The Perfume Collector (10 page)
‘This isn’t like any shop I’ve ever seen,’ Grace said. ‘It’s more like a nightclub. But it’s in a dreadful state – like it’s been ransacked.’
‘It clearly hasn’t been open in years but it may have been plundered by the Nazis. They weren’t known for their manners. Also, we’ve been having strikes lately. There has been some violence.’
Grace pushed aside a curtain, peering into the back room. ‘What do you think it was? Some kind of chemist?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Monsieur Tissot reached up and took down one of the bottles. She watched as he removed the stopper; a rich floral fragrance escaped.
Raising an eyebrow, he looked across at her. ‘I think we’re in a perfumery.’
Grace stared in amazement at the walls crowded with hundreds, even thousands of tiny bottles. ‘You mean, these are all filled with scent?’
The sheer number was astonishing.
‘I have to admit, this isn’t like any perfumery I’ve ever seen.’ Monsieur Tissot reached up, fitting the flacon back on the shelf. ‘A traditional perfumery has just a few categories, like florals, orientals, greens and citrus . . . maybe a dozen bottles for each . . .’
Grace looked across at him. ‘How do you know so much about perfume?’
‘It’s common knowledge. I know what everyone knows,’ he insisted. ‘Every man alive has bought perfume at one time or another.’
‘My husband has never bought me perfume.’
‘Your husband isn’t French. Besides, all women love perfume.’
‘All women except me.’
‘Madame Munroe,’ he sighed, shaking his head, ‘you are an exercise in perversity!’
‘That’s not quite a compliment, is it?’ she pointed out.
‘What have you got against perfume?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I never found anything that didn’t seem too . . . too loud.’
‘You mean strong,’ he corrected her.
‘No, loud. And I hate to be contradicted, monsieur.’
‘As do I.’
‘I wanted something that whispered, not shouted. I gave up a long time ago.’
‘Well, if you were interested in perfume, this would have been the place to come, I can guarantee you that. Look, you probably cannot read these headings, with your appalling French, but allow me to translate.’ He pointed to a section. ‘There are entire scent collections listed under sun, sea, air, earth – they’re referenced and cross– referenced . . . some under ages.’ He indicated another shelf. ‘This row is devoted to women between the ages of thirty to thirty-five and then over here, for forty-seven to forty-nine.’
Grace moved closer, fascinated. Each vial had handwritten notations on a small card underneath. She pointed to one. ‘What does this say?’
‘“Diminishes”,’ he read, moving on to the next one. ‘“Wears well”. Look at this one! “Caution! Overstays its welcome”.’ He snorted. ‘I’ve sat next to women in the theatre wearing that one. And there’s more.’ He gestured to other clusters of vials. ‘“Romantic”, “Realist”, “Vain”, “Sophisticate”, “Sensualist”, “Timid”. “Extreme”, “Calm”, “Nervous”, “Talkative”, “Bright”, “Soft” . . . and here are the names of gods and goddesses – “Aphrodite”, “Artemis”, “Narcissus”, “Hera”.’
‘How could anyone come up with all of this?’ she wondered. ‘It’s more like a laboratory or a wizard’s workshop.’
She took down one of the vials from the self.
Jasmin de la Mer
, the label said. Opening it, she sniffed the cork. Its contents had long since evaporated, leaving a slightly grainy amber residue at the bottom of the bottle. But there was a ghost of the intensely white bloom, undercut by a coolness, an almost metallic airiness, slicing through the depth and lushness that lingered still.
It was disturbing how quickly the scent transported her; she felt a fleeting sense of euphoria and vastness completely unrelated to her surroundings. It was as though someone was playing a trick on her. It was a long way from the staid, single-note fragrances she was used to – Penhaligon’s talcum powder and spray, with a dainty little drawing of a bluebell on the label.
Monsieur Tissot leaned over and smelled it too. ‘Remarkable!’
