“Of course, of course. A decent meal certainly couldn’t hurt.” Lady Lucretia clapped him solidly on the shoulder and handed him a key. “Room six. You go ahead—I’ll go put our order in.”
Whistling happily to himself, Friedrich climbed the stairs to the first floor of the hotel. He was, quite frankly, excited at the prospect of hearing Lady Lucretia’s revelations and looking over her documents and drawings. Her plans for the Hotel Marie-Eluise appeared to have moved along more rapidly than he’d thought.
When he reached the landing, Friedrich paused for a moment to orient himself. There were four or five doors along each side of the corridor, with “6” right at the head of the stairs. Was he mistaken, or was that a male voice he heard coming from beyond the door? No, the man’s voice must have been coming from the next room.
He swung the door open.
The punch to his gut came without warning. A hand clenched painfully around his heart, and from one moment to the next, he could not catch his breath.
He stared in disbelief at the scene before him.
“Flora . . . ?”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Her nightdresses and undergarments. A whore’s laundry! Handkerchiefs. Blouses. Wool vests. And what was this? Friedrich dragged a roll of fabric out of the cupboard. Ha, as if Flora would ever have found the time to make anything with it. His wife preferred other entertainments.
He threw the fabric into a linen sack along with everything else. Flora’s smell soon penetrated the linen, a mixture of seeds, rosewater, and sun-warmed apples. And it made Friedrich choke.
“Friedrich, my one-and-only. Talk to me. Why are you packing Flora’s clothes?” A tear-soaked handkerchief in her hand, Ernestine tugged at his arm. “Where is she? What’s happened? I don’t understand what’s going on . . .”
Her words were swallowed by a tremendous thunderclap. Alexander’s heartrending cries pealed from the next room, and he heard Sabine running up the stairs.
Friedrich glared at his mother. “See to the boy and leave me alone!”
“What’s the matter?” said Sabine, appearing at the door with Alexander in her arms. The infant’s eyes were wide with fear.
“Get out of here before I throw you out, too!” Friedrich screamed at her, hating himself for it as he said it. Blind with anger, he turned to his mother again. “Flora this and Flora that—the way you toadied up to her was disgusting. You backed every stupid word she ever said!” Friedrich shook off his mother’s hand like an annoying fly, then jerked open the next cupboard door. The shoes. “All I was for both of you was the simpleton with his water. Look at this!” He held up a flowered scarf. “This is not from me. And there, the fan! See the Russian inscription on it? Oh, look closely, take your time! She took gifts like a whore, your wonderful Flora.”
“Friedrich, for heaven’s sake!” With one hand at her throat, Ernestine stared at him as if she had the devil himself in front of her. Her mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, but no words—no sound at all—came out.
Her damned flower books—away with them! The amber necklace. Her hair bands. And this . . . Friedrich gazed at the glittering F in his hand.
The brooch he had given Flora on their wedding day.
Again and again, he had the feeling that an abyss had opened beneath him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then tossed the brooch aside in disgust.
No. It could not be. A nightmare. A case of mistaken identity! Someone who looked like Flora. Who laughed like her. It was not his wife at all who he had seen in that room.
His feelings were racing ahead of any understanding of what he’d seen. Hot, salty tears came to his eyes, ran down his cheeks, and gathered at the corners of his mouth. He tasted something foul, like spoiled food. He gagged and swallowed, closed his eyes, groped blindly for the water bowl on the chest of drawers. Then he vomited.
“Friedrich . . .” He felt his mother’s hands, clopping him helplessly on the back as if he’d choked on a fish bone and had to get it out.
Fish bones. Fish. Smoked fish. As long as he lived, he would never forget the smell of smoked fish. He would always connect it with this day, with the Forellenhof Inn. With the laughter and gaiety he’d heard coming from the ballroom. With the corridor, the doors left and right, all dark and gloomy. The door to the room. And on the other side, Flora and—
And the man, that Bulgarian . . .
He threw himself onto the bed and beat at the pillow with his fists with all his strength, until the seams burst and clouds of feathers flew into the air.
Outside, it had begun to rain.
Flora had never dressed so quickly in her life. Underwear, underskirt, bodice, her lilac-colored dress. She slipped her shoes onto her bare feet and flew down the stairs.
“Friedrich!” she cried. Over and over: “Friedrich!”
At the bottom of the stairs, she ran past Lady Lucretia. What was the Englishwoman doing there? Flora ran past her and outside without a word of greeting.
A cloud of dust hung over the road. Flora could make out the vague form of a carriage through the haze, driving off as if Satan himself were after it. “Friedrich!”
Flora ran. The sky, earlier a magnificent blue marred by only a few wispy clouds, was now gray and blotchy. Soon, the breeze strengthened and grew gusty, swirling the first tired leaves from the trees. The chill of it made Flora shudder, and gooseflesh crept over her sweaty back and breasts.
Why had he suddenly been standing in the doorway? Who had told him that she—no! Don’t think. Just go. Run! Don’t think about it.
If she were able to make it back to town without stopping . . .
Please, dear God. Please.
The closer she got to Baden-Baden, the darker the sky overhead became. The last of the sunlight faded away, and thunder roared.
Flora was just turning into Stephanienstrasse when the first raindrops splattered onto the cobblestones. When the flower shop came in sight, the heavens opened their floodgates as if the storm were following some secret dramaturgy.
The house door was bolted from inside; Flora’s key rattled in the lock in vain. She stared uncomprehendingly at the mountain of bags and bundles tossed like trash outside the door. The rain had soaked through everything, and the beige linen of her seed sack had darkened to a muddy brown.
“Friedrich! Please, I’m begging you!” She pounded her fist on the door over and over, wailing and screaming. Shadows appeared behind the curtains in neighboring houses, and here and there a curious head popped out of a window to watch the spectacle.
Flora was drenched, and her dress hung heavily. She sat on the sidewalk outside the shop, exhausted, drew her shaking knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and laid her head there. Just then, a window opened above her.
“Friedrich.” Flora, her neck stiff, looked up. The next moment, a bundle smacked her heavily on the head.
“Take your damned ABCs! To hell with them. And to hell with you!” Friedrich shouted at her before slamming the window shut again with all his strength.
Mad weather! The storm had come from nowhere. Konstantin pulled his hat deeper over his eyes while Matriona Schikanova’s pony cart turned off Lichtenthaler Allee toward town. The fat pony snuffled and puffed and, despite the streaming rain, stopped every few leisurely steps to tear off a tuft of juicy grass. Matriona, who was never one to expend energy unnecessarily, did not try even once to inspire the beast to go any faster.
Konstantin sighed. He knew how miserly Irina could be and should have known that not all the guests would have a decent means of transport at their disposal. While Matriona went on at length about the engagement party and about how everything looked so cheap and shabby, Konstantin put on his most interested face and made appropriate comments in the appropriate places. In reality, his mind was miles away.