“I have seen enough,” said the now disheartened baker. “Let us go back.”
Mina felt sorry for her dejected companion and concern over her own prospects, which were now enmeshed with his. She gave him a pat on the shoulder, and they started for the open air and sunlight of the square. Working their way back through the tangle of interwoven byways, they turned onto a street they had not searched. Halfway along, they saw that the way was blocked by a horse and wagon drawn up outside of one of the buildings. There was a man in the wagon stacking furniture and boxes into a very tipsy pyramid. Now and again, a woman appeared in the doorway with another box that she handed up to the man to be added to the unstable mound.
“I think they’re moving out,” surmised Mina.
“Who can blame them?” commiserated Englebert.
Drawing near the wagon, they paused. “Good day to you, sir. God bless you!” called Englebert, who seemed incapable of passing anyone without offering a greeting.
The man looked up from his labours and grunted a reply. The woman appeared in the doorway with a rolled-up rug. On a whim, Mina felt moved to address her. “Good day,” she said. “Are you moving out?”
“Achso, Deutsch! ” The woman gave her a dark, disparaging look and answered in her own language. “Are you blind, girl?”
The surly response knocked Wilhelmina back a step, but it made her more determined. “Please,” she said, “it is just that we are looking for a place to open a bakery.”
“You can have this one,” the woman told her, “if you can hold your water until we’ve gone. And good luck to you.”
“Now, Ivanka, there’s no cause to be rude,” said the man in the wagon, pausing to wipe his face with a dirty rag. “It is not her fault.” The woman lifted her lip at him, turned without another word, and went back inside. To Wilhelmina, he said, “Landlord is inside. You talk to him, good woman, and find out all you wish to know.”
Without consulting Englebert, she stooped to enter the shop, which was almost empty save for two more rugs and a few wooden boxes. A long-faced, sallow man with a neatly trimmed goatee beard that only served to accentuate his already elongated face was standing at a wooden counter writing in a tiny book with a quill pen. Like so many of the men Wilhelmina had seen, he wore a long black coat and a white shirt with an odd little white starched neck ruff; his head was enveloped in a large bag hat of green silk with the flourish of a white feather sweeping out to one side. “Yes?” he said without looking up. “What is it?”
Wilhelmina tried to think how best to phrase her request, and wondered if he, too, would understand her German.
“Well? Speak up, man! I am very busy.”
“Sir,” said Mina, “are you the landlord?”
“Yes, of course.” He glanced around at her without moving his head more than necessary. “Who else should I be?”
“I am certain I don’t know,” answered Mina. “Is this shop for rent?”
“Why? Do you want it?”
“Yes,” replied Mina rashly.
“Sixty Guldiners.”
“Pardon?”
“Sixty Guldiners—for six months.” He returned to his little book. “Away with you. Come back with your father.”
“We will give you fifty,” she said, “for a year.”
“Get out!” said the man. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of my shop—and do not come back.”
“Wilhelmina,” called Englebert from the door. “What are you doing? Come away.”
Reluctantly, she rejoined Englebert on the street outside. “He wants sixty Guldiners,” she told him, “for six months.”
“That is too much,” said Englebert. “For a place like this”—he wrinkled his nose—“it is too much.”
“I agree.” She frowned. “What is a Guldiner anyway?”
Etzel gave her a curious look. “Do they not have such as this where you come from?”
“They have similar,” she allowed. “But not Guldiners. What is it?”
He lifted the hem of his coat and, after a moment’s fuss, brought out a small leather pouch. He untied it and reached inside. “This is a Groschen,” he said, producing a small silver coin. “It is worth six Kreuzer.”
“I see,” replied Mina, repeating the formula to herself. “One Groschen equals six Kreuzer.”
“There’s more,” he said. “Ten Groschen make a Guldengroschen—or Guldiner, as we say.” He fished inside the pouch and brought out a larger silver coin. “This is a Guldiner—very good.”
Mina nodded. “Ten Groschen make up a Guldiner. Got it. Are there any more?”
“There is a new one called a Thaler—this is also very good, though you may not see so many of them. They are worth twenty-four Groschen.”
“So, Thalers are even better,” observed Mina. She plucked the silver guldiner from between Englebert’s thumb and forefinger.
The departing woman reappeared with another rolled-up rug under her arm. “How much?” she asked as she passed. To Mina’s puzzled look, she jerked her head towards the shop door and said, “Him inside—how much did he demand?”
“Sixty Guldiners,” replied Etzel.
“The greedy miser,” scoffed the woman, handing up the rug to her husband in the wagon. “We only paid him thirty for the entire year.”
“How long were you—” She hesitated, amending her thought. “How long did you rent from him?”
“We were here four years,” replied the woman, “and never a good day in all that time. May the Devil take him and his shop. I never want to see either of them again.”
“Do not take on so, Ivanka,” chided the man. “It is hard to lose a business.”
“Where will you go now?” asked Etzel.
“We are going to Presburg,” replied the man. “My wife has a sister there, and we will get a new shop.”
“What kind of shop did you have?” Mina wondered.
“It was a candle shop,” answered the man. “I make candles.”
“The best in the city,” put in his wife proudly. “No more. Let them live in the darkness.” She spat in the doorway for emphasis.
“She’s very angry,” explained the man.
Wilhelmina thanked the couple for their help and went back into the shop. “Fifty Guldiners is more than you will get from anyone else,” she announced. “We want it for a year.”
The man in the green hat laid aside his book and stood. “Am I not to be rid of you?”
“No,” said Mina, “not until I get a reasonable answer.”
“Sixty Guldiners is reasonable,” replied the landlord.
“Not when the current occupants are paying only thirty a year.”
“Times change.”
“I agree,” replied Mina. “That is why we are offering fifty.”
The man in the black coat snapped shut his tiny book. “Very well. Fifty, then. It is done.”
Englebert, standing in the doorway, opened his mouth to object.
“Not so fast,” said Wilhelmina. “This room will need to be painted—and the outside as well.”
The landlord frowned. His eyes narrowed. “A woman?” he wondered aloud. “And you talk to me like this?”
“Fifty Guldiners,” Wilhelmina reminded him.
“Very well, anything else?”
“Yes,” she said, “there is one other thing. We will need an oven.”
“An oven . . .” He did not seem to appreciate the nature of the request.
“This is to be a bakery,” she told him. “We need an oven.”
“A large one,” put in Englebert hopefully, “with four shelves.”
The black-coated landlord pulled on his beard in a way that suggested he thought he might be talking to crazy people, but could not be sure. “No,” he said at last. “It is too much.”
“Fine,” replied Mina. “Come, Etzel, I saw a better shop closer to the square. It is empty, and I am sure the landlord would be happy for our business.” Taking Englebert
by the arm, she started through the door.
“Wait,” called the landlord.
She turned back, smiling.
“If I do this, I will need a full year’s payment in hand.” He tapped his open palm.
“We have the money,” Wilhelmina assured him before thinking to ask Englebert if that was, in fact, true. “Assuming the rooms upstairs are suitable for living, of course. We will need furniture—beds, tables, chairs. Simple things.”
“You will find all you need upstairs.” The landlord waved at the staircase at the back of the shop.
A quick look around the four rooms on the second floor assured Mina that this was indeed the case. There were beds in two rooms, and a table with four chairs in another, and a spare room with two chairs more and a large chest.
“It is acceptable,” said Mina upon returning to the ground floor. “Two new rugs would make it more acceptable.”
“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
You 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 a
nd 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.”