Scent of Triumph (11 page)

Over the rise loomed their factory, where rose and jasmine and lavender were processed after harvest. The building was quiet today, but she could envision in vivid detail the busy summer harvests, when workers began before sunrise to pick and process flowers. Roses were sweetest when picked at dawn, by midday their scent suffered and became less sweet. Jasmine bloomed at night and was at its finest when harvested before dawn, for heat and dew damaged the delicate flowers.

Danielle smiled as she reminisced on the dawn’s rosy blush when she and Philippe used to check progress on horseback. The work was demanding. A good worker could pick twenty-one hundred rose blossoms an hour, about twenty-five kilos. Eight hundred kilos produced just one kilo of absolute, or purified product. Their lavender was harvested by hand using a sickle, then tied into clumps to dry. The process was labor-intensive, but the end result—the perfumer’s alchemy—was pure magic.

When they approached the rambling stone cottage where Philippe lived a rush of joy welled within her. The laboratory had been added onto the rear of the house. There she’d spent many happy days immersed in aromas that danced in her imagination.

“Do you still have my old journal?” she asked, referring to her record of trials and formulations.

“Of course. In fact, I consult it often.”

She laughed. “You can read my writing?”

“It’s not so bad. I thought you might want to look at it again. It’s in your workspace.”

They got out of the truck. Philippe insisted on carrying the groceries. “You should relax, I’ll get your suitcase in a moment.”

Danielle walked through the door. The unique scent of her uncle’s home enveloped her senses. A mélange of aromas permeated the stone walls of the cottage, burnishing it with a scent that was utterly indescribable, and completely original. The smell lay imbedded in Danielle’s memory. This was the home of her heart. She turned to Philippe. “Would you mind if I go to the laboratory first?”

“Go on.” Philippe laughed. “You’re a true perfumer.”

Danielle reached the laboratory and opened the door; an aromatic patina permeated the air. She paused, joy welling in her heart. And there, beyond the vats, across the worn stone floor, in the far corner beneath a window framed with pink bougainvillea, sat her workbench, or, in the lexicon of perfumery, the organ.

Several tiers rose above the horseshoe-shaped desk. Bottles of raw material oils lined the shelves: flowers, resins, leaves, woods, mosses, spices, herbs, seeds, grains, roots, bark, and fruit. From the animal kingdom came fixatives: civet, musk, and ambergris. The absolutes, the resinoids, the essential oils. Here she had learned to identify thousands of aromas, committing each to memory.

Philippe had taught her how to weigh and blend a formula, and which materials complemented others, such as orange blossom and rose with a dash of vanilla, her first attempt when she was but six years old. Her eyes glistened at the memory.
Someday, my children will follow in my path.
A lump rose in her throat as she thought of Nicky, then she touched the curve of her developing child.

Lovingly she trailed her fingers across the worn wooden table and drank in the aromas until she was dizzy with excitement. Exciting new ideas swirled in her mind and she couldn’t wait to begin.

Tomorrow, she decided.
I have no time to waste.
It could take weeks, months, even years to perfect a formula that would one day become a beloved perfume, bringing joy and happiness to the lives of many people. Danielle loved this aspect of perfumery the most. To her, perfume was the language of love.

In her mind’s ear she could hear Philippe, saying, “simplify, simplify.” She sought beauty in simplicity.

She was known not for complex arrangements, but for perfumes that spoke to the soul, that were elegant in their simplicity. Refined. Harmony and grace; these were the hallmarks of her creations.

When she was very young, one of her favorite Guerlain perfumes, Mitsouko, inspired her. A simple ten-line formula, Mitsouko was a perfume of incredible depth, a miracle of achievement. Not unlike her subsequent creations, designed to transcend time. Like a Monet canvas, she hoped her work would also live on, far beyond her years.

For like an artist, the true test of a perfumer lay not in the skill with which she blended her materials, but in the imagination. To dream without boundaries was a natural talent, just as one might have a natural talent for music or art. Danielle understood she had been blessed with a rare gift, and for this, she was thankful.

And here, only here, did she dare to release her intuitive sense, to rely on it to the fullest.

She lingered a moment longer, before she turned and closed the door softly behind her.