She put the lid back on. ‘Is this a collection? I don’t recognize any of the names. Not that I’m an expert, but there are no familiar perfume brands here. But . . . but,’ she turned, gazing at the thousands of bottles, ‘that’s impossible, isn’t it? A person would have to be completely obsessed to create such a comprehensive library of scent!’
They continued to pick their way through the derelict surroundings.
There was a slender black lacquer oriental cabinet to one side. With some difficulty, Grace managed to open its doors. Inside was shelf upon shelf filled with easily several hundred much more elaborate perfume bottles. Each had a specific name on it: commissions. Underneath each bottle was a card and notation. Others were clearly works in progress, distinguished only by numbers. Grace reached up to the top shelf. There were stacks of ledgers, leather-bound journals filled, when she opened them, with clients’ details, dates and long lists of ingredients, presumably formulations for scent.
‘Look at this!’ she called excitedly.
Monsieur Tissot came, leaning over her shoulder to read what was written.
Certain pages were devoted each to a single client. For example, in 1932 Mademoiselle Dallois commissioned a perfume. There was a list next to her name. Grace tried to make out the words. ‘“Pink roses”, “clean hair” . . .’ She pointed to the next line. ‘What’s that?’
‘“Papa’s pipe. And cake”!’ he read. ‘My God, this sounds like a child!’
Grace scanned the hundreds of bottles. ‘Do you think it’s here?’
‘What?’
‘Mademoiselle Dallois’s perfume.’
She stood on her tiptoes, reaching further on the shelf to the bottles at the back.
Had someone managed to create a fragrance equivalent to cake and pink roses?
‘Here, let me,’ Monsieur Tissot offered.
Something fell to the floor – a faded, yellowed note card.
Grace bent to pick it up when suddenly there was a sharp crack on the counter behind them.
They both whirled round.
‘
Dehors
!
Sortez
!’ It was an elderly woman, tall and very thin, dressed in a rather old-fashioned black wool dress that hung from her gaunt frame, a walking stick poised like a weapon in the air between them. ‘
Sortez
!’
‘I’m . . . I’m so, so sorry.’ Grace backed away, stumbling into Monsieur Tissot, who steadied her.
A small terrier ran into the room, yapping wildly around its owner’s feet.
‘
Je ne crois pas
!’ the old woman asserted, waving the walking stick menacingly, taking another step forward.
‘
Doucement
!
Doucement
!’ Monsieur Tissot intervened. ‘
C’est ma faute
!
Ne vous en faites pas
!’
‘
Qu’est-ce que vous faites
?’ the old woman turned on him, fiercely. ‘
Allez-vous en
!
C’est mon accueil
!
Balayeur de rue
!’
‘She thinks we’re thieves,’ Monsieur Tissot translated, inserting himself between them.
‘Maybe because we’re acting like thieves.
Pardon
, madame,’ Grace pleaded. ‘
Nous cherchez l’information à Madame d’Orsey
!’
‘
Pardon
?
Que voulez-vous
?’
‘
Nous
. . .
nous cherchons
. . .’ Grace couldn’t think fast enough. ‘We need your help, madame,’ she blurted out.
The old woman eyed her suspiciously. ‘Why? What do you want?’
‘You speak English!’ Grace gasped in relief. ‘
Pardon
,’ Monsieur Tissot stepped forward. ‘I am Edouard Tissot and this is Madame Munroe, from London. I’m a lawyer, madame, representing the estate of the late Eva d’Orsey.’
‘What?’ The old woman’s expression changed.
‘I’m a lawyer. For the estate of Eva d’Orsey,’ he repeated.
Grace took a tentative step forward. ‘Did you know her?’
But the woman seemed not to hear her. ‘Eva . . . Eva d’Orsey is dead?’
‘
Oui
,
madame
,’ Monsieur Tissot said softly.
‘Eva . . .’
The information seemed to strike her like a physical blow. For a moment it looked as though she might lose her balance. ‘Get out of here.’
