The Skin Map (12 page)

“And the money?” asked the landlord.

Wilhelmina looked to Englebert, who brought out his leather pouch. He turned his back and made counting noises, then faced them once more, extending his hand to the landlord, who reached out to receive his pay.

“Not so fast,” said Mina, intercepting the pouch in midair. “We will pay you half now, and half when we have signed the papers.”

“Papers?” wondered the landlord. “What are these papers? I know nothing of papers.”

“The legal papers,” she said. “The
lease
, or whatever you call it. I want papers to say that we have paid for a year and that there will be an oven and new paint—all that we have agreed upon. I want it in writing.”

“My word is my bond.” The landlord sniffed. “Ask anyone, they will tell you. Jakub Arnostovi is honest. I have never offered legal papers to anyone before.”

“Times change,” replied Wilhelmina sweetly.

CHAPTER 9
In Which Fragile Hopes Are Cruelly Dashed

Y
ou are a wonder, Wilhelmina,” breathed Etzel. Awed by her display of business acumen and tough-minded negotiating prowess, the big, gentle man could hardly speak. “However did you do that?”

“Do what?” she asked, genuinely puzzled by his amazement.

“The way you bent Herr Arnostovi to your will. I have never seen the like. He is a landlord, after all.”

“Oh, that,” replied Mina. “I live in London, remember? I’ve been dealing with landlords most of my life.”

“I would never have dared to speak to him like that. It was”—he sighed with admiration—“
wunderbar
.”

“That was nothing,” she said, smiling as she basked in his praise. “You should see me rip into a Clapton letting agent.”

“You have a good head for business, Mina,” he told her. “We shall do very well together, I think.”

“I hope so, Etzel.”

“Now then!” He rubbed his chubby hands together. “You stay here and wait for Herr Arnostovi’s return. I will go get the wagon, and then we can begin moving in.”

He hurried off down the street towards the livery stables, and Wilhelmina stood for a moment outside the shop, examining the exterior and trying to decide what colour to paint it. White, of course, was always good for a bakery; it made a place look clean and wholesome, like bread. And the deep-shadowed street could certainly use brightening up.

But, no, dark blue was better—a royal blue, with gold trim. That would look posh and professional. She cast another glance up and down the street. No . . . white would stand out better, and that was what they needed more than anything just now. A good solid white enamel, and a sign—judging from the street view, all the best shops had signs—with a picture of a freshly baked loaf of bread.

Now, what to call it? Probably Etzel would have some ideas about that.

“It is Stifflebeam and Sons Bakery,” he said when she asked him what his father’s shop was called. “It is a good name, I think.”

“Yes,” agreed Mina, doubtfully. “But people here don’t know you or your father. We need a new name—something that will be easy for people to remember.” She thought for a moment. “Do you have a specialty?”

His broad, good-natured face bunched up in thought. “I make very good stollen,” he declared proudly. “The best in München—that is what people tell me.”

“Great!” said Mina. “And when Christmas comes we will make sure everyone hears about Stifflebeam’s Special Stollen. But I was thinking of something we might use for a name.”

“
Ahso
.” He thought some more. After a few moments’ furious silence, he said, “What if we called it Stifflebeam’s Bakery?”

“Yes . . . ,” Mina replied slowly. “Well, we can think about it some more. Let’s unload the wagon and get this place tidied up. I’m sure something will occur to us in the next day or two.”

They spent the rest of the day cleaning the premises top to bottom, and organizing their meagre store of supplies and Englebert’s few belongings. They planned where the equipment should go; how much space they would need for a counter and shelves and work spaces; where to keep the fuel for the oven; and general household organization—such as who should take which bedroom and what items of furniture should go where.

In Wilhelmina’s view, the place was primitive in the extreme: no electricity or running water; no radio, television, telephone, of course. Only fire for heat and light; only foot power—human or animal—for transport. Whatever else could be said, in the realm of creature comfort, Prague in the thirtieth year of Rudolf left a lot to be desired.

