The fifteenth of June. Wasn’t that one of the so-called “black” days? Dies atri she recalled her mother calling these ill-starred days—days on which one should not start anything new. No travel. No signing contracts. And certainly no doctors letting blood. Her mother’s superstition about those days was strong—she had gone so far as to hang dark curtains over the windows. “It was on one such day that Christ was nailed to the cross. Do we need any greater proof of how fateful these days can be?”
A weak smile crept over Püppi’s face as she recalled her mother’s hands folded in prayer. Her mother had liked to pray. Often, long, and wherever the urge took her. But in the end it had not done her much good. Together with her husband, Püppi’s father, she was murdered in an attack on their isolated summer palace. Püppi and her siblings were away in Tsarskoje Selo at the time. Their parents were murdered on the first of April, the day on which Judas was born. Also a dies ater, as Püppi discovered much later.
And Elena wanted to get engaged today, of all days. But days like today were more suited to farewells!
Püppi’s eye fell on the bouquet, from which more and more petals had fallen. She had had to say farewell to so many, many people over the years . . .
Her parents had been the first, then Josephina in the fire, then her sons. Both had perished in the war. Then Stepan had left her, although he had not been a bad husband. And her own youth had slipped away so mysteriously that Püppi had not even been able to give it a decent send-off. Then, slowly, day by day, year by year, her beauty had slunk off into the background. And now, last of all, her health was gone.
Püppi tried in vain to take a deep breath, trying to break through the constricting ring that seemed coiled around her chest. She padded back into the room. She was not sure that all the therapeutic baths she took in that terribly hot water were as beneficial as Konstantin seemed to believe. They seemed, if anything, to make her weaker and more tired. But every day, he insisted on them. Why did she let him persuade her?
Stealthily, one day, her love of parties had also disappeared—Püppi no longer wanted to celebrate through the nights, as she had done for decades. She preferred to spend her time alone, as now.
She turned her watch a little so that the glimmer of the candle fell on its mother-of-pearl face. Fifteen minutes past three. Konstantin would come back from his card game soon. She would ask him to take her to Sophia’s house late in the morning—perhaps the engagement planned for that evening could yet be postponed. No girl should get engaged on one of the black days.
You and your superstitions, she heard Konstantin say in her mind, mocking her. Why don’t you just stay in the hotel and rest? A party at the Markovs would be too strenuous anyway, he would say. She would nod, and he would go without her.
The mother-of-pearl watch face showed eighteen minutes past three.
It was still dark outside.
Püppi’s eyes closed.
Flora had decorated the entire house. A dozen enormous flowerpots stood around the bronze statue beside the entrance to the Villa Markov, while in the house itself a veritable sea of flowers would greet the guests. The balustrade up to the second floor, the stairs and landing, the large portrait on the wall that depicted the master and mistress of the house—Flora had decorated all of it with her arrangements. On a table along one wall stood polished crystal glasses beside dozens of bottles of champagne in buckets of ice, and Flora had covered it with an embroidered tablecloth, while in the center of the table stood a magnificent porcelain jardinière overflowing with blooms.
Although her hands were cut and sore from the arduous work on the garlands and spectacular arrangements, Flora was satisfied with what she had achieved. It would take a visitor hours to discover every single flower, if they were so inclined.
The family and the guests were still out enjoying a walk along Lichtenthaler Allee. Until the first of them arrived, Flora had nothing to do. Later, if the princess wanted her to, she would help pour drinks for the guests.
Flora stepped out the back door into the expansive gardens. They could just as well have served the champagne out there, she thought. Why hadn’t she noticed how picturesque the gardens were during her first visit?
Because you haven’t been able to concentrate on anything at all this week, again!
Konstantin had not shown his face in the shop for a week. What was so much more important than being “kindred souls” that he simply forgot about her like this? Had she only imagined the bond between them? And why did it all affect her so deeply?
Flora sighed and sat down on a stone bench. Maybe she would feel better if she could find a little time to rest.
What is going on with me? she asked herself, not for the first time, as she absentmindedly picked a lonely daisy beside the bench. It was all she could do to get through her daily work. She was tetchy with Friedrich, and even Alexander had suffered her impatience that week.
He’ll come, he won’t, he’ll come, he—
Flora looked at the daisy in her hand, plucked bare.
She had never in her life called on the power of the flower oracle for herself. She threw the remains of the flower away in disgust and wiped her hands on her skirt as if they were soiled.
The woman on the floor was surrounded by a crowd of people. They were standing or kneeling, some on her dress, ignoring the quality of the fabric. One was waving a fan, another held a bottle of smelling salts under her nose, and a younger man—probably the fiancé—dabbed at her temples with chilled champagne. But Elena had fainted so deeply that nothing seemed able to wake her.
“How could you?” Princess Markova shrieked at Flora. The bride-to-be’s mother was trembling with fury.
“I . . . I don’t know how—” Flora began, but at the look on the princess’s face, she fell silent. All she saw was abhorrence and horror.
“You could have brought anything, any flower in the world! Anything but red roses!” The princess looked as if she might spit on Flora at any moment. “I will never, never forgive you for this!”
Flora’s apology was not accepted. Nor was her offer to somehow make good for her terrible error. Beneath an onslaught of Russian curses, she packed all the red roses onto the handcart, out of Sophia’s and Elena’s sight.
Flora held her head high as she left the house, just as the doctor that had been called arrived. But the moment she was outside, the first tears came. And when she reached Lichtenthaler Allee, nothing could hold back the flood.
How could she have made a mistake like that? The princess had said something about red roses. She remembered that. But she had utterly forgotten the “under no circumstances” part. Why hadn’t she written herself a note at the time?
She left the handcart standing and ran away from the path, out into the meadows, the same meadows where she picked flowers every morning. She wanted to be alone, somewhere no one would find her. Her skirt caught in the high grass, and low-hanging branches whipped her face. Once, she tripped over a root. But Flora felt none of it. Beneath an ancient oak, she finally sank to the ground wailing.
She had never in her life been so muddled. She lamented ever meeting Konstantin, because meeting him meant she thought of him constantly, wherever she was. Being in love like that was dreadful, just dreadful!
Flora’s body heaved with her crying, and behind her hands thrown over her face, her tears would not stop.
“Flora! For God’s sake! What’s the matter? I saw your cart over on the path.”
She looked up in astonishment and squinted against the sun. She had not heard anyone approach.
“You? Why you?” she cried when she realized she was looking at Konstantin. “What do you want?” She let out a sob. “I . . . I want to be alone. Leave! Go away!” When he did not do as she said, she lashed out at him with her fists. “You . . . you terrible man! If only I’d never met you, you . . . you bring me nothing but trouble and more trouble.” With every word, drops of spittle hit Konstantin’s face. Flora did not care. “You don’t show your face for a week, so why now? I hate you!”
“Püppi is dead.”
Flora stopped crying in a heartbeat.