The Mastersinger from Minsk (10 page)

W
ith
only minutes to spare before the train for Düsseldorf was due to depart, I arrived at the railway station to find a jumble of humanity filling the platform: travellers dressed in their finest attire as though bound for Sunday church, powerful baggage men nimbly wheeling heavily laden luggage carts through the crowd; the air thick with the excitement of travel and the acrid smells of overheated oil and iron from the cars. Clouds of steam worked back along the platform from the engine that stood puffing and heaving like some gargantuan beast impatient to be let loose.

I began to panic. Where, in all this chaos, could I possibly find Helena and Madam Vronsky? And if they had already boarded, in which of the dozen coaches would they have settled?

As luck would have it, one person on that overstuffed platform stood out from the others. She was carrying a canvas and leather cello case. Of course it had to be Helena. Though she was far ahead of me I called out and miraculously both she and Madam Vronsky turned, having recognized my voice despite the din. Pushing my way through the crowd (and ignoring the odd “How rude!” and “Who does that man think he is!”) I reached the two women quite out of breath. “Thank God for your cello,” I blurted out, “otherwise I might never have found you.”

Helena broke into a smile. “Why Hermann, how sweet of you to go out of your way just to say goodbye to us!” Smiling still, but with a shrewd look in her eyes, she said, “All right, Hermann, what really brings you here?”

The conductor in charge of Helena's and Madam Vronsky's coach interrupted. “Sorry, ladies, but the train leaves in a few minutes.” He gestured toward the entrance. “Please.”

I removed my police identity card and flashed it in the conductor's face. “I'm here on urgent police business,” I said. “This train does not budge until I'm finished, is that understood?”

Looking shocked, the conductor sputtered, “But if they are under arrest —”

“They are
not
under arrest. I only need a minute or two.”

“My God, Hermann,” Helena said, “what are you up to?”

From my notebook I extracted the fragment of envelope I had found at Grilling's lodgings and handed it to Madam Vronsky. “Please look carefully at this,” I said to her. “The return address on the back, can you read it?”

Madam Vronsky brought the fragment almost to the tip of her nose, then drew it away almost to arm's length. “I'm sorry, Inspector, my eyes are beginning to play tricks with me —”

“Here, Madam Vronsky,” I said, and gave her my magnifying glass. “Try this, please. Take your time, it may be important.”

Again the conductor interrupted. “Sir, I'm getting a signal from the engineer. We have a schedule which must be kept. These ladies must board without delay.”

Ignoring him, I pressed Madam Vronsky. “Look closely … can you read whatever's there?”

“The handwriting is Russian. But I can only make out the word ‘Minsk,' you see, on the back where the return address would be.” Turning to the other side, she added, “The name of the person to whom the letter was addressed is incomplete, of course. I can only make out the letters ‘amm.' Oh, and look here.
Srohchnoy pohchtoy
, which means special delivery. I'm sorry, Inspector, if that's not much help to you.”

“It's an excellent start. Thank you, Madam Vronsky. I won't detain you further. Thank you again.” I gave her a respectful kiss on the cheek.

Several cars back another conductor, apparently the senior one of the crew, pierced the air with a shrill blast of his whistle followed by a shouted warning that the train would leave in exactly one minute.

Helena gave me a wistful smile. “Both cheeks for me, Hermann.”

Warmly I obeyed.

She touched my face with her gloved hands. “When will we see each other again?”

“This case I'm working on … when it's over … I know a spot near Lucerne. It's particularly beautiful in June.”

“June of what year, Hermann?”

It was my turn to produce a wistful smile. “Be patient with me, Helena. I'll do my best.”

“That seems to be my role in life,” Helena said, “playing the cello and being patient with Hermann Preiss.”

“Look at it this way, Helena: how many women can carry on two careers at the same time? Lucerne in June; that's a promise.”

I waited for the two women to hustle aboard their coach. Then, with the station clock showing a quarter of four, I made a quick exit, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address of Richard Wagner's residence.

I
arrived at the Wagner residence precisely at four o'clock to be greeted, not by the Maestro himself, but by a woman whom I had never before met or even seen from a distance but whom I recognized in an instant. And why would I
not
recognize her? Probably no woman in Germany was the object of as much gossip as the woman now offering — with unexpected cordiality — to take my hat and coat. “You are Inspector Preiss, of course,” she said. This led to an awkward moment or two for me. What to call her? As though reading my mind, she said, smiling wisely, “I'm sure you're well aware of our circumstances, Inspector Preiss … I mean Richard's and mine. Despite the fact that we're — how should I say? — betwixt and between? — I refer to myself now as Cosima
Wagner
.”

