Who was it? Clara’s brow furrowed as she tried to think. No doubt the photographer thought she was crazy, but she was extremely uncomfortable.
One look at Clara’s pinched face and the photographer said, “This won’t do at all, young lady. I’m going to go and chase the man off.” And he was gone.
Clara’s relief was short-lived, however, because the photographer returned a moment later with the stranger in tow.
“My apologies, madam. The man just will not leave. He says he has a question he wants to ask you.”
“My name is Lombardini, Carl Lombardini, and I come from Italy,” said the man, and he raised his hat. “I’m searching for an old acquaintance of mine to give him some important news.”
“How can I help you with that?” said Clara suspiciously. Why would Gerhard send an Italian to spy on her?
“I heard, madam, that you are married to an Italian. Would your husband’s name be Roberto Totosano, by any chance?”
“My husband’s name is Stefan Berg. Before we married, he was Stefano Santo,” Clara said, relieved. A mix-up. This had nothing to do with her.
“Stefano . . . I see.” The man nodded. “Then it seems I’ve been on the wrong track.”
“Can we get back to this portrait?” the photographer asked, and he shooed the stranger toward the door with both hands.
The man already had his hand on the doorknob when he turned back.
“Still, it would be very nice to exchange a few words of Italian here in this foreign land. Perhaps your husband might be interested in drinking a glass of wine with me? Where did you say I could find him?”
She hadn’t said anything about that, and was about to reply as much, but then it occurred to her that Stefan might enjoy chatting with someone from his homeland. “My husband often lunches at the yacht club. Maybe you will be lucky and find him there?”
The stranger smiled, nodded, and exited the studio.
“We have work to do!” said the photographer. “Closer to the relief, please. Head up.”
Chapter Forty
“Sailing!” Stefan said the word with disdain. “Every man and his dog has a sailboat these days. And I know perfectly well why I haven’t bought one. Oh, I have the money. But do I want to spend it on that? Has sailing perhaps fallen a little out of fashion?” He looked at the group around him; they were listening as attentively as usual.
That morning in January 1911, the regular group of sailors—tourists and locals alike—had gathered in the harbor restaurant, as they did almost every morning, although every boat had either been pulled out of the water or was tied up tightly and under cover in the harbor. No one wanted to venture out on the raw, windy lake, but spinning a few yarns while the winter wind whistled outside was a popular way to pass the time.
The men narrowed their eyes and grumbled into their beards. What was Stefan trying to tell them? That they were all just old-fashioned journeymen? They certainly wouldn’t put a suggestion like that past him, brash as he was.
Still, in their eyes, Stefan Berg was someone to be admired. He was generous and eloquent, and he often had a story or two to tell about the rich and the famous who passed through the doors of his wife’s shops. He laughed at himself as much as at others, and enjoyed gossiping, too. “Come on, out with it!” said one of the men at the table, grinning. “If it isn’t a sailboat, then what new toy did your wife give you for Christmas?”
The group burst out laughing.
Stefan laughed along. It didn’t matter to him that everyone there knew where his money came from. On the contrary—who else there could claim that because his wife worked he didn’t have to?
“None of you have any imagination at all. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that not everything in the world revolves around money . . .” His last words trailed off as two men sitting by the window caught his eye. He had never seen them before. Why were they scrutinizing him like that? Did they want something from him? And why was one of them constantly taking notes?
Stefan excused himself from the table. On the way to the restroom, he walked past the table by the window. His heart almost stopped when he heard the two men speaking Italian. And weren’t there a few words of Occitan, as well, the old language of the caviè from Piedmont?
By the time he reached the restroom, his knees were trembling so much that he had to hold on to the washbasin to stay on his feet. A chalk-white face stared back at him from the mirror. They’ve got you! screamed a hysterical voice inside him. They’ve got you!
Pull yourself together, pleaded another voice. Goddamn it, pull yourself together!
He felt the old fear of discovery tighten around him.
For a long time, he was certain that he had wiped away all trace of his past life. He was Stefan Berg—a German businessman with a German wife. He’d been clever. He’d covered his tracks. And the reward was a carefree life.
Because I can.
In truth, ever since the incident in Baden-Baden, he had felt many times that he was being observed. Had he convinced Gianfranco de Lucca that he wasn’t who the merchant thought he was? Since that fateful encounter, every unfamiliar face made him nervous. He only had to think about that Lombardini fellow who appeared from nowhere ten days earlier! He was passing through, the Italian maintained, and Clara had told him where he could find Stefan. He had invited Stefan to drink a glass of wine, but Stefan had turned him down. The man had then started asking Stefan questions. About how long he had lived at Lake Constance. If he liked it there. If he knew other Italians who lived in the area. What his profession was, how old he was.
Stefan had done his best to answer every question with a question of his own, but it was like talking to a stone wall. The stranger had given away nothing about himself. That, in turn, had only reinforced Stefan’s conviction that the man was a spy working for his family. Had his family been watching him for a long time? He had stolen from his father and made him the laughingstock of the village, and Giacomo Totosano would not shoulder that burden easily. And his brother, Michele, was probably still furious at him for leaving him there.
