The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  Konstantin raised his glass to her through the window.

  Soon after his arrival in Paris, it became clear to him that he would never be successful as a painter. Though he had truly enjoyed playing with color and form, he resigned himself to finding his calling elsewhere.

  He would find a way into the right circles. Money would be no object for him, never again in his life. Paris had been a debacle, but he had learned from it. He’d lost all interest in silly girls. And getting involved with married women brought nothing but trouble. Widows, on the other hand . . .

  The woman in the silver dress had slowed her step, and it seemed to Konstantin that she was considering entering the café. Konstantin flashed her a smile. Widows . . .

  He would continue to be Konstantin Sokerov, aspiring painter, from Veliko Tarnovo, which had long been known for its icon painting. He would not mention Paris.

  The woman in the silver dress continued walking. A pity. Should he present himself as an icon painter? No, that was too specific. In his experience, most people were satisfied with a vaguer description.

  The champagne bottle was empty, and Konstantin turned it upside down in the ice bucket.

  Who would have any interest in his painting? People wanted to be entertained—that’s what it was all about. They wanted to feel flattered and liked. And when it came to that, Konstantin Sokerov was perhaps the greatest artist of them all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Do you know the maid of a painter who has a summer residence somewhere not far from here?” Flora lisped. She took a hairpin out of her mouth and pinned another strand of Sabine’s hair firmly at the back. “Franz Xaver Winterhalter, I think that was the name Mr. Sonnenschein mentioned.”

  As she did every second week, Sabine had this Sunday free, and she wanted to meet—in secret, naturally—Mr. Schierstiefel’s apprentice. Flora had offered to style her hair for her.

  “Of course I do. Greta. I see her often at the market. She travels with her famous employer all over Europe, just imagine! They’re only here in Baden-Baden in summer.” It was the answer Flora had expected—the maids from the private households all seemed to know each other very well. “Did Greta come in the shop? She used to buy bouquets here for the women that Mr. Winterhalter was always painting.”

  Flora nodded. “She was in yesterday. She was my first ‘real’ customer, so to speak. Her master wanted a pastoral bouquet for a certain picture he’s painting. I could hardly believe it, but Mr. Sonnenschein let me put it together all by myself. I used cornflowers and ears of wheat and red poppies, and it came out very pastoral looking, if I may say so. Mr. Sonnenschein himself had nothing but praise for my work.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful. So why do you look so down in the mouth?”

  “Oh, it’s silly . . .” Flora wrapped a strand of Sabine’s hair around her finger until it fell in a pretty curl over her cheek. “It’s about the language of flowers.” She pointed with her chin toward her bed, where the book that her mother had given her lay. “Of course, I explained to Greta what the individual flowers stood for. I think it’s fascinating. But when I was alone again with Mr. Sonnenschein, he really gave me a telling off. He said there’s nothing more likely to be misunderstood than the language of flowers. One person will say one thing about a flower, and the next will say something completely different. He said all you do is let yourself in for a lot of trouble.”

  “Well? Is that true?” Sabine asked as she probed gingerly at her newly styled hair.

  Flora pinned a flower into Sabine’s hair as a finishing touch. Then she gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. I used to think my little book was the only one of its kind, but the master says there are many just like it. Then he told me I shouldn’t say another word in the future about what flowers mean.”

  “It’s not so bad. You should be happy that your bouquet is going to be immortalized in an oil painting,” Sabine said, trying to sound consoling. “How do I look?”

  “Far too beautiful,” said Flora with a grin. “The boys out on the street will be whistling at you the whole way.”

  Sabine looked at her slyly. “Your Friedrich certainly knows how to behave better than that, doesn’t he? The way he dances around you, I’m sure he already sees you as the future Mrs. Sonnenschein.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense! Friedrich just wants to show me the town, that’s all. He probably feels obligated because he was the one who brought me here in the first place.” Flora looked dubiously at her cardigan. With its worn sleeves and the darned hole on the back, it no longer looked as pretty as it once had. On the other hand, it was good enough for a stroll.

