The waitress had just brought two glasses of white wine to the table when Clara’s face took on a wistfulness. “Me, in a zeppelin, flying over Lake Constance—I would so love to tell my children about it.”
Laszlo found the pain in her voice intolerable. He wanted to shout, “Which street do they live in? I’ll go and get them for you!” Or “Let’s go and visit them right now.” Anything to alleviate her yearning. But instead, as so often, he said nothing. That Clara had even told him about her divorce and her children had been strong proof of her trust. Until that time, he, like everyone else, had assumed that her first husband had also died and that she had been left childless.
Proof of trust? Or just a moment of weakness?
Clara swirled the wine in her glass absently. “The business doing so well, the social recognition, my beauty advice appearing as a book—in the end, it’s all a poor substitute for what I can’t have. The love—”
For a moment, Laszlo was not sure if he had heard her correctly. Was this the sign he had been waiting for? But I love you! he almost said, but she suddenly went on: “—of my children.”
A weight like solid lead sank onto Laszlo’s chest. He drank a sip of wine, but all its sunny sweetness was gone.
“Don’t doubt the love of your children. Just because someone isn’t around you every day does not mean they don’t love you.” He saw how his words brought a little hope back to Clara. She was looking at him so hungrily, and for a moment he thought he saw in her eyes the same loneliness that he felt in himself. “There are many kinds of love. Everyone talks about passionate, romantic love. But what of the quiet, heartfelt kind? The kind that does not trust itself enough to show its face? Is it worth less just because it is not returned? Or is it even more important to be open to that kind of love? To give it the room it needs to grow . . .” What had gotten into him, going on like this? What inner voice had moved him? What would Clara say? Was it all over? Or could he at least be allowed to hope?
To Laszlo’s dismay, the waitress came just then and served them two plates of fish and vegetables. He wanted to push it aside, take Clara’s hands in his, and look deep into her eyes.
His dismay only increased, however, when he saw Clara pick up her knife and fork. How could she think about eating now?
“You want to talk about love with me, Laszlo? Of all the people in the world, with me?” Her eyes flashed roguishly, and her tone was ironic and without the slightest trace of romance. “I fear that’s like trying to teach a fish”—she pointed with her fork at her plate—“to fly! When it comes to love, I’m sad to say, I have no talent at all,” she said with conviction. Then she stabbed her fork vigorously into the fish.
Laszlo’s cutlery lay untouched beside his plate. He had wanted a sign from Clara. And he got one.
Chapter Forty-Three
It had been a long, tiring day. A conversation here, an explanation there, everybody wanted her opinion, her knowledge, her approval—for Clara, the expression “to talk until she was blue in the face” had taken on a new dimension. She was actually supposed to attend a small function in Lilo’s hotel; an important client had invited her. But Clara was exhausted. She wanted peace and quiet and to be alone.
Barefoot, she went for a walk along the water’s edge. It had been a hot day, and even at the lake, where a breeze blew constantly, the thermometer had climbed high into the eighties. Clara enjoyed the quiet and solitude by the lake, and the water splashing around her ankles was soothing. On the Swiss side, an orange-red sun was slowly sinking. In the dwindling light, seagulls soared. Two swans sat on the shore, not even bothering to stretch their necks as Clara walked by. Still, she kept her distance from them. How nice it would be if Laszlo were here now. The thought was in her head before she could fend it off. They didn’t have to talk when they were together. When they took breaks, they would sometimes sit silently on a bench by the lake, she in her thoughts, he in his, and yet connected with one another. Other times, there was so much to say that they had not stopped talking.
In recent weeks, she had the feeling that Laszlo had less time for her. Of course, they talked every day, made decisions together, discussed their impressions and perceptions of different fragrances. Often, Therese or Klaus was present at these meetings, too. Clara enjoyed this time with her employees, all of whom she could also count as her friends. But when was the last time she and Laszlo had lunch together? When had they last gone for a walk? When the working day came to an end, he went his way and she went hers.