“Madam Wagner it is, then, thank you. The Maestro? We have an appointment —”

“Ah yes, Inspector. Richard is terribly occupied at the moment in his study. The pressures of his new opera, you understand. It is like giving birth not to a single child but to triplets. He begs your forgiveness and promises he will be along shortly.”

The pressures of his new opera? Not a word about the murder of his set designer and one of his leading singers? But why bother this woman about such questions.

It was said that Cosima's love for Richard Wagner bordered on outright hero worship, that she had fallen under his spell when, as the sixteen-year-old daughter of Franz Liszt, she was present during Wagner's visit to her family home and heard him read selections of his poetry that would, years later, become part of his
Ring Cycle
. Recently she had left her husband, the eminent conductor Hans von Bülow, after thirteen years of marriage in order to devote her life to Wagner. In fact, the two had already had a child together, a daughter Eva, and there were rumours that she was pregnant by the composer once again. The flow of adoration was mutual, according to people close to them. Wagner's wife Minna had done him the favour of dying two years earlier thus bringing to a convenient end an unhappy marriage and leaving him free to live openly with his beloved Cosima.

Given the kind of blind faith Cosima was said to have in her hero, would she be expected to show concern for the two men associated with him who had suffered violent deaths? “The pressures of his new opera” … that was all that seemed to matter.

As for the “betwixt and between”? Well, living under the same roof as man and wife but without the supposed benefit of a marriage certificate gave cause for much scorn in German society. But who was I to scorn? The union of my own parents — a history of mismatching, poverty, frustration, and recrimination — was proof that a marriage certificate was no guarantee of wedded bliss.

“Please join me for tea,” Cosima Wagner said, motioning me to follow her into the sitting room. “You know, Richard and I spent some time in England, and while he has mixed emotions about the British — not everyone in London loved his music — he did admire their daily ritual of four o'clock tea and those silly little sandwiches they like to nibble.” Holding an almost paper-thin sandwich daintily, she laughed. “See, this is how the English eat them, as though they're eating flower petals. And this …
this
Inspector … is how these people manage to accumulate an empire! Can you believe it?”

She was tall and slim, plainly dressed but immaculately groomed. Her facial features and complexion resembled those of her father — a strong but attractive Roman nose, skin fair and flawless. Even in serious conversation she spoke with a half-smile which, in this starched and formal sitting room, contributed a much-needed touch of warmth.

“I hope and pray,” she said, beginning to pour tea into two of the three fine china cups arranged on a silver tray before me, “that you're here to assure Richard that the threatening note he received is a mere hoax. I've done my best to allay his fears but he needs to hear it from someone in an official capacity, such as yourself, Inspector.”

“I hate to disappoint,” I said, “but an honest question deserves an honest answer, Madam Wagner. I am here because two men closely connected to Maestro Wagner, and indeed to his new opera, have been murdered.”

Abruptly she ceased pouring tea. Her grey-green eyes were staring at me. “Surely you're not suggesting … I can't bring myself to say it —”

“That your —”

“Husband. Richard
is
my husband. Surely you're not suggesting that he's a suspect in those murders. If anything, Richard is as much a victim of events as are Herr Lantos and Herr Grilling. One of his greatest and most important works is about to be given to the world and poor Richard is being torn apart!” As she uttered these last words, those grey-green eyes grew moist. “I cannot bear to see him like this, forgive me, Inspector.” Tears were now forming and she dabbed her eyes with one of the carefully folded linen napkins that lay beside the tray. Experiencing now the depth of this woman's devotion to Wagner, I began to understand that even the most generous appraisals of that devotion offered by local gossips were grossly understated. However, I was not here to worship at Richard Wagner's shrine.

“Please, Madam Wagner, try to regard what is happening from
my
perspective. I'm confronted with not one but
two
challenges. One deals with the threat made to the Maestro. In my opinion, it is not a hoax. Despite your allegiance —”

“My
allegiance
? You call my feelings for Richard ‘allegiance'? Richard Wagner, Inspector, is not some object of patriotism. He is the man I
love
.”

“Very well, then. Despite your love for Maestro Wagner, you must be aware that he has many enemies. For example, your own father, Madam, has turned against him because of this ménage you and Wagner have established … not to mention political enemies, enemies in the artistic community, and, yes, a host of unpaid creditors. Were it not for the enthusiastic support of King Ludwig, this elegant tea set might well be in the custody of the bailiff.”