Maybe it wasn’t his family at all, but the Sorris who had set a dog on him. From Lorenzo Sorri, he had stolen the equivalent of thousands of marks, a packhorse, and a huge load of women’s hair and finished wigs. And he had left Lorenzo’s daughter, Gaia, behind with an unfulfilled promise of marriage. The longer Stefan thought about it, the more people he thought of who had a bone to pick with him. A bone to pick—it sounded so harmless! If he fell into the hands of the famiglia, then may God have mercy on him.
If Lombardini had been a spy, then who were the two men in the tavern? Grim Reapers?
Should he return to the table at all? Or would it be smarter to climb out the small window and run? A hard choice . . . Shamefully, he squeezed out through the window, just eighteen inches square. Outside, as he wiped away the white marks the window putty had left on his dark suit, he looked around fearfully.
He saw nobody. But the feeling of being pursued would not leave him, even when the harbor was far behind him.
“The labels are beautiful!” Therese squealed. “You are beautiful, dear Clara. And photogenic, too.”
“You really are the best advertising for your products,” said Sabine Weingarten. “But is this particular photograph also what you want for your advertising campaign? Wouldn’t the one where you have your hand on the plaster balustrade look better printed in a newspaper?”
The three women were bent over Clara’s desk, which was covered with various photographs. On the first day of the new year, the photographer had come by and, his chest swelling with pride, presented the portfolio of pictures.
“We could use this one for the advertising and for the instructional brochure,” said Clara, picking up one of the photographs.
Stefan stood in the doorway and listened. Photographs of Clara? New labels? An advertising campaign? An instructional brochure? What were they talking about? He felt a small, sharp pain in his heart
. There had been a time when Clara had talked about everything with him. His advice had counted for something. Now he was no better than Estelle Morgan’s lapdogs. Or Pawel, who lived a nice life at Countess Zuzanna’s expense.
“Then this one has to go on the shipping cartons,” said Therese, tapping a finger on another image.
How the former hairdresser liked to show off! It wasn’t so long ago that she had tried to kill herself. And today, she was the one taking care of Clara’s advertising. Such a rise was only possible in the Bel Étage, he thought, annoyed.
His mouth turned down even more at the sight of Sabine Weingarten. Stefan did not like it at all that Clara had hired the pharmacist’s fat wife. Her own husband did not want her in his pharmacy, yet Clara welcomed her.
“Listen, I’ve had an idea for the heading for the newspaper advertisement,” Clara said. “‘Belle Époque—because every woman can be beautiful today.’ What do you think?” Her eyes turned to the door for a moment, and her smile vanished. “Stefan. We’re in the middle of a meeting. Is there something important?”
He had an acrid remark on his tongue, but he surprised himself when he instead said, “I just wanted to ask if you ladies might like some cake and coffee. I could organize that for you.” How pathetic he sounded! Almost pleading. As if Clara would be doing him a favor if he were allowed to bring them cake and coffee.
Clara, Therese, and Sabine looked at him unenthusiastically.
“Thank you, but we’ve just come back from eating lunch. We are trying to finish with the shipping boxes today.” With a nod, Clara dismissed him.
Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard. He wasn’t even good enough to run an errand.
A little while later he was pacing around their apartment like a caged animal. Things couldn’t continue like this. What had become of his life? Lightheartedness had turned to fear. It scuttled through his head like a cockroach. His once-important position with Clara had evaporated into insignificance. He was heading for oblivion; he could feel it.
He poured himself a glass of cognac, carried it from the living room into the drawing room, and looked out the window, where the winter-bare trees offered no protection.
He saw nobody. And he heard nobody.
But did that mean that there was nobody there?
The ticking of the clock on the wall, the beating of his heart—suddenly, the silence in the apartment was unbearable to him. He looked around. All the pictures of flowers . . . had they always been there? The colorful glass ornaments on the windowsill . . . were they new? Clara loved everything beautiful, everything that had to do with beauty. “My beautiful Italian,” she used to call him, back when she still loved him. Back when he still had a say in things.
Because I can.
He felt himself sway a little, and he set down the glass of cognac. It made no difference where he looked—all his hopes were slipping away, and he could not hold on to them.
He had to toss out his anchor again, find a new hold. Even if it meant hiding out beneath Clara’s skirts for a while.
Although the day had been long and strenuous, Clara could not sleep. She tossed and turned, crushed her pillow, fluffed it again, then pushed it aside completely. Stefan was sitting out in the living room, drinking a glass of red wine and leafing through old newspapers, and she found it so unsettling that she could not sleep. Angry at herself, she got out of bed, pulled on her robe, and went out to him.
“Why aren’t you out at some party or at the bar? Why are you home so early?” she asked without preamble, taking a seat on the chaise longue.
He looked up from his newspaper. “Isn’t this still my home?”
“What kind of question is that?” Clara replied, ignoring the sad undertone in his words. “You’re the one who loves going off to parties.”
“Maybe that was the mistake.” Stefan shrugged. The next moment, he jumped up so abruptly that the individual pages of the newspaper slipped off his lap and sailed to the floor. “Clara!” he said, kneeling before her. “Don’t you wonder sometimes what became of us and the love we shared? What we had was so infinitely valuable! And we were dumb enough to let it slip away.”
