Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

I said, trying not to belabour the matter, “It sounds to me as though your father was a man of religion, Schramm. Perhaps a minister of the church or some such occupation. They do tend to travel about.”

Schramm looked up at me. “Yes,” he said, “something like that … you know, travelling about.”

I thought I detected a faraway look in Schramm’s eyes, a hint of distance to his voice, that suggested this was a topic he preferred not to pursue. I turned my attention quickly to Karla Steilmann. “And you, Fräulein Steilmann, you are from?”

“I am a dyed-in-the-wool Viennese, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling apologetically. “You see, Inspector Preiss, I know immediately what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that, unlike you Germans, we Austrians are a frivolous lot. Too much whipped cream, too many cherries, too much music in three-quarter time. Yes?”

I feigned disappointment. “I could have sworn that you were pure German. Perhaps we should order dinner before sorrow overwhelms me.” To make sure she didn’t take me seriously, I took her hand in mine, but as enchanted as I was at that moment I did not fail to catch a flicker of jealousy in Schramm’s eyes.

To me he said, “Did I hear correctly something about ordering dinner? Please don’t think me rude, Inspector Preiss, but I am famished. We’ve been rehearsing most of the day with only a short break for lunch and another for coffee mid-afternoon.”

Just then Ziggy Bolliger passed near our table. “I say, Innkeeper — ” I called out.

Bolliger drew close. Addressing my guests he said, “This is the only man in Munich I permit to call me Innkeeper. But then, what choice does a humble citizen like me have, eh? When the Chief Inspector calls, we come running.”

“Bolliger, stop complaining and let us have three Weiner schnitzels with plenty of red cabbage on the side, also enough potato salad for three hungry people. Oh yes, and another bottle of Riesling, Ziggy. By the way, why is this Riesling so much better than what you usually serve?”

In a half whisper Bolliger replied, “Because it was stolen from somebody’s private collection.” Without waiting for my reaction Bolliger spun round and disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later he was back at our table, his expression remorseful. “I cannot apologize enough,” he said. “Chef tells me because we were so busy earlier this evening we are totally out of veal. We can, however, offer you a pork schnitzel which, I promise, will be equally delicious.”

I turned to Schramm and Steilmann. “Take my word for it, even if Ziggy’s chef were to use cardboard the result would be marvelous. Shall it be three with pork instead of veal, then?”

Karla Steilmann had no problem with the proposed change. “And you, Schramm,” I asked, “the same?”

“I’m sorry,” Schramm replied, “but I have an allergy to certain foods and pork happens to be one of them.”

Bolliger brightly came to the rescue. “Chicken then! Chef does a roast chicken basted in a wine sauce fit for a king, with spätzli and some country-fresh greens.”

Schramm nodded agreeably. “And please, the skin? I like it left on and very crisp.”

Bolliger beamed. “Ah, a true connoisseur! I wish more Germans had your understanding of poultry, sir. You must be from the east where people know the proper way to cook and eat a chicken. Prussia, perhaps?”

This brought a wry smile to Schramm’s face. “The Inspector is right, Herr Bolliger. You have a natural talent for police work. Yes, I’m from the east, you might say.”

After Bolliger, looking happy, left us to return to the kitchen, I replenished our glasses, then said, attempting to maintain a casual air, “So tell me, you two, how long have you been involved in the world of opera and how did you come especially to be involved with this fiend Wagner?”

Karla Steilmann spoke up first. “I began singing when I was about nine or ten years of age. I sang in a children’s chorus at school, but once I reached my early teen years it became apparent that I had the makings of a soprano, and one of my music teachers took me under his wing until I reached sixteen, at which point I was ready for more serious training. For the next three years I lived the life of a nun at the Music Academy in Vienna. At twenty I was offered the role of Pamina in The Magic Flute. That ended any possibility that I would spend the rest of my life as a hausfrau. My parents — my father was a customs officer, my mother a part-time seamstress — were distraught, of course. In their minds a life on the stage represented everything that was wicked. I swear, to this very day, Inspector, they regard what I do as the work of the devil.” Suddenly she threw her head back, laughing. “It has just occurred to me: they are absolutely right! I am working with the devil himself, Richard Wagner!”

“And you, Schramm,” I said, “you feel the same way, I suppose.”

“You’ve now had some exposure to the Maestro, Inspector, albeit brief. How would you feel?” Schramm said.

“Ah, Schramm, there you go again, answering a question with a question.” I wagged a finger at him. “When a policeman asks a question, you must give an answer. That’s the law, you know.” I said this with an amiable smile which was met with an equally amiable smile from Schramm, but silence. I decided not to press him further on the point. “And were your parents similarly unenthusiastic about a musical career for their son?” I asked.

“Do you have children, Inspector?” Schramm replied. Breaking into a laugh he added, “I know, I know, another question followed by a question. I apologize, I really do.”

“I have never been married,” I said, “and have no children. At least none that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?”

“Because Karla’s experience with her parents is all too typical. I, on the other hand, was lucky. As a boy I demonstrated a good voice and a good ear. Fortunately I lost none of my potential when I went through a voice change. Like Karla, I underwent rigorous training, and was ready at twenty for my first major role. But I was encouraged throughout by my parents, both of whom were musical. Father played the violin and Mother loved to sing. It’s a pity that you’ve never had children, Inspector. I think you would have made a very good father, one who would not have been horrified to discover a singer among your brood.”

“I’m afraid you’re quite wrong, Schramm,” I said, topping up his wine glass again. “Truth is, I would have made a terrible parent. You see, Schramm, I’ve got where I am because my most basic instinct is suspicion. I am suspicious of everything and everyone. Even a newborn babe is an object of suspicion as far as I’m concerned.”

Karla Steilmann patted my arm. “Now now, Inspector, you must not put yourself down so. I’m sure you’re joking.”

“On the contrary,” I said, affecting a severe look, “I’m perfectly serious.”

Schramm turned to his companion. “In that case, Karla, say no more. Obviously our host is not the genial fellow he appears to be. We mustn’t even hint about our criminal pasts or we’re liable to find ourselves being led out of here in irons. And worse still, without having eaten a morsel of food!”

“I’m not quite so heartless,” I said. “I’d let the Fräulein have her schnitzel and let you finish off your roasted chicken, skin and all. Speaking of which, I see we are about to be served by the innkeeper himself.”

Ziggy Bolliger, accompanied by a waiter bearing an enormous tray of food, carried a second bottle of wine which he deposited on our table with the kind of flourish one would expect from a prophet presenting the Holy Grail. “ This is stolen from my private collection,” he declared as he uncorked a fresh Riesling whose label was unfamiliar to me. “King Ludwig himself does not have access to this particular vineyard,” Bolliger boasted, splashing a bit of the pale gold liquid into a fresh crystal goblet and offering it to me. The expression on my face, after I had taken a sip, told him it was superb. “You see,” he said, addressing Schramm and Steilmann, “nothing is too good for Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss … or for his guests!”