I took the stairs to the first tier two at a time only to be halted at the top by a pair of splendidly uniformed captains from the king’s personal guard who, examining my police identification, and informed that I bore an urgent message for Maestro Wagner, allowed me to pass without further delay. A long carpeted corridor led to the royal box located at the centre point of the tier. Approaching the door to the box I noticed that it was slightly ajar, which I thought strange given that the king and his entourage customarily warranted absolute privacy. Strange too was the absence of additional guardsmen outside the box. Better to close the door, I thought, and I reached out intending gently to close it when a voice behind me said “No need to trouble yourself, Preiss. Just leave it — ”
I swung about and found myself face to face with Commissioner von Mannstein. Next to him, wearing the medallion and sash of his office, stood Mayor von Braunschweig.
“You may consider yourself relieved for the remainder of the evening, Preiss,” von Mannstein said. “His Honour the Mayor and I are personally taking charge of Maestro Wagner’s security. You may go now, Inspector.”
Both wore expressions that made it clear they would brook no nonsense.
I took no more than a half-dozen steps on my retreat when von Mannstein called out, “By the way, Preiss, tell Constable Gruber he too is relieved. See to it that you both leave the house at once.”
Chapter Fifty
I obeyed Commissioner von Mannstein’s order to discharge Constable Gruber, said to myself, “That’s more than enough obedience for one day,” and proceeded without wasting another minute to find for myself a shadowy out-of-the-way cranny under the first tier balcony, not the most comfortable observation post from which to carry out a five-hour watch, but ideal for my purposes. From this vantage point I gained not only an unobstructed view of the performance onstage but the equally important performance in the royal box. I suffered only one disadvantage here: it was impossible to eavesdrop on whispered conversations as people across the aisle and beyond stole glances at the occupants in the floral-draped box where Cosima Wagner, in blinding white, her upswept hair fixed into place by a diamond-studded tiara, was ensconced in one of the throne-like chairs, looking more regal than any trueborn queen. Of course the topic of the moment would be her desertion of von Bülow, her union with Wagner, the king’s rumoured disapproval, as well as the disapproval of her father Franz Liszt. But on this sparkling night, although the great Liszt chose to be conspicuously absent, King Ludwig apparently chose to let bygones be bygones. Let the prim and the proper gasp; there sat the controversial couple now anointed with their monarch’s approbation.
A few minutes past seven the sconces and chandeliers began to dim, their brilliance reduced to a pale glow playing softly off the brocaded walls. In an instant the audience fell silent. Not a stir could be heard, not so much as a rustle of a program page being turned. It was as though everyone sensed that the eyes of Richard Wagner were upon them, that he was daring them to clear their throats, to cough, even to breathe! In the pit von Bülow’s baton rose above his head, came down slowly like a magician’s wand, and the majestic opening theme of the overture rolled like a gentle tide across the rows of hushed men and women. Before long the crimson and gold curtain lifted to reveal the interior of St. Catherine’s Church in old Nuremberg. Eva, the heroine, was seated to one side; Walther, the hero, stood nearby, the two exchanging glances in the midst of a church service. Entranced by Eva’s beauty, the young knight, in a voice pure and clear as crystal yet warm with desire, sang his first words: “Stay! A word! A single word!” …
As the curtain began its slow descent at the end of Act One there were a few seconds of hesitation, then a scattering of applause and murmured hints of surprise, followed here and there by cautious “Bravos.” These gave way to less restrained applause, the “Bravos” grew more enthusiastic and widespread, and very soon it became clear that the audience were intrigued, even excited, by this new Wagner, this Wagner who could mix the serious and the comic and make it work, this Wagner whose every musical phrase and motif came to life at precisely the right moment in every twist of the plot.
Hardly had the curtain begun its descent at the close of Act Two when the audience, from the main partèrre all the way up to “the clouds” in the fifth tier, sprang to their feet cheering, demanding that the principal singers return again and again for curtain calls. And whenever the Franconian knight — this previously unheard of tenor by the name of Henryk Schramm — stepped forward for a solo bow, women of all ages tossed aside their fans, discarded their dignity, and unabashedly threw kisses in his direction. And when “Schramm,” responding to his final call, brought a hand to his heart, it looked to me as though at least half the women in the theatre were on the verge of fainting with indescribable pleasure!
Up in the royal box King Ludwig too stood applauding, the tall benefactor smiling benignly down at his favoured beneficiary. At first Wagner remained rooted to his chair, seemingly overwhelmed. When finally he slowly eased to his feet, his exhibition of gratitude smacked of prior rehearsaclass="underline" dramatically deep bows, hands modestly at his sides, chin buried deep in the ruffles of his shirtfront, eyes shut. Had I been closer I might have spotted a tear or two. I certainly would have bet anyone in the house that he’d practised these gestures days in advance before a mirror in the privacy of his bedroom.
The program explained that, due to the extraordinary length of the opera, the two intermissions would be shortened to ten minutes instead of the customary twenty, leaving barely enough time for women to tug their bodices and bustles back into shape while their male escorts grumbled about insufficient time to visit the bar. With Act Three about to begin in minutes, one option only was open to me: I would have to desert my place of concealment, find my way quickly backstage, and attempt to waylay Hershel Socransky.
According to the program, the Third Act would begin with the lengthy prelude which I’d heard in rehearsal, followed by Scene One during which Walther’s mentor Hans Sachs, the town sage, broods about the state of the world and yearns for an era of enlightenment. Walther would make his next appearance in Scene Two. This would give me the opportunity I desperately needed to confront the tenor.
But confront him how? And with what?
An appeal to reason? Look, Socransky, you have nothing to gain by deliberately mangling the “Prize Song.” And less than nothing to gain by making an attempt on the life of Wagner. Say you succeed in achieving revenge … then what? You leave your own future in ruins! …
Or what about threats? Carry out this plan of yours, Socransky, and I will have no choice but to arrest you. Every law I can muster will come down on your head. On what charges? you ask. Fraud. Public Mischief. Willful destruction of property. Those are mere legal frills. Threats to Wagner’s life. And then there’s that business with Cornelia Vanderhoute, don’t overlook that. I’m speaking of murder. You could be facing years in prison, years! …
There was one other card to play, one that I would play with great reluctance, a last resort that would be painful for me and leave me with a lifetime of self-disgust. But play it I would if necessary. Helena Becker, Socransky … Helena Becker is in love with you. Carry out this plan of yours and the two of you will never see each other again except through prison bars! You and she are perfect soulmates. Deprive yourself of freedom and you deprive both of you of years of happiness! …
With the house lights dimming in anticipation of Act Three, I started out for the area backstage where I was certain Hershel Socransky would be awaiting his cue. In the darkening theatre I kept to the least visible passageways, feeling with all this stealth like a bit of a criminal myself. I found my way to a set of steps, the final approach to backstage, and was about to mount when what I caught sight of just beyond the upper step stopped me in my tracks. There, with her back to me, stood Helena, alone. But where was Socransky?