Clara had to smile. Not for the first time, he had spoken exactly the thought that was running through her mind. “But, for some reason, I’m . . . not satisfied,” she said, finishing his sentence. “Every day, I get the feeling that what I do to help women be more beautiful is only the beginning, and that I’m still far, far away from true beauty! I know my products are a boon to many women. But do the products really help them, even a little, in their day-to-day lives? The good housewife wears her fingers to the bone trying to do everything right for everyone around her. A woman in a factory spends all day on her feet, running a machine in a noisy, filthy workshop. Fresh air? Or a chance to rest? All she can do is dream about those things. And whether they are at home or in a factory, women are always working into the evenings. They darn socks, iron clothes, and let out hems. They don’t see that all the work is damaging them! As they get older, fear becomes their constant companion, fear that their husbands will leave them for a younger woman. Women hate getting older! They don’t know how grateful they should be for every year they’re given.” Clara’s voice was trembling. These thoughts had been blurry and indistinct for a long time. Only now, talking to Laszlo, did she manage to give them form. She was surprised at the outrage she felt as she spoke. “A woman is supposed to be the perfect lover. The devoted wife. The caring mother. The good daughter-in-law. And all of it takes so much strength, and takes so much out of her. I don’t think that an hour in one of my shops is nearly enough. It can’t replace more than a fraction of the energy they have lost.”
“But think about how happy the women are when they visit one of your beauty shops. That time belongs to them and no one else.”
“Visiting a beauty shop is a start, yes. But women have to think about themselves far more than they do.” There was distress in Clara’s voice. “Isn’t true beauty linked to inner harmony? To having your own inner house in order? And doesn’t true beauty also mean recognizing and appreciating the beauty of nature? Getting out in the fresh air, exercising. And then there’s food! Women don’t eat nearly enough fresh fruit and vegetables. Everything gets cooked for hours and drowned in thick brown gravy because that’s how their husbands prefer it. But it is not good for the body. It causes pimply, pasty skin and curves where a woman doesn’t want them.” Clara threw her hands in the air. “Oh, Laszlo, I can’t claim to be particularly bright or clever. I’ve made every mistake a woman can make, and not just once. So maybe I’d be better off keeping my mouth closed. But still I feel a deep need to bolster the courage that too few women have. I know how they feel, and I know that there is always a chance to break free of a life that is too constricted. Maybe it isn’t as easy or comfortable to take a new path as it is to follow the well-worn one, but it’s a lot more fun!” And she laughed out loud as she said it. If Josephine had heard her, she would have been proud of Clara.
Laszlo smiled at Clara. “Then why don’t you tell the women what you’ve just told me?”
“When I give a treatment, I do. But I can’t spend all day standing in one of my shops, delivering my ideas on health and self-care and beauty! My assistants would probably see it as an intrusion. And besides, I do have a thousand other things to take care of.” Clara sighed.
“But if it means so much to you? Didn’t you just say that it’s always fun to try something new? Maybe you should just follow the call of your own heart.” The parfumier touched her arm gently, then left.
Clara watched him walk away. Follow the call of her heart? If she were really to do that, she would go after Laszlo now just to spend more time in his company. Laszlo . . . why hadn’t she met him sooner?
Back in her office, Clara sat at her desk. When it came down to it, did she really have anything to say that women would want to hear?
Clara opened the bottom drawer of her desk, where she kept a stack of notebooks. Whenever she had a new idea, she would take out a fresh one and make notes. She did that now, opening the notebook in front of her, breathing in the smell of fresh paper. She stared at the blank white pages, then—hesitantly—picked up a pencil.
Think that you can do something / take care of yourself / don’t spend every minute looking after other people / get out in the fresh air, move, do sport / brush massages / clean the whole body, head to foot, with water / drink plenty of water . . .
Ideas, words. At first, that was all, but then Clara began to fill in the details, and it wasn’t long before she had the first page full. Then the second, the third . . .
Clara wrote and wrote.
