“And how exactly does an assistant behave?” she asked almost venomously.
Strobel smiled that baffling smile of his. “She assists.”
He looked at her with condescension in his eyes, but Johanna did not turn away. Instead she tilted her chin and pressed her lips together. She would rather drop dead than ask him what “assisting” was supposed to mean. Instead, the next time the bell rang, she hurried forward to greet the customers with an obsequious “Good morning.” They were merchants from Hamburg, she soon learned. While Strobel shook their hands, she took up a position by the samples table and held the chairs for the men to sit down. She wondered for a moment whether small talk about the weather was also part of an assistant’s duties but decided against it. She didn’t want to appear foolish. When Strobel gestured for it, she fetched the catalog of glassware and put it in front of the older merchant, assuming that he was the senior of the two. She also took care to smile the whole time. That was the hardest part, because it made her feel ridiculous. But the customers seemed to like it, which became clear when they reached the pages showing the gold-rimmed glass bonbon dishes and the older gentleman turned to her and asked her opinion. Johanna wasn’t sure whether this was out of mere politeness or whether he was genuinely interested—or indeed whether she was expected to answer at all. She looked over at Strobel uncertainly, but instead of giving her any kind of sign, he gazed pointedly down at his gnawed fingernails. Had she really expected otherwise?
Rather than shooting venomous glances at her employer, she tried to concentrate on what the customers had just said. “We have certainly had several orders so far for the gold-rimmed dishes; it seems they are very much in demand. However,” she hesitated for a moment. “If I may make a suggestion . . . ?” The younger man had mentioned earlier that during the past Christmas season shoppers had disliked a particular vase that was too ornate for their tastes, and it had simply gathered dust on the shelves. “I would recommend this simpler style here.” She pointed with her pen at a picture in the catalog. “Although very elegant, they are not as . . . ostentatious as the gold-rimmed dishes.” It was all she could do to stop her voice from trembling.
“Miss . . .” The younger man was looking at Johanna with a question in his eyes.
“Johanna,” she said quietly.
“Miss Johanna is right. Given the new taste for plain designs that our clientele have developed, we should steer clear of baroque golden ornamentation,” the younger man suggested. “I believe that simplicity will be en mode this season.”
The older man nodded.
“Good. Then we shall make it three dozen of these simple bonbonnières with lids, undecorated, the tall model on a slim stem,” Strobel said, noting it down on his form. As he turned to the next page in the catalog, he glanced approvingly at Johanna.
She returned his look, her lips curling mockingly at the corners, and hoped that no one could hear how her anxiously hammering heart finally began to slow down.
The next few weeks seemed to fly by. Johanna was soon so settled into her new routine that she could hardly remember a time when she had not lived in Sonneberg and worked for Strobel. She always looked forward to the weekends in Lauscha and to every minute she spent with Marie and Ruth, but she was equally eager to get back to work on Mondays. Every day with Strobel was different. Though she often still felt like an ignorant village girl—which she did her best to hide—she was learning new things every day. Perhaps it was because she put up such a show of confidence that Friedhelm Strobel seemed to assume that she could take any task in her stride. At first Johanna had broken out into a cold sweat every time he threw her in at the deep end the way he had with the Hamburg merchants, but in the weeks that followed her doubts died down. Strobel encouraged her newfound self-confidence, though the way he went about it often made Johanna queasy.
“Customers are like whores,” he told her once. “They’re there to be taken. And if you don’t take them, then someone else will come along and do so.” He peered at Johanna as he spoke. “You can do whatever you like with a customer, anything at all—except one thing: never let him leave without closing a deal.” He spoke the words so vehemently that Johanna didn’t dare ask what would happen if she ever did such a thing. It wasn’t that she never asked questions. Quite the opposite in fact: whenever something struck her as out of the ordinary in his sales talk, she always asked Strobel about it afterward.
