“I’m the daughter of a pharmacist,” Clara whispered. “My father was an expert in all kinds of healing creams. I learned some things from him. Camphor is indeed good for reducing the swelling of an abscess, and your skin certainly seems a little swollen, but more than anything else, it is irritated and inflamed. The camphor and the white lead in that cream will only make the problem worse. I . . . happened to see the label.” With every word Clara spoke, her confidence grew. These were things she knew something about.
The women scrutinized her for a long moment. Then, with her clean hand, she took a handkerchief out of the dresser and wiped her smeared finger clean. “You may be right. Since I’ve been using this cream, the spots have gotten worse. My neck itched so much last night it nearly drove me mad.”
Clara exhaled with relief. If she were lucky, the woman would not complain to Lilo. “I work in the Weingarten pharmacy. If you explain your condition to Mr. Weingarten, I am sure he will prepare a good cream for you.”
The woman picked up the cream pot and dropped it in the trash basket. “No, young lady, I have a much better idea. Because you seem to understand these things so well, you can prepare a cream for me.” She turned to face Clara directly and planted her hands on her hips. “Now when can I expect this wonder balm?”
Clara had never before cleaned the hotel rooms as fast as she did that day. And all the while, as she wielded her dust rags and buckets, her mind rattled and clattered as if a procession of steam trains were rolling through it.
It was nearly five thirty in the evening when she finally pulled off her apron, put on her street shoes and jacket, and hurried up the alley to the pharmacy. When she threw the door open, Mr. Weingarten was already busy tallying up the day’s revenue. He looked up in surprise. “Mrs. Berg! Is everything all right? No problem at the hotel, is there?”
Clara shook her head vehemently. “No, everything is fine. It’s just that—” She broke off with a frown. In all her haste, she had not actually thought about what to say. How would Mr. Weingarten react to her request? Would he be angry? The pharmacist was still watching her. Clara took a deep breath.
“I would like to make a cream. I need a few ingredients.”
“What, exactly?” Mr. Weingarten replied, as if her request were perfectly normal.
Clara felt a load lift from her heart. “Well, I thought of white wax as the base. Then I would need almond oil, a few drops of genuine chamomile oil, and rosewater.” As she spoke, the pharmacist made some notes. “And if you have it, spermaceti!” she added. Spermaceti was a fatty substance obtained from the head of sperm whales. It added a pleasing coolness to a cream—but it was not an ordinary ingredient. Although Clara had been working in the pharmacy for two months, she had no idea what they had on hand. Only Mr. Weingarten had access to the pharmacist’s cabinet, where he stored all the ingredients for the medications he produced. He had already started rummaging through the drawers in search of what Clara needed. “You’re in luck; it’s all here,” he said, setting out an array of bottles and receptacles on the counter. “May I ask what kind of ointment this is supposed to be?”
“Not an ointment, but a cream. It’s for one of the guests at the hotel. The woman has irritated skin, and I thought of a soothing, delicate cream that would still allow the skin to breathe. We talked this afternoon, and when she found out I was a pharmacist’s daughter . . . of course, I recommended that she come here. But she insisted that I prepare the cream for her myself.” Clara shrugged apologetically.
“So it’s not an ointment for healing as much as a cosmetic cream.” The pharmacist waved dismissively. “My dear Mrs. Berg, in your free time, you can do whatever you want. And if one looks at the matter conscientiously, your background is in the profession. Besides, the manufacture of creams and ointments was never my favorite métier, which is why I specialize in lozenges and the like.”
Clara sighed. “Thank God. I thought you would be angry with me.” She smiled sheepishly.
“I could never be angry with you,” Mr. Weingarten declared emphatically. “If you would like, you are more than welcome to use my laboratory. You only have to promise me that you will never breathe a word about it to anyone, because—regrettably—you have never officially trained as a pharmacist, after all.”
