Michele cheered.
The guesthouse was located at the junction of two well-used roads. From there, travelers could go to Dronero or farther to the larger city of Cuneo, and then on to the Ligurian coast. But it was also the gateway to the wild and sparsely populated highlands surrounding Monte Chersogno. The brothers’ hometown, Elva, lay in the shadow of the high mountain. Roberto looked up at the mountain; he’d give anything not to have to hike back up there the next day.
A clamor of voices and the heavy scent of garlic and cooked offal greeted the brothers as they entered. The guesthouse was crowded, and Roberto looked around, feeling a little self-conscious until he saw two empty chairs at a large round table toward the back. Four chairs at the table were already occupied—two by men wearing exceptionally elegant suits, and two by younger men in breeches and coarse leather boots.
Roberto steered Michele toward the table, where one of the elegantly dressed men—in his midforties, Roberto guessed—was talking. The other three listened attentively.
“. . . and then I said to my business contact, ‘Listen, my man, you won’t get away with games like that on me!’ But that’s the Milanese for you. Think they’re better than everyone else, ha!”
Roberto cleared his throat. “Pardon me, are these two seats available?”
The gentleman paused his storytelling and looked from one brother to the other. He must have liked what he saw because with a sweep of his arm, he waved them closer. “Join us! What about a glass of wine? On me, of course! Alfonso Scavize, at your service. I was just telling . . .”
Before Roberto and Michele knew it, each had a large glass of red wine in front of him and they had ordered pasta dinners. They exchanged a happy look. “Looks like we picked the right table,” Michele whispered to Roberto in Occitan.
“In Milan, there will soon be more cars driving around than horses and carriages. Next time I visit the city, I’m going to rent one and drive it to the Scala!” Scavize looked around for approval of his plan. He was on his way home to Genoa, he then told the brothers, something the others at the table already seemed to have heard. But he said nothing about the purpose of his trip or how he earned his money.
He doesn’t seem too hard up, at least, Roberto thought as he admired the fine cloth of Scavize’s suit. Then, instinctively, he looked down at his own old suit, tailored from coarse linen. His mother had sewn the jacket and trousers for him, and they fit well enough, but no one would ever call his outfit smart.
“To the Scala in Milan with an automobile? Isn’t that a little vulgar? I’d be happier with a decent four-in-hand with silk benches, gilded lamps, and a uniformed coachman,” said the man beside him, who had introduced himself as Gianfranco de Lucca. He was a fabric merchant from Naples who had been in the German lands on business. Good business, by all appearances, because he immediately ordered another round of red wine for the table.
“You have no idea! The automobile is the vehicle of the future. Let me tell you, in Vienna, where I come from . . .”
Roberto ate his pasta in silence. He had never seen an automobile. A machine like that must be a breathtaking sight.
Michele pushed his empty plate away and patted his stomach. “You don’t see a fine meal like that every day, I’ll tell you. That’s the good thing about traveling on business.”
The man beside him, who looked young and athletic and up to then had said very little, looked at Michele with a frown. “What’s so special about pasta and Bolognese sauce?” He and his companion were eating venison stew.
“It’s just a figure of speech around here,” said Roberto hurriedly. He looked irritably at Michele. Couldn’t his brother at least act as if he had some sophistication?
“Ah, you’re from this region, then? Where, exactly?” asked the athletic man. Neither he nor his companion had touched their glass of wine but drank water instead.
“From Elva,” Roberto answered.
“Isn’t that the village of the hair traders?” asked the Genoan merchant. “Creepy business, that. Cutting the hair off poor young women . . . just the thought of it!”
Roberto and Michele exchanged a look. They were used to people looking down on their line of work, and they had put up with their share of ridicule and derision. In the eyes of outsiders, it made no difference that they earned very good money from it, and the brothers, as a rule, said nothing to anyone about what they did for a living.
“What brings you to the region?” Roberto asked, a distraction, and he turned to the two young men wearing breeches.