“You want to talk about love with me, Laszlo? Of all the people in the world, with me? I fear that’s like trying to teach a fish to fly! When it comes to love, I have no talent at all.” Clara had more than once regretted her flippancy that evening in Friedrichshafen. Laszlo was not a man of compliments and flattery. If someone like him opened up his heart like he had that day, it meant very much indeed. Perhaps it was exactly that circumstance that caused Clara to react as tactlessly as she had. Why hadn’t she been able to respond with “Why don’t we wait and see what life still has in store for us?” or “Perhaps a silent love can stay silent a little longer”? Instead, she had replied with all the sensitivity of an axe in a flower bed, so horrid that she had hurt even herself with her words. Was it any wonder that Laszlo had withdrawn?
Oh, Clara, you have no talent for love, she thought when she arrived at her usual swimming place. But instead of her swimsuit, she had packed other things today. She kept going along the shore.
Her right hand felt down along her skirt until it reached the sewn-in side pocket. The small notebook and pencil there, so close to her body, felt warm, as did the bundle of keys that she had been carrying around for a week.
When the Palazzo Margherita came into view, Clara left the shore and went around to the entrance gate at the front. She took out the keys, and after several attempts she found the right one for the massive lock on the gate set into the stone wall. It opened with a light creak. Hesitantly, she stepped inside and was immediately struck by a fragrance of roses. She knew with certainty that Laszlo would have found the scent as beguiling as she did.
It was so quiet. Dragonflies shimmered through the air in all the colors of the rainbow, and the hum of their wings mixed with the soft splashing of the lake beyond the house.
Clara stood for a moment and enjoyed the warm feeling that spread through her. But only for a moment, then she went into the house.
She had been planning to do an inventory of the place for some time. What was in good repair, what needed to be fixed, and so on. Since visiting with Stefan, she had not been back. And at the time of the viewing she had been too excited to pay any more than scant attention to the details. But now she had to decide what to do with the property, and for that she needed to know more about it.
With the notebook in one hand and the pencil in the other, she went from room to room. On the first floor was a kitchen and a pantry, and directly beside the kitchen was a very large dining room. Clara smiled to see it. The Italian king’s mother’s court must have had a banquet or two in there. For a family, too, it would be the ideal place to eat, laugh, and talk. But for her, alone, it was out of the question.
Beside the dining room was a large drawing room with an enormous double door that led directly out onto the terrace. Beside the terrace was the conservatory, or “orangery,” as the agent had called the glass room.
All the rooms were in good condition, with floors of either parquetry or a multicolored stone that Clara had not seen before. The walls were covered with wine-red wallpaper with a pattern of gold crowns. Clara thought it was ugly. A simple, light coat of paint would be so much lovelier! In lime green and lavender, for example, the color scheme of her Bel Étage shops.
The rooms on the second floor were also in good condition. One bedroom after another, with three bathrooms! Luxury! It was clear that the house had belonged to a demanding woman. But for your customers, it won’t be nearly luxurious enough. Suddenly, she heard Stefan’s w
ords in her ear. He had talked about gold faucets and Carrara marble.
Clara stopped in the rear-most bedroom, on the corner. One window opened out toward Meersburg, but the view was blocked by a large apple tree with branches all but growing into the room.
Sophie will love being able to pick an apple right outside her window!
Back in the hallway, Clara opened another door that led up to the space beneath the roof. It was a large space, the agent had said, and it should not be any problem to have a small apartment built up there.
Clara rattled at another doorknob, but found only a small, empty space behind it.
Perhaps a toilet could be built in here? Then the children and I would not need to go to the toilet downstairs at night.
Clara paused. What was she doing here? She was not even sure that she would keep the place, and it was far from certain if her children would ever be able to visit her here. And there she stood, already arranging their rooms for them?
Annoyed at herself, she went downstairs again. Best to stick to the plain facts, she thought. And that meant taking stock of the garden next.
