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.
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.”