“We’re from Rome, and we want to climb Chersogno,” one said.
“That’s right,” the other added. “Is it true that from Elva it takes six hours to climb Chersogno?”
Roberto shrugged. “I think that would do it. But there is still snow up there. Do you have the right equipment?” Why anyone would voluntarily climb a high mountain was a puzzle to him.
The two men grinned. “We’ve got the best equipment money can buy. And more than enough experience, don’t worry.”
Michele, who had only listened to the exchange until now, joined in. “Pardon me for asking, but . . . why do you want to climb Chersogno at all?”
Roberto smiled to himself. It happened often that one brother thought something and the other put it into words . . . but the next moment, his smile froze.
“Because I can,” said the climber, confident and cool.
Roberto’s hand rose to his right ear as if someone had slapped him there. He could have lived with any other answer. If the young Roman had said “Because I love nature” or “Because I want to test myself” or “Because I’m competing with my friend,” Roberto would simply have nodded and shrugged and been content with that.
“Because I can”—with those three words, the man had demonstrated the gulf that existed between them. It wasn’t that one was from Rome and the other from Elva. Or their different professions. No, it was that the Roman was free, and he, Roberto, was not.
Because I can . . .
Chapter Sixteen
Clara had never been as aware of the seasons changing as she was at Lake Constance. At first she believed that late summer was surely the loveliest time of year at the lake. Everything was so buoyant and alive: the vibrant lakefront promenade, the water as if speckled white with all the boats. Then came autumn with its vibrant colors, then winter, and the memory of the bustle of the summer months gave way to calm and quiet. Swathes of fog enveloped the lake like a lace scarf. Some of the locals complained about the foggy winters and how they could make for melancholy, but Clara perceived it differently. For her, the fog softened everything hard, quieted everything loud. Besides, there were still days when the air was so clear that one could see every silhouette on the Swiss shore opposite—it looked almost within reach. There wasn’t much snow, but the frost lay like a sugar coating over the dried-out stalks of the reeds and the seaweed. On such days, the lakeshore seemed especially enchanted.
Now when Clara went for her morning walk beside the water, she was alone except for a few ducks and some dogs with their owners. The peace and quiet and the exercise helped her at least partly to clear her head, which was buzzing with a thousand ideas. Could the lake be any more lovely than it is in winter? she wondered.
“You haven’t yet been here in spring,” said Lilo one evening in late February when Clara was telling her about her impressions. “When the tulips and daffodils are blooming in every garden and in planters along the promenades, when the petals from the fruit trees are coming down like fresh snow, when the first green leaves appear in the vineyards—for me, that is the most beautiful time of year. And besides”—Lilo grinned—“I can finally go swimming again.”
Clara nodded fervently. She missed swimming, too. She could not remember ever looking forward to the spring as much as she was now.
But there was still some time before spring would arrive, and she wanted to make the most of it. To distract herself from how much she missed her childr
en, and staying true to the motto “Hard work, light heart,” she redoubled her efforts in the shop. If there were no customers, she disappeared into her laboratory to test a new ingredient in a cream or to try out a new recipe for a facial toner. “Lavender Water,” “Rose Crème,” and “Peppermint Tincture”—every time Clara walked past the shelves displaying her products, she was overcome with a feeling of happiness. Her creams, soaps, and tinctures were not only the highest quality, but also very attractively packaged. And her customers, it seemed, felt the same way. It wasn’t exactly as if the women of Meersburg were breaking down her door, but she had between five and ten customers every day. Considering that she had only opened at the start of January, Clara was happy with the business she had. She could pay her share of the rent and buy ingredients for new products, and she still had a little left over for herself. She consoled herself with Therese’s prediction that visitors would arrive along with spring. “Then your register will really be ringing, you’ll see!” said Therese, and her eyes gleamed in anticipation.