Cosima Wagner put down her cup. “Inspector Preiss, it is one thing to be frank, quite another to be brutal.”

“I make no apology, Madam. I do not earn my pay for being gentle. In a perfect world, truth would always be beautiful. Alas, we humans do not live in a perfect world, do we? I repeat, Madam: in my opinion there is every reason to believe that the threatening note the Maestro received must be taken seriously. That said, my second challenge must be given priority at the moment. I refer, of course, to the murders of Sandor Lantos and Wolfgang Grilling. No, I do not believe Maestro Wagner is implicated, not even remotely. But someone is engaged in a plot to undermine him and the new production, someone who is prepared to stop at nothing to achieve his goal, not even murder.”

I kept to myself the third challenge, namely the orders handed me by Commissioner von Mannstein and Mayor von Braunschweig under which I was commanded to excavate, as it were, the very earth under Wagner's feet and, like a worker in a gold mine, rise to the surface with some solid nugget of information that would warrant Wagner's exile from Munich.

“And you have no idea at the moment who such a person might be?” Madam Wagner wanted to know.

“Absolutely none,” I replied. “My worst fear, of course, is that the killer may have a list. Lantos and Grilling may be only two, the first two. There may be others.”

“Meaning Richard himself may be on the murderer's agenda?”

“Again I must be brutally frank. Even you, Madam, may be vulnerable.”

“Better me, then. After all, Richard has so much to offer. But that's the way of the world, isn't it, Inspector? A man invents fire and gives it to the people as a gift, and they use it to burn him alive.” She said this not with bitterness but with sadness and, I thought, resignation, as though Richard Wagner was doomed, like Christ, to die for the sins of mankind.

I thought about this last remark of hers for a moment, then said, “If you will pardon my frankness again, Madam Wagner, I find it amazing … indeed nothing less than amazing … that any woman would place any man on such a pedestal.”

“Then you do
not
know Richard Wagner, Inspector. There is as much angel in him as devil, despite what you may have heard.” Her eyes were clear again and a kind of tranquility returned to her expression. “One
can
fall in love with another's imperfections, you know. Take for instance your cellist friend … I believe her name is Helena Becker? … the beautiful young woman from Düsseldorf, and very talented too. Just performed here in Munich, did she not?” This last question she asked with another wise smile, as though she had managed to peek behind the veil I like to think I've erected between my public and private lives.

“I fail to see the relevance —” I began to say.

“Oh, but there's a great deal of relevance,” she cut in. “You, too, Inspector Preiss, are not above being the object of gossip not only here in Munich but in other places as well. It's said that Fräulein Becker is in love with you despite
your
imperfections.”

“
My
imperfections?” I pretended to be taken aback while, at the same time, dealing with my growing unease. “I wasn't aware that I had any.”

“Dare I mention your past career in Düsseldorf?” Her manner was teasing now. “Your involvement with the Schumanns, Robert and Clara?” Her voice fell to a whisper as she added, “Especially with Clara. I mustn't speak her name too loudly. The very mention of her name brings out the worst in Richard. Word has it that one of the Schumanns, or possibly both of them, got away with murder literally, thanks to your infatuation with that woman. We all live lives of lights and shadows, don't we, Inspector?”

Carefully I put down my teacup. “Thank you so much for the refreshments,” I said quietly but firmly, “and for refreshing memories I've chosen to tuck away for some years now.” I glanced at my watch. “If you would be kind enough to fetch Maestro Wagner I would be most grateful. I
do
have some urgent business to attend to.”

She gave me a steady look. “Then we understand one another, Inspector, I trust.”

“Understand one another —?”

“I mean about Richard. What has happened to Lantos and Grilling is regrettable, to be sure, but the threat to Richard is what concerns me most and should concern
you
most.”

“With all due respect, Madam Wagner,” I replied, “my concerns are to a great extent determined by orders from my superiors, and to some extent by the degree of latitude which normally goes with my office.” I rose from my chair to signal that, as far as I was concerned, this part of my visit was at an end. Then, speaking in as casual a tone as I could, I said, “By the way, Madam Wagner, does the name Judith Mendès have any special significance to you? Or Augusta Holmès? What about Cornelia Vanderhoute?”

I watched Cosima Wagner turn instantly into an ice sculpture. “You're absolutely right, Inspector. I should not delay for another moment your appointment with Richard.”

With that, she rose, strode to the door of the sitting room and called out, “Richard, you are keeping Inspector Preiss waiting!”