The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2) Page 9

  Although Flora inspected her flower bed every day, she knew that it would be weeks before the first flowers appeared. So in her second week in Baden-Baden, she once again went out walking before breakfast to pick wildflowers. With the aid of maps that Kuno sketched for her, she discovered more and more meadows and stretches of riverbank along Lichtenthaler Allee where she could cut all the geraniums, dandelions, bird’s eyes, and wild rose she could carry—all flowers she knew and none that would lead to another poisoning scare or spidery fiasco.

  When she returned from these walks, her arms filled with flowers and her feet wet with morning dew, most of the houses in town were only just waking for the day. Shutters swung open, and on balconies she would occasionally see a man stretching in the morning air or smoking a cigar. From the hotel terraces came the clattering of porcelain and silver cutlery as the tables were being set for the day.

  Flora gazed longingly at the pure-white linen tablecloths, in the center of which there was invariably a bouquet of beautiful flowers in a vase. She would have loved nothing more than to provide the flowers for the fine hotels personally—she would have put out fat bunches of snapdragons or white roses tied with bright ribbons.

  Fantasies, she chided herself, swinging her load of flowers from one arm to the other. Fancy customers like that were hardly likely to allow their flowers to be arranged by an apprentice in a flower shop where even Kuno’s regular customers insisted on being served by the boss himself.

  “Don’t worry over it, Flora,” Kuno said when yet another woman had refused to allow Flora to serve her. “The people would rather go to an old hand than a newling. That’s how it’s always been. It’s not something to take personally.”

  Flora did not find Kuno’s words particularly consoling. How was she supposed to learn to tie a bouquet if no one ever wanted one from her? Or did their customers still secretly harbor a grudge over the affair with the poisonous plants?

  Luckily, such grim thoughts came up only rarely when Flora went out for her morning walks. Some days, she marched up the steps to the marketplace and down again just because she felt like it. Once, feeling particularly exuberant, she followed a sign that read “Pferdebad”—a horse bath—and found herself behind the Palais Hamilton, standing in front of a huge hall, but she did not find the courage to venture inside. Baden-Baden really seemed to have many fascinating secrets, and she could hardly wait for Friedrich to show her more of the town.

  Usually, Flora chose a route that took her along the Promenade, where she could gaze wistfully in the windows of the boutiques. Such lovely hats! And gloves. And silver jewelry. And sweets. And . . .

  The only shop she snubbed was Maison Kuttner. The snotty young women who worked there could go to the devil, as far as she was concerned.

  The women in Maison Kuttner, however, took a very good look at Flora: whenever she walked past with her meadow flowers, one of the saleswomen was always outside, sweeping the sidewalk and steps vigorously. And the moment she spied Flora, she called to her colleagues, who hurried out.

  “Just look what she’s got today!”

  “She’ll empty the meadows before you know it.”

  “The poor customers. All they get to buy is weeds.”

  “What customers? Old Sonnenschein doesn’t have any left!” And they all cackled like geese.

  For the first few days, Flora gritted her teeth, put on her most stoic expression, and ignored the young women. She did not want trouble, and their chatter was too childish altogether. But one morning, when she heard them call her a “vandal” behind her back, she had had enough. She was picking flowers, not vandalizing anything!

  Furiously, she stopped in her tracks, turned around, and glared at their leader, who stood among the others with her arms crossed and a hateful look on her face.

  “I don’t know what I ever did to you, but if you think your stupid chatter makes any difference to me, you’re sadly mistaken! Your maison here with all its trinkets and trumpery is no more than a junk shop—at least we sell real flowers. And your candy-colored aprons might be just the thing for a sweet shop, but certainly not for a florist. They look ridiculous, simply ridiculous.”

  Flora screwed up her nose and stalked away, her head held high.

  She was still boiling when she arrived back at the Sonnenscheins’ store. Kuno was so engrossed in his newspaper that he did not even manage a few words of praise for what she had plundered from the meadows. And I put up with those miserable cows for this, Flora thought angrily, and she stomped out to the garden to get the watering can she had left there the evening before.

