Ernestine pushed her own plate away. “Everything is simply too much for your wife right now. In winter, she was worried about the future, and now all the work and being afraid that she can’t live up to the standards the Russians demand. It’s no wonder she gets upset. And you really were not very helpful just now.”
Friedrich put down his fork and sighed. “You’re right, of course. Flora is completely overtaxed, and that’s why I feel sorry for her. I know very well how it feels to be responsible for a thousand things at once. When everyone wants something from you at the same time and the day already didn’t have enough hours in it . . . But how am I, of all people, supposed to help her with her Italian party?”
Sunflowers? Would they be the right thing for an Italian party? Or would she be better off with roses and—
Flora was halfway back into the store when Sabine grabbed her by the sleeve from behind.
“That fish was not dry in the slightest! And if you hiss at me like that one more time, I’ll be out the door before you know it! I can find a job like this one anywhere.”
Flora’s brow furrowed. “It wasn’t meant that way. I’m sorry, truly. But leave me alone now, I have to get back to work.”
But Sabine pushed between Flora and the store, blocking the entrance. “Irritable, no appetite—I’ve seen that often enough before, with my own mother. How long do you think you can pull the wool over our eyes?”
“What? What are you talking about?” Flora shook her head in confusion.
Sabine laughed. “Now don’t look at me all innocent like that. I’ve known for weeks that you’re expecting, and you’re already starting to show a little.”
“Show what . . . ?” Flora looked down at her stomach, which had been feeling quite bloated in recent days. She had put her queasiness down to the sultry weather and having so much to do that she forgot to drink enough water.
“That you’re pregnant. What else?” Sabine replied and rolled her eyes.
Flora collapsed against the wall. The nausea in the morning, and she had not had her period for two months—how could she have been so na?ve?
“No, that can’t be true!” She let out a sob and threw herself onto Sabine’s shoulder.
“Now, now. Settle down,” Sabine murmured, and she stroked Flora’s head as if she were a small child. “You know, it’s strange in a way. You are so clever, but sometimes, you don’t have the faintest clue.”
Of course, Friedrich and his mother were overjoyed when Flora haltingly told them she was pregnant. Friedrich kissed Flora and excused himself a thousand times for his behavior at lunchtime. Then he hurriedly fetched writing paper so that they could tell Flora’s family the happy news right away.
“A grandchild! If only Kuno could have lived to see this,” Ernestine said, and she wiped a few tears from her eyes.
“A child . . . ,” said Flora.
Just two weeks until the Gagarins’ Italian party, and now I find out I’m pregnant . . .
Flora did not get any sleep that night. Of course she was happy. But couldn’t a child have waited a little while? In her mind, she calculated that the child would be born sometime in January or February. Maybe Sabine could give her a more accurate estimate; she seemed very well informed about such things.
That meant that she would be able to work through the rest of the season. But what would become of the seed trade in the winter?
She tossed and turned restlessly, pondering, preventing Friedrich from sleeping. He tried to take her in his arms, telling her that in her condition sleep was the best medicine, but Flora escaped his embrace. Finally, she climbed out of bed and went to pore over past issues of Die Gartenlaube, hoping to find something about Italy. But her efforts were in vain.
The following midday—Flora managed to eat a few noodles, but no more—Friedrich pushed a book across the table to her. “Goethe’s Italian Journey. I borrowed it for you from the reading room.”
Flora’s brow creased. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
Friedrich opened the book to a marked page and, in a solemn voice, recited:
Know’st thou the land where lemon trees do grow?
And oranges ’midst dark leaves golden glow?
With gentle winds from deep blue heavens fanned
The myrtle hushed, the laurel tall doth stand?
Know’st thou this land?
“That’s very pretty . . . but wait a moment. Oranges and lemons? Myrtle and laurel? That’s it!” Flora’s joyful whoop was so sudden that Friedrich and Ernestine jumped in surprise. Before Friedrich knew it, Flora had thrown her arms around his neck.
“I finally know the mood my flowers have to create. Oh, Friedrich, what would I do without you?”
The Italian summer party in the Gagarins’ garden was Flora’s greatest success. For the rest of the season, the guests raved about the lemon trees, about the silver plates on which she arranged oranges and white flowers into the most arresting still lifes, about the handwritten poems of Goethe that every guest was given, and about the water lilies drifting in enormous glass bowls filled with blue-tinted water.
Flora was made to feel like a celebrated artist, and from that night on no festivity or function was complete without her artfully conceived, lovingly executed arrangements.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Now that Flora was expecting a baby, it was even more important to take some of the burden of running the shop off her. Ernestine was adamant about that, and after a few sleepless nights, she found a solution: Sabine would be her assistant. The maid would still be responsible for all the housework, but for the shopping and cooking a young widow from the neighborhood would come in every day to give Sabine the time she would need to help Flora in the shop.
Nobody asked Sabine’s opinion, however. She would have been ten times happier to have someone come in to take over the drudgery of her housework and to let her continue her work in her beloved kitchen.
Flora was satisfied with the new arrangement. With Sabine’s help, she would get through the season well enough. But as far as Friedrich was concerned, she still spent far too many hours in the shop.
“In this kind of muggy August heat, you should be sitting in the garden and putting your feet up,” he said one evening when they went to bed. “My goodness, look at yourself!” He pointed at Flora’s legs, which were so swollen that she winced and cried out a little when Friedrich touched them.
“It’s just a little water in the legs. It’s not so bad,” she managed to say. “My mother wrote that it would go away again. I can’t just sit around in the garden—what if someone important walked in just then?”
“Shall I?” Friedrich held up the bottle of medicinal alcohol, and then he heaved Flora’s legs onto his lap to work the spirit in. “I wouldn’t be surprised if our child came into the world behind the counter,” he said.
Flora laughed. “Then I would certainly be very much like my mother. She gave birth to me while she was working out in the fields. Oh, Friedrich, I know you mean well, but I find the work so enjoyable. Oh, that feels good,” she added with a sigh as he massaged her legs.
Friedrich smiled. He was happy that his wife managed everything so well and so uncomplainingly. He had not been able to find the time to be much help to her; in the evenings, he rarely returned home before nine.
“What a crazy summer it’s been. I have never worked as many hours at the Trinkhalle as I have this year.”
“I hope your hard work pays off one day,” said Flora sleepily.
Friedrich hoped the same. If, at some point, the newly established Spa and Bath Administration took over the responsibility for the Trinkhalle, he wanted to be able to present himself as a keen and knowledgeable employee whom they could not overlook.
“Who knows, maybe I won’t forever be the Trinkhalle manager, but will find a more important role in spa life here. As director of baths or something similar.” Friedrich laughed, feeling a little embarrassed. “In the past, I never would have dared to set such lofty goals for myself, but now I know that you can go a long way if you only want to badly enough. Thanks to you.”