Irina, the widow of Nikolajev Komatschov, was experienced and clever enough to realize very quickly that Konstantin’s yearning to be part of the good life was very great, but his purse very small. Not that that would necessarily always be the case for an aspiring artist. Everyone knew the prices that true works of art brought in, and that the prices rose constantly.
“Let’s call it an investment in the future. When you are rich and famous, you can pay back every pfennig of my . . . advances,” she had said in an encouraging tone when she invited Konstantin to move into her rooms in the Hotel Stéphanie les Bains. That he would become her lover had been acknowledged between them for some time, if not stated outright.
And Konstantin was content with that.
Irina, who could chat away like a farm girl, was ten times more preferable to him than Matriona Schikanova, who lived separated from her husband. Matriona was certainly a few years younger than Irina, but her moods changed faster than the weather on an April day, and Konstantin found her rather a strain.
Irina, with her endless strings of pearls and her penchant for thrift—which, considering her immense wealth, was nothing more than petty—was also preferable to Princess Nadeshda Stropolski, who was known simply as Püppi and who was immediately the bosom friend of everyone she met. At their very first encounter, she had confided in Konstantin the most intimate details of her various illnesses. Strangely, Püppi was very popular, and even her miserable little dog was tolerated, licking plates clean and leaving its filthy paw prints everywhere it went.
Although Püppi traveled with an entourage of more than ten—including two lady’s maids, two drivers, and a groom for her horses—an air of loneliness constantly surrounded her. She had been a widow, immensely rich and exceptionally generous, for most of her life. Did that contribute to her popularity? Or was she so loved by all because she could party night after night away? She had to sleep, of course, but that’s what the days were for—when the sky brightened, she went to bed.
“She has been this way for years,” Irina had explained. “Ever since the day a soothsayer prophesied that death would take her at night, in her sleep, Püppi has turned the night into day.”
From the corner of his eye, Konstantin glanced down at the widow, dressed in green silk. Somehow, the lonely old woman touched his heart.
If only she did not dress so youthfully! The intensely green dress with the deep-cut neckline might have been something Matriona could wear, with her considerable and flawless décolletage, but it did Püppi’s wrinkled neck and drooping breasts no favors.
Konstantin squeezed Irina’s arm fondly. Yes, he had chosen well.
He turned his attention to the men: Count Popo, who always laughed loudest at his own jokes; Piotr Vjazemskij, the gambler, whose only love in life was the casino, and who was nobody’s partner, but stayed conspicuously close to Püppi; and then honorable Count Nikajew, Sergej Lubelev, and all the others.
Konstantin had quickly seen through all of them. It was always the same circle, and they always talked about the same topics. And if an outsider to their circle joined them, their pleasure was great, something that Konstantin himself had experienced. They had willingly taken him in, soaking up his youth and beauty, listening to his stories about Bulgarian cities and towns. And his wistful sighs whenever the talk turned to art.
Konstantin was well aware of the danger of being chewed up by this circle of friends and spat out again. But he would not let things go that far.
“Irina,” he whispered, his voice raw and throaty. The legs of his chair crunched in the gravel as he pulled it in closer to the table.
The princess turned around to him, her cheeks reddened by the wine and the delicate tidbits melting away on large platters in the sun. So soon after lunch, nobody really had any appetite. But Count Popo had ordered for everyone, and so they occasionally reached apathetically for a morsel.
“I don’t have the words to tell you how beautiful you are . . .” His words trailed away almost bashfully as he stroked Irina’s cheek, the touch as light as a breath of wind. In his peripheral vision, he saw that two or three of the other women at the table were observing them in that moment. Püppi, especially, was watching them openly, while the little dog on her lap stood on its hind legs and clawed at her chest for attention.
Irina’s laughter rang across the table like a small bell. She, too, was aware that the others were watching them, and she seemed to enjoy it at least as much as Konstantin. She pinched his cheek as one might with a young child.
“Kostia, why so shy?”
