“The name means absolutely nothing to me, I tell you,” Wagner says, a note of irritation creeping into his denial.
Now there is a stir in the audience. People turn to one another shaking their heads as though wondering if this is some kind of ruse. After all, Richard Wagner has never been above resorting to theatrical antics, no matter how bizarre, in order to gain attention. Limelight has always been his favourite form of illumination, even when what it reveals may turn out to be less than praiseworthy.
Socransky becomes more insistent. “But you must remember him, Maestro. You were responsible for his dismissal from his position as concertmaster of that orchestra on that occasion — ’’
A weak smile on his face, Wagner says, his voice becoming a bit hoarse, “My dear fellow, you are mistaken — ”
“No, Maestro, I am not mistaken. It was you who caused him to be dismissed. It was you who killed him.”
“That’s a lie! He killed himself!” Wagner blurts out. Then, in a voice barely audible, he repeats, “He killed himself.” He turns stiffly to the king seeking the monarch’s endorsement, bending slightly toward him, almost beseeching. But King Ludwig has no stomach for what is rapidly giving off a strong smell of scandal. Abruptly he rises and without waiting for so much as a syllable of explanation he makes a hasty exit from the royal box, leaving Wagner and Cosima stranded there, strangely isolated in the midst of the attendant throng. An eerie silence falls across the theatre, disturbed only by the shuffling of feet as row upon row of operagoers leave their seats and begin an exodus. They seem to move mechanically, as though in obedience to some unspoken royal command. The cast on stage has already evaporated. The orchestra has quietly vanished from the pit. The house stands deserted … except for three people who occupy that immense space now: Richard Wagner, Cosima Wagner, and the heldentenor they thought they knew.
“Why? Why have you done this?” Wagner shouts, his voice echoing throughout the empty house. “Why should Henryk Schramm give a damn about an obscure fiddler from Russia?”
“Because my name is not Henryk Schramm. It is Hershel Socransky. Simon Socransky is — was — my father.”
“Then rot in hell!” Wagner says. “No … better still … if there is a hell beneath hell, rot there!” Almost roughly, he takes Cosima by the arm and the two of them start from their box.
At centre stage, Hershel Socransky, hands on hips, watches their departure until they are out of sight. Only then does he leave the stage, moving with the confident stride of a man who believes he has finally completed what he set out to do. Yet when he approaches Helena and me, there is no air of satisfaction about him. Behind him the shards of Wagner’s great new opera lie scattered throughout the grand auditorium. On the young tenor’s face I see only the sour aftertaste of revenge.
Ignoring me, he speaks softly to Helena. “I need a place to stay tonight — ”
Helena needs no time to consider the request. “Of course,” she replies.
Chapter Fifty-Three
"I suppose you are eager to return to Russia as soon as possible now that you’ve accomplished your ‘mission,’” I said to Socransky. It was the next morning and we were in the lobby of the Empress Eugénie. Socransky had just set down a lone piece of luggage and was folding an overcoat which was too bulky to be packed. “That coat will come in handy back home even though it’s summertime,” I joked. “Fortunately the travel documents I took the trouble to obtain are still valid, and there’s a train leaving tomorrow night — ”
He shook his head.
Puzzled, I said, “I don’t understand. I would have thought you couldn’t wait to get back. I can’t believe you plan to remain here in Munich!” As I said this I happened to look over at Helena. Something about the expression on her face told me she knew something I didn’t know. Quietly I asked, figuring one or the other would respond, “Does this mean you … I mean the two of you … have plans?” Even as I put the question to them I felt as though suddenly I had become hollowed out, as though from this moment on the core of my own existence would consist of nothing but an empty cavity.
Helena and Socransky exchanged quick glances, each inviting the other to speak up, both hesitant. I said, “For God’s sake, somebody say something!”
At last he spoke up. “The fact is, Preiss, I cannot go back to Russia, much as I wish to. Russia and I have parted company, you might say.”
I had difficulty taking his answer seriously. “You’re joking, of course. Don’t tell me you’re some kind of revolutionary. What? Are you conspiring to get rid of the Czar?”
“I wish it were as simple as that,” Socransky said, looking, I thought, too sober.
“Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humour despite all that has gone on,” I said. “I can see the headlines now: JEWISH TENOR BRINGS DOWN IMPERIAL DYNASTY. You know what they say, Socransky: Revolutionaries don’t burn down palaces; they move into them!”
I thought this would bring a laugh or at least a smile. Instead he looked almost melancholy. He paused, seemingly on the edge of making some pronouncement, then, looking me straight in the eye he said, “The reason I cannot return to Russia is that people like me are now considered undesirables.”
“Why? Because you’re Jewish?”
“No, being Jewish has nothing to do with it.”
“Then why?”
“Because … because I happen to prefer the company of men.”
“Now I know you’re joking. You are a born actor, Socransky. A comic actor at that! Anyway, I’ve seen how women react to you … the effect you have on them. Mind you, Socransky, for a split second there you almost had me — ”
“Stop, Hermann! Just stop … please!” Helena interrupted. “This is painful enough. You’re only making it worse.”
“Helena, you mean you knew about this? And you said not a word to me about it? But I thought all along — ”
“Don’t blame Helena, Preiss,” Socransky said. “She has kept my secret.”
“Since when?”
Helena filled in the answer. “Since the night I visited him in his rooms. Remember, Hermann? The wine? The cake? The letter?”
I stared at Helena for a moment, then at Socransky. To him I said, “But I thought you were in love with her?”
“I do love her, yes. As a dear friend. The person with whom I am in love lives in Russia, a young composer. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? His name is Tchaikovsky. Peter Tchaikovsky. We met when I was a student and he an instructor at the Conservatory in Moscow. Unfortunately, people like us … well, need I say more, Preiss?”
I turned to Helena. “I had a vision of myself standing alone on the platform at the Ostbahnhof waving goodbye to the two of you.”
To Socransky I said, “Where will you go then, if Russia is out of bounds?”
“I leave today for Paris. I have friends there, also refugees from Russia for the same reason. The atmosphere in Paris is a little more friendly for us. My ticket is already arranged, but I could certainly use those travel documents, if you’d be so kind.”
“But can you get work there? Can you earn a living? It’s a gamble isn’t it?”
“If you are a Jew living in Russia every day is a gamble. Will they leave us be? Will they come after us? We are born gamblers. My coming to Munich was a gamble. What if Wagner had chosen someone else to sing the role?”
“And if he hadn’t chosen you, Socransky, would you nevertheless have found some way to kill him?”