Getting to know Irina had not been difficult. Princess Irina Komatschova, to be more precise. And all the others. An evening or two in the casino, a couple of generous gestures in the Hotel Badischer Hof—taking care, of course, that those gestures did not overstretch his resources—and strolling up and down Lichtenthaler Allee a few times, looking vaguely lost. And then the first conversations. Yes, he was new in the town, but for a painter, Baden-Baden was practically a paradise, n’est-ce pas?
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.”