Everywhere she turned, some new—or rather, antique—oddity presented itself, reminding her that the world as she knew it had mysteriously and radically changed. Thus, she remained in a state of continual low-level shock. While giving every outward appearance of a person resigned to her lot, if not entirely content, the question of how she was to make her way back to what she considered the
real
world was never far from Mina’s mind. Like a loose tooth the tongue cannot leave alone, she returned time and again to the question—all to no avail. She simply did not have enough of whatever she needed to advance the matter in any practical way.

In the meantime, Wilhelmina determined to make the best of her situation, peculiar as it might be. She occupied herself with the mundane chores of setting up the house and making the rooms habitable. She took inventory of her private quarters: a wooden frame bed with mattress and tented curtains; a pine table with one slightly wobbly leg; a good stout straight-backed chair made of oak; a large wooden chest for clothes; a small crate of imperfect candles of varying length, diameter, and straightness. The bed, like the chest, was heavy and well made; the mattress was on the soft and lumpy side, stuffed as it was with straw and horsehair. The single coverlet smelled of stale sweat, and she refused to sleep with it until it had been beaten within a thread of its life and aired out for a day in the sun.

In all the to-ing and fro-ing, Mina was pleased to see that Englebert was a dutiful and diligent worker, unfailingly cheerful and optimistic; and, if not the fleetest fellow afoot, he seemed to be well-nigh tireless. Over the next few days the shop began to shape up nicely. Masons and carpenters appeared to construct the oven, and Mina talked them into building a simple counter and some shelves in exchange for a supply of free bread for a month.

Englebert considered this needlessly extravagant—she could tell from the shocked expression on his face—but she explained that tradesmen worked in many households and for wealthy or at least well-off patrons. “Word of mouth is the best advertising,” she told him. “And it will cost us little enough. Once folk begin hearing about our wonderful bread, they’ll be lining up in the street to get their hands on it.”

Every chance she got, Wilhelmina explored the city—starting with the great Týn Church in the square where, on Sunday, Englebert dragged her from blissful slumber to attend the service. “To thank the Lord for our good fortune, and the saving of our souls,” he said. Though Wilhelmina understood little of what went on, she enjoyed the service; she liked the pomp and pageantry, the smells and bells, the thundering music of the hymns, the splendour of the architecture, and the robed majesty of the many priests. Most of all it made Englebert happy, and she felt a better person for having gone.

Other times, she roamed the city wherever whim took her. She borrowed a little money from Englebert and outfitted herself with a good, durable skirt, two long-sleeved white linen smocks, a set of smallclothes, a handsome bodice, an apron, a red shawl, three pair of heavy stockings, and sturdy leather shoes with brass buckles and stout soles. All the items, save for the undergarments, were secondhand but good quality. She donned the colourful head scarves to hide her too-short hair and help her blend in better, so she would no longer be mistaken for a man. Thus disguised—as she thought of it—she allowed herself to wander here and there as her feet took her, always on the lookout for a bakery in order to do a little light industrial spying—sometimes following her nose to the source. What she learned was enlightening and practical.

She immediately discovered that the bread of Prague was heavy, dense, and dark. It was made almost entirely of rye flour, most often flavoured with caraway, and had a bitter, not altogether pleasant taste. Also, it dried out quickly; everyone was well accustomed to soaking it in milk or water if they were to have any chance of eating it after the first day or so. For reasons Wilhelmina could not readily perceive, the city’s bakers insisted on fashioning this important staple of life into enormous loaves that were then cut into slabs of various sizes and sold like butchered meat: prime centre cuts fetched the highest price; scrag ends went for much less.

It was the same everywhere she went: the same black bread, the same lumpen slabs, the same prices, and, she suspected, the same uninspired recipe in use across the city, if not the entire country. Everyone seemed sanguine about this arrangement—although why this should be so Mina could not say. In her opinion, the bread was vile. Clearly, the gentlefolk of Prague were nothing if not long-suffering.

“We can do better,” she told Englebert one day after her latest foray. “We
will
do better. We will give our customers something new and different—something they’ve never seen or tasted before. We’ll soon be the most successful bakers in the city—in the whole country even. Everyone in Prague will sing Etzel Stifflebeam’s praises.”

“Do you really think so?” he wondered, delighted by her assurance and enthusiasm.

“I would not be surprised if by this time next month, we were baking for the royal household.”