  “And I suppose that’s why he’s always looking at you so rapturously, too? Because he’s obligated,” Sabine said, and grinned. “So tell me, has he tried to kiss you yet?”

  “Are you mad?” But at the look of disbelief on Sabine’s face, Flora had to laugh. “I mean, really. You’re starting to sound like Suse in her last letter. She thinks Friedrich is the reason I came to Baden-Baden in the first place.”

  “Well, his behavior is not normal, take it from me. Think about it: he has an important position at the Trinkhalle, and he still finds time to help you in the garden and ruin his best trousers in the process. Which I then have to patch up. In all the time I’ve been here, he’s never lifted a finger to help me, and do you think he’s ever offered to take me traipsing around town? I’m telling you, if he’s not in love with you, I’ll eat a broom.”

  “Compared to the fantasies blooming in your mind, the garden in the backyard is a desert. Friedrich is a first-class friend, that’s all,” Flora said. But Sabine looked no less skeptical. Flora braced herself for another remark, but her friend simply sighed.

  “You’re right. What do I know about men? I don’t even know if Moritz really loves me. He says he does, all the time, but . . .” Sabine gave a little shrug and suddenly looked downright lost.

  Flora put her arm around her friend’s shoulders. She could not stay mad at Sabine for long. “Let’s ask the flower oracle!” Without waiting for an answer, Flora plucked a daisy from the little vase on the windowsill.

  “He loves you, he loves you not, he loves you, he . . .”

  Sabine watched, spellbound, as Flora tugged off one petal after another. The oracle, Flora noted with a practiced eye when there were still a few petals left, was not going to end well.

  “He loves you, he loves you not, he . . .” And again, as she had for Suse, she covertly tugged off two petals at once. Now it would work. “He loves you!” Flora looked triumphantly at Sabine. “Rest assured, the flower oracle never lies!”

  Sabine sighed with relief.

  “If your guide may be so bold . . .” Just after they had turned the first corner, and with a small bow, Friedrich crooked his arm for Flora. And when she took his arm and held it lightly in her hand, he felt her trembling gently.

  “My esteemed guide, may I perhaps be permitted one request? I would dearly love to pay a visit to the pferdebad. I have walked past that very building several times already and still don’t have the slightest idea what a ‘horse bath’ is all about.” Flora’s cheeks were red with anticipation.

  “I must say, of all the places I could show you, I would not have thought of the pferdebad at all.” Friedrich smiled to himself. That was typical of Flora—other women would have asked about a hat shop, but Flora Kerner was more interested in wet horses.

  He sneaked a glance across at her, saw her hair shining in the sunlight, and noted how prettily her brown skirt swayed with every step. For him, Flora was far more beautiful than all the women who were preoccupied with showing off the latest Paris fashions at the Trinkhalle.

  As luck would have it, the pferdebad was open, and just as they entered, a brown stallion was being led to the pool inside. Flora watched in astonishment as it stepped into the water-filled stone basin; then she crouched and dipped her fingers in the water. “It’s hot!” she exclaimed, and the stallion whinnied as if i
n agreement.

  Friedrich smiled and handed her his handkerchief.

  “The temperatures of our hot springs are all between one hundred thirty-three and one hundred forty-five degrees, and they benefit not only our rich guests’ beautiful horses, but of course the guests themselves,” he explained as they left the pferdebad. “Most of the hotels here have a bathhouse where the guests can enjoy a bath in marble pools. And then we have the steam bath beside the market square. Many years ago, hunters and gatherers used the region’s hot water, and the salt, too, of course. Later, the Romans came. They say that the young emperor Caracalla was the first guest of honor in our city. That was in the year 197. At least, that is the year chiseled into a kind of stone commemorative plaque.”

  “Baden-Baden has existed so long? Incredible.”

  Friedrich nodded. “It was from Caracalla that our city earned its second name of Aquae Aureliae, which one could loosely translate as ‘Emperor’s bath.’”