Winter retreated. The birds twittered joyfully. The sun shone from a radiant blue sky, and the lake glittered more brightly than Clara had ever seen. Meersburg woke from its hibernation. Troughs of flowers were planted, window frames given a fresh coat of paint, and the owners of the cafés and bars put out small tables and chairs for those guests who preferred to drink their coffee al fresco. In the hotels, the maids and handymen were busy from morning to evening with spring cleaning and repairs. The Meersburgers waved cheerfully to the new carriages appearing on their streets, and even more cheerfully to the occasional automobile. Meersburg was ready. The season could begin!
“In the Southern Germany Illustrated News, it says that in the big cities, more and more hairdressers are offering what they call a permanent wave. It’s new; a man named Karl Nessler introduced the process only last year.” Therese looked up from what she was reading. “What do you think? Should I add an electric permanent-wave machine for this season?”
Clara, who dreaded more noise similar to that made by the hair dryer, said, “You already get very lovely curls with those curlers of yours. Why do you need a machine? Besides, a thing like that would cost a lot of money, wouldn’t it?” She took a step back from her show window and looked at her new display: a pyramid of jars of cream and a bouquet of purple tulips. She thought it looked vernal.
“But I could really use it to wave to the seasonal guests, you know?” Therese laughed at her wordplay. “With the new technique, I could create long-lasting curls instead of curls that only last for a night . . . I’d do one for you for free, naturally.”
“What if something goes wrong?” Clara did not like the thought of having toxic or burning chemicals on her scalp at all. And anyway, she had grown so used to her classic chignon that she could no longer imagine having her hair done any other way.
Therese laughed her carefree laugh. “Then my name will really be mud. But that won’t happen.”
Clara joined in the laughter halfheartedly. Instead of chemicals and machines, Therese could boost her business by replacing the dry fir tree branches left over from Christmas and making her shop window a little more springlike. “Fantastic idea, I’ll do it,” Therese had assured Clara the week before, but nothing had happened since.
“Oops, customer!” said Clara, glancing toward the door. Therese immediately jumped up and wiped a dust cloth over her mirror, while Clara went to the stove and put on water to warm for a pedicure. They had agreed it was not good for customers to catch them idling.
The door opened with so much force that the glass rattled in its frame. “Made it!” said Roswitha Maier, who ran the Green Tree restaurant, as she sank into Clara’s treatment chair, completely out of breath. “I ran as fast as I could . . . I hope nobody saw me.”
“What would be so terrible if they did?” Clara asked Roswitha, and not for the first time. “You don’t have to feel bad about visiting my shop. It just shows that you care about your appearance.” She pulled over a stool, sat in front of Roswitha, and began the pedicure Roswitha treated herself to every four weeks. It was Roswitha Maier, in fact, who had got Clara thinking about pedicures in the first place. “With all due respect to your creams,” Roswitha had said the first time she visited, “when you see my horrible, chapped feet, you’ll know that a cream alone won’t help.” With one look at the woman’s maltreated feet, Clara had had to admit she was right.
“You say that, my dear Mrs. Berg,” Roswitha said now. “But the people here love to talk, and in the end the proprietress at the Green Tree turns into a vain and lazy creature.”
Clara felt compelled to laugh along with her customer; in truth, however, she did not find that kind of talk very funny. It would have been better for her business if women like Roswitha Maier were less concerned about what others said about them.
While Clara went back to the stove to finish preparing the footbath, Roswitha chattered away. “They say that the first of the nobility will be coming this week. I heard it from Veronica, the maid at the Bellavista.”
Clara was suddenly all ears. “This week? Already? But it’s still April. I thought the nobility only came to the lake in mid-May.” She glanced inquisitively over toward Therese, but the hairdresser only responded with a shrug.
Roswitha laughed. “Once upon a time! Oh, yes, the king and his immediate retinue are still up in Stuttgart or somewhere else right now. But the other nobles are coming earlier and earlier every year, which doesn’t surprise me! It’s especially lovely here now that everything is turning green and starting to flower. I told Elisabeth Kaiser to deliver three times as many fish starting next week. And I’ve already hired two more wait staff for the season. I’m well prepared.” Roswitha sounded very pleased with herself.
Clara frowned. If only she could say the same.
Advertising matters! Print some attractive leaflets and leave them at tourist spots and hotels. I’m sure Lilo, at least, wouldn’t object to a stack of them in her hotel, Isabelle had advised in a letter. Clara had been impressed. Leaflets advertising her business! Why hadn’t she thought of that?
Whatever advertising you do, make sure it has a personal touch, Josephine had advised. She and Clara had also been in regular contact. Anybody can put an ad in the local paper, but handwritten invitations are far more effective! Make the effort to find out who is arriving and when, and where they will be staying. And then send every important guest a personal invitation.
Clara had hurriedly sent off letters of thanks to her more experienced friends and assured them that she would put their ideas into practice.
That’s all well and good, thought Clara as she shaved a layer of callused skin from Roswitha’s right heel. She had bought some good paper, a fresh bottle of ink, and new pens, but she had not yet written a single invitation. Nor had she gotten very far with the leaflets: though she had commissioned a small printer with the job weeks earlier, the proprietor had not told her when she would receive them. At the time, Clara had believed it would be a while before the high-society visitors arrived, so she hadn’t pressed for a deadline.
Now, suddenly, it was urgent. She massaged her oiliest cream into Roswitha’s dry feet. “You should do this every evening at home. The chamomile in the cream helps to heal the chapping, and the marigold makes the skin supple,” she said. “And don’t you think you might like a facial? Now that spring is here, our skin loves to be pampered.” Clara made an effort not to stare at the woman’s wrinkled cheeks.
“I don’t know . . . ,” said Roswitha uncertainly. “I need my feet every day just to get around, but my face? Wouldn’t it be a waste of money?”
“Oh, certainly not,” Clara said with a smile. “You want to look appealing to your guests, don’t you? And to your husband. And to yourself! Every woman has the right to look as nice as she can.” She stood up, went to a shelf, and came back carrying a jar of cream. “Smell this.” She held the jar under Roswitha’s nose. “Doesn’t it smell like an expe
nsive perfume? And the ingredients are so beneficial. Your skin will thank you.”
Roswitha sniffed at the cream and sighed extravagantly. “Something like this is much too fancy for me. But I will take a jar of foot cream.”
When Roswitha stepped out the door, Clara sighed. “It’s a shame, the way the women here do so little for themselves. She spends the entire day on her feet, toiling away in her restaurant, and I am willing to bet that she takes care of her household, too. Yet she’s too miserly to do anything good for her skin. Why is that?”
Therese sniffed. “Her hair is certainly in need of some attention, too. But with Roswitha Maier, there’s no point talking about it. All she has in her head is her restaurant.”
Clara nodded. If she stopped to think about it, she had been just the same in her old life. She had spent every spare penny on the household, or had bought new clothes or a toy for the children instead of treating herself to something nice.
Although Clara could now support herself with sales of foot creams and face lotions, she wasn’t earning enough to start a savings. Expensive facials and courses of treatment over several weeks would bring in good money. She was convinced that, with such courses of treatment, she could work wonders for the women here. But she needed the right customers—upper-class women who not only had access to the money, but were prepared to spend it for the sake of beauty. Only then could Clara afford to travel to Berlin to see her children.
“You said the nobles would only start to arrive in the middle of May. Now, suddenly, the first ones are on their way, and I haven’t even written a single invitation!” If only she had spoken to Lilo about the arrival of the nobles instead of Therese!
“Calm down,” said Therese. “I can help you write the invitations, although I doubt the effort will be worth it.”
“I’ll gladly take the chance,” Clara said. Isabelle and Josephine would not have advised her to do it if it were a waste of time.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 13