“It is your eyes.” The words seemed to force their way out of him, louder this time so that the others could also hear him. “Once, years ago, Mama, Papa, and we children were traveling. We came to the Dunaj, the river they call the Donau or Danube here. There had been a thunderstorm the night before, but in the morning the weather was beautiful again, the air perfectly clear.” He looked into Irina’s eyes. “I will never forget that sight . . .”
Irina frowned. “Go on.”
Konstantin now had the attention of almost everyone at the table. Even Count Popo was looking in his direction. Only Piotr Vjazemskij, at the other end of the table, seemed to have no interest in Konstantin’s story. He had taken a pack of cards out of his pocket and was shuffling them so quickly that the eye could barely follow his movements. Konstantin had to suppress a smile. Piotr—mentally, at least—had probably already been at the casino for hours.
“The Dunaj seemed to me to be a rainbow of colors, emotions, and textures. It was passionate and wild one moment, then smooth and calm, as harmless as a dove.”
Irina’s eyes clung to his lips like a wasp to a marmalade jar, and Püppi’s sighs were music to his ear.
“Your eyes remind me of that day. When I look into your eyes, I see my homeland.”
“Home. Perhaps the greatest yearning of them all.” Even Count Popo’s voice was emotional.
“Oh, Kostia.” Irina beamed. “Isn’t he sweet?” she asked no one in particular.
“Only an artist pays compliments like that. Just wait, he’ll be wanting to paint you next, Irinotschka,” said Matriona, and she stuffed a piece of duck foie gras into her mouth.
“There’s nothing I’d rather do.” Konstantin raised his hands regretfully. “But without an atelier . . .”
“Irina, darling, didn’t you want to take a look at that house today, the one that was for sale? They say it’s a real gem.” Püppi gestured vaguely up the hill with her chin.
“And isn’t a house like a piece of home in a foreign land?” Konstantin asked before Irina could reply. “Perhaps there would be a small room in which I could paint. Besides, I could make myself at least a little bit useful. Looking after the garden, or . . .” He left his sentence unfinished.
“Kostia is worried that he’s living off me. Isn’t he sweet?” Irina said to Püppi.
“But, Irina, painting is the only way I can earn a living. I—”
Püppi’s long, thin fingers, which reminded Konstantin of a bird’s claw, reached toward him.
“Konstantin Sokerov! Irina can certainly afford a little Don Juan like you, so don’t go worrying your pretty head about it.”
Konstantin smiled at her. Her and all the others.
“I have an idea,” he said in an enthusiastic voice. “Why don’t we all go and look at the house together? We’ll take a case of chilled champagne and act as if we live there and have something to celebrate. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful bit of fun?”
Chapter Eighteen
With a great deal of pomp and ceremony, Friedrich served Flora a glass of water.
“Drink it a sip at a time, please,” he said, watching her expectantly. “A drinking regime needs a certain degree of leisure.”
Flora sipped courageously at the water in the glass—and it tasted disgusting! Hot and oily and salty. Sabine had really been right.
The other visitors to the Trinkhalle—primarily pale-looking women of adv
anced age—seemed to find the water quite palatable. Some, she noticed, were going back for a fresh glass.
I suspect the “leisure” part is not for me, Flora was about to say when, behind her, she heard a loud woman’s voice.
“Mr. Sunshine! How nice to see you!” A tall woman with broad shoulders came striding toward them in an unladylike fashion. She wore a rather austere-looking blouse over a black skirt, and her unadorned gray hair swung in a single braid over her shoulder.
“Lady Lucretia—the pleasure is all mine.” A smile lit up Friedrich’s face as he took the woman’s proffered hand and shook it vigorously. “You arrived yesterday, didn’t you? I read your name in the Badeblatt,” he said. “And as I can see, you have found your way back to the daily routine without any trouble at all.” He indicated the oversized glass that the woman held in her hand.
While the woman drank a large swig of the medicinal water, with Friedrich benevolently looking on, Flora used the moment to empty her glass unseen behind her back. How could anyone voluntarily swallow so much of the stuff?
