Hitting a wrong note.” I tried to look grave.

“You must have keen ears, Inspector.”

“Keener than you think, Herr Schramm . I’m also gifted with a keen sense of smell … in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Cosima Wagner broke into a laugh. “You two obviously enjoy bantering. I wish more people had a talent these days for jocularity. I’ll leave you to the pleasures of your own company.”

Off she went, leaving the two of us alone. Making certain first that no one was within hearing range, I said, almost in a whisper, “Where the devil were you? I was at the station as agreed — ”

“As agreed? I don’t recall any agreement .”

We were smiling at one another, forced smiles. “Don’t get technical with me. We had a firm understanding.”

Our smiles were waning now.

“At the risk of sounding technical,” Socransky said, “there is a distinction between an agreement and an understanding, is there not? I’m not a man of the law, Inspector, but the way I look at our last conversation is this: I understood your position, and you understood my position. That does not add up to an agreement.”

“Don’t take me for a simpleton, Schramm ,” I said, still keeping my voice just above a whisper. “I know exactly why you’re here, here in the house of Richard Wagner. There’s an ancient Chinese proverb: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. ”

“Nothing wrong with that bit of wisdom,” Socransky said, as though trumping me.

“But the Chinese have another saying you’d be wise to heed: A person who sets out on a path of revenge should first dig two graves. ”

“You quite certain that wasn’t said by a Russian?”

“Take my word for it,” I said, “Confucius was definitely not Russian.” I took hold of Socransky’s arm and gave a rather forceful tug. “Now be a good fellow, Schramm , and bid goodnight to all these lovely people. You’re spending the rest of this night where I can keep an eye on you.”

“But that’s out of the question, Preiss,” Socransky said, shaking free. “You see, I was invited to be the Wagners’ house guest. I’m sure you went to the rooms I occupied and found I’d checked out. Well, Inspector, here I am, and my belongings, and here is where I intend to spend the rest of the night.”

“You must be out of your mind,” I said, barely able now to keep my voice down, “to think I’d let you — ”

Before I could finish my sentence I felt a firm clap on my back. “See here, Preiss, you’re as welcome as the birds in spring, but you have no right to monopolize my heldentenor like this.” Richard Wagner, still astonishingly genial, pushed the singer aside as though shielding him. “This man needs a good night’s sleep. As Shakespeare said, ‘tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.’ I forget the rest of the line but no matter.” Wagner turned to Socransky. Gruffly, but affectionately, he ordered, “Off to bed with you now, Schramm.”

“Maestro,” I pleaded, “it’s so rare that I have an opportunity to converse with a young artist with such talent and charm … please spare him for a moment or two longer.”

“Believe me, Preiss,” Wagner replied, quietly, as though taking me into his confidence, “you will have countless opportunities to spend time with this man. After tomorrow night, the name ‘Henryk Schramm’ will be on everyone’s lips for years to come. But now I must insist that he rest.”

Wagner turned to Schramm. “The servants have made up the guest room for you, Henryk. It happens to be directly across the hall from our own bedroom.” With mock severity, and wagging a warning finger, he added, “And I’m seeing to it that our doors are locked for the night … ours and yours, Schramm. I’ve seen how Cosima looks at you!”

Socransky, extending Wagner’s jest, gave me an apprehensive look. “Tell me, Inspector,” he said, “what’s the penalty for breaking and entering?”

I directed my answer to Wagner. “A word of advice, Maestro. There’s an old Russian proverb: Be friends with the wolf, but keep one hand on your axe. ” I punctuated this by giving Wagner a solemn wink.

Wagner looked at me for a moment as though wondering how I could possibly be serious. Then, with a slow smirk, he said, “You know what your trouble is, Preiss? You’ve lost your sense of humour. What a pity!”

Perhaps Wagner was right. Perhaps I had lost whatever knack is required to coax laughter out of life’s ironies. And so the scene which next unfolded — a scene which under different circumstances would have inspired a playwrights to pen a comedy of errors — inspired in me instead a renewed and deeper sense of foreboding.

We are in the vestibule, Richard Wagner and I, standing almost shoulder to shoulder, a benign fatherly smile on the Maestro’s face, looking on as “Henryk Schramm” dutifully marches off to bed. When he reaches the broad carpeted stairway that curves gracefully up to the second storey, one hand fingering the polished mahogany railing, he pauses at the first step, turns, and calls out “Bon soir, Monsieur Inspector, and pleasant dreams!” then energetically bounds up the stairs two at a time.

A thought crosses my mind: out of sight but not out of mind when suddenly those very words spill out of me, a purely involuntary utterance, barely whispered, but picked up nevertheless by the alert ears of the Maestro. With a quizzical look, Wagner asks, “Meaning what, Inspector?”

I grope for an explanation. “It’s — uh — only an expression, Maestro. You know, ‘out of sight, out of mind’ — ”

“But you said ‘ not out of mind,’ Preiss.”

“Did I? Well, a slip of the tongue, I suppose. It’s been a long day.”

Wagner frowns; my hastily concocted excuse is less than convincing. In a tone of mild reproof, he says, “You know, Preiss, even a slip of the tongue can sound ominous, especially when it’s from the tongue of a chief inspector.” In a sudden change of mood, he gives me a good-natured poke in the ribs. “You’re welcome to stay anyway, Preiss. Come join us. I trust your rules of conduct don’t forbid the occasional glass of Champagne.”

“A word first, if I may,” I say. “I’m curious about your tenor. I was wondering about the reason for his giving up his lodgings and imposing himself — ”

“Imposing himself? Nonsense, Preiss, it was at my insistence. We needed an hour or two of private time, just he and I, for some fine tuning, especially in the final scene of the opera. You must understand that Die Meistersinger is a totally new and different venture for me. It’s serious one moment and comic the next, and the character played and sung by Schramm has to reflect the right balance throughout, which is a delicate feat, believe me. But when the throng on stage in the final scene is hushed and Schramm steps forth to sing the ‘Prize Song’, German art will ascend to glorious heights. I tell you, Preiss, this opera is not my work alone but part of the gods’ master plan!”

In the time I’ve been exposed to Wagner, albeit short, I have never seen him so afire with hope, and I tell him so. He gives me an earnest look, his head inclined toward me revealing deep lines of stress carved into his face, connecting like rivulets just above that jutting defiant chin. “Let me tell you something in confidence, Preiss,” he says quietly. “ Die Meistersinger is my miracle opera, miraculous because I have completed it during a period of my worst luck and my worst feelings of depression. The world has not been kind to me … so much criticism, so much vilification, not just about my work but about me, even about my beloved Cosima. But I am back, Preiss, and stronger than ever. And soon not only Germans but people of culture everywhere will bless me for Die Meistersinger . Mark my words.”