“If Mr. Hallweger liked those carved wooden spoons so much, why did you just put them aside? Wouldn’t he have bought at least two dozen of those without needing to be talked into it?” she asked when a merchant from Konstanz had just left the shop. Strobel seemed pleased by her question and said, “Salesmanship is a constant give and”—he paused dramatically—“take!” Johanna looked baffled, so he added, “A customer must never get the impression we’re only waiting for him to come spend his money.” He grinned. “If I can make him think that my wares are worth more than his money, then he’s like a batch of dough in my hands: I can knead and shape him at will.” He gave her a sly look. “Why should I sell him those silly wooden spoons when he’ll just as happily spend more on the more expensive model with the mother-of-pearl inlay?”
Whores! A batch of dough! Brrr! Johanna couldn’t help but wish that Strobel wouldn’t always use such horrid analogies. She didn’t know whether it was the result of his expert salesmanship or his coarse comparisons, but from then on she always tried to size up a customer as soon as he walked through the door. Would he make up his mind quickly? Or was he more the dithering type? Did he want cheap goods or costly one-offs? Would he include her in the conversation or snobbishly ignore her? The longer she played the game, the more often she was right in her judgments.
Though the work was not physically demanding, in the evenings Johanna was as tired as if she had been hauling stones all day long. They generally shut up shop at seven o’clock and then ate supper together in the kitchen. Sybille Stein served up a meal before she left the house. Cold dishes, bread, and wine. At first Johanna always declined whenever Friedhelm Strobel tipped the wine carafe toward her glass. She wasn’t used to drinking wine and was worried about getting tipsy. But since he kept on offering it, one evening she eventually let him pour her half a glass.
“So? How do you like it?” Strobel asked as soon as she had taken the first sip.
“It’s sour,” Johanna said, deciding that honesty was the best policy. When Strobel reacted with neither anger nor scorn, she added, “And it somehow tastes of wood.” She took another sip. “Other than that, it’s a good wine,” she said lamely, hoping that she had not offended him.
Strobel bit at a hangnail. “The only way to appreciate some things, my dear Johanna, is to try them over and over again.” He passed the carafe of water across the table to her.
Johanna took it gratefully. She didn’t believe that she would come to like the wine any better if she kept on drinking it, but she kept this to herself.
From then on, Strobel made a habit of pouring her half a glass of red wine every day. And indeed: without even noticing it, Johanna got used to the taste of it.
The wine was not the only new taste. Instead of the simple fare she had eaten at home—bread and drippings or potatoes in all their variations—she was served unfamiliar pâtés and cheeses that looked anything but appetizing. Although Strobel explained that there were truffles in the liver pâté and that the goat’s milk cheese looked like it did because of the blue mold, that hardly helped. What on earth were truffles? And why would she want to eat moldy cheese? More than once she was reminded of the grubby platters at Wilhelm Heimer’s table, where everyone had to dig in with their own spoon. She had managed to overcome her misgivings about the food there, and she would do the same here. The surprise was all the greater whenever she found she liked the unfamiliar dishes.
“The wine goes well with this game terrine,” she remarked one evening. “T
he woody notes suit the way the meat’s been marinated. It tastes of the forest! Of wild berries and herbs, if you see what I mean . . .” She trailed off uncertainly.
Strobel smiled. “Those woody notes, my dear Johanna, come from the oak barrels that the wine is aged in before it is fit to be drunk. But yes, you’re quite right, taken together they do taste of the forest.”
Johanna didn’t like the way he looked at her, nor did she like it that he called her “my dear Johanna.” But that was just the way Strobel was.
Supper never took long. Once they had eaten, Johanna put the dishes in the kitchen sink and cleared the food into the pantry, which was a room all to itself. Strobel always protested that the housekeeper would do it the next morning, but Johanna couldn’t bring herself to leave the table cluttered. By the time she went to her room, her eyes were drooping and her feet hurt from standing all day long.
