The Mastersinger from Minsk by Morley Torgov

thing we know, Henryk and I are drinking wine that’s too good for the king as your guests. Be honest, Inspector; wouldn’t a string of circumstances of this sort arouse your suspicions?”
    â€œWell, you may put aside your suspicions. This little dinner tonight is merely one more step in the rise of Hermann Preiss from peasant to poet, and nothing more. So let us have another round of Armagnac and drink to innocent pleasure.” Bolliger had left the bottle of Armagnac at our table, a gesture not customarily extended to other patrons of Maison Espãna and not lost on my appreciative guests.
    Schramm raised his glass. “To Ziggy Bolliger!”
    Steilmann and I joined him. “To Ziggy Bolliger!”
    We sat for a moment or two in contented silence. Then, in an offhand manner, I said to Schramm, “By the way, Schramm, you didn’t mention what you performed in when you made your first major appearance. Was it in an opera?”
    â€œYes, Nabucco . Are you familiar with it?”
    â€œGiuseppe Verdi, right? I’ve never heard the entire opera, but the chorus ‘Va pensiero’ I’ve heard several times. Very stirring, I must say. Has to do with freeing Hebrew slaves during some invasion or other of Judea in biblical times.”
    â€œVery good, Inspector! Needless to say, Wagner despises it. Says it’s the kind of tune gondoliers sing in Venice. Besides, anything that has to do with freeing Hebrew slaves would never strike a favourable chord with the likes of Richard Wagner, as you’re no doubt aware.”
    â€œIt doesn’t bother you?” I asked, directing my question at Schramm.
    â€œYou mean his views about race?” Schramm was looking me straight in the eye. “Not in the least. Singing is my life, Inspector. I live to sing. The only thing that bothers me is an off-key note.”
    â€œAnd you, Fräulein Steilmann … I suppose your outlook is the same?”
    â€œOne does not lightly turn down an opportunity to work with a genius like Maestro Wagner,” she replied. “What you heard the other night was only a small sample of the music he’s composed for Die Meistersinger . Only an idealistic fool would refuse a part in this opera.”
    I reached for the bottle of Armagnac. “Then let’s have a final toast,” I said, filling our glasses again. “To the future of opera, and may all your dreams come true and your plans succeed!”
    Schramm raised a hand as if to halt the proceedings. “Dreams coming true, yes. But plans succeeding, no. You know what they say, Inspector: Man plans and God laughs. So I’ll drink to dreams only, if you don’t mind.”
    It turned out that Schramm and Steilmann had lodgings within a short distance of one another and were able conveniently to share a carriage. I on the other hand preferred to return to my apartment on foot despite the late hour. I was counting on the bracing night air to clear my mind of all the wine and brandy I’d consumed, and indeed the long stroll through the dark quiet streets left me feeling fully awake by the time I reached my residence. Settling myself at my desk, I took a small notebook and pen and jotted down the following:
Henryk Schramm does not eat pork (claims to be allergic)
    His first operatic role is in Nabucco, about Hebrew slaves
    Father was — is? — a violinist
    Has a habit of always answering a question with a question
    Says Man plans and God laughs
    I sat for a long while reading and rereading what I’d written. At last, I picked up the pen and added a final note:
Henryk Schramm … or whatever his real name is … is a Jew.

Chapter Five
    T he first object that caught my eye when I entered my office early on the morning following dinner at Bolliger’s was a note propped up at the centre of my desk, as though daring me to ignore it. The handwriting, as always, suggested the author was on the back of a