“That would be wonderful!” Clara exclaimed. “And I promise I’ll leave everything as clean as a whistle.” She had envisaged herself working in the hotel kitchen between the soup pots and sinks.
“Who says I’m going to let you work alone?” said Mr. Weingarten with a smile. “If I may, I would gladly look over your shoulder. Maybe I can learn something myself!”
Clara carefully melted the wax in a glass beaker over a very low flame until all of it had turned into a translucent liquid. Later, when it cooled, it would take on its white color again and look like freshly whipped cream. Next, using a glass spatula, she mixed in the almond oil, then added the spermaceti, and finally the rosewater.
“You do that so deftly, as if you did nothing else all day,” said Mr. Weingarten, standing beside her.
Without looking up from her work, Clara replied, “My father prepared cosmetic creams for my mother for most of his life. I learned everything I know from him. The creams you normally buy are often very thick and heavy, and they smell bad. For my mother, at least, they were not good enough. But my father’s creams were light and cool and smelled marvelous. Then, when I—” Clara broke off abruptly. Good heavens! She had almost given the game away and told Mr. Weingarten that she had prepared creams for herself when she’d been married! “I helped my father make creams until his death, so I really can claim a little skill,” she said instead, although it wasn’t entirely true. Without doubt, Gerhard would have given her a piece of his mind, or worse, if he had caught her in her father’s laboratory. No, she had prepared creams for her own use secretly, in her kitchen, when her husband was out of the house.
Clara squinted hard, as if by doing so she could rid herself of the memories. Then she lifted the beaker and waved the rising fumes to her nose. The rosewater was clearly there; it was the merest hint, but it was all the rose she wanted. “Maybe a little lavender? Or maybe chamomile would be better?” she murmured to herself.
A moment later, Mr. Weingarten handed her two small dark-brown bottles. “Lavender oil and chamomile—but don’t use too much oil or the cream will separate.”
“True. And that would be a waste of these precious ingredients,” said Clara, then added one drop from each of the bottles to the beaker. The perfume immediately took on a note of lavender and chamomile. “This preparation is my father’s own recipe, and I’ve followed the quantities precisely. The components should come together nicely,” she said, stirring the mixture carefully. The cream maintained its delicate consistency and now exuded a warm, full scent.
“Done!” said Clara, and turned the flame off.
That night, sleep was a long time coming, but Clara’s sleeplessness came from exhilaration, not worry. Again and again, she turned over in her mind the way that she had mixed the cream. It had been delightful to work with all the fragrant, fine ingredients. It had made her feel very close to her father again. And being able to work in Mr. Weingarten’s laboratory had been exceptionally helpful. What a wonderful man! Instead of sticking his nose in—as she herself was always doing with him and his wife—he had simply looked on curiously, apparently quite enthralled by the whole process.
Suddenly, Clara could no longer lie in bed. She jumped up and crossed to the table where she had left the pot of newly made cream. The container itself was white milk glass and looked very pretty. Clara had not even known that Mr. Weingarten possessed such pretty jars. The pharmacist had just shrugged and said that his predecessor had left behind boxes of them. “He probably used them for his ointments,” Mr. Weingarten speculated. “But they’re not much good for my pastilles.”
Almost reverently, Clara unscrewed the glass cap. The white cream would practically melt on her s
kin. She wanted so much to dip her finger inside and try a tiny daub on the back of her own hand. But she resisted the temptation, of course. When she gave the cream to Lilo’s guest the next day, it had to look flawless.
She screwed the lid closed again, then went to the cupboard and opened the door with the mirror.
It would be her birthday in a little more than a month. She was a Christmas child, born on December 24, almost thirty-three years earlier. Her skin was still that of a young woman of twenty. Unblemished, unlined, not even the smallest hint of a pimple. And very pale, as well. She had never had to douse herself in stinking rice powder or some other whitener to conform to the porcelain-pale ideal of beauty. Other women were not as blessed, especially those who were naturally red-cheeked, or who had freckles or a tan complexion, and who did everything they could with this or that cream to cover up their flaws or get rid of them altogether.
