The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  So instead of a kiss, she stiffly shook his hand. “Thank you so much!” Then she hooked her arm into Sabine Weingarten’s and laughed gaily. “What are we waiting for?”

  The pharmacist cleared his throat. “Sabine ought to be getting home, actually. In her condition, an outing like this would be too strenuous altogether.”

  “But—” Sabine began. Her disappointment was obvious.

  “Sabine,” said Mr. Weingarten in a doting voice—but firmly—and his wife nodded.

  “You’re right, Frieder. I’ll put my feet up for a bit, then I’ll get dinner started.”

  Clara watched unhappily as Sabine left. Situations like that were all too familiar to her.

  Heinrich Schmidt was eighty-three years old, and until recently had run a tobacconist’s shop there. Clara could still smell the tobacco when Mr. Schmidt showed her around. There was a spacious sales room at the front, and, behind a tattered curtain, there was a small kitchen and a slightly larger storeroom. Like the place on Höllgasse Lane, the sales room also had two large front windows, with the entry door situated between them. Clara hoped that Therese would move her business so they could share this space, too. The hairdresser was a bit flighty, but she was sincere, likeable, and straightforward—traits that Clara appreciated very much, and which ultimately meant more to her than perfect punctuality or a beautifully polished mirror.

  “I’m moving to Switzerland next year to be with my daughter,” said the old man, interrupting Clara’s train of thought, “so I’m looking for someone to rent the shop and eventually for a tenant for my apartment on the second floor. It’s more than a year away, but would that be of interest to you? If not, I will still rent you the shop, and I’ll look for someone else to rent the apartment.”

  She blinked, taken aback. Had she heard right? An apartment of her own! That would be a big step toward being able to offer her children a place they could call home. Please, God, don’t let this be a dream, she prayed, as the New Year’s sun filled the salesroom with golden light.

  “I would very much like to rent the apartment also,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement.

  “I will still need to live here until April or so next year. It’s a long way off, but one step at a time, as I always say.”

  Clara nodded. One step at a time—wasn’t that how she had done things herself? As much as she wanted to establish herself, she knew she had to be patient.

  “Don’t think I haven’t heard what the people in town have been saying about you. That your creams cause rashes and damage the skin,” Mr. Schmidt said unexpectedly. “But when I see your flawless skin, I know that can’t be true. Besides, I’ve never put much weight in other people’s gossip.” He patted Clara’s arm awkwardly. “When I look at you, I can see that you are an honest sort. I haven’t seen a single woman in town with a rash, but I have seen some with nothing but envy in their eyes when they talk about you, the successful businesswoman.”

  “Successful businesswoman.” Clara laughed bitterly. “I can’t say I feel like one right now.”

  “It will all be yesterday’s news before you know, take my word for it. If you like, we can make a deal. And your business partner, the young hairdresser Mr. Weingarten told me about, would also be welcome, of course.”

  The next day, Clara and Therese moved out of the space on Höllgasse Lane. They could hardly wait to get away from their unsavory landlord and his witch of a wife.

  Their new shop was in such good condition that it only needed a few small repairs. Still, the next week was a whirlwind of packing up, cleaning, moving out, moving in, and painting. As in the old store, Clara decorated her half of the shop in lavender and lime green. When they celebrated their opening day on January 7, the rooms still smelled faintly of paint. They would not have managed it at all without working together, and Clara saw how capable Therese could be when it really mattered.

  A new beginning in a new year. And on the exact same day she had opened her first shop. If that wasn’t a good omen, nothing was!

  On opening day, Clara hung a sign in the shop window advertising a free cream for every woman who booked a facial treatment. Since her return from Berlin, she had thought almost single-mindedly about how to win back her reputation and her customers. She was certain that if she could get the women back in her shop, she would be able to convince them once again about her trustworthiness and the quality of her products.

  Isabelle, whom she had reported to at length not only about her miserable return to Berlin and having to spend another Christmas without her children, but also about her professional dilemma, had written back: You have to offer your customers something for free! Nothing brings people in and gets them to buy products as much as free samples. I know from my own experience that the more champagne you pour for your customers at a tasting, the more they buy afterward.

  Isabelle’s advice had come as a revelation to Clara, and because of it—even before it was clear that she would move into the shop in Unterstadtstrasse—she had begun stocking up on her creams. From the first day, pretty glass pots of delicately scented creams filled the shelves in her new place of business.

  Whether it was the sign that drew the women of Meersburg back into Clara’s new Bel Étage or just plain curiosity, Clara did not know. Whatever the reason, what mattered was that the customers who had deserted her were now back. Fabienne from the flower shop came in for a face massage, and after her came Roswitha Maier from the Green Tree. The mayor’s wife arrived with a woman from the town council, and all of them were happy to take Clara’s free gift. No one said a word about how her creams might damage their skin; instead they looked curiously around the brightly lit, elegant sales room.

  “You feel like you’re on a throne here,” said Fabienne when she took her place on Clara’s treatment chair. She ran her chapped hands almost reverently over the arms of the chair, which Clara had had gilded.

  “I think every woman, in her way, is a queen,” Clara replied. “You are the Queen of Flowers. But I’m afraid your hands look more sorry than sovereign. Luckily, I’ve developed a brand-new hand cream that will be just the thing. I’ll give you a hand massage with it, and then you can see for yourself. Now relax. You work so hard, you’ve more than earned a little rest.”

  The florist looked at Clara gratefully. “No one’s ever said that to me before. And you’ll really give me a cream to take with me?”

  Clara smiled and nodded.

  Though it would be months before the tourist season began, Clara’s appointment book was so full that Clara and her assistant, Sophie, were kept busy from opening time until well into the evening.

  If Count Zeppelin succeeds in his bid to convince the military of the performance of his dirigibles, nothing more will stand in the way of an important contract. That would mean a meteoric boost for the airship business at Lake Constance. In summer, Count Zeppelin is planning to undertake a twenty-four-hour test flight with his LZ 4 airship, and the entire Lake Constance region is keeping its fingers crossed for him and his engineers!

  Three months after opening her new Bel Étage, Clara looked up from the newspaper. She was at the Esplanade Café, where she had breakfast every morning, and she looked out over the lake in the direction of Friedrichshafen, where Count Zeppelin had his factory. In some way she felt oddly connected with the man. The business aspirations of the Zeppelin factory were characterized by a constant change of fortunes. Every success was followed by a setback, and every setback led to the next triumph. The ups and downs were no different for her and Bel Étage, she thought as she finished her coffee. She paid her bill and had just left the café when a loud honking sounded behind her and made her jump. She turned around to see who the driver was, and when she saw who was behind the wheel, she almost jumped a second time.

  “Lilo?”

  Her friend grinned, then reached across to open the passenger door for her. “Come on! Come for a spin.”

  Clara laughed aloud. “I’d love to, but I
have to get to the shop.”

  “You don’t have to do anything of the sort,” Lilo said. “You have half an hour before you have to be there. And if you are a few minutes late, your customers will wait.”

  “What kind of car is it?” Clara asked as soon as she sat in the passenger seat. The interior smelled of leather and luxury.

  Lilo laughed. “It’s a Brennabor Type A1. I didn’t want a Daimler, and the Brennabor is much sportier. The company has its headquarters up in Brandenburg. They want to open their own racing arm this year and win some big races, and I’m sure they’ll do it. My car, for one, is very fast. Want me to step on the gas?”

  “Better not,” Clara said quickly while Lilo swung her new toy daringly around a corner. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to buy a car? And where did you learn to drive? I imagine it must be very complicated.” Clara pointed to the buttons on the metal dashboard, which glinted like pure silver in the sunlight.

  “And you probably thought that driving was only something that men do, right? Ha!” Lilo was beaming. “Driving is fantastic. It makes me feel so carefree, just like I used to feel when I was cycling.”

  Clara smiled and leaned back in her comfortable seat. Yes, driving an automobile was wonderful, she thought as the buildings of Meersburg flew by. As was everything else: the Meersburg shops with their splendid displays, and one of them was hers. The show of flowers along the lakeshore and the violet-blue sky. The cheerful mood that had rolled through town with the arrival of the first tourists. Business was booming everywhere, one marvel of technology followed another, and there was a steady stream of premieres in the theaters. People were celebrating themselves and their inventiveness, champagne bottles were popping in drawing rooms, and the newspapers carried stories about the Belle Époque. For Clara, it was enough to say: life was beautiful.

  Half an hour later, Clara was at her new shop. And her heart gave a small joyful leap to be there, just as it had every day since she and Therese had moved in in January.

  “I can’t wait to hear what the Countess Zuzanna has to say about our new shop,” Clara said to Therese as she took a moment to simply stand at the window and admire her shop and the view. Through a small gap between two houses opposite, they could see the lake glittering—Clara found the sight just as enchanting then as she had on the first day in their new location.

  “Zuzanna? But she isn’t even in town,” Therese lisped, a collection of hairpins between her lips as she did her best to pin up her thin, rebellious hair. “I’ve heard a rumor that she may not be coming at all, and that she’s going to stay in Baden-Baden.”

  Clara’s face fell instantly. “That would be a shame.” She had been looking forward to seeing her patron again. She had produced a cream especially for her, with the scent of damask roses.

  But that was not the only thing new to Clara’s range—her shelves were practically overflowing with new products: a cooling cream made with peppermint, a facial toner with the perfume of lemon blossoms, a new hand cream that the skin absorbed more quickly. And even though her product range was already substantially bigger than the year before, Clara dreamed all the time of creating new beauty products. “Here, sniff,” she said, and held an elegant carafe of almond oil under her friend’s nose.

  “Hmm, that smells as if someone had just peeled an orange,” said Therese. “May I?” Without waiting for Clara’s answer, she poured a few drops of the oil onto the palm of her left hand. Then she rubbed both hands together and ran them through her hair, which immediately became shinier and more obliging.

  Clara watched with interest. “Yes, there’s orange to scent the almond oil. That’s actually meant to be a body oil. But you’ve given me an idea . . . Maybe I should be thinking about hair products also?”

  Therese groaned and handed back the carafe. “Clara, you always manage to give me a bad conscience! Shouldn’t it be my job to rack my brains about hair care?”

  “It should. So any new ideas?” Clara asked with genuine curiosity, but all Therese did was groan louder.

  “No, and no plans to get any, either. My customers are satisfied with what I already give them. Besides, life isn’t just for working, even though someone seems to have drummed that into you. Believe me, my dear, life is so much lovelier if you simply enjoy it!” She blew a kiss first to her reflection in the mirror, then to Clara, then she pirouetted across the shop like a ballerina.

  Clara laughed. “If I ever need a lesson on how to enjoy life, then I’ll come straight to you.” She flipped open her dark-blue leather appointment book to see who her first customer was. Emmaline Möricke. She did not recognize the name. A new customer. Sophie must have made the appointment.

  Therese grew serious. “I know what drives you, you know,” she said quietly. “My child would be almost three years old now, if God had wanted her to be. Believe me, I would have done anything for her, too. Which is to say—work hard only to give your ex-husband as good as he’s given you, and the sooner the better. And if I can ever help you do that, in any way, tell me. I’ll always be on your side.”

  “Thank you. That’s very nice to hear,” said Clara, her voice a little husky. She wasn’t sure how Therese might help her, but it felt good just to know that the offer was there.

  In a weak moment, Clara had told Therese everything. Lilo and Therese were the only ones who knew Clara’s secret. Everyone else in Meersburg believed she was a childless widow.

  Therese’s cheeky expression returned. “Even so, I’m not going to stop until you’ve enjoyed at least a little of the good life! And if you ask me, that works best when you have a generous lover who pays for it all. Picture it—then you could work just because you felt like it, like me,” she said, plucking hair out of the bristles of a brush. “Tomorrow evening there’s a dance at the Lakeview Hotel. Thierry and I will be there, and I’m sure he won’t have anything against you coming along. There will be plenty of dashing young men there.” She batted her eyelids flirtatiously.

  “Dashing young men! Listen to you! I’m not twenty anymore, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Clara laughed. Then, more seriously, she said, “Besides, if word ever reached Berlin that I was running around with dashing young men, I can forget all about visitation rights for my children. Quite apart from that, though, I have no intention of living off any man, certainly not when I can stand on my own two feet. Besides, I don’t have the time to fall in love. As soon as we close for the day, I have to start on the creams and lotions, or I won’t have anything to sell tomorrow.”

  Just then, the bell jangled, and a woman Clara had never seen before tentatively stepped inside.

  “Good morning. Can I help you?” said Clara with a friendly smile.

  “Good morning. I’m Emmaline Möricke. I have an appointment for a skin consultation,” said the woman, who did not look up. “My skin is so thin and pale, especially my cheeks. Look.” With two fingertips, she pinched the skin on her cheek; it looked almost lifeless. “My husband says I look like a specter . . .” Her last words were no more than a whisper. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t like to look at me anymore.”

  “Oh, I can’t believe that. An enchanting woman like you?” said Clara consolingly though she was churning inside. Why were some men so incredibly insensitive?

  Clara asked the woman to sit in her gilded chair, then she took her magnifying glass and looked at Emmaline Möricke’s skin more closely. “You don’t have the slightest sign of pimples, nor any other impurities,” she said. “Your skin does have a gray sheen to it, but we’ll soon take care of that.” She hardly ever gets outside, Clara thought. Back in Berlin, she often walked past a shoe factory, and at shift change, the women who worked there came streaming out after twelve hours of work, and their skin looked just as tired as Emmaline Möricke’s. And if the skin looks so miserable, how must the woman inside it feel? Clara wondered.

  “A fresh toner to cleanse the skin, regular massage with a firming oil, and a light cream for everyday use. That will
do you a world of good,” she said, putting the magnifying glass aside. She took the woman’s hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “But even better would be for you to get out now and then during the day. Get outside in the fresh air, every day, even just for a few minutes. A short walk by the lake, the spring breeze—that will help the blood flow to your skin. And it will do even more for your well-being.”

  The woman looked at Clara through tired eyes. “That would be nice. But from early in the morning until the evening, I can’t get out of our office. My husband runs a large hardware business, and we supply all the factories around Friedrichshafen. With the bookkeeping and looking after the house and children, I’m busy all the time.”

  “You do all the housekeeping as well?” Clara asked.

  Emmaline Möricke nodded. “Franz thinks it isn’t worth employing someone to help in the house, and as soon as we close up for the day, I cook, clean, and iron. There’s really no time at all to go for a walk. I’ve stolen today for myself, more or less. Franz is off with the Friedrichshafen businessmen at a spring picnic.

  I’d like to give that Franz a piece my mind, thought Clara. Men had no idea how hard it was to manage a household.

  “You haven’t stolen today at all. You’ve earned it,” she said resolutely. “I’ll let you try out all my different creams today, and you can decide for yourself which one you like the most. Then I’ll give you a face massage, and show you how to do it yourself at home. You’ll feel much better after that, I’m certain.”

  Her encouraging tone must have had some effect: for the first time since entering the store, the woman smiled.

  Two hours later, Emmaline Möricke left Bel Étage with radiant skin and a promise that from then on, she would take at least half an hour a day for herself.

  Clara was not sure that the woman would keep her promise or her follow-up appointment. Would her daily routine start to wear her down again as soon as she opened the front door? “For every woman who works in a factory, for every secretary, the working day comes to an end sometime. But what about for you?” Clara had asked, and had felt like adding: “How long are you going to let your husband exploit you like this?” But that, of course, was not a question she could pose. Still, she had had the feeling that Emmaline Möricke had been asking herself the same question for a long time. Would she push it aside or make room for it?