The grape diet in autumn. Beauty sleep! Staying beautiful with age. Brush massages for good circulation. Cold baths for better resilience . . .
Laszlo and Sabine came by to see if she wanted to go for lunch, but Clara turned them down. She had so much swirling in her head that she wanted to get down on paper.
And then it was evening, and downstairs, in the manufactory, the lights had gone out long ago, but still Clara sat and wrote.
At around eleven at night, she took out a second notebook.
How to correct minor blemishes and flaws . . .
The church bell in town had just struck midnight when the light went on in the corridor outside her office.
“Clara! My God, you’re still here!”
For a moment, Clara did not know where she was or how late it had become. “Laszlo . . .”
“I was walking and saw the light on in your office. What in the world are you still doing here?” He looked around the room with real concern.
Clara blinked at him from overtired eyes. When she put the pencil aside, her right hand trembled from the strain she had put it through. At the same time, her stomach growled loudly. She had not eaten a thing since breakfast with Stefan, and now she was so hungry she was dizzy.
“What I’m doing is following my heart, as you suggested.” She smiled at him. “I’m writing a beauty guide!”
Although Clara had only slept a few hours, she woke at daybreak the following morning. She felt more invigorated than she had for a long time. She put her swimsuit in her bag, then went out. Dark clouds were looming over the lake, and Clara guessed that it was raining already in Switzerland. No doubt the rain would reach them before midday, Clara thought as she walked along the shore. But she did not care about the weather. As soon as she got to her office, she had a letter to compose to Stuttgart. A customer at her Bel Étage there was married to Robert Kröner, the manager at Cotta Publishing. Clara had met him briefly when he had come to collect his wife, and they had exchanged a few words. She wanted to ask the publisher if she could show him her beauty guide.
She laughed to think about it. She had written a book. A beauty guide for any woman. Who would have imagined that? She could hardly wait to tell Lilo about it! Considering the rain clouds over the lake, she hoped her friend would not forego her swim that morning.
A fresh breeze was blowing as Clara changed into her suit. She had just begun to do a few stretches when there was a rustling in the reeds beside her. Two men jumped out, and before she could even react, one of them had pulled both her arms behind her back. The other planted himself in front of her. He had a black cloth tied around his nose and mouth, so Clara could only see his eyes, which were dangerously narrowed.
“Where is Roberto? Tell us, or God help you!” he growled through the cloth.
“I don’t know any Roberto! Who are you? What do you want?” Clara tried frantically to free herself from the grip of the man behind her.
“Liar! We know that you’re his wife,” the man screamed at her. “Where is the bastard?”
The second man twisted her right arm so painfully that she cried out.
“You’ve got me mixed up with someone! My husband’s name is Stefan.” Tears were welling in her eyes from the pain. Don’t start howling now, she told herself. “Let me go. You’re hurting me!”
“Putta! Tell us where he is, or there’ll be an accident right here!”
“But—” Clara began.
She was in
terrupted by a dull thump. The man behind Clara released her and staggered forward, groaning and holding his head. The other man took a step back. Both of them stared at Lilo, who was swinging a long, pointed piece of driftwood through the air like a lance.
“Clear out! Go!” Like a fury, Lilo stepped between Clara and the men. “The police will lock both of you up!”
The men exchanged a glance. “Tell Roberto that there is no escape. We’ll be back,” the masked man muttered to Clara, then they turned and scuttled off through the reeds.
Shaking all over, Clara sank to the ground. “Thank God you came.”
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Lilo crouched and looked at her with concern. “Did they want money? What were they after?”
“No money.” Clara shook her head. “They kept asking me about someone called Roberto. But I don’t know any Roberto! They . . . must have mistaken me for someone else.”
“Mistaken or not, two men can’t threaten a woman like that! They probably would have done something to you if I hadn’t come along. I think we should go straight to the police and make a report,” said Lilo resolutely, helping Clara back onto her feet.
