A short, fat man, his balding head with an oily sheen, approached.
“May I introduce Monsieur Epis!” Monsieur Bellimard prompted the fat man to shake hands with Clara. His hand was sweaty and cold, and it took a lot for Clara not to immediately wipe her hand on her skirt.
“For a small fee, I would be prepared to let Monsieur Epis go. He is one of our best parfumiers!” Monsieur Epis, sweating from every pore, looked at his employer with a confused expression. It was clear that he was hearing such praise for the first time.
Clara swallowed. “That’s very nice of you. But—”
“Thank you, we’ll keep your offer in mind,” Isabelle interrupted her. A moment later, they made their escape.
“My God, that man stank of sweat,” said Isabelle once they were back outside. “I feel ill.”
“I don’t understand how a man who sweats so much can have anything to do with perfume at all.” Clara took a last fretful look back at the rundown workshop. “If Monsieur Epis was the last parfumier on God’s earth, I would live without him in my company.”
“I think that Monsieur Bellimard saw his chance to get rid of an unpleasant or untalented employee. Like an old workhorse that eats more hay than it’s worth.”
The two friends giggled hysterically. “But what now?” Clara asked. They had been out looking all morning. Clara never would have believed that it would be so hard to find the person she was looking for.
“My feet hurt, I’m hungry, and I’m thirsty,” said Isabelle. “Look, that sign points the way to the Jardin des Plantes, where there is certain to be a small café. And I’m sure we’ll have a good view of the sea. We need to rest and work out a new plan.”
Neither noticed the man who followed them.
Clara and Isabelle each ordered a cup of tea and a slice of la fougasette, an orange-flavored yeast cake, when a young man appeared beside their table.
“Mesdames,” he said slowly.
“We have everything, thank you,” said Isabelle, without looking up.
“This cake of yours is just delicious,” Clara added, being polite, then turned back to Isabelle. “I really don’t know where to look next.”
Isabelle snorted. “Those parfumiers were all so arrogant and rude. The man at Escarbot was the worst!”
Clara nodded. “Monsieur Gayet, yes. He was laughing at us from the moment we walked in.”
It took a moment for them to realize that the young man was still standing beside their table.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, Clara looked up. She guessed he was in his late twenties, not particularly striking, with brown hair, a pale but even complexion, brown, animated eyes, and full lips.
“Yes?”
“I . . . well . . .” The young man scratched his head in embarrassment. “My name is Laszlo Kovac. Please excuse me for approaching you like this, but I work in the Escarbot Parfumerie, and I overheard your conversation with my boss. Not that I was eavesdropping, mind you!” His French was broken, and Clara thought she could hear a slight German accent. Strange. She exchanged a look with Isabelle. “You are looking for a parfumier, aren’t you?” Laszlo Kovac crushed his hat unconsciously in his hands as he spoke.
“Yes. Do you know someone who would be willing to take on a new job?” asked Clara, her mouth suddenly dry with excitement.
The man gave an embarrassed shrug. “He’s standing in front of you.”
Laszlo Kovac came from Bohemia, or more precisely from its capital, Prague. His father, a German émigré, was an engineer with the railways, and his mother, Helena Kovac, sang at the Státní opera, Prague’s opera house, where she was famous for her interpretations of Wagner. It was through her, the feted opera singer, that young Laszlo, from his earliest childhood, had contact with the world of the rich and beautiful. As a baby, he played in his mother’s dressing room with his silver rattle, and later with his tin soldiers, while Helena Kovac warmed up her voice for the next act of Der Ring des Nibelungen. And it was through his mother that he grew to love—and understand—the best perfumes in the world.
“There wasn’t a day that went by when my mother didn’t wear perfume,” Laszlo said. Isabelle and Clara had invited him to sit with them. “Mother would wear a mixture of ambergris, musk, and resin one day and a lemon perfume the next. The day after that, she’d be surrounded by the fragrance of damask roses. I don’t know why, but even when I was a child, I could pick out the individual aromas, even though I didn’t know all their names.” Laszlo smiled. “For me, perfume is synonymous with love and warmth and beauty. As a little boy, Mother was, for me, a beautiful princess.”
Clara’s expression grew soft and wistful. Would her own son ever talk about her in such a loving way? She doubted it.
Then Laszlo grew earnest. His eyes took on a new intensity as he said to Clara, “Naturally, my father wanted me to follow in his footsteps as an engineer. But from the start, my greatest wish was to work in the world of fragrances. Or even better, to create my own.”
“Then you’ve made your wish come true. Grasse is paradise for people who love perfume,” said Isabelle, sweeping her arm to indicate the town that lay at their feet, bathed in golden spring sunshine.
Laszlo’s expression changed. “A man can live in paradise and still feel like he’s landed in hell.” He looked thoughtfully at Clara, as if weighing how much of what lay deep inside him he should reveal. “Monsieur Gayet is a thief,” he said softly. “He takes my creations to Monsieur Escarbot and tells him they are his own. Do you know Zahara?” He looked from Clara to Isabelle.
Clara shook her head, but her friend said, “You can buy that in Reims. It’s very popular right now with society women.”
“Zahara is my fragrance. So are Fleur de Nuit and Grande Finale. I developed those three in the last year. I even suggested names for them to him, all to do with my home city, Prague. Loreto, Hradčany, and Vltava! The perfumes were meant to be an homage to my mother . . .” He laughed bitterly. “Gayet dismissed them all. ‘Your creations are far too flat and empty! And those ridiculous names. You might be able to sell something like that in a Czech brothel, but not to the women of the world!’ It was an insult. Then he ordered me to create new fragrances, but he kept my formulas for himself. ‘You’re wasting valuable raw materials and my time,’ he said, and threatened to throw me out.” Laszlo swallowed, close to tears.
Clara’s frown deepened as she followed his story. Eyes down, she exchanged a glance with Isabelle. Her friend was just as enthralled as she was.
“Then Escarbot brought out a perfume that was my Loreto, down to the minutest detail. Gayet had not even taken the trouble to change a single note!” Laszlo laughed resentfully. “Try to imagine my disbelief the first time I smelled it. I took him to task, of course, but the great master just laughed at me, as he laughed at you today.”
Isabelle shook her head in confusion. “Why didn’t he simply admit that the perfumes came from you? You must be well paid for your work as a parfumier. Gayet and Escarbot could expect that you would develop good perfumes for them.”
“Vanity,” said Laszlo plainly. “No god will tolerate another god beside him.” He sighed. “A word of thanks or praise would have been enough for me. But Gayet treated me and my colleagues like the last scum on earth, while he was celebrated publicly as the king of perfume.”
“But that’s just cruel,” Clara burst out in German. “Why don’t you defend yourself?”
“What can I do, madam?” said Laszlo, also in German. “It would be his word against mine. You can guess for yourself which of us would have the short straw.”
Clara nodded. She knew that kind of situation all too well. “And now you’re contemplating a new job?”
Laszlo nodded. “I want to finally prove to the world what I’m capable of.”
Clara was going to ask another question, but she felt Isabelle’s hand on her left arm: a warning. “What you’ve told us is all well and good. A genius whose ideas have been maliciously stol
en,” Isabelle said. “But how can we be sure you’re telling the truth?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The atmosphere in the back room of the Rouge & Blanc restaurant hummed with tension, excitement, fear, and joy, overlaid by a murmur of voices, pealing laughter, and the tinkling of glasses. Gambling chips slid across the green cloth at the roulette table, and women’s diamond jewelry sparkled beneath the chandeliers.
Gianfranco de Lucca grinned to himself as the croupier pushed an impressive stack of chips across the felt. Winner! And not for the first time that evening. Feeling generous, he pushed some of the chips back to the croupier. “For you and your colleagues.”
A business trip to Baden-Baden really had something to be said for it. In the last two days, his order book had practically filled up by itself. The local men’s tailors couldn’t get enough of his fine fabrics, and each one he visited ordered more than the one before. He had just sent a telegram back to Naples telling his only son to hire more people for their weaving mill. Silk-and-linen blends, wool-and-cashmere blends—his products were the highest quality available, and for that he needed the best weavers in the industry! Besides—
He was pulled out of his thoughts by the low, firm voice of the croupier: “Faites vos jeux, mesdames et messieurs!”
And why not? He’d place one more bet. One more spin, then he would head back to his hotel. The day had been long and successful, and it was best to finish at the top.
Content with himself and the world, Gianfranco slid a high-value chip onto red 32. His wife, Rosa, would turn that age next month, and he mustn’t forget to buy her a birthday present on his trip home.
He held his breath and watched the silver ball. It landed in black 15, the pocket beside red 32. Gianfranco laughed.
“Damn it! Lost again,” he heard from the opposite side of the table, not for the first time that evening. “Come on, a new spin! Can’t this go any faster?” The man flailed one hand arrogantly toward the croupier, who was still distributing the winnings from the spin.
The croupier raised his eyebrows in disapproval. It was rare to meet impolite players in the discreet, secret gaming rooms, where the upper class met to play a genteel hand of cards or try their luck at roulette. It was an honor to be admitted—uncouth behavior could quickly lead to that honor being rescinded.
Gianfranco frowned when he saw how much money the man opposite placed on the table, another big bet. Did he really want to lose so much again? The guy had had a run of miserable luck for the last two hours, but he kept at it. Stupido! Gianfranco would never be so irresponsible, throwing away his money like that, even if he had sacks of it to spare!
But something about the man . . . he seemed familiar. But from where? the fabric merchant wondered. He’d been mulling it over the entire evening. One more spin, this time definitely his last . . . and a glass of red wine, he decided, then he really would leave. Would Alfonso be in the hotel bar? Or had the Genoan already retired for the night?
Alfonso was not only his traveling companion on many a business trip, but also his best friend. Unfortunately, he had been battling a cold and had no interest in gambling.
Pity. Alfonso had missed a nice evening, Gianfranco thought, and he placed three chips on red. No more experiments. Just for fun.
Where had he seen the man sitting opposite before? Here in Baden-Baden? It looked as if the man, a good-looking fellow with blond hair and a Kaiser Wilhelm mustache, was a regular guest. The waiter knew immediately that he drank only one kind of champagne: a Pommery millésime.
“Rien ne va plus!” Red. The blond man lost again. He muttered something that Gianfranco did not catch.
“Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose,” said Gianfranco as he stood. He was halfway across the large, red-walled room when he pulled up short. A suspicion had crossed his mind, an inkling, perhaps, of where he had seen the man before.
But that was . . . Could it be? No. It was too absurd, wasn’t it?
Gianfranco returned to the roulette table and edged in beside the unlucky man.
“Excuse me, my good man, but you look familiar to me. My name is Gianfranco de Lucca. Could it be that we have met before?” he asked with undisguised curiosity.
The blond man looked up sourly. “Not that I recall.”
But Gianfranco was now certain. “But of course! I remember it clearly. It was in a small guesthouse in the Alps, in Piedmont. My friend Alfonso was there, too. And you, you were traveling with your brother. Wait . . .” He snapped his fingers. “I’ll have your name in a moment. Santini? No, that was someone else. Totosano! The Totosano brothers, that was you and your brother. And you come from Elva, if I remember right. You’re a hair trader, aren’t you?” Ha! His memory had not let him down. Gianfranco let out a small relieved laugh while the other gamblers glanced with interest at him and Signor Totosano. Even the croupier, brushing the felt, paused to follow their exchange.
“You’re mistaken, sir,” the gambler replied curtly. “My name is Stefan Berg. I’ve never been to Italy in my life. Now please excuse me, I’m in the middle of a game.” He picked up his last small pile of chips and placed his bet.
“But . . .” Confused, Gianfranco looked at the man again. Stefan Berg? He normally did not forget faces and names. Especially when the man with that face practiced a profession as extraordinary as that practiced by the Totosano brothers. He’d cut the hair from young women, then sold it on to wigmakers. Gianfranco could still clearly remember the others at the table having a good laugh at the expense of the brothers.
The croupier looked at him inquisitively. Gianfranco raised his hands. No, no more for me. He walked away, pensive. Strange. He could not be mistaken . . .
That night was the longest of Stefan’s life. He did not close his eyes at all. In his mind, he saw the roulette wheel spinning and spinning, heard the clattering ball rolling over the frets and pockets. He’d lost three hundred marks. More than he’d ever lost before, and no trifling amount. But still insignificant, utterly insignificant, compared to the second phantom haunting him, robbing him of sleep, putting the fear back into his body.
“Could it be that we have met before?” Stefan’s heart had nearly stopped on the spot. Fear, his old companion, had latched onto him in that moment.
He had learned all about fear as a child, back then, when he heard his father outside the room. The fear had always crept into little Roberto’s head on those nights, too. Was it one of those nights when their father would come into the room and beat them? Would he attack Michele? Or would it be his own hide turning bloody and bruised beneath Giacomo Totosano’s fists?
The fear had always crept in quietly, and even when he was an adult, it had never left him. Only when he married Clara did he finally feel as if he had left it behind, he hoped forever. But he’d learned a lesson tonight. The fear was back. Stefan had recognized it instantly. And he knew it wouldn’t be satisfied to make his heart beat faster. It wanted more: it wanted space, wanted to steal away his breath, to suffocate him . . .
He jumped out of bed, prowling the room like a tiger. He could not shake off the fear. His chest grew tighter and tighter, his breathing more labored. He threw open the window, stared out into the blackness of Lichtentaler Allee at night, and sucked in the air deeply to try to expand his lungs.
“Could it be that we have we met before?”
Stefan laughed bitterly. He had immediately recognized the man across the roulette table from the guesthouse in the Piedmont. He was the fabric merchant, and he had been with friends the night that Roberto and Michele had stopped there. The two mountain climbers had been at the guesthouse, too. “Because I can.”
Looking back, that encounter had been fateful for him, Stefan thought, lying on his bed again. The businessmen throwing money around, the young mountaineer’s arrogance . . . It was then that he had begun to believe that dreams didn’t always have to remain dreams. One could bring a dream to life. And that was exactly what he had done.
; “I’ve never been to Italy in my life.” Had he convinced the fabric merchant? Outside, the sky was finally starting to lighten. Bone tired, Stefan heaved himself out of bed again. He went into the bathroom and glared at his reflection in the mirror. What if the famiglia found out about his life here? Through the grapevine? Then . . . He did not want to imagine the then.
Don’t drive yourself insane, he tried to calm himself. Be happy that you didn’t meet that man in Meersburg. Then things might have gotten tricky. But like this, the Italian, who no doubt had to travel on quickly, could draw no more conclusions.
Baden-Baden was not good for him. It was high time to turn his back on the town. He would pay one more visit to the Bel Étage, just to check that everything was in order, and then he would leave immediately. The idea of departure brought a little confidence with it. He was Stefan Berg. No one else.
The moment Stefan walked through the door to the shop, he smelled fresh-brewed coffee and something else, something sweet and warm. He looked around the empty shop and frowned, then heard laughter coming from the back room. What in the world?
Just then, Senta Schmauder came out from the back. After Clara’s first assistant, Sophie, returned to Meersburg a month earlier, Senta had taken over the day-to-day running of the Baden-Baden shop.
“Mr. Berg! How nice to see you again.” She reached out from behind the counter to shake hands with him. “Welcome to the Bel Étage–Baden-Baden. Luise turns twenty today, so we’re using our break to give her a little party, with coffee and fresh hefezopf. May we invite you to join us?”
Hefezopf! That’s what he had smelled when he entered. It was like walking into a bakery. The shop should smell of lavender and lemons. Stefan shook his head. He looked around at the shelves that occupied the entire right-hand wall. The jars of cream and other products for sale stood in orderly rows. No cause for complaint there, he realized, with a touch of disappointment. He turned back to Senta Schmauder.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 32