She said it so quietly that at first Grace thought she’d misheard her.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Get out!’ the old woman shouted, raising her stick again. ‘Get out! You’re not the first people to come breaking in here, trying to plunder and steal.’
‘What people? What are you talking about?’ Monsieur Tissot wanted to know.
‘I’ve seen them, in their big black cars. Liars, all of you! Now leave!’ She cracked the stick on the counter again, this time dangerously close. ‘Get out of my damned sight!’
They turned and stumbled out of the building, into the bright afternoon of the street outside.
Heart pounding, Grace turned round to look at the shopfront again.
The dog continued to bark. The front door slammed behind them but not before she caught a glimpse of the old woman’s face, her features angular and gaunt; large round black eyes, staring into nothing.
The torn awning fluttered and flapped, tossed by gusts of cold spring wind, the faded gold outline of the name of the shop just barely visible:
Recherchez-moi
.
Look for me.
The woman in room 512 was Russian and known by the name of Madame Zed. She was what the French would describe as
jolie laide
; with an oval, rather long face and dark, heavy-lidded eyes. Her mouth was small, with a tendency to smile on only one side, when she smiled at all. But mostly she sat and drank, smoking long black cigarettes and talking in either Russian or French to a small coterie of devoted followers who came to visit her at the Hotel each day. Sis said many of them were Russian aristocracy, displaced by the Revolution. They travelled from country to country, hotel to hotel, searching for anyone who remembered who they used to be.
An inner gravity dominated Madame Zed. Her voice was low and resonant, pulling in those around her like an undertow. Her figure was very tall, rail straight and angular but she had a way of moving which was fluid and eminently watchable, and she knew how to dress simply so that these movements were emphasized. There was in her, for all her physical failings, an ambiguous, otherworldly sensuality. When her black eyes took you in, her capacity to stare unblinking, without any emotion, was both shocking and mesmerizing.
She’d come directly from Paris and shared a suite of rooms with her assistant, a young man named Valmont. Slightly built, he had brooding features and large, serious brown eyes. He stood in her shadow, listening, nodding in agreement, laughing in appreciation of her wit, managing her appointments, overseeing her preferences. The door was always left open between their rooms in case she wanted something.
One of his many duties was to ensure that the curtains of her room were drawn at all times and the rotary fan turned on high. Madame Zed was incredibly sensitive to smells. Almost everything offended her refined sensibility. This meant she was also incredibly picky about what sorts of cleaning supplies were used. Before Eva could start, Valmont would smell them, his upper lip curling in a pantomime performance of revulsion. ‘For you, it is nothing. But for her, it’s crucial. She has to spend all night with these foul odours!’
Eva had never heard of anything so ridiculous. ‘Bleach is the only way to remove a soap ring completely from the bath. Wouldn’t she rather know that the room was really clean? The smell of the bleach lets you know that it’s clean.’
He looked at her as if she were something foul, stuck to the bottom of his shoe. ‘When I need your advice, I’ll ask. And don’t speak to me with that tone again.’
Eva turned away. She hated being ordered about by a boy only a few years older than herself. ‘
Je peux dire ce que je veux
,’ she grumbled, head down.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, no one else in the hotel complains.’
‘No one else in the hotel is a master perfumer! And I don’t know who taught you to
parler français
but you have the accent of a peasant.’
He had nerve.
‘I
am
French!’ she retorted. ‘My family is from the South.’
‘Of what? New Jersey? You cannot come in here with that revolting-smelling liquid.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
Valmont folded his arms across his chest. ‘What do you suggest, sir?’
Eva gritted her teeth. ‘What do you suggest, sir?’
‘I suggest that you solve the problem.’
‘Trade with me,’ Eva begged Sis that night in bed. ‘I’ll do anything for you if you just take over that one room for me.’
‘Are you crazy?’ Sis snorted. ‘I have enough trouble on my floor as it is. I’ve got some batty old duchess who keeps wanting me to tuck her into bed each night. Must be ninety-three if she’s a day. Calls me Nanny and asks me to sing her to sleep. Do I look like a nanny?’