* * *

The days wore on and Danielle passed the time in the laboratory, immersed in her work, developing the perfumes she’d promised Marie for their clients.

Philippe also kept his promise about driving, and Danielle learned to handle the truck under his patient tutelage. He laughed when she ran off the road, the vehicle mired in a field of lavender, but he dug out the tires while Danielle maneuvered out of the rut. “You must learn how to get out of trouble, too,” he told her.

As Christmas approached, Danielle began work on a new project she named Chimère, a perfume with a base accord similar to one she had created for her wedding day. But this perfume was more mature, deeper and richer, a reflection, she realized, of her life and recent trials. She knew every artist revealed themselves in their art.

One day in the laboratory Danielle sat at her workbench, testing several perfume compositions ensconced in small amber-colored bottles. She waved blotter strips of paper under her nose, then made notes in her journal.
Too much bergamot in this one, too tart; no depth in this one; bring forward the orange blossom in another
. She tilted her head, studying her notes.

Measuring out drops from several vials, she blended another variation, leaning heavily on her keen intuition. Inhaling, she let her mind wander, visualizing the aromatic impression.
An ethereal freshness with subtle spiciness, like the voluptuous scent of orange blossoms on a sunny spring morning.
The hair on her arms bristled with anticipation.

She inhaled again, going farther, detecting the bouquet of jasmine and rose, rich and silky, entwined with a spicy note of carnation, adding verve and vitality, robust brilliance.
It needs a splash of complexity here, a sprig of basil there, an accent of clove.
Images of lovers danced in her mind, a soaring sonata thrilled in her soul.

Another breath and her mind delved deeper into the essence, regaling her from the depths of her spirit.
The mystery of amber to balance the soul; the smoothness of sandalwood like the richest of silk; vanilla blended, sweetened, like a lover’s midnight embrace.
An ache grew within the core of her being. And in her mind’s eye, veiled visions of a moonlit night, a couple dancing barefoot on the beach, swirling silks of scarlet and gold, the touch of skin, the whisper of breath warm on the neck, so real to her that she trailed her fingers along the nape of her own neck. Seductive, sensual, the essence of
amour
.

And yet, something was missing.

The deepest satisfaction of the soul, the complete connection to the spirit, the psyche. Almost, but not quite.

Danielle opened her eyes.
Needs a little more work
, she told herself, and made a note in her journal.

She put her pencil down and stretched, she’d been sitting for four hours. Philippe opened the door and walked in. She smiled and held out a bottle. “Would you like to try what I have for Chimère so far?”

He closed his eyes and inhaled, then opened them. “Excellent progress, with a unique, clear motif. Entirely new, radically different from anything else on the market today. So, why do you call it Chimère?”

“It’s a lovely word, don’t you think?” A mischievous grin tugged at her mouth and she took the sample back. “It’s full of imagery; it’s my fanciful folly, that’s what Max thinks of my work. But this will be a grand perfume, once it’s complete. It is my future,” she added with sudden resolve. “Of that I am certain.”

Philippe crinkled his brow. “Doesn’t Max admire your work?”

“I thought so when we first met. Only now, he’d rather I tend to our children.” She bit her lip at the sudden thought of Nicky.
Why haven’t I heard anything from Max?
She shook her head.

“Still, you must not deny your art.” Philippe stroked his grey-stubbled chin. “Why can’t you do both? Marie always has.”

“I’ve decided that I will again someday.” Danielle put the vial away. “But Max is sensitive and prideful. He wants to be the one to provide for our family. I understand, and I respect that about him.” After mentioning his name, she grew quiet.

“You haven’t heard from him?”

Her throat tightened. “No.”

“I see.” Philippe shook his head. “You may have your differences, Danielle, but Max is an honorable man.” His voice sounded thick. “And brave. To go back into occupied Poland, well, you know how dangerous it is. Many men would not have done what he is doing.”

“I know, but I have a terrible feeling, Philippe. What if he can’t find our family?”

“He will do his best.”

Danielle grew cold inside; she quickly squashed the sudden fear that flared within her. “But what if he is discovered? What if he pushes too far, too hard?”

Despite the unrest in Europe, Parisians flocked to the venerable Hôtel Ritz on New Year’s Eve to celebrate the birth of a new year: 1940.