“For Emperor Rudolf himself ?” gasped Englebert. “Oh,
ja
, that would be something.”

Indeed, a royal warrant would have been the guarantee of success. With that in hand, all loyal, right-thinking consumers would beat a path to the door of the bakery shop called, simply,
Etzel’s
.

They opened for business on a bright, brisk morning three weeks after arriving in the city and waited for the custom that would make their fortune. The first week of trade came and went without causing so much as a ripple of interest, and the second followed in much the same way. A few curious or intrepid folk appeared and were artfully persuaded to try some of Englebert’s lighter, softer, tastier bread. Those who did so professed themselves pleasantly surprised, impressed, and satisfied.

“They’ll come back,” Wilhelmina told Etzel. “With every nibble, we catch a fish. We just need to cast the net wider, that’s all.”

This left Etzel scratching his head. But Mina was in no doubt; as soon as word spread that a new baker had arrived with delicious new recipes, they would be inundated with orders and customers.

Still, as time passed and the days went by, Etzel’s bread, delectable as it undoubtedly was, remained unsold. As the third week threatened to go the way of the previous two, Wilhelmina, feeling increasingly desperate, took several loaves down the street and out into the Old Town Square, where she gave away free slices of their freshly baked product to passersby. Some few of these she was able to coax back to the shop to purchase a loaf of the same for themselves. Happily, the day ended with a profit for the first time.

Sadly, it was also to be the last time they would close up the shutters with coins in the cash box—the last, at least, for a very long time.

The trouble, Wilhelmina had begun to suspect, was twofold. First: they were foreigners. There was no getting around that. They were
Ausländers
and viewed as such by the self-considered sophisticates of Prague. Second: the location of the shop—down one of the old city’s disagreeable streets—did not inspire either confidence
or
curiosity in the solid God-fearing citizens they hoped to lure through the door. There were possibly other reasons, too, of which Mina was unaware, but any way she looked at it the situation had every appearance of a disastrous error of judgment in the choice of location.

As the days drew on, and the glowing autumn began to ebb into the dull chill drab of winter, so did Wilhelmina’s confidence wither and fade. She greeted each grey day with dread and finished with a sense of grim relief that at least she would not have to face it again. Englebert tried to remain cheerful, but his natural optimism was eroding with each renewed failure. And that was the hardest part for Wilhelmina—watching that great, good, joyful soul dwindle by degrees into ever-bleaker despair as the bread so lovingly baked went untasted, unsold, and uneaten.

The bright hopes that had sped them so fair and free on favourable winds appeared set on a collision course with the treacherous coast of a harsh and bitter reality. When the two crashed—it was only a matter of time, now—their happy little shop would, like a storm-tossed ship broken on the rocks, sink without a trace.

CHAPTER 10
In Which Kit Entertains Second First Impressions

K
it, yawning from a restless night on a lumpy horsehair mattress, could hear muffled voices through the panelling. Cosimo and Sir Henry were deep into a lengthy conversation which began as, “Would you excuse us, Kit? Sir Henry and I have something to discuss in private. Don’t wander away. Shouldn’t take but a moment. We’ll call you.” But they were still going at it hammer and tongs and, with no end in sight, Kit was bored with sitting in the vestibule and fed up with counting knots in the floorboards. He decided to stretch his legs.

Planning to be back before anyone realised he had gone, he tiptoed down the corridor and found a rear staircase that led to an outside door. The day was cloudy and trending toward rain; availing himself of one of Sir Henry’s heavy wool cloaks hanging from a hook by the door, he slipped out, leaving the stately stone pile of Clarimond House with no other aim than to get some fresh air into his lungs and treat himself to another look at Olde London Towne. Flitting out through the back garden gate, he walked along the mews until he reached the Musgrave Road and was instantly shocked anew by the unfathomable conundrum of a place at once so utterly strange and yet uncannily familiar. Perhaps it was like meeting in the flesh someone you knew very well but only through entries in a diary. Or, maybe it was like meeting, as an infant, a friend you knew only as a grown-up adult. This, Kit thought, is what it is like to get a second first impression. So much was recognizable and unchanged, so much alien.