It wasn’t long before she turned out the light and dropped off to sleep. She told herself that she could explore Sonneberg when spring came, and then she would get to know the people and the shops.
25
Strobel was finally the one who made her get out and about. “What do you do every evening after supper?” he asked her one evening.
Johanna looked up from her smoked trout. “Nothing,” she replied, taking another forkful of grated horseradish. She decided that she would buy some smoked fish for Ruth and Marie the following Friday. “Do you have more work for me to do? It would be no problem to—”
Strobel interrupted her. “No, I was asking rather more generally. You have a key to the back door after all. Why not use it every now and then? There’s more to Sonneberg than just my house, as you know,” he added, sweeping his arm around as though showing off the town. “It’s about time you got out to see a little more of the world. Sonneberg is small enough, believe me! Why not go out to the café sometime? Or buy yourself a new dress? Or some other little treat? Some of the shops are still open in the evenings after we close. Or won’t your wages allow that? Oh my, maybe that’s the reason!” He struck his forehead theatrically.
Johanna looked on, perplexed, as Strobel got up and went over to the kitchen cabinet. When he came back, he had a banknote in his hand. “Go on, take it. Half of your probation is already over, so you deserve a little bonus. But only”—he drew back his hand—“if you use it to buy something for yourself and don’t take it straight to your sisters in Lauscha.”
Strobel didn’t stop at insisting she take the money. He also gave her the following Wednesday afternoon off. And so Johanna had no choice but to set out, her heart pounding.
“A good salesman must also know how to shop. It’s only by understanding the customer’s desires that we can satisfy them. Consider this afternoon off to be a continuation of your training.” Strobel’s words echoed in her ears as she left his shop. Straightaway two pedestrians barged right into her, talking heatedly to one another and hardly looking where they were going. It was March and the first foreign buyers of the season were in town. Uncertain where to go, Johanna stopped. Should she go to the grocery that she always went to on Fridays on her way home? No, Strobel wanted her to get to know new shops.
She felt nervous at the very idea of walking into a strange shop. What was she supposed to say? She knew nothing about shopping. She had always bought whatever she and her sisters needed—from groceries to the dark linens they used to sew their own clothes—in Lauscha’s only general store. Mrs. Huber, the shopkeeper, knew that the Steinmann girls had little in the way of money, and she always showed them her bargains, not even bothering to fetch the more expensive goods down from the shelves. Ruth and Johanna had never even thought to ask Mrs. Huber what else she had in the shop.
Strobel had told her to buy herself a dress. Johanna made a face. She didn’t even know how much a dress cost. Although she had made a habit of putting aside some of her earnings, she didn’t want to break into her savings to buy a dress. Every penny saved felt like a measure of safety in a harsh world. She never wanted to be left with nothing again, as they had been after Father died.
Worried that Strobel might be watching from the shopwindow, she set off at last. Once she reached the marketplace, Johanna looked all around. Over on the other side of the square, she spotted a shopwindow with white blouses, skirts, and . . . wasn’t that a blue dress hanging there, the very kind she had always dreamed of? Johanna found herself thinking of Ruth, who surely wouldn’t hold back if she were here. She would go into the shop with her eyes shining, impatient to look at all the lovely things.
A couple of hours later, Johanna had a new blue velvet dress that fit her like a glove, and she also had a new insight: Strobel was right. Salesmanship was fun, but so was shopping. The salesgirl had been so polite!
She had fetched item after item from the stockroom and shown them all to Johanna. And she hadn’t merely helped her try on the dresses, but described the merits and drawbacks of every piece she tried. Johanna was quite certain that she had chosen well in buying the blue dress. She could hardly wait to get back to her room and try it on again. The lady in the perfumer’s had been just as friendly, even though Johanna only bought two little cakes of soap for Ruth and Marie. Only the old gentleman in the stationery shop had been rather rude, which was why she hadn’t bought anything there. Ruefully she thought of how much she’d eaten into her savings in the last couple of hours. On the other hand she certainly wouldn’t go shopping on such a scale very often.
