Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

Wagner glances at his pocket watch. “Time to offer our friends one final round, then off to bed. I’ve a very full day ahead. I trust I have satisfied whatever it was you were curious about … I mean about Schramm?”

“To be honest, Maestro, yes, and no — ”

“Then it will have to wait, I’m afraid. You really must excuse me now.”

I attempt to restrain him, my hand on his arm. “Another minute of your time — ”

“Not now , Preiss.”

“But there is a matter of some urgency — ”

“If you’re referring to that stupid note threatening my ruination, I’ve decided to ignore it, Preiss. I’ve come this far unscathed, have I not? And Cosima, too, thank heaven. So to hell with anyone who tries to stop us now!” Wagner’s eyes are cold steel.

I begin to protest. “But Maestro — ”

“Please, Preiss, no buts. Now come along before there’s not a drop left in the house.”

Abruptly he turns away and heads for the living room. I watch him melt into the golden glow of that chamber, his re-entry hailed with cheers and whistles, the sounds of men and women gaily tossing sobriety to the winds.

Above me, in the second-storey guest room, “Henryk Schramm” is surely smiling with satisfaction. How well it is all working out! he says to himself. There he is, going through the motions of bedding down for the night just steps from where his unsuspecting host will himself presently settle for the night.

What could possibly be more opportune!

I have no choice now but to intercept him. I start toward the stairway intending to confront him when suddenly I am stopped in my tracks by a firm hand on my shoulder. “You’re travelling in the wrong direction,” Cosima Wagner says. “Come, Inspector Preiss, join the party.”

“Thank you, Madam Wagner, but — ”

“You have the look of a man who’s desperate for the company of law abiding citizens. I refuse to take ‘no’ for an answer, Inspector.”

Though I am a head taller than her, and perhaps twice her weight, I find myself in the unyielding tow of this woman and moments later I too have melted in the golden glow.

June 21st.

I awoke with a start, my eyes stabbed by pointed rays of the sun, and the thought sprung to mind that, among Nature’s myriad cruelties — earthquakes, famine, disease, pestilence, to list but a few — none is more cruel than the first light of day when one has drunk too much the night before. Nor was there much comfort in the discovery that, with the exception of my boots which must have magically removed themselves from my feet, I had fallen asleep fully clothed. I dropped my head back on my pillows and lay for a time lifeless, overwhelmed by a wave of self-disgust, and cursing myself for having allowed my persuasive hosts Richard and Cosima Wagner to ply me not just with one but three brimming flutes of Champagne. (I made a silent vow that, given a next life, I would be born into aristocracy, for only aristocrats wallow in intemperance without shame.)

It required a Herculean effort to pull myself together, make myself as presentable as possible, find a carriage and head straightaway for the Wagner residence, all the while dreading what I might find on my arrival there. The night before, I had attempted several times discreetly to draw Wagner aside and warn him about his guest in the second-storey bedroom, only to be rebuffed each time. Wagner simply would not be brought down to earth. The final rehearsal earlier that day had gone better than expected, news I was astonished to learn recalling his unrelenting displays of ill temper back at the opera house. This was a different Wagner now, a man aloft in some starry domain with his beloved gods, wrapped in a mist of euphoria. Sixteen years it had taken him to give birth to this new opera! After a gestation period of that length, the man had every good reason to celebrate, and who could deny him?

To my immense relief, I was greeted by Cosima Wagner, still in her nightclothes and robe and looking, as always, composed and graceful. But what about her husband? With a chuckle she replied, “I shooed him out of the house early this morning and ordered him not to return until he’d spent at least an hour with the barber … not one of those German barbers who make men look like military recruits but a new barber whom my father recommends, a fellow from Seville of all places! I said to Richard, ‘After this barber’s done with you, you’ll be writing operas and making money like Rossini!’”

Struggling to conceal my anxiety, I asked, “And your guest Henryk Schramm — ?”

“He took his leave very early this morning saying he had an appointment with the wardrobe mistress, some problem about his knight’s tunic needing refitting. Mind you, Henry Schramm could wear a shepherd’s smock and look magnificent, don’t you agree, Inspector?”

“You’d have to ask sheep about that, Madam.” I said. “I take it he left his belongings here, then?”

“No, he insisted on taking everything. Said he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. Accepted a cup of coffee, exchanged a few pleasantries with Richard and me, then — poof! — he was off. Wouldn’t even let us arrange for a carriage. He did, however, take a moment to attend to this — ” I took from Madam Wagner a small sealed envelope addressed to “Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss — Personal and Confidential.” Excusing myself, I turned my back to her, tore open the seal, and read:

Good morning, Preiss. No doubt the first thing you will do before the rooster crows is show up at the Wagners’ house and find an excuse to search the room I occupied. You need not bother, however. I assure you that you will not find so much as a hair from my head. But do make a point of attending the premiere tonight. I wouldn’t miss it if I were you.

The note was simply signed “HS.”

I turned to face Madam Wagner. “I won’t take any more of your time,” I said. “I really must be off.”

Eyeing me a little too sympathetically, she said, “Won’t you stay? You do look as though you could use a hot strong cup of coffee.”

“Thank you, no. Perhaps another time.”

I started to leave when she called out, “By the way, Inspector, you disappointed us last night.”

“Disappointed you? How so?”

In a gently chiding tone she said, “You have no hesitation when it comes to inquiring about — or perhaps I should say prying into — the private lives of others. But the least you could do, in return, is grant us a peek into your own.”

“I am a public servant, Madam Wagner,” I said. “As such I do not have a private life.” I hoped this glib remark would close the topic.

“Not true, Inspector. Not true at all.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand — ”

“You ought to have brought along your friend, the cellist — ”

“Helena Becker, you mean. Unfortunately she isn’t here. She lives in Düsseldorf, you see.”

“Now you’re being coy, Inspector. Or simply dishonest. Friends of ours saw her earlier in the evening. They happened to be in the lobby of the Empress Eugénie and saw her signing the guest register.”

“Your friends must be mistaken.”

“Not at all. They recognized her from her performance recently with the Bavarian Quartet. But why do you go out of your way to keep her hidden?” She gave me a teasing smile. “I think I know why. The word is that men find her most attractive … with or without the presence of her instrument. Still, Inspector, it’s not right that you should be so possessive. It does you no credit, you know. Treasures are made to be shared .”

I smiled back through gritted teeth. “Obviously you are very generous when it comes to sharing your pearls of wisdom,” I said. With a slight deferential bow, I added, “I will try to be a better man in the future.”