Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

I could see it unfolding:

It begins with the tenor mangling the “Prize Song,” both the melody and the lyric, reducing Wagner’s masterpiece to a grotesque pile of musical rubble. The audience is momentarily stunned. Seconds later there’s an eruption of derisive laughter that rises from the main floor to the uppermost tier. Even the walls seem to be shaking with laughter. Thousands of glinting crystals in the enormous central chandelier rattle with laughter. On stage the cast are motionless, dumbstruck. The orchestra sit lifeless at their places in the pit, their instruments frozen in their hands. Mouth open in disbelief, the conductor stands limp at the podium, baton at his feet. Backstage there is utter chaos. Orders and counter-orders are shouted back and forth: Bring down the curtain! No, leave it up! …

In the wing, stage left, the composer works himself into a state of near-collapse, railing and wailing against the perfidy that has destroyed his work, his hopes, his dreams. Shepherded off to his private lounge, an anxious Cosima hovering over him as a mother hovers over a stricken child, he demands that the errant knight be brought before him at once. If there is a hell beneath the hell to which ordinary sinners are consigned, may Henryk Schramm descend to that lower purgatory before this hour is out! …

The young tenor is duly summoned. Does he resist? Not for one moment. Indeed, he heeds the summons with a willingness that borders on alacrity! …

Now they are alone in Wagner’s private quarters, just the three of them, Wagner, Cosima, and Hershel Socransky, the singer still in costume. At his side the ceremonial sword. This is Hershel Socransky’s time, his moment when all of his stars are aligned in vengeful confluence, when his plan will wax to its full malignance and the ghost of his aggrieved father will finally be laid to rest …

To Nymphenburg then?

No.

Sooner or later “Henryk Schramm” would have to make his way back to the opera house, and avoid being seen by me. That much, and only that much, was certain. I would have to figure out how to recognize him among the masses of cast and theatregoers thronging through the doors of the National Theatre.

"Why would Germans build an opera house that looks like a Greek temple? Is it because the operas are Greek as well?”

Constable First Class Emil Gruber (outfitted in civilian garb as I had specified) was taking a moment to study an edifice which, though it is one of Munich’s foremost landmarks, he’d paid little attention to until now.

I shook my head. “Gruber, when was the last time you attended an opera?”

“To be honest, there’s never been a first time.”

“Then let me enlighten you, Gruber. Germans compose operas. Italians compose operas. So do the French and Russians. Once in a while the odd opera trickles out of Scandinavia, the Low Countries, even tiny Lichtenstein. But Greeks? They give us colonnaded façades, Corinthian pillars, sculptures of Apollo, also fish and olive oil. As for music? Not one single note!”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Gruber said, looking troubled.

“Gruber, you are a good loyal German,” I said, “but you are young. You will learn that the older you become the less any thing makes sense. That , Gruber, in a nutshell is what wisdom is all about.”

Staying clear of the Constabulary this day, I had sent for Constable Gruber to assist me in what I feared would be an almost impossible task: to apprehend Hershel Socransky before he could gain entry to the opera house; almost impossible because, having gone to great lengths to disguise himself earlier in the day, no doubt he would don an even more ambitious disguise in an attempt to slip through unnoticed.

Despite the enormity of the National Theatre, only two points of entry were available: the public entrance consisting of a row of massive bronze doors at the front of the building, and the stage door at the rear through which staff and artists came and went.

I assigned Gruber to maintain a lookout at the stage door, “You saw the man once,” I told him, “the morning you ushered him into my office when he announced Karla Steilmann had been murdered. But don’t expect him to look the same, of course. God only knows how he’ll turn up. My only advice, Gruber, is to keep a sharp eye for anyone who looks even the least bit suspicious. You’ll likely come across a security guard there, big as an ox with a personality to match. Identify yourself to him; otherwise make yourself inconspicuous. I will patrol the throng as best I can here.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s going on five o’clock. By six they will start pouring in.”

Looking troubled again, Gruber said, “With all due respect, Inspector, shouldn’t you have sent for more constables for surveillance?”

“I’ll explain later, Gruber,” I replied. This was not the time to reveal to him Commissioner von Mannstein’s hostility to any plan aimed at eliminating risk to Richard Wagner’s life. “I repeat: anyone who arouses a shred of suspicion, get back to me.”

As though obeying some invisible yet irresistible signal — or perhaps out of a habit of high society so ingrained that signals are superfluous — the advance parade of operagoers began to arrive at the stroke of six, decamping from an endless stream of gleaming carriages drawn by horses groomed as smooth as headwaiters. Women, many with brightly coloured gowns encircling their corseted figures like spun sugar, floated by, each leaving in my nostrils a whiff of her favourite perfume from Paris (thank God I’m not allergic!). Wickedly charming junior officers escorted the younger women so attentively and protectively one would think bullets were about to fly. Older women made do with aged retired officers, crusty men smelling here and there of cigar smoke, their bemedalled formal wear witness to days long past when backs were like ramrods and stomachs were more disciplined. Everywhere there was jewellery. Everywhere women’s eyes darted back and forth checking one another’s finery while mental charts were reviewed to determine who was wearing the same gown for a second or third time.

A perfect summer evening, the air filled with excited chatter of people of influence in Munich, a pleasurable sense of occasion and anticipation. What more could Richard Wagner ask of his gods?

The flurry of activity, the hearty commotion, the hustle-bustle which patricians feel privileged to indulge in … everything came to a sudden standstill. A hush fell over the assembly as they caught sight of the approaching carriage bearing King Ludwig, a midnight-blue jewel, its rooftop royal crest glowing gold as if Ludwig owned the sun. And suddenly, there to greet his monarch and benefactor, appeared Richard Wagner, Cosima at his side. It was no surprise to me, as I watched close by, that Wagner made no effort to rein in his taste for effusive utterances and movements when it came to the king. Such conduct, of course, is natural and expected in the grandiose territory of opera, but with King Ludwig himself on the scene Richard Wagner’s celebratory gestures were on show in their fullest flower, even bordering on vulgarity. As the trio — Ludwig, Wagner, and Cosima — moved toward the bronze doors, the crowd parted like the Red Sea to grant them a clear path.

A second wave, well turned-out though less patrician, soon followed; then a third, the last-mentioned representing the “infantry” of opera, that is, those hardy folk who, lacking gold and glitter, made it to the National Theatre on foot, then faced a climb of five long flights to their seats in the uppermost tier.

It was now a quarter of seven. The ushers, under Maestro Wagner’s standing orders to show no mercy to latecomers, slammed shut the heavy doors, at the same time foreclosing any hope I held of catching “Henryk Schramm” mingling with the surging patrons. Not one man gave me reason to think he was here under false pretenses, although several times I was compelled, as the crowd filed past me, to steal an extra glance at someone’s face to satisfy myself that a beard or mustache was genuine, or at someone’s paunch to be certain that the fellow was truly overweight and not concealing a pillow under his tunic.