She threw open the double door in the drawing room and stepped out onto the terrace. The view out over the lake was breathtaking. Not a neighboring house in sight. Just water, space, and sky.
Clara sat down on the tiles of the terrace in a state of reverence. Her notebook was forgotten, along with all the questions and daydreams. She closed her eyes, enjoyed the warmth that the terrace, after a long, sunny day, had soaked up. Her mind was suddenly very still.
What a magical spot this was! Why hadn’t she noticed it earlier? How good it felt just to be there. She closed her eyes and saw, in her mind, how Elena Viska would sit here, worn out from looking after her disabled sister, restoring her energy in this tranquil place. She saw Countess Zuzanna, deeply saddened to see her young lover, Pawel, leave her for a twenty-year-old, but finding new hope. There in the Villa Bel Étage, Zuzanna would be able to drop her mask, let herself be spoiled, and find her way back to the cheerful creature she was inside. And to hell with all the Pawels of the world!
And as for her children and herself—she would never give up the fight. It might take years before she was allowed to see Sophie and Matthias again, but nobody could tell her that she couldn’t set up a room for them now. Hope was powerful.
Clara felt a light tickle. She opened her eyes and saw that a dragonfly had settled on her hand, the beat of its wings imparting only the lightest touch.
Beauty. Fragility. Tenderness.
The Villa Bel Étage—beauty hotel and family home. It was time to try a new dream.
She started the very next day. The first thing she did was reserve a large table at Lilo’s hotel. She assembled her team of beauty specialists. Laszlo, Klaus and, of course, Therese joined them as well, as did Sabine Weingarten—she was now in charge of the finances, after all. And she invited Lilo. Over a glass of sparkling wine, Clara told them of her plans for the villa, and wanted to hear from each of them what they thought would need to be included in her renovations. Clara noted everything, relying on the experience of her specialists as well as Lilo’s knowledgeable advice as a hotelier. Clara looked around the assembled group happily—with these wonderful people behind her, her new project would be wonderful, too.
Then she found the tradesmen she needed, and the renovations were quickly underway. Walls were torn down and new ones erected. Clara stopped by the villa several times a day to check on the progress. Were the new shutters easy to open and close? Had the electrician remembered to add a ceiling fitting and one that could be used for a reading lamp beside the bed? Surely her female visitors would enjoy that, as would Matthias. Her son had always been an avid reader.
Clara’s abundant enthusiasm and energy seemed to infect her tradesmen, too. Stucco workers, plasterers, the carpenter and his apprentices, the electrician, the painters, and the wallpaper hangers—all were in full swing. Clara wanted the villa ready to open for the start of the 1912 season.
Only over Christmas did the work cease. Clara used that time to visit her shops in Baden-Baden and Stuttgart, and to review the annual accounts. When Therese and Lilo admonished her and said that she, too, was in urgent need of a rest, Clara waved it off. She had never felt better! Just before Christmas, Josephine had sent along mail from her children, along with a note from Marianne Gropius, sending her best wishes for the holiday season. Since then, Clara had been happier than she had for a long time.
While Therese, as their advertising woman, was deeply involved in many parts of Clara’s new project, Laszlo watched everything from a distance. Sometimes he wondered whether Clara, by throwing herself with so much verve and vigor into the villa, was consciously putting more distance between them. For his part, he would most have liked to continue work with her on her first perfume, the Winds of Change fragrance. But she did not have a head for pretty scents just then.
The love he felt for Clara remained undimmed, but he had come to realize that he could not compel her to do anything. In matters of the heart, she was like a shy horse—if she came to him at all, it would have to be of her own accord.
Meersburg, April 1912
Dear Isabelle,
Thank you for your lovely letter. Once again, you have written about the Champagne region so sensuously that I felt like jumping on the next train and paying you a visit! But I can’t think about a journey at all just at the moment, and we’ll see each other again soon anyway, because the way things look, there’s nothing to stand in the way of opening the Villa Bel Étage in mid-May. The last few renovations are coming along nicely, the garden is looking beautiful . . .