  “Child, you’re not going to dig another flower bed, are you?”

  Flora jumped. She had not heard Ernestine coming. And what if I am? she almost said.

  Ernestine stood there in her nightgown with tousled hair, and Flora realized why Kuno did not insist on her helping in the store.

  “You certainly look grim this morning,” Ernestine said, frowning. “That’s not like you at all. What’s got you so upset? Not Kuno, I hope?”

  Flora shook her head vehemently. “No. It was . . .” And before she could think better of it, she burst out with the entire story. “It’s no wonder Maison Kuttner does better business, being where they are. The really good customers don’t stray to Stephanienstrasse, and they don’t know that your husband can make such beautiful bouquets,” Flora said. She looked uncertainly at Ernestine, who had listened to her litany stoically. Had she said too much? Was it indecorous to speak so openly?

  Ernestine sighed loudly. “Oh, child, when it comes to flowers, Kuno can measure up to anyone, I’ll allow. But when it comes to running a business . . .” She bit her lip. “You know, there was a time when I truly believed we could hold our own against Josef Kuttner. Back then, Kuno turned my father’s plumbing business into the flower shop. I had an idea or two of my own then, too. If it had been up to me, we would have sold a few knickknacks and ornaments from the very start. Porcelain figurines, maybe candleholders and small vases. Those things go well with flowers, don’t they? And then I had my embroidered tablecloths, which everyone admired. I would have loved to make a few of those for the shop and sell them. But Kuno . . .” She shrugged. “He thought a woman should not get mixed up in a man’s work.”

  “Then your husband should come and take a look at my village. In the seed trade, the women have to work.” Flora was quietly surprised to discover that the building that now housed the shop had once belonged to Ernestine’s family.

  “I am astonished that he lets you do as you like. And Friedrich also uses every opportunity he gets to help you, too,” Ernestine said in a less friendly tone.

  “Oh, they both know it isn’t for the long term. I’ll be going home in autumn,” Flora said hurriedly. But as she spoke, she noticed that the idea of leaving again burned like a bushel of nettles. As much as she missed her family, leaving Baden-Baden was not something she wanted to think about now.

  Ernestine tapped thoughtfully at her chin, and it seemed to Flora that the mistress of the house had suddenly forgotten all about her. She picked up the watering can and was about to return to the shop when Ernestine took a deep breath.

  “Do you think Kuno needs you right now? Or do you have a moment for me? I . . . I’ve just thought of something. It’s probably a silly idea, but . . . come with me!”

  A short time later, both women were in the cellar, and between them stood a large stale-smelling crate that Ernestine, after much hunting around, had discovered on one of the rearmost shelves.

  “And this here is what they call a five-finger vase.” She held the strangely shaped vase in the light of the candle she had gotten from Sabine before they had descended into the cellar. “You only need a few flowers for one of these.”

  Flora stared in disbelief at the mountain of newspaper, from which more and more porcelain appeared: vases, bowls, platters.

  “That’s made you open your eyes, hasn’t it? All Baden-Baden porcelain, and very old!
The factory that this came from closed down long ago,” said Ernestine, her cheeks red with excitement. “My father took the crate in payment when one of his customers couldn’t pay an outstanding bill. But my mother didn’t want to have anything to do with any of it, so the crate came down here. I talked to Kuno years ago about maybe selling these things, but he said he was a florist, not a junk dealer.”

  “But . . . this is fine porcelain. A real treasure! I could decorate the shop window with it. I’m sure you could earn good money with this,” Flora cried enthusiastically. She felt like hauling the crate upstairs and getting Sabine to help her wash every single piece.

  “Well, I’m happy that at least one person around here agrees with me.” An uncertain smile appeared on Ernestine’s lips. “Do you really think this could be something for the shop? If you do, you’ll have to convince Kuno. He won’t listen to me.”

