Chapter Fifty-One
"Helena! But how did you — ”
“Slipped in at the last minute by way of the stage door,” she explained, looking quite pleased with herself. “He arranged passes for Vronsky and me. She’s up in the second tier. I preferred to be here, backstage.”
“Then you must know where I can find him,” I said. “I need to talk with him … urgently.”
“There is nothing you can say to him, Hermann, that he hasn’t already said to himself.”
“Good. Then I take it you’ve succeeded in driving some sense into his head.”
“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” she shot back, as though what I had just said was preposterous. “Whatever happens in the next hour, let it happen, Hermann, and be done with it once and for all.”
“Out of the question!” I began angrily, prompting one of the stage managers to rush over. Dishevelled and perspiring, he had the look of a man born to worry. “Please!” he said in a loud whisper, addressing the two of us, “we need this space clear.” He pointed to an out-of-the-way corner where stage properties from other operas, draped in white dust covers, huddled together in silence and darkness like a gathering of ghosts. “You can stand over there if you wish,” he said, “but you must keep your voices down!”
Helena and I complied but before I could continue she said, “It’s pointless for you to stay here — ”
“She’s right, Inspector. It is pointless — ” These words came at me from a disembodied voice. Then, out of the shadows, as though he were a spirit materializing before my eyes, Hershel Socransky emerged. “I hate to be inhospitable, Preiss, but you really are not welcome here.” He was wearing the costume for his appearance in the song contest, the black and silver cape and matching cap, the long sword. Every inch the perfect Franconian knight. Every inch the personification of Richard Wagner’s vision of a German hero.
“I don’t give a damn whether I’m welcome or not,” I said. “You’ve given me the slip twice today but now you’ve run out of luck.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Twice, you say?”
“At the public baths, that was you with the red beard and the large straw hat, of course. And tonight … the extra bass player with the forged note.”
Socransky smiled, his expression one of mordant amusement. “And here I thought I was making life so very interesting for you, Preiss. After all, you must be sick to death of dodgers who lack imagination.”
“We haven’t time for smart chit-chat,” I said. “Give up your plan. If Wagner has committed a crime you believe needs punishing, it is up to me, not you, to deal with it.”
“Preiss, my friend,” Socransky said, “there isn’t a police force in the world capable of bringing Richard Wagner to justice for the crime he committed against my father. That is a special mission for me, and for me alone. I would not let that maniacal woman Vanderhoute stand in my way. Nor will I let you!”
Back came the stage manager looking more upset than before. “My God, what is going on here? Please, we cannot have this!” To the tenor he said, “Herr Schramm, you are due for your entrance in exactly one minute!” Socransky nodded curtly, tugged at his cape and tunic to make certain they were snug, checked his cap to make certain it was centred, leaned forward to brush a kiss on Helena’s cheek, and said quietly to her, “Wish me luck.” He started to move forward in the wings in readiness for his next appearance on stage.
Hastily reaching out, I managed to take a firm hold of his shoulder and spin him around. “Listen to me, Socransky. You’re right. You and you alone can mete out the right punishment. But let me tell you how. Sing the ‘Prize Song,’ sing it as brilliantly as you can. Turn the evening into a total triumph for Wagner — ”
“Are you mad, Preiss — ?”
“Be quiet and listen to me. As soon as it’s over tonight, and Wagner is basking in all the glory … when it seems that all Munich is at his feet … no, all Germany … then tell him who you are, who you’ve been all along … Hershel Socransky, Mastersinger from Minsk. Let him know that a Jew was responsible for his success. Do as I say, I beg you!”
The stage manager beckoned frantically. “Herr Schramm, now — ”
Shaking loose from my grip, Socransky said, “I must go.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Any moment now the curtain will rise on Act Three. Backstage, my presence no longer challenged by the stage manager thanks to my police credentials, I keep one eye on “Schramm,” the other eye on the royal box with the aid of opera glasses commandeered from the prompter (who has no need of them anyway in his mouse-hole). Nearby, though just out of reach, stands Helena maintaining her distance from me as though I am a leper. As for Commissioner von Mannstein and Mayor von Braunschweig, I have to rely on my imagination. I have visions of these two stalwarts posted outside King Ludwig’s box, ready at a moment’s notice to stand aside and look the other way should anyone — anyone at all — make a move to assassinate Richard Wagner.
Disaster, I am certain, is now inevitable. Yet through the glasses I see the composer and his wife, their hands clasped together on the railing of the box, exchanging jubilant looks, nodding as though saying to each other “Yes!” again and again.
At last, four hours and forty minutes since the opening strain, comes Scene Five, the final scene of Die Meistersinger.
The foreground is transformed into an open meadow, a narrow river winding through it. In the background lies the Town of Nuremberg. Suddenly the atmosphere is thick with festivity. From gaily decorated boats artisans representing various guilds disembark with their wives and children. Each guild displays its banners, waved to and fro boisterously by standard-bearers. To one side a raised stand is erected bearing rows of benches to accommodate the jury of Mastersingers. Dead centre stands a mound about which flowers have been strewn. Here the two competitors for the prize will sing. The Mastersingers’ youthful apprentices lead the merrymaking decked out in ribbons and prancing about with slender wands which they twirl high into the air and catch like circus acrobats. Now the principal guilds — Shoemakers, Bakers, Tailors — take turns parading across the stage proclaiming their contributions to the good life of the town’s burghers. All of this is sung and danced in high spirits. Colour is everywhere: in the set, the costumes, the lighting. I think to myself: if only Sandor Lantos were alive to savor the fruits of his labour.
Now Eva, led by her father, takes her seat near the judging stand. The apprentices call for silence. Hans Sachs, magisterial in the flowing blue and gold robe of head Mastersinger, declares in his authoritative baritone: “Let the Song Contest begin.”
First to the mound is Beckmesser, by all appearances the unlikeliest candidate for the hand of Eva Pogner. Still, as an accredited Mastersinger he is entitled to his turn before the jury. Having earlier stolen the poem written by Walther, but lacking the slightest idea of the music to which it is to be sung, Beckmesser nevertheless plunges into the piece improvising a tune at best unoriginal, at worst silly. Immediately it becomes apparent he hasn’t the slightest understanding of the words either.
The jury of Masters is confounded. “What’s this?” they murmur to one another. “Is he out of his mind?”