Upstairs, Marie tidied their airy suite and awaited the arrival of her son, Jean-Claude, and his wife, Hélène, along with their daughter. Marie had a special evening planned for her first grandchild. She arranged a silver tray of
petit-fours
and
canapés
from room service on the inlaid table in the richly brocaded salon.

“Oh, Edouard.” Marie called to her husband, conscious of making her musical voice lively. “They’ll soon be here.”

From the bedroom, he merely grunted in reply.

Exasperation swiftly darkened her mood like a rain cloud. The argument between Edouard and Jean-Claude last week on Christmas day still rang in her ears. She hoped they wouldn’t have a repeat performance today.

In recent months, her son had grown flagrantly antagonistic toward his father, blaming him in part for Hitler’s advancement. Marie paused, her hand over a crystal figurine.
Could Jean-Claude be right in his assessment?
The thought sickened her.

Edouard was a partner in one of the foremost banks in Paris. For years the bank had lent money to European businesses, many of which were based in Germany. As it turned out, some were involved in munitions manufacturing, and an ugly scandal ensued.

The bank also lent funds to governments for infrastructure development. Just before Christmas the press revealed that Hitler’s regime—one of the bank’s clients—had used the money for aggressive military expansion.

Infuriated, Jean-Claude had unleashed an angry tirade against his father during Marie’s carefully planned Christmas dinner.

Edouard roared his defense. “As commercial bankers, it is not our place to dictate politics.”

“The Nazi party and its members are prospering,” Jean-Claude argued, “and at the expense of everyone else, especially the Jews, a category which includes your own wife, if you recall, as well as your children, even if we were baptized.”

“A man does not have to justify his business to his family. You’ve profited, too. How else could you afford to complete your medical studies, with a wife and child?”

“I could manage,” Jean-Claude sneered.

Edouard snorted, then went on to cite a welcome flourish in business after years of economic depression. “This prosperity benefits all Europeans. Besides, what could I do? I’m outnumbered on the board.”

“Then you must stand alone for what is right.”

“You’re an idealistic idiot. I refuse to continue this discussion.”

Heartsick over their argument, Marie tried to mediate, but to no avail.

Now, she feared another quarrel, and another ruined holiday.

At Christmas, Marie had surprised Hélène and Jean-Claude with a special treat for New Year’s Eve. “Edouard and I have seen in many new years. Why don’t we keep Liliana while the two of you ring in the New Year with dinner, dancing, and a beautiful suite here at the Hôtel Ritz?”

“How wonderful,” Hélène responded in delight. “Jean-Claude’s schedule has been terribly oppressive. Seven nights a week he’s studying, or at the laboratory, or visiting patients, or something...until long after midnight. Thankfully, only one more year until graduation.”

Marie hoped her son’s marriage could stand the strain of his commitment to medicine.
But why was he out every night of the week?
Marie pressed her fingers to her lips. She hoped Jean-Claude hadn’t succumbed to the thralls of another woman. She adored Hélène.

She moved several crystal figurines and perfume bottles Danielle had given her to a higher shelf on an étagère beyond Liliana’s reach, and as she did, she thought of Danielle.

On her recent trip to Grasse, Marie had been amazed at the work Danielle had accomplished. Though she missed her daughter, she knew work kept Danielle’s worries at bay.

Her heart swelled with pride for Danielle. When she had visited her home in Poland last spring, she admired how well Danielle made the transition to motherhood and married life. She knew it hadn’t been easy for her. Max was a forceful husband set in his ways. Marie lifted a brow. How well she understood.

She had marveled at Danielle’s domestic handiwork: her lavender-scented linens and bath oils; the flower garden from which Danielle made fragrant potpourri; and her fine crocheted coverlets. Danielle even sewed her own clothes, designed in the latest Parisienne fashions. Of course, Marie had taught her most of these things, but not every young girl listened to her mother.

Marie sighed and plumped a pillow on the sofa. Danielle’s plight saddened her.
Her poor grandson.
Now, more than ever, Edouard berated Danielle for her choice in a husband. Still, Marie supported her children’s choice of mates. Marie liked Max; she thought him stable and persevering, if a bit stubborn. But at least he had high standards. Of course, Edouard had never liked him, he thought Max far too old for Danielle, but Marie disagreed.