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.