  Flora sighed. “A real bath in gloriously hot water. Or a sweat bath! I’d like to try both, I think. Are ladies also allowed to use the baths, or are they only for gentlemen?” Flora looked wistfully toward the steam bath at the market.

  “The fairer sex are allowed to enter the baths as well, of course. But first we’ll go to the Trinkhalle,” Friedrich replied, though he had noted the direction of her gaze.

  As he and Flora made their way toward one of the bridges over the Oos, he continued with his history of the town. “Just a few years ago, they carried out excavations beneath the market square and actually discovered the remains of Roman baths. For archaeologists and people like me who would like to be an archaeologist, it was an exciting find.” He paused for a moment, and was about to tell Flora about the hypocaust heating system they had uncovered, about the sweat rooms and changing rooms, but Flora stopped at the end of the bridge, a stone’s throw from the Conversationshaus. “Could we see that, too?” Flora asked, looking up at the stately building. “Or do they only let rich people in?” She glanced in the direction of three elegantly dressed gentlemen approaching the entrance just then.

  Friedrich’s countenance clouded over—Russians, probably on their way to squander money that was comparable to several years’ wages earned by their average countryman.

  He cleared his throat. “Why don’t we save that for a bad-weather day? I would very much like to show you the Trinkhalle. I’m sure you’ll like it.” He patted Flora’s hand lightly and drew her onward. “The leaseholder of the casino also pays for the splendid grounds around the Kurhaus . . .” Friedrich’s gesture took in the crunching gravel paths, the whitewashed benches, the copious flower gardens, and the small ornamentally trimmed trees. “As the custodian of the Trinkhalle, I am his employee. Having the Trinkhalle and Kurhaus so close together is, of course, ideal for our visitors. They come to us first for a glass of water, and then they head for one of the roulette tables at the casino in the Conversationshaus. Or vice versa: first they lose a lot of money, and then they’re happy that they don’t have to pay for our therapeutic water.” He stopped in front of the long, substantial building. “And here we are!”

  “When you’re standing right in front of it, it looks much bigger than from a distance,” Flora murmured. “And you’re really the manager of all this?”

  Friedrich laughed. “Manager—that sounds so grand. When it comes down to it, I’m the ‘man Friday’ around here. Keeping things clean and in good shape are as much a part of my job as filling water bottles for visitors who want to enjoy our water at home.”

  They climbed the few steps leading up to the colonnade, and at the top Flora let out a little cry of delight. “How lovely!”

  Friedrich smiled, watching Flora turn in a circle, her head tilted back, entranced by the architectonic play of form, light, and color that made the Trinkhalle what it was.

  Suddenly, it was as if he were seeing the building again for the first time. The elegant columns that lined the arcade along the front gave it a feeling of boundlessness. In that moment, every thought of how difficult the pale stone was to clean was forgotten. All Friedrich saw was the lively contrast between the columns and the colorful walls, the facade worked in brick and terra-cotta and marble. He did not think about how much work it was to keep the rough surfaces free from dust and spiderwebs, but saw instead how everything merged into a stream of colors in the sunlight.

  “It’s magical . . . ,” Flora said, her eyes wandering across the fourteen frescoes that decorated the arcade.

  “Each one of these scenes—horse and rider, castles and ruins, landscapes and mythical figures—illustrates a legend from this region. This one here is Merline, the nymph of the pond.” He pointed up to the image of a young woman.

  She was naked, and under her left arm she held a harp while a deer nuzzled against her at her right side. The nymph looked to be sitting on the bank of a pond, and in the background, among the bushes, were a handsome youth and a white-bearded old man, the latter appearing to be holding the younger man back.

  “The look on her face!” Flora exclaimed. “It’s as if she wants to tempt the young man to jump into the water with her!” Flora reflexively stepped back from the painting.