“No. No police, please. Nothing happened to me,” Clara said, her knees trembling.
Lilo protested, but Clara wasn’t listening. She looked in the direction in which the two men had disappeared. Who were they? And what was this about Roberto?
She thought of the stranger who had appeared in front of the photographer’s studio in January. Hadn’t he also asked her about a Roberto? A suspicion rose in her, unsettling and lunatic: Did all of it perhaps have something to do with her husband? Was it possible that Stefan and Roberto were one and the same?
What secret was he hiding from her? When he gets back from Munich, he has some explaining to do, Clara thought grimly as she slowly made her way home with Lilo at her side.
The May wind stroked Stefan’s face gently. The briny scent of seaweed blew off the lake and up to the street, where it mixed with the smell of boiled meat as he drove past a restaurant. Then he drove by a brewery, and his nose filled with a combination of malt mash and heady ale.
Stefan briefly considered stopping to enjoy a beer, but he was making such good time that he was happy to do without a stop. He zoomed along in the car, which took every curve in stylish stride, its motor purring like a kitten. He smiled, feeling pleased with himself. Clara would be very happy to hear that his research in Munich had turned up only good news. The department store on Marienplatz in Munich that wanted to sell Clara’s products was not only the premier store on the plaza, but also a supplier to the royal house. Only the finest goods in Europe were on sale, and Stefan had not passed up the opportunity to refresh his wardrobe.
To his own surprise, Stefan found himself humming an old Italian melody as he drove. It was called “The Happy Wanderer,” and he and Michele had often sung it as they walked from village to village. How fitting, Stefan thought. Oh, it was so good to be on the road again! He laughed to think how many months he had locked himself away like a coward for no reason. No one was after him. All his supposed observations, his fears—all just a false alarm! Fantasy, all of it. But it was over, as of now. He would live the sweet life once again.
“Ciao, paura!” Stefan shouted, and laughed even more when he realized he had used the Italian word for fear. Paura . . .
He was as free as a bird. He could do what he wanted, when he wanted, even speak Italian if he felt like it.
The first buildings of Meersburg came into view. The streets were wet and shining, and the dark clouds of a departing thunderstorm towered against the sky. The cobblestones were covered in small branches and young, new leaves, suggesting it was a big storm, but the sun was already appearing again between the clouds, transforming the town on the lake into a fascinating play of light and shadow.
He had planned on driving straight to the manufactory to tell Clara the good news, but as he passed by the harbor, he changed his mind. The idea of a beer was appealing, and he wanted to see his old friends again. No doubt they would be wondering where he had been keeping himself, and he knew they would like to hear about Munich.
Clara could wait.
He slammed the door of the car. The paintwork gleamed in the sunlight like the finest silk. He, the hair trader from Elva, had really made it.
“Speak of the devil!” Martin Semmering, the owner of the Bar Coco, laughed and banged his fist on the table. “We were just talking about you.” He clapped Stefan on the shoulder.
“Nothing but good, I hope,” Stefan grinned back. Then he pulled up a chair and ordered a beer. It was good to be back again.
“So where have you been all this time?” Josef Meininger asked. “Hiding out under your wife’s skirts?”
Stefan joined the others in their good-natured laughter. “I’ve just got back from Munich,” he said between mouthfuls of beer. “Meersburg is a lovely town, but now and then I have to breathe a little big-city air. I think I’ll get myself an apartment there. Maybe even a business address. We’ll see.”
The offhand manner in which he said it garnered appreciative looks from the others.
“Munich, is it?” Semmering and Meininger exchanged a look. “Then what we have to tell you probably won’t interest you at all.”
“What is it?” Stefan leaned forward curiously.
“Just before the storm came through, two men tied up with a sailboat. Swiss businessmen. The owner and his brother want to sell it here, and the price would be hard to beat. The boat is in tip-top shape, and if I didn’t already own a very nice yacht, I would have bought it in a heartbeat. Strange fellows, if you ask me, but obviously wealthy enough to own a beautiful boat. They even asked after you. Seems they had heard somewhere that you might be interested in buying a boat. But if your head is full of Munich . . .” Josef shrugged.
