For several seconds, neither said a word.
She was pale. And she was so thin, no more than skin and bone.
Could it be that the sweet life did not taste so sweet after all?
Friedrich sniffed churlishly. Served her right. This woman—who seemed so delicate and fragile, no longer the strong and vibrant Flora he’d known—was no concern of his anymore.
The bees buzzed on in Friedrich’s head, and his heart beat so hard it felt as if it would burst out of his chest at any moment. Flora . . .
“How are you?” he said. The words flew from his mouth so suddenly that he could not stop them.
“How am I supposed to be . . . ?” She scratched a small circle in the gravel with the toe of her shoe. “I’m going to leave Baden-Baden.”
Friedrich had not reckoned with the impact of her words. But it was obvious: the season was over, and new adventures waited elsewhere. Of course she would leave on her lover’s arm. A wave of heat washed over him. He heard her words as if they came through fog from a long way off.
“G?nningen . . . my family . . . can only hope and pray that they take me in . . .”
Friedrich frowned. What was she talking about?
“Maybe, if I come back to Baden-Baden in winter to sell seeds . . . would you allow me to see Alexander? I know I have no right to that, but it would make me very happy. If you would let me.”
What was he supposed to allow? Friedrich understood nothing. What about the Bulgarian painter? Was it over?
Flora looked at him with eyes red from crying. “Oh, Friedrich, what have I done? I’ve done everything wrong. When I think about what I did to you . . . and our son. Your mother . . .” She threw her hands over her face and her body heaved, racked with sobbing. “I’d give anything to be able to turn things back again. But there are mistakes in life that can’t be reversed, can’t be made up for. What have I done!” she repeated, and she looked up at him, her cheeks wet with tears.
Friedrich took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. His knees felt weak as he sat beside her on the cold bench and struggled with the impulse to take her in his arms. Are you mad? he reproved himself in silence.
“Your realization comes a little late, I’m afraid,” he said stiffly.
It was too late for so many things. Even for Lady Lucretia and her hotel, he thought as he heard the church bell strike six in the distance.
Flora blew her nose, then crumpled the handkerchief into a ball. “I’ve said sorry to you a thousand times in my mind—a thousand times I’ve rehearsed the words. And now? Now I can’t think what to say at all. Friedrich, I miss you all so terribly! I think of you every day, so much that it hurts.” She sobbed silently and turned away.
He nodded tiredly. What could he say? That he missed her, too? Every day, over and over? That he hated himself for it and did everything he could to suppress his feelings for her? And that it did not work?
She touched his sleeve. He jumped as if he’d been burned.
“Remember the first day you showed me the Trinkhalle?”
A gust of wind chilled Friedrich. Why did he not just stand up and leave?
“The picture of Merline. You told me about how she lured the goatherds with her songs, and how, despite all the warnings they were given, they followed her into the depths.” Flora laughed bitterly. “Back then, I could not understand how anyone could be so stupid that they would leave everything behind and go into the water. Today . . .” She twisted the handkerchief with both hands. “Today, I know how tempting it can be to dive into unknown waters. At the start, you dip in just the tip of your toe. It feels good, and you think that nothing can happen. Then the song comes again, so filled with promise, and the thought that you might never hear it again is suddenly too terrible to contemplate. You stop thinking, and you dive in headfirst.” She twisted her mouth and spat out the next words like spoiled fruit. “For nothing but a fear I would miss out, for nothing but lust for life.”
“But what would you have missed out on? Why were Alexander and I not enough for you? Why did you lust for another life?” Friedrich asked. He felt like taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. “You sit here, cry your eyes out, and feel sorry for yourself. You don’t seem to care how I am at all! And yet . . .” Again, a shudder ran through him. This time it settled like frost on his skin.
“What?” she asked quietly.
He looked at her sideways. “When I told you the story back then, do you remember how you asked me about the goats? You wanted to know what became of them after their goatherd abandoned them.” His brow furrowed before he went on. “At the time, I could not give you an answer. Today, I can tell you what became of them, left alone,” he said in a gloomy voice. “They were lost, all of them. They went astray, with no one to stop them or guide them. A shadow hung over their lives, darkening everything, and they could not escape it.” Without warning, a sob escaped him, and he cried, “How could you do that to me?” Tears flowed over his face, and he banged his fist angrily on the bench.
Friedrich remembered clearly the last time he had wept, at home, after he had discovered Flora’s betrayal. He had been so furious and hurt that he felt he would never stop weeping. Now the hurt returned. The salty flood chose its unstoppable path, taking with it all his pent-up rage, his hate, his sadness and incomprehension. With no will of his own, he let Flora take him in her arms and rock him like a child. Together they wept for what they had lost.
Chapter Sixty
At some point, all their tears had been cried. Flora let go of Friedrich and wrapped her arms around her own body, meager protection against the rising wind. Exhausted and awkward, they sat side by side on the bench as the setting sun weakened.
And now? What would happen now? Would each go their own way? Where would her road lead her? Now that she had encountered Friedrich out here, the thought of returning to the hotel was even less imaginable than before. Of course, she had to go back to collect her things, but . . .
Flora sought nervously for something to say. She glanced surreptitiously at Friedrich from downturned eyes.
That she had met him today, the very day on which her feelings for Konstantin had died . . . All her feelings, all at once. Was it only a coincidence?
Friedrich cleared his throat. “It is like this: I have to go. I should have been on my way long ago. I have a pressing appointment.” He turned in the direction of the town.
A sadness stronger than any before came over Flora. He had to go. He had a pressing appointment on Sunday evening. Of course.
She sprang to her feet. “I’m sorry I held you up. I . . . I needed to be getting along anyway.”
His “No!” came as sharp as the crack of a whip, and made her jump.
“Don’t go,” he said softly. “I . . . would like to show you something.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Come.”
“You were to meet Lady Lucretia here? She owns the Marie-Eluise now?” Flora turned to Friedrich in disbelief. Her voice resounded in the vaulted cellar, through the length of which water rushed inside a heavy pipe.
Flora heard a rush in her own ears, and for a moment she had to hold herself upright on one of the iron tubs arranged on both sides.
Friedrich nodded. “She’s probably left already and forgot to lock up. We’d agreed to meet at six.”