  “That is exactly what the picture is supposed to convey,” said Friedrich. “Here I am, trying to show you something new, but you already know the legend of ‘The Nymph of the Pond.’” He had been looking forward so much to regaling her with that particular tale, which was always a highlight for the Trinkhalle’s female visitors. Now he found himself slightly disappointed.

  “I don’t know the story at all, and I love listening to stories. We have many of our own back home in the Swabian Mountains. The tales my grandmother used to tell me—I could have listened to her forever. I was only describing what the painting made me imagine. Perhaps my guide could tell me a little about this nymph?” Flora bobbed in a polite little curtsy and smiled.

  Friedrich did not need to be asked twice. “She told the young goatherd who came to visit her at the shore of the pond that her name was Merline, but also that no one was ever allowed to call for her by name. It was a warning often forgotten, however, and young men were willing to throw away their shepherding lives to catch another glimpse of the beautiful nymph. There were many times that a young man was heard crying out the name Merline. But instead of the nymph, a blood-red rose appeared on the surface of the water. The young goatherd reached for it, but as he grasped it, he was pulled into the depths of the pond and was never seen again. Which is how we humans are sometimes, always wanting what we cannot have.”

  Flora looked up at the fresco with fascination.

  “What about the poor goats?” she abruptly asked. “How could they get along without the goatherd to look after them?”

  “The goats?” Friedrich, hot from the bright sun, wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Actually, no one has ever asked me about the goats before. I honestly don’t know.”

  Flora waved it off. “It doesn’t matter. Merline wouldn’t get anywhere with us, would she? You’re happy and content here in your beautiful Trinkhalle, and I have the flower shop . . .”

  Chapter Seventeen

  How the girls strolled along in their Sunday best! How their hands—hands that spent the week dusting, scrubbing floors, doing laundry—gripped the cheap parasols that, beneath the lush, green canopy of leaves, were not even necessary. How their eyes, otherwise clouded with dust from the coal ovens and cleansing powder, gleamed with Sunday.

  His fingers laced at the back of his neck, his legs stretched in front of him, Konstantin gazed down the small boulevard, while the conversation at the long table where he and Irina sat bubbled along quietly.

  Soon, soon he would shine again, would pay unaccustomed compliments and be merry.

  How the pedestrians looked toward them, with envy in their eyes! There—you could practically see it inscribed on that one young fellow’s face, try as he might to conceal it. How he strutted along in probably the only sui
t he possessed.

  The woman beside him was pretty. The fellow would have done well to whisper a few sweet words in her ear instead of letting his envy of others get the better of him.

  But no. And now the fool was off and running, chasing a child whose governess was too lazy to keep her eye on her young charge. Oh dear, now he was confronted by an angry swan and doing his best to save the child, and in the process ruining his only suit. Well, if he wanted to play the hero . . . and yet, the young woman was looking at him now with newfound admiration.

  Konstantin turned away. Oh, he had not forgotten that he himself, just a few days earlier, had also possessed only one decent set of clothes. But thank heavens, and thanks to his own talents, that had changed.

  As he had so often lately, he burst into ringing laughter. His lightheartedness was infectious, and some of the others at the table began to laugh with him, without knowing why. But the reason was obvious: there he was, Konstantin Sokerov, Bulgarian art student, rubbing elbows with the crème de la crème of Russian spa society beneath the arbre russe, “the Russian tree,” in Baden-Baden, a small town in the German Empire. He could as easily have sought out new friends from Persia or South America here—wasn’t the world just one big, crazy party? At least, when you were among the wealthy.

  Oh, Mother, if you could see me now!

  Getting to know Irina had not been difficult. Princess Irina Komatschova, to be more precise. And all the others. An evening or two in the casino, a couple of generous gestures in the Hotel Badischer Hof—taking care, of course, that those gestures did not overstretch his resources—and strolling up and down Lichtenthaler Allee a few times, looking vaguely lost. And then the first conversations. Yes, he was new in the town, but for a painter, Baden-Baden was practically a paradise, n’est-ce pas?