Kuno, suffering from a range of minor maladies, came to the store only rarely, much to Flora’s annoyance. She hoped that Friedrich would find the time to make good on his promise and take her to visit the library soon. With a stack of books, she could pass the long hours in the shop much better, she was sure.
Kuno’s day usually started with him appearing in the morning to collect his newspaper and ended with him returning at five to close up. In the hours between, he took regular naps, but still often retired for the night before dinner.
How can one man sleep so much? Flora wondered. It wasn’t normal. But no one other than her seemed particularly concerned. Apparently, his ailments in the winter months were a given.
The meager income of the winter months made itself felt at the dinner table. Ernestine went to great lengths to come up with new, economical dishes. It was not as if the family went hungry, but they were often close to the edge.
It’s this blasted seasonal work! Flora thought many times while she waited in vain for customers. It was no different for them in G?nningen. For the seed dealers, too, the money they made on their annual sales trip in autumn had to last the whole year. And woe betide anyone who didn’t manage to put at least a little aside.
On one particularly gloomy January morning, Flora suddenly heard giggling in front of the shop. Several shadows appeared on the other side of the fogged window; then the shop door was opened so energetically that the little bell almost came out of its fitting.
The girls from Maison Kuttner in their oh-so-gorgeous aprons!
Flora’s pulse sped up and shivers ran down her spine when she recalled what she had boasted so pompously to these same young women shortly before her departure for G?nningen. She couldn’t have suspected back then that she and Friedrich—
“There she is, dear Mrs. Sonnenschein, surrounded by all her marvels! I have to say, I’m impressed,” said their leader, looking around the store with her eyes open wide.
Flora could only follow the other young woman’s gaze to the buckets holding a few lonely bunches of carnations, the fir sprigs, and a few forced apple twigs that, so far, had steadfastly refused to bloom. From the ceiling hung the bundles of dried herbs and flowers, and their sparse offerings of potted plants were scattered around the room. In the dim light cast by the oil lamp, it all looked rather shabby.
“Perhaps I’m a little slow on the uptake,” said the leader to the two girls accompanying her, “but there’s one thing I’m not completely clear on. With what amazing business ideas does our little forest marauder here plan to please her clientele this winter?”
Flora held her tongue. So this is what she got for all her big talk! She would have thrown all three of them out of the shop if she could have.
“It’s really very simple,” one of the other girls replied. “Flora Sonnenschein is demonstrating a particularly involved method of twiddling her thumbs.”
Giggling maliciously, the three saleswomen from Maison Kuttner ran out of the shop, leaving the door open behind them.
Flora inhaled deeply. That did it!
It was bad enough that she had to put up with such silly chatter at all. But it was far worse to know that the Kuttner girls were right.
In a few steps, Flora reached the door of the shop, closed it, and locked it. Then she ran through the back of the store into the house.
She found Friedrich in the kitchen, where he was stuffing old newspaper into wet leather boots.
“Friedrich, we have to do something. It’s high time we took a stand against those arrogant witches from Maison Kuttner.”
“You can borrow whatever you like and take it home or read it in the reading room at the library—we’ll go there first. If you especially like a particular book, we can buy it, if it’s not too expensive,” said Friedrich, pushing open the entrance door to the Conversationshaus.
As they made their way in the direction of the reading room, Flora cast a surreptitious glance through the glass panes of the door that led into the casino. What magnificent chandeliers! And the walls practically shone—she was certain they were covered with pure silk.
They were here for the books, of course, but now that they were inside . . .
“Um, Friedrich,” she whispered, “what would you think about, well—”
“Visiting the casino?” he interrupted her, laughing. “And squandering my hard-earned money at the roulette table instead of spending it on a book for you? Oh no!”
Obediently, Flora padded along behind her husband.
Moments later, she was left standing in wide-eyed amazement. D. R. Marx’s library and reading room played second fiddle to the casino in almost nothing. The atmosphere was one of substance and high-mindedness, and the entire room smelled of perfume and eau de cologne and the fragrance of the large bouquet of roses that stood in a silver champagne bucket beside the cashier and that clearly bore the hallmark of Maison Kuttner.
Flora was thrilled. This place had nothing at all in common with the dusty bookshops she knew from Reutlingen.
“Up ahead there is one of the two sisters who run the reading room,” Friedrich said, pointing with his chin. “You can ask them for whatever you want. In the meantime, I’ll be back there looking at the books on archaeology.”
When Flora asked if the library had books about flowers, the woman looked at her questioningly. What kind of book did Flora have in mind . . . botanical identification guides? Novels? Goethe’s flower poems? Or would the young lady prefer to read something of an edifying nature, the story of vain Narcissus, for example, whose name was synonymous with spring daffodils? Of course, they also had books with pretty flower pictures, the woman added.
Flora was speechless.
The librarian swept away almost silently on her soft-soled shoes, and returned a minute later with a stack of books in her arms. Flora would no doubt be able to decide for herself what she wanted.
She let out a little hysterical laugh. If Seraphine could see this . . .
Every year, from April 28 to May 3, the Romans celebrated “Floralia,” a lively spring festival in honor of the keeper of gardens . . .
It was all so exciting! Flora was so deep into her book that she barely noticed the raised voices outside, in front of the Conversationshaus. Only when most of the library visitors were already at the windows did she look up.
A male voice could be heard, loud and upset, perhaps also a little drunk, bemoaning something. A second man seemed to be trying frantically to talk to the first.
“Russians, probably,” murmured a woman by the window. “I wonder what it’s about?”
“It’s about money, of course,” said the woman next to her. “They both just came from the casino. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“He’s got a pistol!” another woman suddenly screamed. “Mon Dieu! He wants to kill himself!”
Flora practically leaped to the window.
“Can you see why I am so ill-disposed toward games of chance? Some of the spa guests are so addicted to roulette and cards that they stay here through winter just to be near the casino. And then this kind of thing happens,” said Friedrich as he and Flora made their way back toward Stephanienstrasse with a pile of books. “The poor devil probably gambled away everything he had in the world.”
Flora said nothing. She had been deeply affected by what had played out in front of the window, the way the man had taken out his pistol and waved it around in the air. Had he really planned to kill himself?
After a period of time that felt to Flora like an eternity, the fellow had allowed his friend to lead him away unhurt, but he had kept a firm grip on the pistol.
“You don’t think he’ll try it again, do you?”
Friedrich shrugged. “He would not be the first.”