Slowly, Clara pulled her nightdress off over her head. Since she had begun swimming with Lilo, she was more comfortable naked than she had been before. Her legs were still rather thin, but swimming in the lake had added some muscle. Her waist, too, was as slim as a young girl’s. Compared to the rest of her petite body, her breasts, which had nourished two children, were large and heavy, but passably firm. Would a man ever see her like this? With Gerhard, it had been enough for her to take off her underpants for sex. Any more than that had made Clara exceptionally ill at ease. Slowly, she stroked her right hand over her breasts, and her nipples puckered pleasantly at the touch. Would a man ever touch her like that? A shiver ran down her back. What strange thoughts you have . . . She quickly climbed back into her bed before she was chilled through.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Clara knocked on the elderly woman’s door. The woman didn’t answer. She was among the early risers, Clara knew, and was probably already at breakfast. A little disappointed, Clara took her master key, opened the door, and left the cream on the dresser.
It seemed that almost everyone in Meersburg had caught a cold, and the town’s year-round residents descended on Weingarten Pharmacy in droves, looking for decongestant, cough medicine, and throat lozenges. At the hotel, too, the guests were sniffling and coughing. Clara had a sympathetic word for everyone, and she brought the guests various medications to soothe their symptoms.
“I’ve noticed that you get along well with the guests,” Lilo said over dinner one evening. “What would you say to working for me full-time? As my manager, you would be a second point of contact for the guests, and that would be a great relief for me. I might even be able to go off traveling myself for a few days.”
Clara was surprised by Lilo’s offer, and she was thrilled to be asked. Still, she did not accept immediately but promised Lilo that she would think about it. Her work in the pharmacy, although not exactly what she had dreamed it would be, was still a source of pleasure for her. She wasn’t sure about simply giving it up.
Between the illness and the turnover of hotel rooms as some guests left and new ones arrived to spend the new year at the lake, there was quite a lot of hustle and bustle. So Clara was happy and surprised when, a few days later, the woman for whom she had prepared the cream came up to her during dinner and embraced her and kissed her on both cheeks in front of all the other guests.
“Look at my skin!” she exclaimed so loudly that even those at the farthest tables could hear. She yanked off the scarf she had wrapped around her neck against the cold. “No more sores, no more redness. With a complexion like this, I could star on stage at the Royal Theater!” She laughed louder than anyone at her words.
Clara could hardly believe her eyes. It was true: the woman’s skin was flawless! And she was smiling from ear to ear.
“Thank you a thousand times,” said the woman, shaking Clara’s hand emphatically as if she would never let go. “Now, please, you must tell me what this wonder cream costs so I can finally pay you for what you’ve done.”
Clara reddened. She hadn’t given a thought to the price, and had no idea at all what the ingredients or the container cost. Mr. Weingarten had simply said that he would deduct the total from her next paycheck.
“Well, it’s like this . . . ,” Clara said tentatively.
“Mrs. Berg will leave the bill in your room sometime today,” said Lilo in a businesslike tone. She had observed the exchange from some distance and was now standing beside Clara.
Clara gave Lilo a grateful sideways glance. Just then the older woman who received regular visits from the man from Switzerland approached them. “Excuse me, young lady.”
“Yes?” said Lilo with a friendly smile.
The woman looked at Lilo politely for a moment, then turned to Clara. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, and you have piqued my curiosity. If you were to cast your eye over my skin . . .” With an exaggerated gesture, she pointed to the countless fine lines that framed her eyes and furrowed her cheeks.
Clara nodded vaguely. “Your skin is mature, of course. A little dry, but otherwise it looks healthy to me. You should use a face cream every day, though. That will bring a new suppleness to it.”
“I would do just that, my dear, but until now I cannot claim to have had any good experiences with face creams.” Clara raised her eyebrows, prompting the woman to continue. Lilo and the guests were all listening.