Grinning broadly, Johanna set off back to Strobel’s. What a shame that Ruth and Marie hadn’t been here with her.
“So? How was your first trip to the emporia?” Strobel asked her that evening.
“Very nice,” Johanna answered noncommittally. She had almost put the new dress on to wear at supper. But Strobel might think she was doing it on his account.
Strobel chuckled. “I admire your ability to dissemble, my dear! But you can’t fool an old fox like me. There’s a sparkle in your eyes that tells me you were unable to resist temptation.”
Johanna frowned, but when she saw his grin, she found herself smiling as well.
“All right then, you’ve found me out. I really enjoyed my little outing.”
Strobel looked as pleased as if he’d just closed a sale.
Johanna thought for a moment, then asked, “Why do you find it so important that I go shopping?” When he didn’t answer at once, she thought aloud. “I mean, you’re my employer. There’s no reason for you to be so generous with your time and money . . .”
“No, no, no! You don’t seriously imagine that I care whether you had a nice time?”
Johanna swallowed, suddenly afraid that she would make herself look ridiculous, or that Strobel would poke fun at her.
Friedhelm Strobel leaned across the table. “You are a beautiful woman. And you are also clever. What you lack—I will speak bluntly here—is a certain finesse. Not just in how you approach my clients, but also in how you carry yourself.” He stood up and walked around her chair, looking her up and down as he did. “Just look at yourself! Your dress looks as though a cobbler made it in his spare moments. The material is so rough that I shudder to think what it must feel like on your skin.” He shivered in exaggerated disgust. Then he pointed a finger at Johanna’s head.
“And there—not a comb, not a clasp, not a sparkle to be seen! And it would do you no harm to visit a hairdresser. After all, your hair has a natural shine. God knows, we can’t compare Sonneberg to such fashionable cities as Paris or Milan, but there is no need for our womenfolk to walk around in sackcloth and ashes.”
“Well thank you for all this!” Johanna shot back. “And there I was thinking you had employed me for my looks.” For all the sarcasm in her remark, she swallowed hard nevertheless. She took a sip of red wine and tried not to let her irritation show. She couldn’t appreciate just then that Strobel was simply giving her his usual sales pitch—a mix
of give and take. She could hear only his criticism and not his compliments. No finesse and a clumsily sewn dress—Ruth would have been livid! Her sister was fiercely proud of her skill with the needle.
Strobel took Johanna’s hand almost as soon as she put her glass down. “I apologize if I have hurt you with my remarks. That was not my intention.”
Johanna sat frozen, waiting for the opportunity to snatch her hand away, while Strobel talked on. “I am expecting some important customers in the coming weeks. Businessmen who are at home in the world’s greatest cities. The competition does not sleep, not even here in Sonneberg. If the other wholesalers are not to knock me off my perch, I must always be on the alert. And in this regard, an elegant and worldly assistant can be of great help.” He fell silent.
Johanna stared sullenly ahead. Despite herself, she saw the same image in her mind’s eye that she had seen when Strobel first made his offer after Father died; herself, elegantly dressed in blue velvet, a pencil in one hand and a leather notebook in the other. A smile crept into the corners of her mouth. Well, she was a little closer to that picture now that she had bought the new dress.
Strobel was watching her carefully. “How others perceive us is entirely up to us. A man is what he makes of himself. He can be treated with respect and goodwill, or he can be crushed underfoot like a worm. If you want to be successful in the world of trade and commerce, then you must look successful. It rests in your hands. Do you understand what I mean?” he asked insistently.
Johanna nodded. In fact she only understood part of what he was saying. She—Johanna Steinmann from Lauscha—successful? But even if she couldn’t quite say what Strobel was going on about, she had begun to glimpse the bigger picture. His criticism had woken something inside her for which she had no name.
Others would call it ambition.
The Glassblower (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 1) Page 14