“My dear Mr. Sunshine, you would not believe how happy I am to be back here after the miserable English winter,” the woman said, and her red-veined cheeks grew a shade redder as she spoke.
Mr. Sunshine—it sounded so funny that Flora had to bite her lip to stop herself from giggling. The woman was from England, then. Friedrich could introduce us, couldn’t he? Flora thought to herself. But he was just standing there, listening to the woman as if spellbound.
“My day begins with a robust march,” the woman was saying. “That is followed by a number of exercises designed to promote one’s physical well-being. After breakfast comes my daily visit here to the Trinkhalle, then it’s back to the bathhouse at my hotel, then—”
“And the Kneipp hydrotherapy?” Friedrich interrupted her. “Have you decided to do without those this year?”
“Oh, no! I save that for the end of the day, along with a decent glass of brandy. You’ll see—by the end of the summer, I’ll be practically reborn,” she said, and they both laughed.
Feeling rather confused, Flora joined in their laughter. What were they talking about?
“Lady Lucretia O’Donegal is one of the Trinkhalle’s long-standing visitors,” Friedrich explained when they were outside and alone. “She has a weak heart, for which her doctor long ago prescribed her a course of hydrotherapy. She has been coming to Baden-Baden every year since. And unlike most of the others here, her therapy really is all about her health. Some years ago, she asked for an analysis of our spring, and once she was convinced of the quality of our medicinal water, her drinking regime became a fixed part of her daily life at the spa. Lady Lucretia is a wonderful example of just how beneficial our waters are.”
They were walking along one of the gravel paths, and Friedrich plucked a few leaves from a bush and absentmindedly rubbed them between his fingers.
A weak heart? Flora’s impression had been of an exceptionally robust woman.
Friedrich abruptly tossed the crushed leaves aside. “We need more guests like her! But most of the people who would benefit from a course of treatment here can’t afford it. Poor factory workers who tend a machine for twelve hours at a time. Or miners whose lungs have been damaged.”
Flora looked sideways at Friedrich. She had never heard him sound so bitter. Poor factory workers . . . she could not imagine people like that at the Trinkhalle at all.
“There are some seats free just now,” she said, and she pointed to the chairs that were arranged in a semicircle around a small stage outside the Conversationshaus. Friedrich had told her that, several times a day, open-air concerts for the spa guests took place, and Flora, walking with Sabine in the evenings, had passed by several times when a concert was under way, but the young women had not found the courage to sit down with the paying guests. Now, a band was playing a march, and they sat and listened for a few minutes, during which Flora covertly used her handkerchief and a little spit to try to remove the white rim around her shoes caused by the dusty paths. She would have liked to sit a little longer, but Friedrich was already on his feet again—there was so much more he wanted to show her.
“It looks as if the people who come here still have money to throw away.” Friedrich nodded in the direction of the street cafés, their tables all occupied now, at midday.
She had wanted to ask Friedrich if they might stop and enjoy a cup of coffee, but after his last remark she did not dare. The disparaging undertone in his voice was clear.
Was he fundamentally against such pleasure? Or could he simply not afford it?
Since her arrival in the Sonnenschein house, she had not seen an open bottle of wine, or any other delicious distractions. Sabine had enough trouble just filling the family’s bellies with the money she had for groceries.
Flora glanced at Friedrich. He looked pale, perhaps even a little ill. It seemed his “medicinal waters” did little to stave off hunger.
By contrast, life back home was far more luxurious. Her father was always bringing fine things home from his travels—nougat, honey, candied violets, and more. No one had to fear going hungry in their house, that was certain.
The aroma of fresh coffee wafted across the gravel path they were walking along. And the cakes that the serving girls brought out on white plates looked delicious. Flora’s mouth watered.