“One smelled very peculiar, and another just would not spread very well. A third made my cheeks feel like they were on fire! But at my age, I think another attempt is perhaps worth it. So, to be perfectly honest, I would also like to try a wonder cream like that.”
“And I’d like another ten jars of it to take home with me!” said the first woman.
Clara was suddenly so dizzy that she looked around for something to support herself on. “But I don’t even know if I can find the time for it. Things are so busy in the pharmacy, all the cough medicines and pastilles and—” She stopped when she saw the elderly women’s disappointed expressions. “All right,” she said, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender, “I’ll prepare the creams after hours.”
“You look so cheerful,” said Elisabeth Kaiser to Clara when they were walking together through Meersburg the following Saturday. Over the previous weeks, Clara and the fisherwoman had started to become friends, and they sometimes went for coffee together, as they did today. Clara wanted to use her day off to buy Christmas presents for her children. She thought it might be best to send them to Josephine and to ask her to give the gifts to Matthias and Sophie. A pair of white stockings and a doll for Sophie, and for Matthias a book about airships. She would write a short letter to go with it and mention that she had already seen a number of zeppelins herself.
“I’m feeling fine,” said Clara, and her voice carried a trace of amazement. The first Christmas without her children—shouldn’t that make her feel wretched? But her good cheer came from knowing that everything she did was for her children. For a future together. Her gaze moved from the lively esplanade to the lake and back again. “I can hardly believe that it’s been just three months since I arrived. Before I came here, I was miserable, utterly miserable! I thought everything was over forever.”
Elisabeth nodded sympathetically. Like most people, she believed Clara to be a widow. True, Clara had never spoken about the death of her husband, but no could fault her for that.
Clara’s eyes shone as she went on. “I never would have dreamed that everything could turn for the good in such a short time. Three months ago, I had no work, and now I have so much that I can hardly keep up with it all. Half the day in the pharmacy, the work in the hotel, and I’m producing my creams on top of everything.” She shook her head as if she could hardly believe her luck. “Someone wants a cream for rough elbows, another for her cracked lips—my room is starting to look like a laboratory.” She laughed.
She had begun to make the creams on the table in her room. Mr. Weingarten had obtained the equipment she needed for her concoctions: various containers for melting and
mixing, a scale, a Bunsen burner, and jars for the finished product. He had offered her the use of his laboratory, but Clara had no intention of exploiting his kindness. Her creams, after all, were not ointments intended to heal, and they were not sold in the pharmacy, so she felt it was better to separate the two. Besides, Clara didn’t want the pharmacist to find out just how much she was now producing.
“I never expected anyone to come to me for advice,” said Clara. For years, all she had heard from Gerhard was how stupid she was. In the end, she believed it herself. And when she had gone looking for work, she had heard again and again that women were worthless when it came to working in a pharmacy. But now, suddenly, the things she said mattered.
“I’m not surprised at all that the women are lining up to see you,” the fisherwoman replied and held out her hands to Clara. “Look. All the painful cracks in my skin have healed! I put up with them for years, and then you came along and whipped up a cream for me, and suddenly my hands are normal again. I’d wager that if you had a stand at the market, your creams would be sold out in half an hour.” She hooked her arm in Clara’s amiably. “And now I’d like to invite you to a glass of sparkling wine. What is it they say? Celebrate when you can.”
“My friend Isabelle says that all the time,” said Clara with a laugh, and together they entered a small café.
An hour later, the two women went their separate ways. Elisabeth went to visit her parents and Clara to buy the presents for her children. Who would have thought that she’d ever drink sparkling wine in the middle of the day, Clara mused happily as she walked to the small store where she had seen the pretty stockings for Sophie. When she bought them, she treated herself to a yard of purple lace. She would sew it carefully to the collar of one of her older dresses. So far, she had spent hardly a cent of her two salaries, and while she could certainly afford a new dress, she could not so easily shake off the thrift that Gerhard had hammered into her for years.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 9