  “I’ll manage it!” said Flora, and laughed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Konstantin Sokerov had hardly slept a wink, but he felt more awake and refreshed that morning than he had in a long time.

  It was still quiet in the town, with hardly a soul to be seen around the Conversationshaus in Baden-Baden, just an old man reading a newspaper a few benches away. In front of a café, a young man unloaded milk cans loudly from a wagon. A woman with her arms full of flowers stopped and exchanged a few words with him, and when the wagon-driver’s horse tried to take a bite from the flowers in her arms, she laughed and hurried away.

  Konstantin watched her go, noting the lightness in her step. He had not seen her face behind all the flowers, but he was certain that she was young and pretty.

  It was not hard for him to find in the flower girl a good omen. He was in the right place—he felt it with every fiber of his heart.

  Konstantin stretched until his joints cracked. The long journey from Paris had shaken him thoroughly from head to foot. He had no lack of opportunities to ride on wagons or in carriages, and to his surprise he had discovered that many French people still traveled to the German Empire, for business and for money. Is that why the customs officers’ checks at the border had taken such a long time? Was every wayfarer a potential French rebel unwilling to accept the outcome of the war? The portfolio containing Konstantin’s paintings was examined several times, but the landscape watercolors and pencil portraits had finally convinced the border guards that they were dealing with no more than a harmless art student.

  Konstantin drew a comb from his pocket and began to battle his tangle of hair. He ran his hand over his cheek, and it was like running his hand over coarse sandpaper—he urgently needed a shave. On top of that, he was hungry and thirsty, the morning’s chill had crept into his bones, and he had to empty his bladder soon.

  All discomforts aside, the smile would not leave Konstantin’s face, and in the nearby trees a few birds had begun their morning chorus. He would go to the café as soon as it opened; it was not as if he could not afford petit-déjeuner and a newspaper. Konstantin’s hand moved to the inside pocket of his jacket. The cigar he’d pilfered from his traveling companion was still there, and the roll of bills as well.

  The man would get over the loss of the cigar, and likely the money, too. When Konstantin had climbed up to join him in the coach, he had noted instantly that the man was not about to go hungry. The carriage was well made and well kept, the horses healthy and strong. And the way the man had spoken, the things he had said . . . Konstantin was all too familiar with people like him.

  Indeed, stealing was not how he usually got by, but considering the emergency he found himself in, he could not be particular.

  He shook his head, as if trying to drive away his memory of the last few days like some bothersome insect. Paris was far away, and he had to forget the trouble with Claudine, his fellow student, as quickly as possible. Impoverished students dedicating their lives to art that did not pay? He’d had enough of that, more than enough.

  He would smoke the cigar while he read the newspaper. No doubt, in a spa town like Baden-Baden, there was a local Blatt that listed all the visitors and the hotels they stayed at, and maybe even a report or two about the concerts they attended and the plays that were currently à la mode.

  The first thing he would do was find out who was who and what was what. He would get to know the right people—people who knew how to enjoy life, and who possessed the necessary cash to do so.

  Adieu, Paris! Bonjour, Baden-Baden!

  Konstantin’s gaze surveyed the long, elegant facade of the Conversationshaus. He wanted to see what lay beyond the massive entrance. The glorious ballrooms. The casino—especially the casino.

  “The Baden-Baden season—there’s nothing to match it. Anyone looking for an exciting time finds his way to Baden-Baden.” How many times had he heard those and similar sentiments in recent months? Baden-Baden—after a while, it had sounded to him like an earthly paradise.

  He went into the bushes behind the Conversationshaus to relieve himself and found his thoughts turning homeward. Was his mother already awake? Had his father come home from his nightly spree at all? And what about his sisters?

  Home was Veliko Tarnovo, a pretty, medieval town in Bulgaria, its buildings huddled on steep hillsides, while in the valley below, the Jantra River meandered along. In the past, Veliko Tarnovo had been the capital of the Bulgarian Empire, and even today its inhabitants were proud of its history.

