Wagner planted a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez onto the narrow bridge of his nose and squinted down at Hans von Bülow, the conductor. “Is that understood, von Bülow?”
The conductor edged forward in his seat and seemed about to question the feasibility of Wagner’s plans; then, obviously having second thoughts, he sank back, resigned. “Understood, Maestro,” von Bülow replied, sounding as though he were an ordinary foot soldier about to die for king and country.
Like a field marshal, Wagner barked, “Schramm, stay, I want a word with you. The rest may go. Remember … one week today, here, nine in the morning … sharp. That is all.”
Wolfgang Grilling, clutching the music for the ‘Prize Song’ in one hand, used the other to scoop up his cloak from a nearby stool. Passing in front of his rival he paused long enough to murmur, “Good luck, Schramm. Believe me, you’re going to need it!”
Once the others had departed, leaving Wagner and Schramm alone on the stage, everything about the composer seemed suddenly to soften, his face, even his voice. Clearly intrigued by the young tenor, he asked: “Why am I not in the least familiar with you, Schramm? Your resumé states that you’ve sung in several foreign cities … Prague, Budapest, even Moscow of all places! I cannot imagine that it stops snowing long enough in Moscow for a singer to utter a sound! How did you manage in Russia?”
“Alas, Maestro,” Schramm said, pretending to be crestfallen, “like Napoleon, I retired half-frozen and fully defeated.”
For the first time the composer broke into a laugh, reminding Schramm of the sudden collapse of a stone wall. Just as suddenly, Wagner’s expression tightened into a serious scowl. “You know how much the success of Die Meistersinger means to me, Schramm. There were one or two rough edges in your performance of the ‘Prize Song’ this morning … nothing serious, mind you … but we’ll work on it together, you and I, until it’s perfect. I trust you appreciate how much depends on you now.” Laying a fatherly hand on the tenor’s shoulder, Wagner issued his final order of the day: “Now go rest that golden voice of yours, Henryk Schramm.”
He had nothing to eat prior to the audition and was starved. After lunch (his first experience with sauerbraten … these robust German midday meals would take some getting used to) Henryk Schramm wrapped himself in a heavy woollen cape and, feeling restored, strode briskly from the restaurant to his lodgings in the nearby artists’ quarter of Munich, a distance of only a few short blocks but long enough for the April winds to penetrate the dense weave of the cape. He should have been accustomed to this kind of weather, given where he was born and raised. Nevertheless, twenty-six harsh winters had strengthened his resolve: as soon as he was famous enough and rich enough, he would restrict his appearances to opera houses and concert halls in cities where palm trees lined the boulevards and gentle breezes blew only from the south the whole year round.
At a small writing table in his modest room, he set out paper and pen and began to write:
My dear Peter:
You will no doubt be pleased to learn that the audition this morning went well, in fact, better than either you or I could have expected. Who would have imagined that W. (my God, what a formidable presence he is!) would make up his mind on the spot! I thought surely I would be kept in suspense for several days at least, especially bearing in mind that my competitor for the role of Walther was himself a tenor of exceptional talent whose Nordic features are obviously more appropriate for the part of a German knight than my own. So I was fully prepared to be sent packing (in which event this entire gamble of mine would have come to nothing). Instead, the role is mine!
You were right, of course, about the “Prize Song.” It is so different and so difficult to sing. Yet, as you pointed out when you played it through and I heard it for the first time, it is incredibly beautiful … all the more astonishing when one considers the personality of its creator. Your coaching stood me in good stead; without it my voice would not have been up to the task nor would I have fully grasped the meaning of the song.
Do I dare, Petya, to believe that the gods are smiling favourably upon my plan? My course is now set, and I am steadfast in my resolve. The premiere of Die Meistersinger is scheduled for June twenty-first here in Munich and I will try to keep you posted as we progress.
Do write to me soon, dear Petya, but for the moment the less said to my mother the better if you happen to see her.
My fellow contestant this morning is a tenor from these parts by the name of Wolfgang Grilling. He made no secret of his bitterness about having been relegated to the secondary role of Beckmesser and I anticipate some difficulties with him along the way. If he turns out to be troublesome … well, I will deal with him if it should become necessary.
How I long for an early return and the resumption of our long-standing arguments about the relative merits of Verdi, Mozart … and of course W. himself!
Your devoted -
H.S.
Chapter One
Beneath Munich’s polished surface of culture and prosperity and good manners, evil burrows its way through a thousand subterranean passageways. And because evil has no sense of time or timeliness, I find myself intensely engaged in my work at all hours of the day and night while men living more conventional (should I better say sensible?) lives are enjoying a Sunday afternoon stroll with their families, or an evening of cards at their favourite coffeehouses, or a middle-of-the-night spontaneous moment or two of lovemaking, matrimonial or otherwise. Being in demand around the clock, I am like a sentry on endless guard duty and dream of uninterrupted slumber the way a gambler dreams of an uninterrupted winning streak at roulette. (Indeed, the gambler stands a better chance than I of realizing his dream, I’m sure.) And yet even a policeman absorbed in the very down-to-earth business of crime and punishment is entitled to indulge in the occasional fantasy, is he not? Which is what I was doing on this April night. Winter was leaving its harsh aftertaste on the deserted streets in the form of a bitter wind, giving me the sinking feeling that if spring were to occur at all it would be on some planet other than our own. I was experiencing fatigue unlike any I had previously experienced, fatigue so profound that, though I hadn’t had time for a decent meal in the past three days, the thought of food was the furthest thing from my mind. My fantasy consisted of a warm bed, and eight hours at the very least of pure unadulterated sleep.
Let me explain: Earlier in the day I had concluded a marathon effort to seek out and capture the perpetrator of a series of vicious rapes in the area around Friedensplatz, a small square in the south end of Munich frequented by prostitutes and, of course, by men seeking their favours. Posing as a pimp (a role I found uncomfortable not only because of its inherent odiousness but because I was obliged to wear such outlandishly tasteless attire) and under the generous guidance of an acquaintance, Rosina Waldheim, a madam of remarkably high principles given the nature of her enterprise, I carried on almost without pause a seventy-two hour surveillance which resulted in spotting the culprit as he was stalking an intended victim. The details of his arrest needn’t be spelled out. Suffice to say that word of my success spread quickly throughout the ranks of women who made their living in and around Friedensplatz. As I made my way by carriage back to my apartment for some much-needed peace and quiet, it occurred to me that I might soon be seriously considered for sainthood by a group of happily relieved (though unrepentant) sinners. Oh well, I told myself, one takes one’s rewards wherever one finds them.