“But you want to be a famous painter, don’t you? That is a tremendous dream!” Flora said. But he continued to look morosely at his drink, and Flora reached across the table spontaneously and pressed his hand encouragingly.
He shrugged. “If you say so. Oh, it’s probably just the autumn fog that’s making me so melancholy. Or how seriously you take your work. Whenever I see you at a party, surrounded by your flowers, I wonder how it must feel to have such passion.”
Flora frowned. Konstantin was very different from what she knew him to be among the perfumed, powdered women who laughed loudly at his jokes. Was this change in him because of her? The magic of the moment, which had just felt so wonderfully warm, threatened to pop like a soap bubble.
“It’s strange, isn’t it? We see each other at almost every party, and until today we have not exchanged so much as a word,” said Konstantin. “Apart from your talent for the language of flowers, I know nothing about you.”
Now it was Flora’s turn to shrug. “I’m sure you always had something better to do than spend time with the flower girl . . . ,” Flora said. She held her breath instinctively. What a topsy-turvy evening it had been.
“Maybe I was just wasting my time,” Konstantin said, looking at her hands.
She followed his eyes and saw that on her pinky, the nail had broken, but it had not given up without a fight and still held on valiantly. Flora’s brow creased. How shabby her nails looked! As shabby as her whole hand with its nicks and calluses.
Konstantin plucked off the last of the broken nail and traced the side of her finger with his. The gesture was so intimate that Flora withdrew her hand, taken aback.
What was she doing there? Why hadn’t she gone to the police long before to report the robbery?
“I . . . it’s already so late and—” Flora wanted to stand up and leave, but could not. She felt almost glued to her seat.
“I’m worried about Püppi—Princess Stropolski,” said Konstantin, out of nowhere. “She feels tired and drained. She is awake night after night, but instead of enjoying her waking hours, she sits in her room and gazes into the darkness, where the ghosts she fears so much are just waiting for her to fall asleep.”
“Now that you mention it, I realize that the princess wasn’t there this evening. She was the first one to commission my work.”
Konstantin nodded.
Flora went on. “I’m sure the princess will be feeling better once she’s home again. Travel for a woman her age must be . . . trying.”
Konstantin laughed. “Home? Where is that supposed to be? I have no idea where we are going to end up when the season comes to an end. The Russians are plagued by homesickness for Mother Russia, but they don’t want to go home.”
Then why don’t you stay here? What is better or more beautiful elsewhere? Flora wanted to ask him, but her own impudence frightened her. What business was it of hers where these people spent their winters?
Before she could do anything to stop him, Konstantin took her hand again. “You know what? Your dream shall come true. You will see your flowers in the casino. I’ll come up with something, I promise you.” He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then called for the waiter.
Chapter Forty-One
Of course, Flora’s news about the late-night incident caused an uproar in the Sonnenschein household. Red blotches appeared on Ernestine’s face, and she went down with a migraine. Friedrich was angry that Flora had not gone to the police immediately, and he insisted on accompanying her to the station that very minute. But he was angrier at himself. Why hadn’t he asserted himself and collected his wife after the party?
As luck would have it, the vagrant was arrested the very next morning when he tried to steal a chicken from a woman at the market. The policeman to whom Friedrich and Flora reported her assault brought them the good news in person.
Flora heaved a sigh of relief. At lunch, in a long discussion with Friedrich, she managed to convince him that she would now be safe when she walked through the town. Friedrich and his mother were making a fuss, but Flora was decidedly cheerful. Nothing happened in the end! Konstantin had saved her.
She had just reopened the store after the midday break when her savior appeared in person, carrying a bowl of blueberries.
Flora felt momentarily dizzy at seeing him again.
When he asked how Flora was, she told him that the thug had been arrested. Glancing at her belly, he inquired after her baby, and she assured him that she and her baby, too, were fine.
“I can’t do much after the fact to remove the bitter taste of what happened last night, but”—he handed her the bowl of berries—“perhaps you will still enjoy the fruit.”
“I have to thank you a hundred times. No, thousands! If not for you . . .” Not wanting to linger too long on the thought, Flora popped one of the berries into her mouth. How sweet and juicy they were! She came around from behind the counter, grabbed a fat bundle of ferns and bellflowers out of the buckets, and began to tie them into a bouquet.
Konstantin smiled as he watched her work. “A bouquet for me? I guess in your famous flower language?”
Flora nodded. The bouquet was almost finished when she added a few blooms of morning glory.
“And what does this bouquet have to say?” Konstantin asked.
Sabine, who had come in with a cup of tea for Flora, whispered in her ear, “Is that the man who rescued you?”
Flora replied with a short nod, then elbowed Sabine aside.
“The bellflowers express deep gratitude. The ferns are meant to bring you luck in love and games.”
“I can use both of those!” he replied with a laugh. “And what about these?” He touched the morning glory, and his eyes—smiling, full of interest—burned into Flora’s.
Suddenly, she felt hot, feverish. Was she coming down with something? She cleared her throat abashedly.
“The morning glory? Oh, they’re nothing special.”
“I’d let a man like that rescue me any day.” Sabine sighed as she watched Konstantin go. When she saw that Flora’s gaze was also directed toward the door, she added, “I might be mistaken, but didn’t I read in your book that morning glory is a symbol of affection?”
“What if it is? I think Konstantin is very nice. And I will never forget how he helped me yesterday.”
“All right,” Sabine said with a dismissive wave. “I just want to point out that a man like that can be risky for a woman.”
“What kind of talk is that?” asked Flora, giving her friend a light rap on the head.
Konstantin kept his word: Flora got to dress the casino in her floral arrangements. The commission came formally from Princess Stropolski, and it was for the casino’s final day of operation.
Flora considered it a twist of fate that she should get to decorate the elegant rooms on that particular day. With a heavy heart, she positioned her majestic arrangements of roses—half deep-red, half blackened with ink—beside the roulette table. Then she took a step back and watched the gamblers play.
How things had changed, she thought, since the rainy afternoon when she had gambled away the little money she had at this very table.
Usually, most of Baden-Baden’s visitors would have been long gone this late in autumn, but on October 31 the roulette table was thronged with people. Russian mixed with English, and the guttural sound of Portuguese with various German dialects. Everyone knew the language of the ball that rattled as it jumped among the numbers and colors.
What a high-spirited atmosphere reigned in the room, even on that final day!
Princess Stropolski and Konstantin sat together at one of the roulette tables. The princess did not look well at all, Flora thought. Her face was deathly pale. She stroked her faithful little lapdog mechanically but took no notice of his playfulness.