  The Sokerovs lived in a large house high on the most prestigious hill in the city, a hill called Trapezitsa. A house . . . it was closer to a small palace. Apart from his family, the only other residents on Trapezitsa were the clergy and a few rich landowners.

  When Konstantin and his siblings had been children, their family was among the wealthiest in the entire region. His father’s father had been a trader under Turkish rule, and his business had flourished. It was only after his grandfather’s death that things began to decline. Konstantin was five at that time, and his father had taken over the family business, trading in silk, linen, and cotton. Elin Sokerov was a good-looking man, a charmer, and an arrogant good-for-nothing. Through his own folly, he quickly lost all favor with the Turkish authorities, who threw every obstacle imaginable in the path of his business.

  Why had his mother not deserted her husband? Konstantin wondered as he lifted his bag onto his shoulder. The milk wagon trundled away around the corner. Perhaps the café would open now.

  Dana Sokerova had once been a beauty and was well educated. Even today, Konstantin was sure that when the business had begun to fail, his mother could easily have found a more capable breadwinner—one who could have provided for her and her children. Instead, she had found a thousand excuses for her husband’s failure.

  Konstantin once had asked his mother why his father didn’t do anything to improve his lot, but she never answered. And he had to watch as his mother, her face streaked with tears, sold her jewelry and treasures piece by piece so that she could feed her children.

  He stepped into the café, sat at a table by the window, and set his case of pictures on the chair beside him.

  A waitress stepped up to Konstantin’s table. When she saw him, she began to giggle a little, and her face turned a shade of red.

  Konstantin grinned. Even unshaven and sleepless, he seemed not to have lost his effect on women. He ordered breakfast and asked for a newspaper. Luckily, he spoke not only French but also reasonable German, for which he thanked his mother’s mother, who was Austrian.

  Why had his mother always believed his father’s claims that soon, soon, things would turn for the better? Nothing ever came of it, and Dana Sokerova resigned herself to her fate.

  Love had allowed his mother to forgive, to accept, to suffer everything. Since that realization, Konstantin had felt only contempt for his mother. But the lesson she had taught him with her behavior was one he would never forget: women would sacrifice everything for love. In particular when that sacrifice was made for the benefit of a good-looking, charming man
who understood how to build castles in the air with words.

  And there was a second discovery he had carried with him: poverty was terrible, and something he never wanted to experience again.

  Breakfast came. The waitress curtsied coquettishly and asked if she could bring him anything else.

  She could, he replied: a glass of champagne.

  They sold champagne only by the bottle, the waitress said, to which Konstantin responded that if that was the case, he would take a whole bottle.

  The champagne bubbled nicely in the goblet that Konstantin raised in a toast to himself. A city where champagne could not be bought by the glass, but only by the bottle—that was his kind of city. So it was good that he had chosen Baden-Baden over Rome, after all. The newly won capital of Italy had indeed been high on his list of potential destinations, one of many . . . Oh, there were so many places he wanted to see in his life!

  When, the year before, it had become clear that there was no future in the family business, Konstantin had said to his mother, “I want to see the world!” although he knew they did not have the money for him to travel. He had not, however, reckoned with Dana Sokerova’s ingenuity. After a two-day journey—where and to whom, Konstantin still did not know—she surprised him with a scholarship to a university close by that had connections to an art academy in France, not far from Paris. Konstantin’s travel costs to France would be covered along with his board and lodging for a yearlong course of study.

  A year in Paris among painters, writers, sculptors, all paid for . . . Konstantin would never have dreamed that fate could be so good to him. He wished he knew how his mother had obtained the scholarship for him. It had nothing to do with his talents with charcoal or brush, which were average at best.

  Dana Sokerova, wearing a frozen smile, had told him that she felt certain that time abroad would provide interesting opportunities. That was his goal, too, Konstantin thought as the street outside the café filled with passersby. Women, mostly, he realized—one of the women, her brown hair pinned high on her head, looked very nice indeed. She wore a dress of glistening silver silk and several strings of pearls. As if sensing his gaze, the woman turned toward the café.