Despite her doubt, Clara hoped that she had helped the woman, at least a little. Ultimately, though, everyone had to be responsible for themselves. Clara knew that better than anyone, but sometimes it helped to get a little push from outside.
With a sigh, Clara began to soak the towel and brushes she had used for the facial in lukewarm soapy water.
Who knew what the coming season would bring? As she dried her hands, she had the feeling that a very special summer lay ahead. But living off a man—Therese could keep that piece of advice for someone else.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Once Roberto left the Alps, the path became easier. The new packhorse, for which he’d paid a ridiculous sum at the pass, was good-natured and strong and quickly adjusted to working with Roberto’s brown. Now that he no longer had to put up with Toni’s endless griping, Roberto should have been able to enjoy the journey, but with every step he took, his inner struggle intensified.
In a few days, he would reach Zurich. What then? Should he carry through with the plan that his father and Lorenzo Sorri had worked out? Or should he take the unique opportunity that Toni’s accident offered him? If he handled it cleverly, no one would find him, at least not easily. A new town, preferably with a new name . . .
As he led his two packhorses through Zurich’s magnificent center, he was still uncertain about what he would do. Zurich, with its huge guild houses, spacious squares, and beautiful stores was clearly a wealthy, vibrant city. Running a shop there would bring with it a great deal of prestige and respect. But for whom? Not for him, because he would have to return to Italy in the fall to once again cut off women’s hair. And his brother, Michele, would be the one enjoying the advantages that Zurich had to offer. It was perfectly clear to Roberto, however, that his own life would be very different, and the notion horrified him.
The Zurich town hall beside the Limmat River came into view. Everyone intending to stay in the city was supposed to register there.
Roberto turned to his horses and clucked his tongue.
“All right, you two, let’s pick it up! We’ve still got a long way to go.”
He laughed then, free and loud.
From then on, the inner voice that previously only had whispered its ambivalent messages became clear and unequivocal. Winterthur, Frauenfels, Konstanz—Roberto journeyed farther and farther with his horses. To live a new life, a life of his own, he could not stay in Switzerland. The danger of discovery was too great. But in the German lands, he was sure no one would suspect him, so Roberto boarded a ferry in Konstanz and set off for the far shore of the lake. The ferryman told him that he would disembark in a town called Meersburg. From there, his fellow passengers told him he could quickly make his way to Friedrichshafen. Or to Lindau or a dozen other German towns. Roberto nodded vaguely. He didn’t recognize any of the names they mentioned.
The German shore came closer, and Roberto could make out a collection of buildings set among grapevine-heavy hillsides. The buildings had something medieval about them, and their facades were brown, yellow, and dusky pink. Roberto had seen similar structures in the northern Italian mountain villages. Meersburg did not look especially large or as if it were the place to find a new life! But it was already afternoon, and he decided to look for a place to spend the night and take the time to think about where he wanted to go next, now that he had set himself free.
As Roberto climbed onto the dock at Meersburg, the ferryman told him that he could house the horses in the Marstall at the prince-bishop’s castle. And for a little more money, he could store the goods the horses were carrying in a lockable room in the castle. It was standard practice for those traveling through.
A prince-bishop’s castle? In this little town? For a moment, Roberto thought that he had misheard the man. His earlier travels had taken him to regions of northern Italy where German was spoken, so he understood the language, and while he wasn’t fluent, he could speak it reasonably well.
Still surprised, he turned away from the ferry dock to the lively esplanade, where one café after another offered respite to pedestrians.
“The tourists are here,” said the ferryman, who had followed his gaze. “Just like every year, they come and rain gold over Meersburg.”
Raining money? Tourists? Roberto was suddenly all ears. “What do these tourists do here in Meersburg?” he asked in halting German.
The ferryman laughed. “That’s a strange question. Look around! Meersburg has everything that the nobility and other well-heeled visitors love. The shops, the water, boating parties and regattas, strolling along the esplanade and up through the vineyards, concerts in the park, horse riding around the lake. And every evening, they’re in their villas or the hotels, carousing the night away. To tell the truth, I could use a little of that kind of summer myself,” said the man with a sigh.
Roberto’s senses were more alert than usual as he walked through the well-paved streets in the direction of the stables. All the automobiles driving around! Roberto admired a fine silver auto as it rumbled past. What must it feel like to be Count-this or Lord-that and sit at the wheel of such a contraption?
There were many people out walking, and Roberto heard languages other than German being spoken. So tourists came from other countries to visit Meersburg? That surprised him. As he made his way through the narrow streets with his two packhorses in tow, occasionally a woman glanced in his direction. But Roberto was accustomed to attracting female attention, and apart from that no one seemed to take much notice of him at all. The Meersburgers seemed to be used to foreigners in their midst. And Roberto noticed something else: the people there were dressed just as well as the rich citizens of Zurich. The women wore colorful, elaborate outfits with matching hats and parasols. Small handbags dangled from their wrists, looking well filled with coins.
And then there were all the beautiful shops! Tobacconists, stationers, a gentleman’s tailor and a shoemaker, several emporiums and—what was that? Roberto pulled up short in front of a small business. There were two huge front windows, one of which was beautifully decorated around a display of beauty products, and the other of which showed a sign for a hairdresser. A hairdresser that sold beauty potions? Roberto had never before seen such a shop. Should he stop by for a visit later? A chat with whoever ran the business might help him with his own plans. Somewhere, somehow, he would have to sell his wigs. Names, contacts, information: anything would be useful to him in his current situation. Maybe he could get them to cut his hair while he was there? He hadn’t seen a barbershop or men’s hairdresser anywhere else in Meersburg, and he was long overdue for a haircut. The last time, Gaia had done it for him in Elva, and it was certainly not among her strengths.
Elva . . . it already felt like a place from another life. Roberto was only interested in what was right here. The town smelled of money and wealth, and there was a cheerful mood that Roberto found infectious. Whistling a little tune, he climbed the last short stretch of the hill on which the Marstall was situated. As soon as he secured his goods and stabled the horses, he would have to find a guesthouse for himself. After that, he would take a closer look at this extraordinary town.
Berlin, April 1908
Dear Clara,
As always, I hope this letter finds you in the best of health. I would so love to be there at Lake Constance, to go strolling along the shore with you and enjoy all the beautiful flowers that you described so vividly in your last letter.
Clara smiled wistfully. Every time she received a letter from Isabelle or Josephine, she felt a pang of longing for her friends. Would she manage to see them again that year?
Spring has come to Berlin again, and the old chestnut trees along the boulevards are all bursting into bloom.
Strange, thought Clara. It wasn’t like Josephine to write so much about trees and flowers. Was her friend turning into a romantic? Clara smiled to herself.
A shadow moved across the front door, then moved on. She sighed, relieved it wasn’t a customer. She wanted
to read Jo’s letter to the end.
Clara, I’m happy to say that your children are well. Sophie and my Amelie are going to violin lessons together, which means I get to see your daughter at least once a week. She is content, and she laughs all the time. Though neither she nor Amelie seems very fond of playing the violin . . .
Sophie and the violin? That was hard for Clara to imagine. She breathed deeply, as if that might ease the little stabs she felt around her heart. If anything, she would have suggested the tambourine. That would certainly have been more suitable for her spirited daughter.
Sophie has told me that Matthias feels at home in his new school, and that he’s at the top of his class.
There’s something else that I heard from Sophie. Oh, Clara, I don’t know how to break this news to you gently.
Gerhard has married again. It was last week, and his new wife—would you believe it!—is the young nanny. Sophie was all smiles when she told me he was getting married and that they had bought her a new dress for the occasion.
Clara lowered the letter to her knees. She sat for a moment without moving. Her mind was empty, and her heart beat slower than usual. That . . . couldn’t be, could it? Sophie must have made it up. Children came out with the craziest stories sometimes. Her hands trembling, she picked up the letter again.
At first, I didn’t want to believe her. I laughed and told her the new dress must be for some other occasion. I’m afraid I rather confused the poor child.
Clara swallowed. Poor little Sophie . . . What did they do to them, the grown-ups?
But on the same day, the Berliner Evening Post published an article about how the divorced Dr. Gerhard Gropius, treated so despicably by his first wife, had found a second chance at happiness, and that the ceremony was to take place at the town hall among a small circle of close friends. Dear Clara, believe me, the very thought offended me.
A wedding. A small circle of friends. Sophie and Matthias with a new mother.
Dearest Clara, I have done something I am not especially proud of. On the day of the wedding, I hid behind a pillar in the lobby at the town hall. It had nothing to do with curiosity, please believe me, and certainly not with sensationalism. I had to see it with my own eyes, or I simply would not have been able to believe it. I hope this news does not break your heart, but if I were in your shoes, I would want to know everything, so I will write everything I saw as completely as I can. The children were both there. Matthias wore a suit, which made him look very grown-up indeed. And Sophie had the most adorable pink ribbons in her hair. Both of them were very excited, and Sophie was hopping from one foot to the other. Gerhard looked fit to burst with pride and self-satisfaction. The bride wore a pink dress. She looked so young and innocent that it made my heart ache to see her. I wonder if she has any idea whom she’s marrying. Such a lovely creature, giving herself up to a dog like that . . . Your history is repeating itself, Clara. Isn’t that awful?
Clara sobbed aloud. The letter fell to the floor and tears flowed down her cheeks. The doorbell rang, but Clara didn’t care.
“Sorry I’m so late. My hair was driving me mad again. It took me half an hour to get it this far. If this goes on, I’m going to start wearing a wig!” With an effusive sigh, Therese threw her summer coat over the back of a chair. Only then did she look over to Clara. A moment later, Therese was holding her in her arms. “Clara, sweetheart, what is it?”
“It’s all over, all of it,” Clara blurted. “Gerhard has married again. Sophie and Matthias have a new mother . . . I don’t have a ghost of a chance anymore. What judge would ever give me custody of the children now? I—” She burst into tears again just as the doorbell jangled a second time.
Roberto took in the atmosphere of the place even before he had fully crossed the threshold. Gloom, sadness, and something else—hopelessness?—hung in the air. None of that seemed to fit with the chic interior of the business or the two attractive women, one of whom was dabbing tears from her eyes with a handkerchief. She sat there, the picture of misery, while the younger woman consoled her.
Did the pretty store belong to these women and not to a man? He cleared his throat meekly and said hello.
The younger woman stood up and said, “I’m Therese Himmelsreich, the hairdresser here. What can I do for you, sir?” She had thin red hair that looked as if a bird had built a temporary nest in it, but it did not detract from her allure, and she seemed well aware of that. When Roberto did not reply immediately, she added coquettishly, “Are you seeking a gift for your deserving wife, or can I help you some other way?” The redhead swept her hand wide, a gesture that encompassed the entire shop. Roberto noticed that the shop was not only decorated with exceptional elegance, but also divided into two parts. The left side was clearly for hairdressing, while the right side . . . he wasn’t quite sure what it was, but the shelves and cabinets were well stocked with jars and bottles, all for sale.
Roberto said, “Perhaps it is more that I can help you. My name is . . .” He hesitated for a moment. Then, before he had a second thought, he continued. “Stefano Santo. I am a hair trader from Italy.” Stefano Santo. Where did that come from? With a flourish, he produced one of the wigs that he had put in his bag before storing the rest of his goods. The wig was fashioned from chestnut-brown hair with a tinge of red, and styled into a voluminous bun. As he spoke, he turned the wig toward the front windows, where the sunlight that streamed through showed off the red shimmer of the hair to its best advantage. From the corner of his eye, he saw that he already had the full attention of both women.
“May I?” he said, and set the wig on Therese’s head as he spoke.
“Wait, I—” she said, but fell silent the instant she caught her reflection in the mirror. The wig fit perfectly, and she stroked her newly opulent hair almost reverently. Two seconds later, she burst out laughing.
“A wig! See, Clara? Some wishes come true faster than you think.” She giggled.
Roberto, now Stefano, smiled with satisfaction when he saw the other woman’s face brighten just a bit.
“The wig is perfect for you, signora. If you will allow me to, I would like to give it to you, as my gift. For a man, it is a great joy to be able to please a woman,” he said, and bowed slightly to both of them.
“But there are also men who like nothing more than to make a woman unhappy,” said the woman named Clara, and then both women laughed loudly.
Stefano raised his eyebrows and waited.
“Please excuse us,” said the redhead after a moment. She was still wearing the wig. “You must think we’re a pair of hysterical old women. Just before you came in, we—” She gestured dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. So you’re a hair trader?” she asked, and again she stroked her new hair admiringly. “Such a lovely gift, but I cannot accept it, Signor Santo.”
“I would be deeply disappointed if you were to turn it down, Signora Himmelsreich,” Stefano replied engagingly. “My family is one of the biggest traders in women’s hair, which is even used to make wigs for the lords in the English upper house. Imagine that! Until now, we have only sold our hair through intermediaries in Italy, but that is about to change. I’ve been sent to set up a base for us in Germany, somewhere where we can sell what we make directly. I really should have been on my way again long ago, but when I saw your shop here, I had to come in and look around.” He glanced at Clara. She was even more beautiful than her partner. But what fascinated him even more than her looks was her radiance. She seemed at once strong and fragile, inwardly calm but also agitated, and he realized that he had to get to know her better. But at the same time, a voice of warning sounded in his ear: Roberto, what do you think you’ll do? You’ll be moving on tomorrow, on to a bigger city. To which Stefano silently replied, Who’s Roberto? There is no more Roberto, but his departure means a thousand new opportunities. He forced himself to turn away from Clara and back to Therese Himmelsreich. “If you like, I could leave you with three or four more wigs.” He was already pulling them from
his bag. “You could do them up artfully and display them on mannequins in your window. Then the people could see immediately that they are dealing with a woman who has mastered her craft.”
“What a wonderful idea!” cried both women simultaneously.
“And you would finally have some nice decorations in your window,” Clara added.
Therese gave her a slightly miffed look, then said to Stefano, “So what would these wigs cost?”
“Did I say a word about selling them? Maybe I could entrust them to you, just like that,” Stefano replied. “Beautiful hair is a woman’s greatest gift. I’m sure you are talented enough to make your customers see that.”
“You bet I am! I have a wonderful braid I can try on this blond wig, and I’d pin up this brown hair so elegantly. On what conditions would you entrust them to me, Signor Santo?”
“I only have one condition, and it is not complicated . . .” Stefano looked from one woman to the other. “It is such a glorious day. May I invite you both for coffee?”
“Come back when we close for lunch, and you certainly may!” said Clara, before Therese ran off with Stefano there and then.
It was eight in the evening before Stefano sat down to eat dinner at the Star guesthouse, which belonged to the parents of Sophie Bauer, Clara Berg’s assistant in the Bel Étage. Stefano had realized that the world was small in Meersburg. He wasn’t yet sure whether that fact would help him or hurt him.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 21
