Next, Clara went in search of women to work in the manufactory. She and Stefan agreed that it should only be women, although for different reasons. Stefan saw women as cheap labor to whom he only had to pay half of what a man would earn. But Clara wanted to give the women an opportunity to earn money of their own. It didn’t matter to her if they were young or old, where they came from, or what they had done before. She wanted women who were willing to make something of their lives, here and now. Women who would be proud to work in Clara’s “beauty plant,” as one of the applicants called the manufactory. Everything else could be learned, and teaching them was the job of Klaus Kohlwitz and Justine Kaiser.
Justine Kaiser was forty years old, the widowed sister-in-law of Elisabeth Kaiser. “In the last twenty years, the woman has raised seven children and kept a grumpy husband happy. She’s hardworking and unflappable. You won’t find a better forewoman,” Elisabeth had said when recommending her, as she once had praised her niece Sophie—Clara’s very first assistant. As she was back then, Clara was happy to accept the advice of her experienced, loyal friend.
Stefan was not enthusiastic about Clara’s choice. “You want to take on such an old woman? Reconsider it. She’ll spend half the winter sick in bed. I doubt she’s up to working a long day in a factory.”
“May I remind you that I am only five years younger than she is? I don’t see you worrying whether I’m up to working the long hours that I do,” Clara snapped. Then she sighed; he probably didn’t mean it like that.
Klaus assembled a list of equipment that he believed they would need for the larger-scale production of creams, tinctures, and soaps. Clara was relieved to see that it was less than she had expected. Scales, pots, test tubes, filters, beakers, and mortars and pestles. One of the more expensive items was a machine that filled containers with a cream. “It’s cleaner and more effective than doing this step by hand,” Klaus explained.
In addition, he insisted that every employee have two white sleeveless smocks. These would not leave the building and would be washed and ironed on the premises. It was the only way to ensure the necessary hygiene.
Klaus understood his profession, Clara realized, and he confirmed this every day.
In the weeks that followed, hardly a day went by without a vehicle pulling up at the manufactory to deliver equipment and supplies. Clara and Klaus conferred about the best location for each piece on the long work tables. Clara’s heart leaped with joy so many times that she wondered whether it might be unhealthy in the long run.
“This manufacturer makes glass jars, tins, and tubes. And this one”—Klaus opened a catalog filled with illustrations—“supplies hand-cut decanters. You could use those for special tinctures. And this one”—Klaus pointed to another catalog—“produces porcelain and glass containers.”
Fascinated, Clara leafed through the catalogs. Until now, she had always bought her containers through Frieder Weingarten, and his range had been limited. She hadn’t known that there was such a variety available elsewhere. But when Klaus produced an order form, Clara shook her head.
“Many things look good on paper,” she said. “I want to see the products with my own eyes and hold them in my hands first. Then I’ll decide. Please ask the sales representatives of these companies to come by with samples this week.”
“Do as my wife says,” Stefan, who had just entered the manufactory, ordered Klaus.
“Do you have to take that tone?” Clara asked, when they were alone. “The man hasn’t raised a single objection. Quite the opposite, in fact: Mr. Kohlwitz and I work together very well.”
“It doesn’t hurt to let your employees know their place from time to time,” Stefan said, and he straightened his silk tie. Was it new? Clara had never seen him wearing it before. I rarely find the time even to buy a new dress, she thought with a sigh. How did Stefan manage it?
“What’s all this?” said Stefan, pointing to the catalogs. “I thought we’d agreed that I would take care of all the orders.”
“For the raw materials, yes,” Clara replied. “But I would like to decide which containers I sell my creams in. For me, a cream jar has to be at least as high quality as what it contains. And it has to fit me and my . . . my aesthetic, too,” she said.
“Not getting airs and graces, are you?” Stefan mocked. “The package is irrelevant. What counts is price. Your customers toss away the jars as soon as they’re empty, anyway.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Many women have told me that they find the containers far too lovely to throw away. They use them to hold jewelry or buttons or—”
“All right, all right.” Stefan raised his hands in surrender. “If your heart depends on it, then you choose them, but leave the rest of the orders to me. I can negotiate with the men much differently than you can.”
Clara nodded. “According to Klaus, there’s a shortage of lanolin. Last summer there was a virus that killed entire flocks of sheep. Do you think the shortage of wool wax could cause problems for us?” she asked.
But Stefan laughed it off. “If the Germans can’t deliver, then I’ll find it in Switzerland. The sheep there are still as hale and hearty as they come.”
That made Clara feel better. What if all her great plans foundered because of a detail like that? “Oh, Stefan, everything is running along so well. Sometimes I can hardly believe it.”
“For me, it was clear from the start, mia cara. All you have to do is follow my advice and everything will work out.”
“Do you know what I’d like to do most of all?” she said abruptly.
Stefan look inquiringly at her.
“I’d love to drive to Grasse and look for a parfumier! Klaus is a good chemist, but he’s never had anything to do with the creation of scents. When I talked to him about it, he suggested that a perfume specialist could put the final touch on my products.”
“No problem at all! We can certainly spare the few marks it will cost for a good nose.” Stefan laughed. “Didn’t you once talk about doing that trip with Isabelle? Why don’t you work out a plan with her now for next spring. I can look after things here.” He stroked Clara’s cheek. “But you’ll have to excuse me now. I’ve got an important meeting. Business.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
March 1910
“You want to pay twenty percent less than last time? Have you gone mad?” said Meinrad Kornbichler, owner of a large oil mill in Upper Swabia.
“Well,” Stefan replied, “your competition is pushing hard to supply us, and at much lower prices.”
“Supply us? The company still belongs to Clara Berg, doesn’t it?” said the man. His eyes had narrowed to two unfriendly slits.
“Do you see Mrs. Berg anywhere here?” Stefan said calmly. “You’re dealing with me, sir. And if you don’t want to drive home with your oil casks, you would be well advised to accept my price.”
Mr. Kornbichler furrowed his brow. He looked at his heavily laden wagon and back to Stefan, and the war he was waging with himself inside was clear to see.
“It’s blackmail,” the man growled. “And you’re a crook.”
“I’ve been called many things.” Stefan laughed. He waved over Klaus Kohlwitz, who was just coming out of the manufactory. “Help Mr. Kornbichler unload, would you? And be careful with the containers. I don’t want the oil to suffer.” He tipped his hat and was about to leave when the oil supplier took him by the arm.
“I might be dancing to your tune today, but that’s only because I don’t want to drive the oil home again. I won’t let you treat me like this next time. You can count on that.”
“As you wish,” said Stefan. “Like I said, there are many oil mills that would be honored to supply us.”
Klaus Kohlwitz, who had heard every word, looked in shock from one man to the other.
“The company still belongs to Clara Berg, doesn’t it?” Stefan sniffed contemptuously. What impertinence! Who did Kornbichler think he was talking to? he thought as he made his way to the B
ar Coco. Clara’s errand boy? An accountant who needed his boss to sign off on every decision? Those times were over, and the sooner people got used to it, the better.
By opening the manufactory, he had taken care of several issues at once. Clara was now spending most of her time in her laboratory and had practically no contact with her customers, so she couldn’t go handing out advice like “fresh air and lots of exercise.” In her little laboratory, his wife was discovering one product after another, and each sold better than the one before it.
The best thing of all was that as long as Clara was busy with a test tube or was off traveling—as now, in Grasse with her friend Isabelle—he could do whatever he wanted, just as he had always wanted. And it had all been so simple.
The bar was already in sight as Stefan’s mood soured. His thoughts turned to Kohlwitz, and the way the man had looked at him earlier, as if he expected Stefan to enlighten him about the dispute with the oil supplier. He would have to keep an eye on that chemist, he thought, as he kicked a stone off the road. Kohlwitz was important for the operations in the manufactory, admittedly, but that did not mean that he could do as he pleased.
He decided to reprimand Kohlwitz the next morning, before he drove to Baden-Baden. No—he would address the entire staff at the manufactory.
He nodded, pleased with himself.
The previous week, an entire crate of facial toner fell while one of the women was packing it, and the expensive bottles of toner were reduced to a pile of broken glass. They had been intended for the shop in Baden-Baden, and they were suddenly faced with a shortage. Stefan was not present when it happened, but had heard about the mishap from Clara. “It’s annoying, of course, but things like that can happen” was all his wife had said. Stefan had held his tongue, but it was clear that he couldn’t let the matter rest there.
He would cut everyone’s salary for the month. That would teach the clumsy women a lesson. He wouldn’t have to listen to their whining for long, though, because he would leave for Baden-Baden immediately afterward.
Thinking of the spa town improved his mood. A quick check of the Bel Étage–Baden-Baden . . . he’d promised Clara that. And after that he would go to one of the private gaming rooms. The back room at the Rouge & Blanc restaurant was currently en vogue. Champagne and cards, didn’t that sound like the perfect plan?
He opened the door of the Bar Coco, where his friends were already waiting for him. After such a strenuous day, a bottle of champagne to set the mood for tomorrow couldn’t hurt. He had enough money in his pocket. And what of it if he walked in without a penny? Stefan Berg was good for any tab he ran up.
Who would have guessed what the Italian with the scissors had become . . .
Because I can.
When Isabelle and Clara traveled together, they usually attracted a good deal of attention. The gorgeous redhead and the elegant brunette were always tastefully dressed and radiated a special aura.
In Grasse, though, no one gave them a second glance. In Grasse, people were used to beautiful women. Or it might be better said that they knew no other kind. But prettier than any woman was Grasse itself. The city was the prima donna among the towns of southern France. And it smelled better than all the world’s women put together. When the first heralds of spring, like daffodils and irises, were breaking through the earth beside Lake Constance or in the Champagne region, entire forests of mimosa were already blooming in the south of France. Against silvery leaves, millions of golden floral pom-poms put themselves on display, and their scent wafted, full of promise, through the land. And Grasse, with its multilayered scent, was engulfed in another cloud of perfume.
“Can you smell the mimosa? And the lavender, roses, jasmine, verbena . . .” Clara tilted her head back and drank in the beguiling scent that drifted through the narrow streets of the medieval town. Parfumeries, distilleries, laboratories—from every building, every doorway, every window came a different combination of fragrances. The heady mixture made Clara dizzy. Of course, she knew before she arrived that Grasse was the capital city of perfume, and that the best parfumiers worked here to create the best fragrances in the world. But seeing it all with her own eyes, smelling it with her own nose . . . that was something else again.
Isabelle, too, was more than animated; she was exhilarated. “Look at that, the famous Maison Molinard. And here, Galimard. And there—Fleuron de Belle! So many famous makers so close together.” Isabelle was jumping from one foot to the other like a little girl in a candy shop. “It’s like Reims, with all the most famous champagne makers in one place. And I can hardly wait to spend some money! I want to take something back for Ghislaine and for my neighbors. And I should buy something very special for our nanny. If she hadn’t been prepared to look after little Viola, I couldn’t have come here at all.”
“I’m grateful not only to your nanny, but to you, too,” said Clara. “Without you, this trip would only be half as much fun!” Isabelle’s daughter was only six months old, and Clara would never forget that her friend had left her baby behind to support Clara in Grasse with good advice and good French. But with feigned severity, she said, “But we’re not buying souvenirs until we’ve taken care of business.”
She jumped when a whip cracked behind her, then turned around to see a flatbed wagon fully loaded with dried purple flowers rolling up right behind them. Clara quickly grabbed Isabelle by the arm and pulled her out of the way. In the narrow streets, one could easily end up under the wheels.
“So do you think there’s something like a school for parfumiers here?” Clara asked as she looked into a shop window where hundreds of glass bottles and jars were on display. Should she be keeping a lookout for new bottles as well?
Isabelle shook her head. “Unlikely. I think it’s like things are for us in Champagne. A good nose and a sense for perfumes are essential to finding the perfect composition. And that only comes with practice and experience. No one can learn that in a few lessons in school.” When she saw Clara’s look of disappointment, she added, “But considering all the parfumeries here, it should be easy to find a talented young nose for your Bel Étage. Don’t worry, you won’t go home without your parfumier!”
“What do you want? You want to poach one of my men?” Small wrinkles formed around the eyes of Monsieur Gayet, chief parfumier of Escarbot, and he broke into roaring laughter.
Clara and Isabelle looked at each other in confusion, then Clara glanced around the large production hall. At every table, men were working away with all kinds of crucibles, kettles, and wooden frames thickly smeared with animal fat and flowers. She guessed there were two dozen men or more. The atmosphere reminded Clara of her own manufactory.
The Frenchman finally regained his composure and grew serious. “Mesdames, to work here, under my wing, is a great privilege. It may sound immodest, but”—he paused briefly to let the weight of his words sink in—“there are people out there who would cut off their right hand to work for me.”
Clara nodded uncertainly. The men working there did not look especially happy; instead, they appeared rather grim and grumpy.
“Do you know someone who could work for Mrs. Berg or not?” Isabelle asked. Clara could hear her impatience.
The parfumier laughed again. Before Isabelle could react, he patted her arm condescendingly. “Young lady, my men are the elite! The best of the best! You can’t seriously believe that even the boy who sweeps up would be willing to leave my employ of his own free will.”
“But I would pay well. And the man would have a great challenge awaiting him.”
Monsieur Gayet turned to Clara. Without changing his patronizing tone, he said, “My dear lady, mixing a little rose oil into a cream, as God is my witness, does not constitute a great challenge.”
“Foot cream? Facial toner? I don’t understand.” The man who ran the laboratory at Fleuron de Belle shook his head in bewilderment. “And you would like me to create a fragrance for that?”
“No, I—” Clara began to explain
, when the man interrupted her yet again.
“Then we agree! Madame, I am an artist,” the man said theatrically. “And my canvas is the skin of a beautiful woman. I have nothing to do with jars of cream.” The man bowed. “Please excuse me.” And he was gone.
Clara and Isabelle were left standing like two schoolgirls who’d been rapped over the knuckles. The man did not seem to understand what they wanted from him at all. Or he didn’t want to.
“Of course I can recommend someone!” Monsieur Bellimard’s eyes sparkled. “I know just the man you need. Wait . . .” Monsieur Bellimard, the owner of the eponymously named parfumerie, shouted imperiously across the room. “Monsieur Epis! Where is Monsieur Epis? Tell him to come here immediately!”
Clara and Isabelle shared a look of relief. Finally.
They were standing in one of the smaller laboratories housed in a dingy building at the end of a street. From outside, everything looked shabby, and Clara had not even wanted to go in. But they had been to almost every other parfumerie and laboratory in Grasse without success, so Isabelle had all but pushed her through the door. What they found inside was no better: dirty floors, smeared windows that let through barely any daylight. The fragrance of roses and lavender rising from the huge copper kettle in the middle of the room mixed with the stink of the sewers, which drifted in through an open window.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 31