‘I’ll take her. Please, Sis!’
‘No. And don’t ask again. Face it, you can’t give that one away, honey. You’re just going to have to make do until they check out. Everyone’s got at least a few a year. And I’ll tell you something for nothing, it could be worse.’ She rolled over onto her side, her back to Eva. ‘It could always be much worse.’
Eva was so desperate she even searched out her uncle in the kitchens for advice. It was between services and most of the staff were eating an early supper; the kitchens were empty with the exception of one of the pastry chefs, who was crushing lemon halves, squeezing out the juice, for
tarte au citron
. The entire kitchen was filled with the bright, refreshing aroma of lemons.
Eva watched as he tossed the used halves into a bucket at his feet.
‘Pardon me,’ she asked after a while, pointing to the lemon rinds, ‘are you using those?’
He looked up, surprised. ‘I’m sorry?’
She looked around the kitchen. ‘What do you think goes with lemon juice?’
‘Lemon juice? Sugar,’ he laughed. ‘Lots of it!’
‘No, not to eat.’ She picked up a bunch of fresh mint from a crate of produce, held it to her nose. ‘To smell.’
In the end, she concocted a solution of lemon juice, a few judicious drops of pressed rosemary oil and large quantities of baking soda mixed into a thick, abrasive paste. When she returned later that afternoon to scrub the bathroom, even she had to admit that the bracing, herbal aroma imparted an invigorating satisfaction to her efforts.
‘Not bad.’
Eva turned around to see Valmont standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets. ‘Though a little lavender would have been a nice touch.’
She got up from her hands and knees. ‘You’re wrong.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
She held her ground. ‘Lavender wouldn’t be an improvement.’
‘You’re arguing with me?’ He laughed, incredulously. ‘What qualifies you to correct me?’
She picked up her bucket. ‘Nothing. I’m just right.’
‘I’ll have you know that Madame Zed is a world renowned perfumer and I am her only apprentice!’
Eva took a deep breath. ‘Yes, but we all have noses.’
Suddenly they were interrupted by a deep, throaty laugh.
‘Bravo!’ Madame Zed walked forward from the half-light of the bedroom behind them, clapping her hands. ‘This little maid has seen through you, Valmont! She knows your downfall – you always add another note, complicate things. She’s right, you see. Simple is cleaner, more elegant.’
Valmont scowled at his feet. ‘Yes, madame,’ he muttered.
‘There is nothing more difficult than simplicity,’ Madame added, turning her back on them. ‘And therefore, nothing more refined.’
Valmont ceased to harangue Eva after that and the next morning, Eva noticed that Madame had placed a small white rose in a water glass near the sink.
She took it as a sign of approval.
As time went on, Eva grew to respect and even admire the eccentricities of Madame Zed. For example, rather than adapt to her surroundings, she transformed them. Madame Zed’s rooms were layered in personal history, as if its occupants had lived there for years rather than weeks; she created a mysterious and exotic atmosphere out of a few select additions. Embroidered silk shawls were thrown across armchairs, brocade and velvet cushions tossed in soft, inviting piles on the floor, like an oriental harem. White orchids with waxy petals gave off a hypnotic scent and collections of pastel, sugary French confections were dotted about the room on silver dishes. Steamer trunks, papered with tags from all over the world, were lined up against the far wall, bursting with long flowing gowns in rich colours and strangely asymmetrical tunics. The thick curtains let in only the dimmest fraction of light so that even during the day, her quarters had a smoky decadence about them, like a world suspended in a permanent night.
Eva had almost finished in Madame Zed’s room one afternoon, when she noticed a circular black flacon with a gold stopper on her dressing table. It had a solid, pleasing roundness that made her want to pick it up, feel the weight of it in her hands.
Eva knew it was wrong to disturb a guest’s belongings but the black bottle was too intriguing.
