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 suit 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!