I turned about to find myself face to face with Cosima Wagner. “I happened to be in the neighbourhood,” I said, adding quickly, “on an investigation. I assure you I had no intention to intrude. It’s just that your house looked so inviting.”
She pretended to be dismayed. “Don’t tell me that villain Eduard Hanslick is on the loose again. I thought he was confined to a prison for the criminally insane for the rest of his life.”
I pretended to be humble. Bowing my head as though in disgrace, I said, “I give you my word, Madam Wagner, we used every device in our torture chamber … the ones especially reserved for unrepentant music critics … but Herr Hanslick refused to recant. We had to let him go, however. It seems he kept whistling Brahms’s Hungarian Dances day and night until the prison warden couldn’t stand it any longer.”
Cosima Wagner smiled knowingly. “Ah, yes, Hanslick, the bane of Richard’s existence. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Inspector. There’s a character in Richard’s new opera … name’s Beckmesser. A stodgy pretentious ridiculous hidebound fool. And a thief to boot! Guess who Beckmesser’s modelled after? Need I say more? We have our ways of getting even. Now come, Inspector, have some Champagne before the bubbles disappear.” She crooked her finger and instantly a servant appeared with a flute of Champagne, but before my lips could touch the rim of the glass there stood Hershel Socransky, smiling broadly, a welcoming hand outstretched. “Inspector Preiss! How flattering! I trust this is an unofficial visit?”
“On the contrary,” I replied, smiling back, “I’ve come to arrest you, Herr Schramm.”
“Oh? On what charge?”
“Hitting a wrong note.” I tried to look grave.
“You must have keen ears, Inspector.”
“Keener than you think, Herr Schramm. I’m also gifted with a keen sense of smell … in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Cosima Wagner broke into a laugh. “You two obviously enjoy bantering. I wish more people had a talent these days for jocularity. I’ll leave you to the pleasures of your own company.”
Off she went, leaving the two of us alone. Making certain first that no one was within hearing range, I said, almost in a whisper, “Where the devil were you? I was at the station as agreed — ”
“As agreed? I don’t recall any agreement.”
We were smiling at one another, forced smiles. “Don’t get technical with me. We had a firm understanding.”
Our smiles were waning now.
“At the risk of sounding technical,” Socransky said, “there is a distinction between an agreement and an understanding, is there not? I’m not a man of the law, Inspector, but the way I look at our last conversation is this: I understood your position, and you understood my position. That does not add up to an agreement.”
“Don’t take me for a simpleton, Schramm,” I said, still keeping my voice just above a whisper. “I know exactly why you’re here, here in the house of Richard Wagner. There’s an ancient Chinese proverb: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”
“Nothing wrong with that bit of wisdom,” Socransky said, as though trumping me.
“But the Chinese have another saying you’d be wise to heed: A person who sets out on a path of revenge should first dig two graves.”
“You quite certain that wasn’t said by a Russian?”
“Take my word for it,” I said, “Confucius was definitely not Russian.” I took hold of Socransky’s arm and gave a rather forceful tug. “Now be a good fellow, Schramm, and bid goodnight to all these lovely people. You’re spending the rest of this night where I can keep an eye on you.”
“But that’s out of the question, Preiss,” Socransky said, shaking free. “You see, I was invited to be the Wagners’ house guest. I’m sure you went to the rooms I occupied and found I’d checked out. Well, Inspector, here I am, and my belongings, and here is where I intend to spend the rest of the night.”
“You must be out of your mind,” I said, barely able now to keep my voice down, “to think I’d let you — ”
Before I could finish my sentence I felt a firm clap on my back. “See here, Preiss, you’re as welcome as the birds in spring, but you have no right to monopolize my heldentenor like this.” Richard Wagner, still astonishingly genial, pushed the singer aside as though shielding him. “This man needs a good night’s sleep. As Shakespeare said, ‘tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.’ I forget the rest of the line but no matter.” Wagner turned to Socransky. Gruffly, but affectionately, he ordered, “Off to bed with you now, Schramm.”
“Maestro,” I pleaded, “it’s so rare that I have an opportunity to converse with a young artist with such talent and charm … please spare him for a moment or two longer.”
“Believe me, Preiss,” Wagner replied, quietly, as though taking me into his confidence, “you will have countless opportunities to spend time with this man. After tomorrow night, the name ‘Henryk Schramm’ will be on everyone’s lips for years to come. But now I must insist that he rest.”
Wagner turned to Schramm. “The servants have made up the guest room for you, Henryk. It happens to be directly across the hall from our own bedroom.” With mock severity, and wagging a warning finger, he added, “And I’m seeing to it that our doors are locked for the night … ours and yours, Schramm. I’ve seen how Cosima looks at you!”
Socransky, extending Wagner’s jest, gave me an apprehensive look. “Tell me, Inspector,” he said, “what’s the penalty for breaking and entering?”
I directed my answer to Wagner. “A word of advice, Maestro. There’s an old Russian proverb: Be friends with the wolf, but keep one hand on your axe.” I punctuated this by giving Wagner a solemn wink.
Wagner looked at me for a moment as though wondering how I could possibly be serious. Then, with a slow smirk, he said, “You know what your trouble is, Preiss? You’ve lost your sense of humour. What a pity!”
Chapter Forty-Four
Perhaps Wagner was right. Perhaps I had lost whatever knack is required to coax laughter out of life’s ironies. And so the scene which next unfolded — a scene which under different circumstances would have inspired a playwrights to pen a comedy of errors — inspired in me instead a renewed and deeper sense of foreboding.
We are in the vestibule, Richard Wagner and I, standing almost shoulder to shoulder, a benign fatherly smile on the Maestro’s face, looking on as “Henryk Schramm” dutifully marches off to bed. When he reaches the broad carpeted stairway that curves gracefully up to the second storey, one hand fingering the polished mahogany railing, he pauses at the first step, turns, and calls out “Bon soir, Monsieur Inspector, and pleasant dreams!” then energetically bounds up the stairs two at a time.
A thought crosses my mind: out of sight but not out of mind when suddenly those very words spill out of me, a purely involuntary utterance, barely whispered, but picked up nevertheless by the alert ears of the Maestro. With a quizzical look, Wagner asks, “Meaning what, Inspector?”
I grope for an explanation. “It’s — uh — only an expression, Maestro. You know, ‘out of sight, out of mind’ — ”
“But you said ‘not out of mind,’ Preiss.”
“Did I? Well, a slip of the tongue, I suppose. It’s been a long day.”
Wagner frowns; my hastily concocted excuse is less than convincing. In a tone of mild reproof, he says, “You know, Preiss, even a slip of the tongue can sound ominous, especially when it’s from the tongue of a chief inspector.” In a sudden change of mood, he gives me a good-natured poke in the ribs. “You’re welcome to stay anyway, Preiss. Come join us. I trust your rules of conduct don’t forbid the occasional glass of Champagne.”