Shaking her head, Isabelle read through the list of all the different jobs that Clara was apparently supervising simultaneously. All that work would kill the strongest horse! Wasn’t her friend taking on too much? Or was she again using work to distract herself from her troubles?
I feel very close to you right now, dear Isabelle. I have good but melancholy memories of our many intimate conversations, and that’s when I miss you the most. In a few weeks it will be the anniversary of Stefan’s death. And your Leon, too, passed away in May, all those years ago.
Isabelle felt a heavy weight descend on her chest. Leon’s death was thirteen years earlier, but the horror of that day was still present. She read on quickly, not wanting to let sad memories take hold. She had enough of that whenever she visited Leon’s grave.
Do you still remember Josephine’s and my visit to you after Leon’s death? Isabelle snorted softly at that line. How could she ever forget? She had buried herself so deeply in her grief that, without her friends, she might never have clawed her way back to life again. She owed Jo and Clara so much for so many things.
Back then, we sat down and thought about how things could go on with the winery after Leon’s death. And I suggested that you could open a small pension, a place where rich city people could rest and recuperate. I remember talking about lavender baths, Kneipp cures, and sunbathing, and I was so passionate about it all, remember?
Isabelle smirked. Her house certainly had had the potential for something like that, but Isabelle had wanted to focus on leading the crumbling winery back to success.
Isabelle turned and looked out the window, where Daniel and the children were tying up vines. Her decision back then had been the right one.
And now I’m on the cusp of making my dream of a beauty hotel come true myself. Oh, Isabelle, isn’t life crazy? And aren’t we blessed to be able to live through times of so much change?
Isabelle let Clara’s letter sink to her lap. There had been some changes in her life that she could really have done without. But whenever she started to brood about those things, she realized that one thing did, indeed, lead to another. After the bad times came the good. A loss could contain the germ of something new, and something good could grow from a catastrophe. Taking life as it comes—for Isabelle, that was the hardest lesson of all. But she was able to do it mo
re and more.
Though I have every reason to be happy, I wonder what all my triumphs are worth if I cannot share them with my children.
Poor Clara! Isabelle sighed and folded the letter and replaced it carefully in its envelope. She would read it again later.
Then she reached for the telephone. Taking life as it came was all well and good. But sometimes you had to give fate a good kick. And this was one of those moments.
While she waited for the operator to connect her with Berlin, she thought about Clara’s letter. The ability to talk to your best friend hundreds of miles away, at least, was one change she was very glad about.
“Your party is connected, madam. You can talk now,” said the operator. There was a grating sound, then a series of clicks, and then she heard Josephine’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Isabelle, how are you? Has anything happened?”
“Not here, no. But I’m far more interested on what is going on along your front,” Isabelle replied.
“Not much, I’m afraid.” Josephine’s voice sounded muffled. “I asked about it again yesterday, but all I got was a lecture about how one can’t have a conversation like that in passing. It looks like the opportunity hasn’t presented itself yet.”
Isabelle had the feeling that she could see Josephine’s face turning grim through the telephone line.
“No opportunity. Ha! What’s lacking is the backbone it takes to do it. We’re running out of time,” she said, upset and angry. “I’ve just had a letter from Clara, and she writes that her renovations have all gone smoothly and that the opening of the beauty hotel is actually going to take place in the middle of May. That’s less than a month from now. Look, our surprise has to work. Clara has always been there for us when we needed her, and now we can finally do something for her in return. Just for that, we have to try everything to get . . . you know.” They had been through this same conversation many times since Christmas, but to no end. No time, illness, not the right moment . . . “If I have to, I’ll come to Berlin and deal with it myself! And I’ll cover whatever it costs; feel free to pass that on!” Isabelle said, her tone almost threatening.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 44