Clara frowned. She had been prepared for almost anything but this.
Before she could say a word, Stefan went on. “I know the start of the year is already behind us, but don’t we want the new year to perhaps be a good start for both of us?” His eyes were pleading, his voice even more. He took her hands in his and held them softly.
“Stefan,” she said. Carefully, she extricated her hands from his, ignoring the agony in his eyes.
“I know you don’t love me anymore,” Stefan continued, and his eyes were moist. Clara almost contradicted him automatically, but he did not give her the time. “But that doesn’t have to mean that we hate each other, does it? Why can’t we at least be friends?”
“We are,” said Clara, very gently.
Stefan sniffed softly. “Friends spend at least a little time with each other. They talk. They share their thoughts. But you treat me like a stranger. I . . . feel lonely.”
Clara looked away, feeling guilty.
“Clara. I know the business matters most to you. And I know that your friends mean the world to you. But is it asking too much to spend a little time with me now and then?”
“If that’s what you want, gladly. But until now, that’s not the impression I had at all. I take it you already have something in mind?” she said with reserve. No doubt his suggestion had a catch. Did he have his eye on a boat, a new car, or something else and was trying to get her approval? Or had he been up to something? Fresh gambling debts?
So she was all the more surprised when Stefan suggested going for a walk with her the following morning.
“Why do you look at me like that? What did you expect? That I had some dubious ulterior motive?” he said, shaking his head. “Is it so hard to imagine that I might just want to spend some time with you?”
The next morning, they left the apartment just after sunrise, both wrapped in thick winter coats, scarves, and warm hats. For Clara, this was quite normal. She had grown accustomed to starting winter days with a brisk walk. It always cleared her mind and readied her for the day ahead. If that would still be the case today remained to be seen. She glanced at her husband, who walked beside her narrow-eyed and pale. It was still a mystery why he would drag himself out of bed so early. Spontaneously, she took him by the hand and said, “Isn’t it wonderful by the lake so early? While the world is still asleep, the day belongs to us, only to us.” Small clouds rose with every word.
“You put that very beautifully,” Stefan replied with a smile. “When I was a boy, I loved getting up before everyone else. I went out to the stable and milked the cow so that my mother didn’t have to. And, of course, I drank a few cups of milk on the spot.” He laughed. “I was always so hungry as a child.”
“Well, they practically had to talk me into eating anything,” said Clara. “My mother always said I couldn’t keep pace with a sparrow. She must have tried everything to get me to . . .”
While they exchanged childhood stories, the atmosphere between them was far better than it had been in a very long time. Suddenly, Clara stopped.
“This is the spot where Lilo and I always met to go swimming, but it looks like I’m going to be swimming by myself this year.” She looked out over the lake. Clara had just received a letter in which Lilo had written that she would be staying in Colorado a little longer. Clara did not know what to make of that. Was Lilo still unsure about whether she was in love? Or was it the first step in saying good-bye to Germany?
“I can’t swim, to be certain, but I would gladly walk here with you, mia cara. Every morning,” Stefan said beside her, his voice very low. His mouth was suddenly dangerously close to her own, and before Clara knew what was happening, he kissed her.
With an embarrassed laugh, she tried to take a step to the side, but she stumbled on the loose gravel along the shore. Stefan’
s hands were immediately at her elbows, supporting her. “I would never let you fall, mia cara.”
It was supposed to sound affectionate, she knew, but in Clara’s ears his words carried a strange undertone, something she could not put her finger on.
“Don’t worry. In the last few years, I’ve learned to pick myself up when I fall. I dust off my skirt, and I simply go on.” She had wanted the words to convey some humor, but a strange undertone had entered her own voice.
Walking back along the road, they had reached the outskirts of Meersburg again when they stopped outside a large house surrounded by a high wall.
“For Sale” read a large wooden sign that had been rammed at an odd angle into the earth.
“But this is the Palazzo Margherita, the villa where Margherita of Savoy-Genoa spent two summers. And now it’s being sold? Do you know anything about this?” Clara asked.
Stefan nodded. “They say the Italian king does not look favorably on his mother’s excursions to German waters, and that Margherita of Savoy-Genoa will be spending next summer at Lago di Garda instead. The owner of the villa lives in Munich, and he doesn’t come to Lake Constance often. The Italians renovated and redecorated the entire villa at their own cost—a lot of money, apparently—to meet Margherita’s demands. By my estimate, the owner now stands to make quite a profit from the sale.”
Clara chewed on her bottom lip. The house was painted in a pale yellow, but the ornate shutters were white, giving the building a cheerful Mediterranean character. There were two floors, and Clara counted eight windows along the facade on each floor. If there was a room behind each one, that meant quite a lot of rooms indeed. Because of the high wall, she could not see very much, but she knew from what Stefan had told her about it previously that a generous garden surrounded the house on all sides and extended all the way down to the lake.
“Owning a house like this . . . that would be something! I could jump into the lake and go swimming from my own garden every morning,” Clara said, dreaming out loud.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 40