“One doesn’t necessarily preclude the other, you know,” said Stefan. Someone wanted to sell him a yacht? Then had his reputation as a well-to-do businessman already preceded him? Well, he could not have been in a better mood to spend some money. “Where are they now? Why didn’t you stop them?”
“We had no idea when you’d be coming in here again! But it was half an hour ago, if that. If you’re lucky, you’ll catch up with them.” The bar owner nodded toward the exit. “Out the back, pier seven.”
The two men had their backs to him as he walked out on the pier and approached them. They seemed to be doing something to the boat, perhaps a repair or touching up the paint. Trying to hide a blemish? Stefan grinned. Forewarned was forearmed. They wouldn’t put anything over on him.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he said loudly when he had almost reached them. Stefan assumed the men would jump in fright because they had not heard him coming. Instead, they turned around slowly, taking their time, as if they had been expecting him.
“Ciao, Roberto,” said one of the men, a powerful fellow with greasy hair and a thick goatee.
Stefan’s heart skipped a beat. “What. . . Who are you? What do you want?” he choked out. His mind struggled to comprehend the situation. These weren’t Swiss businessmen. The boat was a trick, and the pier—a trap.
Stefan turned, looking for help. But the pier was empty. Even the lake was abandoned, so soon after the storm. Stefan opened his mouth to shout for Meininger or Semmering or anybody, but he could not get out more than a croak.
The bearded man laughed. “Cat got your tongue, amico?” he said, putting himself between Stefan and dry land.
“If you search long enough, you will find what you are looking for—that’s what they say in the German countries, isn’t it? Believe me, your father searched for you for a long time,” said the second man, who was lean and pale, as if he normally spent his days underground.
His father . . . Stefan gulped. So this was the end. Panic ran through him. He tried to stay calm, to keep his nerve. It was not the first time that he had to talk his way out of a predicament.
“I do
n’t like your tone. And I think you’re confusing me with someone else,” he said, with as much arrogance as he could muster. He flicked one hand toward the yacht. “And your tub isn’t to my taste, either, so if you’ll excuse me.” He tried to push past the men. But the second man grasped him by the collar.
“Not so fast, amico! Don’t you want to hear the message your father sends?”
A fist hit him hard in the belly. The blow knocked the wind out of him. He doubled over.
“Gentlemen,” he rasped. “We can talk about this. I have money.”
The bearded man laughed. “You have an unpaid account with your father, not something you can settle with money. Only like this . . .” The man flicked open a knife. The cold blade flashed dangerously in the May sunlight, every turn of the man’s wrist sending out glittering Morse code signals.
“How did you find me?” Stefan whispered. He forced his eyes away from the blade and along the pier. Damn it, why didn’t anyone come to help him?
The two men were practically drinking in his fear, thriving on it. The bearded man flipped the blade open and closed, and Stefan found the clicking sound it made maddening. The next moment, he felt the point of the blade an inch above his navel. It dug through his shirt and into the skin of his belly. He took a step back, away from the sharp pain, and found himself standing on the plank at the edge of the pier. A jump into the water . . . would that save him?
“Don’t even think about it,” the pale man muttered, holding him tightly.
The bearded man spoke again, casually, as if he were talking about the weather. “Your father sent out every man with eyes in his head to look for you, every year. And of all people, it was one of those arrogant Neapolitans who gave us the first clue about where you were. Gianfranco de Lucca. Your father rewarded him well. Then he hired us. Finding you was child’s play. Do you recall the elegant gentleman from Italy who appeared in Meersburg just before Christmas?”
Stefan was dizzy with fear. He remembered. Only too well. The man had questioned Clara about him. Then he had invited Stefan for a glass of wine at the yacht club. Stefan had turned down the invitation. His instinct had warned him not to trust the man.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 42
