The Mastersinger from Minsk by Morley Torgov Page B

did not consider it prudent to reveal such confidential information in the presence of the mayor.”
    The commissioner was certainly correct in one respect. With good reason he knew me to be a man of exquisite discretion. It was his bad luck, and my good luck, that during my lengthy vigil to catch the Friedensplatz rapist I happened to come across von Mannstein as he was departing the off-limits establishment of Madame Rosina Waldheim. Despite the black wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his brow and the turned-up collar of his civilian greatcoat, I had recognized him immediately. Besides he retained the bearing and swagger of a cavalry officer (which he indeed was in his earlier days) and his stride, as he took leave of that elegant whorehouse, left not a shred of doubt in my mind that the man was none other than my superior at the Constabulary. We exchanged quick but meaningful glances, said not a word to each other, and he took off in a waiting carriage. Neither of us ever spoke of this afterwards; however, this fleeting and accidental encounter, later enriched by Madame Waldheim’s revelation that he was a frequent and generous patron, created a silent bond between von Mannstein and me.
    I returned to my office relieved on one hand that Franz Brunner’s sly attempt to scuttle my career had not only failed but might have actually contributed a gold star to my service record. On the other hand I had to face an uncomfortable truth: Just as Henryk Schramm and Karla Steilmann were drawn to Richard Wagner like moths to a flame, so too was I caught up in that irresistible force.
    Walking a thin line is not new to me. I’ve broken a law or two in my time, and stretched moral judgment to the point where it snaps like a dry tree branch, all for the sake of catching a criminal. I’ve learned to accomplish this with a minimum of agonizing about it before, during, and afterward. But the thin line now lying before me was one I was not accustomed to tread. I wondered: would this prove to be my ruination?

Chapter Six
    T he studio of Sandor Lantos occupied the ground floor of a two-storey house that squatted in the overpowering shadow of the Opera House. Lantos’s living quarters took up the second storey. One wall of the studio consisted almost entirely of windows, which not only admitted natural light much needed for Lantos’s line of work but afforded a view of the façade of the Opera House that must have served as a daily inspiration to him. Noticing that I was struck by that view, Lantos said, “Hardly a day goes by that I don’t pause and stare at that sight, Inspector. Just imagine: Mozart’s Idomeneo had its premiere in that very place. And Maestro Wagner has had five — five — of his operas introduced there!” He gave a deep sigh. “Alas, Inspector Preiss, you and I … yes, and Wagner too … will be long gone and that edifice will still be standing. If only God, when He was creating Man, had made us as enduring as brick and stone.”
    â€œOh, but He did,” I said, “only He did it in the form of music.”
    Lantos looked at me with astonishment. “Pardon my frankness,” he said, “but I was not expecting a philosopher to respond to the note I sent you. I mean, after all, as a police inspector —”
    With a reassuring smile I said, “I’m not the least offended. Nor, I hasten to add, do I consider myself a philosopher. As for God and music, I’m not certain whether God invented music or music invented God. Most of the time I believe they’re one and the same. Which is why I attend concert halls but not churches. And now that I’ve bared my soul to you, Lantos, perhaps you’d satisfy my curiosity. I’ve never before been in the studio of a costume and set designer. If you will pardon my frankness —”
    â€œYou were expecting more romantic surroundings, eh? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint