Signed: Clara Berg, Meersburg, 5 May 1910
Countersigned: Stäuble, attorney-at-law, Meersburg, 5 May 1910
Stefan stared in disbelief at his new contract. Never in his life had he felt as debased as he did in that moment.
“We have both made mistakes . . .” He heard Clara’s saccharine words in the back of his mind. Really? If they both had made mistakes, why was he the only one to pay for it?
For a moment, he was tempted to storm right into the laboratory and take the arrogant, miserly witch to task on the spot. But he composed himself. With the anger he felt just then, there was no telling what he would do.
And in her effort to demean him, she had even gone to a lawyer! He tore the contract into a thousand tiny pieces and let them fall on Clara’s desk like petals. She could not treat him like that!
In his fury, he ran from the building, then stopped and looked around. Where would he go? The Bar Coco? The yacht club? He walked aimlessly in the direction of the shore, and his thoughts were as aimless as his feet.
Clara, with her angelic face but more ruthless and arrogant than anyone he’d ever known. What did his wife think she was doing? An “allowance” of eighty marks! Wasn’t he even worth a salary anymore? It was an affront.
He kicked the gravel so hard that the stones flew in the air. A second later, close by, he heard a squeal of pain and saw that he had hit a woman sitting on one of the lakeshore benches with the gravel. It was Therese, of all people, sitting there with slumped shoulders.
“You’ve got a lot of energy this morning,” she said, rubbing her leg.
“Unlike you,” he growled back, not wanting to stop. Therese was the last thing he needed.
“So stop and sit for a while. Or we could go and have a glass of champagne somewhere. I could use a little diversion,” said Therese, holding on to his sleeve as he walked past. “Oh, come on. Your wife doesn’t have any time for me as it is.”
“Does it surprise you that Clara has no time for you?” He sniffed and looked at her with distaste. “In case you didn’t know it, for Clara you’re no more than a useless, wanton little trollop. My wife laughs about people like you. You’re unreliable, and you let yourself be kept like a common whore,” he said.
Therese looked at him, her eyes wide.
Stefan took a deep breath, then continued in a gleeful tone: “Worst of all, in Clara’s eyes, you are utterly incapable as a businesswoman. In short, you are nothing, a zero, a nobody. The world would not be a poorer place if you were not in it.”
He gave her a final disparaging grunt, then turned so abruptly that the gravel crunched beneath the sole of his shoe.
Therese continued to sit, feeling nothing, numb. “You are nothing, a zero, a nobody.” Stephan’s words droned in her head, pressed against her forehead, wanting to get out, away, to escape across the water.
As if guided by an unseen hand, Therese stood up. A nothing. A zero. A nobody. Slow as an old lady, she tottered down to the water.
She was a nothing. Clara laughed about her, looked down on her. And probably everybody else did, too.
The water was cold. It penetrated her thin leather shoes at the first step.
Stefan . . . he had sounded so full of hate. And how he had looked down at her. At her, the nothing.
The water was up to her thighs. Therese exhaled, and the air came out like a sigh. Her dress rose around her, floating atop the water like a carpet.
You are nothing, a zero, a nobody. The world would not be a poorer place if you were not in it.
The water had reached her throat. The little waves washed over her face, and she had to puff and blow to breathe. But she didn’t want to puff and blow—she wanted to go out farther. Out where the great emptiness was. The nothing, which she would receive with open arms.
She could not swim. She had never tried to learn. Why bother? The big party always took place on dry land. Clara could swim. So could Lilo. Just from that, you could see how clever they were. They knew how light one felt immersed in water. Like you were weightless. They knew how one’s cares grew smaller, became weaker . . . exactly like her . . .
“Let’s go and get some something to eat. I’m hungry,” said Clara to Laszlo, shortly before midday.
They had spent the entire morning talking about the new product line. A face cream, a facial toner, and a general skin cream—that would be enough to start. Laszlo had suggested using a lavender scent for the new line. It was not expensive, yet it was very popular with almost all women. Clara, who was very fond of lavender, had agreed. Clara chose a simple restaurant situated directly by the shore of Lake Constance. The proprietor was a fisherman, and his wife prepared his catch for diners. Fried in butter, spiced with herbs, potatoes and vegetables on the side—that was all the restaurant offered.
“I’ve always wanted to eat here,” said Clara, piercing a delicate piece of fish with her fork. The gentle sloshing of the water along the shore was the loveliest background music she could imagine. The fight with Stefan, their reconciliation—she had not slept a wink the previous night. But to her own amazement, she felt fresh and cheerful.
“Why haven’t you?” Laszlo asked.
“It just never happened,” she said with a shrug. Stefan would never have been satisfied with the plain tables, hungry enough for the simple food, or thirsty enough to drink out of the heavy glass beer steins. When it came to being picky, he was worse than her most spoiled customers.
The waitress came to their table with a steaming bowl. “More potatoes?”
They looked at each other, nodded, and laughed. Work had made them hungry!
“You’re the woman who sells all those lovely creams, aren’t you? You can see it,” the woman said. Suddenly, she reached out and stroked Clara’s cheek. “I wish my skin was as soft as yours. But I can’t afford what you sell.”
Clara and Laszlo shared a conspiratorial look.
“That will soon change,” said Clara, glancing at the woman’s hands. They were rubbed raw and so dry that the skin was practically clinging to her bones. Clara spontaneously reached into her bag. Because she suffered from dry hands herself, she always kept a hand cream with her. “If you don’t mind one that’s already been opened, I’d like to give you this one,” she said, and pressed the cream into the woman’s hand.
“Thank you, madam. Thank you so much!”
When the waitress left the table, Clara turned back to Laszlo and said, “See? Less expensive products really are needed.” And they went back to talking about the new line.
The early May sunshine felt comfortably warm against her back as she enjoyed the conversation and the food. Why can’t life always be this simple? Clara thought a little wistfully. Why were there so many disruptions that made her despair about herself and everything she did? Why couldn’t life just flow along easily and evenly? Was that kind of thinking naive?
“We should be getting back, shouldn’t we?” said Laszlo, and nodded in the direction of the manufactory. His eyes were shining as if he could hardly wait to get back to work.
Clara smiled. As insecure as she was about many things, there was one that she knew beyond doubt: she could not have found a better man for her business than Laszlo Kovac.
She was still caught in that thought when Laszlo abruptly leaped to his feet. He ran down to the lakeshore and held his right hand to his forehead, shading his eyes from the sun.
“That’s—”
Before Clara could grasp the situation, he had jumped into the water and was swimming out into the lake.
What . . . Clara’s heart began to pound. At first glance, she saw no more than a dark figure in the water. It went under, then came up again. Zuzanna’s little dog that she had once saved from drowning popped into her mind. Panic came over her as she realized that this time it was no animal out there in the water. She let out a loud scream, then ran to the woman who ran the restaurant and took her by the arm. “Go and find the lifeguards, quickly! There’s a woman drowning o
ut there!” As she spoke, she pulled off her cardigan, kicked off her shoes, and jumped into water.
They saved Therese at the last minute and hauled her to the shore. While Laszlo ran into the restaurant to find a blanket, Clara held her friend tightly.
“Therese, you get some crazy ideas sometimes,” Clara murmured, weak but relieved.
“I’m so sorry,” said Therese. Her entire body was trembling. “I could not see another way for me and the baby . . .”
Clara struggled with the bleakest conscience she had ever had. “I really don’t have time right now for another story about one of your men,” she heard herself say. “If we’re talking about catastrophes, I’m quite sure I can keep up.”
Since her return from Grasse, she had shooed her friend away like a bothersome fly. The business, Stefan, her new ideas—everything else had been more important to her. She had not had any idea how deeply hurt Therese had been. What a terrible friend she was.
“I was so selfish and mean to you. It’s unforgiveable,” she whispered in Therese’s ear as she choked back tears. “But from now on things will be different. I’ll be there for you whenever you need me. And we’ll take care of your child, too!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“My wife is not only a successful businesswoman; she has a soft spot for the weak and the poor of the world, as well,” said Stefan, leaning over the table toward the lawyer as if he were revealing a secret. “Clara Berg is too modest to talk about herself in such terms, so allow me to mention one example: just recently, my wife spontaneously offered her support and financial assistance to a friend of hers—a woman who is unmarried and expecting a child, and who, given her desperate straits, tried to take her own life. When the child is born, I know that Mrs. Berg, as the child’s godmother, will assume a role as benefactress for the child, as well.”
With an effort, Clara smiled at her husband. “I’m not sure the attorney wants to hear all that,” she said a little self-consciously.
“That stupid creature tried to kill herself? Why did you stop her?” Stefan had sneered at Clara, the evening after Therese’s rescue. Clara had been struck dumb by the malice in his voice.
The lawyer conscientiously scribbled notes as Stefan spoke, then looked up and said, “In a case such as yours, every little piece of information is vital, in particular anything as positive as this. After what you have told me about the father of your children, we must assume that he will do everything to show you in the worst possible light.” He looked grimly at Clara. “Mr. Gropius will probably engage one of my colleagues from Friedrichshafen or Konstanz. In the coming weeks and months, if it happens that affable strangers appear and start asking unusual questions, be on your guard. Don’t give away too much, weigh every word you say before you say it, because your statements may easily be twisted against you.”
“You talk about my former husband as if you already know him very well indeed,” Clara said, trying to lighten the conversation a little.
Stefan laughed, too. “Unfamiliar faces are the order of the day in vacation towns like Meersburg. If we were to meet every stranger with mistrust, my wife might as well shut up shop entirely next week. Isn’t that right, darling?”
Clara looked at him from the corner of her eye. Why was Stefan’s voice suddenly so shaky?
“I have nothing to hide,” she said with conviction. “Gerhard can set his spies on me whenever he likes.”
“If I were in your shoes, I would not treat the matter so lightly,” the lawyer warned. “You want to win visitation rights for your children, rights that have already been taken away by a court. You are contesting a legally valid judgment, and that will require a great deal of determination. The other side will leave no stone unturned in trying to discredit you. Wasn’t there a strike in your factory not long ago?”
Clara answered affirmatively, but added that the matter had been settled quickly and to the satisfaction of everyone involved.
The lawyer shook his head. “That’s not the point, Mrs. Berg. The mere fact that your employees refused to work gives your adversaries enough ammunition to paint you in an extremely unflattering light. For that reason alone, it would perhaps be advisable to wait with the application and to let the proverbial dust settle on the matter a little longer.” He looked from Clara to Stefan and back. “Please excuse my indiscretion, but is your marriage . . . sound?”
“Completely sound,” said Stefan, and patted Clara’s hand. “I will do everything I can to support my wife in her wish to see her children again.”
The lawyer nodded, obviously relieved. “Very good. Because a marriage scandal is about the last thing we would want to rear its head.” He withdrew a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and said, “Well, let’s begin to sketch out a strategy. The question of whether I send your application to Berlin now or in a few weeks is something we can settle later.”
“‘A marriage scandal is about the last thing we would want to rear its head . . .’”
The door to the lawyer’s office was barely closed when Stefan mocked the lawyer’s words. He placed one arm around Clara’s shoulders. “You and me and a scandal! There will never be anything like that for us, will there, my dear?” His voice practically dripped with derision.
Clara said nothing. She wanted his arm off her shoulders.
“I see we understand one another,” Stefan said and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Would you like me to accompany you back to the manufactory? I do have an appointment, but . . .” He shrugged, a sign of his willingness to compromise.
“Thank you, I’ll manage by myself,” said Clara tightly.
“I know that, my dear. By the way, I might be back a little later than usual today. I’m going for a drive with Estelle Morgan in her new Ford Model T. I like the car very much, maybe so much that I’ll buy it.” Stefan lifted his hat with exaggerated gallantry and walked away.
Clara’s heart was heavy as she watched him go.
A new car. Countless visits to the best tailor in Friedrichshafen. More champagne tabs than ever before from the Bar Coco—and she signed for all of it and held her tongue. Instead of helping himself in underhand ways to company money, he simply took it.
Everything has its price, she thought dejectedly. The artificial facade. The marriage that only continued to exist on paper. Silence. Life itself.
But she was prepared to pay anything to see her children again.
“You were right, dear Clara. Work really is the best medicine. Every day, I think of Benno a little less. And if my thoughts do turn to him, then I tell myself: what a bastard!”
Clara and Sophie laughed. “Exactly right,” Clara said as she stood alongside Therese and Sophie, helping to fold a huge pile of freshly laundered towels. When was the last time she had done something like that? she wondered. The towels smelled of lavender, like the Bel Étage itself. She looked around her shop in the Unterstadtstrasse with pleasure. Everything was so lovely, so harmonious. She would have loved to work with her customers every day! The fragrances, the creams, the treatments . . . coming up with the right beauty regime for every customer and feeling how the skin relaxed beneath her hands, then the whole woman, too. Suddenly, her work in the laboratory and office seemed staid and bleak.
“For now I can still work, but what do I do when the child is here?” Therese said, pointing to her hairdresser’s chair. “I can’t really set a permanent wave with one hand and give the child a bottle with the other. But if I don’t work, what am I supposed to live on? And the rent! My landlord looks at my belly every day, and I can see the question marks in his eyes! He and his wife are decent, church-going people, and then they have a single mother like me living in their house. What if he throws me out on the street? Where am I supposed to go? Into the poorhouse?” She sounded close to panic.
“As if I would stand around and watch you go to the poorhouse! I’m not going to leave you in the lurch a second time,” Clara said vehemently. “There’s a solution for everything. There al
ways is. You will only work as long as you are able. And for the weeks before and after the birth, we’ll think of something. Won’t we, Sophie?”
“I’ve already had one idea.” Sophie looked from Clara to Therese and back. “We could convert the hairdressing side into another treatment station for a few months. That way, half of the shop would not be empty, and we could help more customers.”
Clara loved it. “What a clever idea!” She grabbed hold of Therese’s hands excitedly. “I’d take over the rent for your half of the store, of course, and you’d get a percentage for every treatment, as well. And we would make sure your customers got special prices, too, to keep them happy until you come back.”
“And as soon as you’re able to start again, we’ll find a good nanny,” Sophie added. “I could ask my sister-in-law. She has two children of her own, and I’m sure she could add a third without too much trouble. Times have changed. There lots of mothers nowadays who also work. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Berg?”
Clara flinched inside at Sophie’s innocent remark. “That’s true,” she said. “And if your landlord really does evict you, then you can stay at Lilo’s hotel. I’ve already talked to her about that possibility, and she said that, at least through the winter, there will certainly be a room for you.” She swung a large pile of folded towels up onto their shelf.
Therese burst into tears. “You’re so kind to me,” she cried and threw her arms around Clara. “Oh, Clara, I admire you so much. Your shops. The manufactory. You can truly be proud of yourself.”
A hard knot suddenly formed in Clara’s throat. Wasn’t she the biggest fraud of all? Two failed marriages, two children she wasn’t allowed to see—how could she be proud of that? She was relieved when the doorbell rang. Clara freed herself from Therese’s embrace.
“Do my eyes deceive me? It’s Clara Berg! In the flesh,” cried Elena Viska, one of Clara’s first customers.
“How nice to see you again,” said Clara warmly. Elena Viska was a young Polish noblewoman, a member of Countess Zuzanna’s entourage. She had no husband, and she devoted herself to looking after her disabled younger sister. During every vacation that she spent at Lake Constance, she booked several treatments per week at the Bel Étage. Clara recalled with pleasure their past conversations.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 37