While Friedrich led her onward, Flora turned her head back for a final, almost envious, look. On the outermost edge of the many tables, she noticed one party of guests at a single long table. Three waitresses bustled around the group, carrying heavily laden trays. The women at the table wore brightly colored garments and raised their glasses with bejeweled hands for a toast to the gentlemen. One elderly woman was feeding her little dog a spoonful of whipped cream—how unpleasant!
Flora touched Friedrich’s arm and drew his attention to the group. “Where are those people from? They seem to be speaking several different languages.”
“Russians, most likely. Many of them speak excellent French,” he said.
Flora raised her eyebrows. Her guide really seemed to have an answer to everything.
Her parents would have felt at home among all the vibrant activity. Flora pictured her father sitting beneath one of the huge chestnut trees, drinking beer, while her mother sipped a glass of wine. Her parents would not have begrudged themselves that.
“Your visitors all seem so cheerful—it makes you want to talk and laugh along with them. And they’re all so beautifully dressed. Just look!” Flora pointed toward three little girls trotting along clumsily beside their governess. Their dresses were made of layers of lace, with countless colorful glass beads sewn on. But in such elaborate outfits, they could not jump puddles, shoot marbles, or even dance in a circle properly.
Flora was still caught up in that thought when the smallest of the three girls suddenly pulled free of the governess’s hand and charged off toward one of the swans that had settled on the grass some distance away.
“Lebed! Lebed! Lebed!” the child cried over and over while the governess seemed rooted to the spot in sudden fright. She had both hands pressed over her mouth and watched wide-eyed as the other two girls joined in the chorus of “Lebed!” and ran toward the swans.
Why didn’t the governess run after them? She must know that swans could easily turn aggressive. Flora quickly moved to block the two other girls while the swan suddenly rose to its feet and hissed anxiously.
“Friedrich, the swan has cygnets!” Flora pointed urgently in the direction of the small flock that had appeared from beneath the swan’s spread wings.
Friedrich was already running.
Beating its wings wildly and with its beak open wide, the large bird launched itself at the smallest child, while its babies peeped and waddled away in all directions.
The little girl stopped in her tracks, and not another sound came from her lips. For a moment, Flora hoped that the bird, confronted by the child’s defenselessness, would chan
ge its mind. But it was not to be: the swan was already pecking at the girl, who instantly curled up on the ground, squealing.
The next moment, Friedrich snatched the girl up and set her down on her feet; the governess, who had finally broken out of her daze, picked her up and carried her to safety.
Flora could only watch helplessly as Friedrich became the target of the swan’s ire.
“At least it wasn’t my fault this time,” said Flora in a squeaky voice, pointing to Friedrich’s trouser leg. Where the swan had attacked him, there was a new tear. A little blood seeped through the fabric, but he assured Flora that the injury was nothing.
Flora realized that her knees were shaking. She knew well that an attack by an angry swan could have had far worse consequences than a torn trouser leg. Relieved that nothing more serious had happened, she took Friedrich’s arm again.
“I would say that your act of heroism has earned us a little rest.”
A short time later, they were sitting on the terrace at the Englischer Hof hotel. Friedrich’s eyes were bright with the excitement of his wrangle with the bird, and his cheeks were red. To Flora he no longer looked sallow and unhealthy, but very manly indeed.
While Friedrich ordered the light lunch and a half carafe of wine, Flora inconspicuously stretched her legs beneath the table. Finally!
All the impressions of the morning, capped by the incident with the swan, had worn her out more than any day’s tramp across fields and meadows.
When the waitress had poured the wine, they clinked glasses.
“I don’t really fit in here at all,” she said, turning to take in all the tables with their white tablecloths, the fine chandeliers inside, and all the elegantly dressed patrons.
“The Englischer Hof is certainly among Baden-Baden’s better hotels. I don’t normally come here myself, but today is a noteworthy day, isn’t it? Besides, I would like to take the opportunity, in this special place, to thank you for all you have done with Father’s shop in such a short time. The trees in front of the door, the nice porcelain—my mother would never have thought to bring that up from the cellar on her own. Practically every day, I hear from people on the street how much lovelier everything looks now.”
The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2) Page 11