Flora smiled as she addressed her new customer.
“One bouquet probably won’t be enough to make the young woman notice you. You will have to let the flowers speak for you several times.” She was already selecting flowers from the buckets. “We’ll start with amaryllis. That will go in the middle, because it will tell her that you admire her proud demeanor. The three white calla lilies express admiration for her beauty.” This is going to be rather an expensive bouquet, Flora thought. But one could not win a beautiful young woman for nothing.
“To that we’ll add a little wolfsbane. They say, ‘You are the personification of charm and beauty.’”
“That’s exactly what she is!” the young Russian exclaimed. “But she doesn’t see me like that . . .” He looked at Flora with concern. “And the flowers really speak for me? I would never dare address the young lady personally.”
Flora struggled not to smile. “I’m afraid you will have to take that risk, once you have won her favor. But for the moment, just give her this bouquet and a copy of my ABC of Flowers. This flower, the iris, is the most important of all—it tells the recipient that she has stolen away any peace your heart had otherwise. And we’ll go a step further and fill out the entire bouquet with chestnut.” She had broken off an armful of young chestnut twigs on her morning walk, fortunately.
Igor nodded, impressed. “What does chestnut say?”
“‘Gladly would I be with you!’”
Three days later, the young Russian returned.
Before Flora knew what had happened, he kissed her hand. A miracle had come to pass, he said, his eyes shining. The woman he was courting had smiled at him in the foyer of the theater! And there had been nothing arrogant about it at all. Now he needed more of Flora’s magical flowers.
Soon, the door of the flower shop hardly closed. The Russian visitors threw themselves wholeheartedly into the new floral fashion. They already knew, only too well, the dancers turning tiptoed pirouettes during the hors d’oeuvres, the wise women who deciphered the future in coffee grounds after dinner, and the sopranos trilling arias in the afternoon. But flowers that could “speak” were something new, and the hostesses of Baden-Baden always had one eye open for something fresh for their parties, after all. Nor did they consider themselves above seeking Flora out in her flower shop—for them, the stroll along the street of tradesmen and simple workers was like going on a small adventure. And then the eye-opening conversations with their “flower girl.” It all felt so très chic.
Kuno’s regulars suddenly returned, too: Ernestine’s friends, neighbors, acquaintances. As before, they bought mainly loose flowers and cheap bouquets, but they took a lot of pleasure in rubbing shoulders at the counter with the rich customers.
Ernestine missed no opportunity to emphasize that Flora’s ABC had come to fruition only on her urging. Now, she sat behind the counter every day and watched in awe as works of art materialized beneath Flora’s skillful hands: bouquets both lavish and delicate, corsages and flower baskets, garlands to be affixed to landau carriages, flower and fruit still lifes intended as table decorations—Flora’s imagination was inexhaustible. Over time, her works grew more and more elaborate. And more expensive.
Her initial reluctance to charge high prices melted like ice cream in the sun. After the winter, with hunger knocking at the door, the family could use every mark. Finally, no more monotonous cabbage and turnip meals. No more thin soups or mushy oatmeal. Instead, they ate sausage, meats in aspic, pork, fish, eggs, and other delicacies.
The rich Russian visitors were certainly willing to pay a lot of money, but in return they demanded first-rate quality, as Flora discovered very quickly.
A single limp leaf in an arrangement, or a flower wilting in the heat from nearby candles, was all it took—then all goodwill ceased! Many of those who commissioned her work insisted that Flora be present at their festivities so that she could spray her handiwork with water whenever necessary, or tend to a drooping leaf or flower.
Flora was not bothered by the extra work she had to put in. For her, it was far more fun to watch over her floral decorations from a back door or a corner off to one side, and at the same time observe the festivities going on all around. She did her best to remember every detail so that she could tell Ernestine—who sucked up her stories like a sponge—about it the next morning.
Although Flora stayed in the background as inconspicuously as possible, it was common for a guest to come over and exchange a few words with her.
Konstantin Sokerov was present at almost every party Flora attended. Each time Flora saw him, she hoped that he might come a little closer to her. The thought excited her as much as it made her anxious. What was she supposed to say to the good-looking man? Should she curtsy as she did with the older guests? If she did, she knew she would feel strange, because he was, at most, just a few years older than she was. What would she talk about with him? No doubt he would find her terribly dull . . .
The chance that Konstantin Sokerov might make his way through the throng of guests at one of those events was slim. The moment he entered a room, he was surrounded by women who laughed too loudly at his jokes, flushing red and fanning themselves furiously. Usually, he had Princess Stropolski on his arm, and she laughed louder than anyone else at his humor.
How can anyone make such a fuss? Flora wondered.
Normally, it was well past midnight when Flora—with swollen feet and a sore back, but happy—made it home from one of those parties.
Even so, she was back on her feet again the next morning the moment it was light.
“I really don’t know why you don’t just give up picking flowers yourself and sleep a little longer,” said Ernestine one morning, when Flora returned to the store with an armful of ferns. “Mr. Flumm will be coming soon. Why not just buy what you need from him?”
“Because the wildflowers have become something like my trademark,” Flora replied. “Besides, many of them are important in the language of flowers. These ferns, for example—”
She did not finish her sentence, because the door to the store opened. It was not the expected nurseryman, however, but a man in uniform.
When Flora recognized the policeman that Else Walbusch had dragged into the store the previous year, she was momentarily taken aback. Then she recovered herself and said with a smile, “I haven’t poisoned anybody this time. These ferns are completely harmless, I can assure you.” She heaved the green bundle that she had cut in a clearing in the forest into a bucket of fresh water.
“Mrs. Sonnenschein, I have to inform you that we have received a complaint about you for vandalism of the woods and meadows along Lichtenthaler Allee. I have received a statement asserting that you cut rare plants there almost every day.”
“Can you believe it? I can thank the women in Maison Kuttner for this, I’m sure of it,” said Flora to Ernestine and Mr. Flumm, who had just arrived.
The store door had just closed behind the departing officer. He had informed Flora that she had to appear in person at the station sometime during the day, where her own statement would be taken. In a grave voice, he had added that a court appearance was not out of the question. Flora had felt quite ill at his words. This was all she needed now that business was going well! Why couldn’t something just go along easily for once?
“What will they do to me? Will I have to go to prison?” She looked from one to the other despondently.
“And what will the people around here say when they get wind of this?” Ernestine chewed her bottom lip anxiously.