She lifted it up.
My Sin
, the label read, in gold lettering.
Very carefully she opened it, holding the gold stopper to her nose. Up wafted the intense floral top notes of narcissus and freesia, warming to a dark, almost animal muskiness. It was intoxicatingly beautiful and, at the same time, dangerous, with jarring hidden depths.
It was a smell she recognized, aspired to; the hypnotic veil of sensuality that clung to the skin, the clothes, even permeated the sheets of every chorus girl, socialite and movie star that graced the lobby of the Hotel.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled again.
‘I suppose that means you like it.’ Standing in the doorway was Madame Zed, wrapped in a dark lace shawl, her face half hidden in shadow. She was smoking a cigarette, in a long mother-of-pearl holder.
Eva put the bottle down. ‘I apologize, madam. I’m so sorry.’
‘Careful! That’s the only one I have. Otherwise, I shall have to buy it. Can you imagine, buying your own creation?’ And she chuckled a little, crossing the room to put the stopper back on.
‘I’m terribly sorry.’
Madame Zed gave only the ghost of a shrug. ‘It’s no matter. I myself cannot resist smelling other people’s perfumes. In five minutes, I can dissect their entire palate. But this,’ she pointed to the black bottle, ‘this you like?’
Eva felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. ‘I’ve never smelled anything like it. It’s so . . . so,’ she struggled to find the words, ‘so full of different things.’
Madame Zed inhaled, looking at her closely through those heavily lidded black eyes. ‘Complex,’ she said at last. ‘It’s a complex perfume.’
‘Yes. One minute it’s pretty and floral and the next, it’s full of spice and heat and . . . I don’t know how to put it . . .’
‘Sex.’ Madame interjected. ‘It was always about sex, right from the start.’
‘Oh.’ Eva’s eyes widened.
‘Why not? Everyone wants it.’ Madame Zed settled into an armchair. ‘I suppose that’s why it’s so popular. Of course, I had to make it stronger than I would’ve liked.’
‘You made it?’
She nodded. ‘That is my profession. I am a “nose”, as they say. I’ve been mixing perfumes since I was your age. Though now, I’ve finished.’
‘But why?’
‘To be honest,’ she flicked a bit of ash off her long cigarette, ‘I cannot bear that everyone smells alike. It’s vulgar. And that,’ she nodded to the bottle of
My Sin
on the dressing table, ‘already all of Paris smells like it and most of New York. There is something wrong, deeply wrong, about an entire room of women who all smell the same.’
‘But to be able to create something like this is like . . . like being an artist or a magician!’
Madame Zed laughed. ‘You’re very young.’
‘I wouldn’t mind smelling like that.’
‘Oh now, really!’ Madame protested. ‘Think of a man, dancing with a beautiful young girl, in a crowded ballroom. He presses his nose into her soft hair and inhales. Then, two minutes later, he’s dancing with another girl who smells exactly the same. What’s the point? Perfume should tell a story – the story of who you are, who you might be, perhaps even of who you fear becoming . . . all of these things are possible. It’s a very intimate element of a woman, just like her signature or the sound of her voice. And it conveys feelings and states of being that have no name, no language. Its very ambiguity makes it truer than words because, unlike words, it can’t be manipulated or misunderstood. You see, it’s not the perfume itself that isn’t worthy – it’s an original, one of the finest of the decade. But I’m tired of making off-the-peg dreams. I want a challenge worthy of my art.’
‘The name, madam . . .’ Eva could hardly say it out loud without blushing.
‘
My Sin
.’ Madame Zed said the words slowly, her black eyes unblinking. ‘What about it?’
Eva hesitated. ‘It’s just . . . well . . . what does it mean? What sin?’
Madame was silent for a moment, looking past Eva, or rather through her, as if she were transparent. Finally she spoke. ‘Do you know what sin means?’
‘To do something wrong?’
Madame shook her head. ‘That’s one meaning. But there’s another, from the Greek,
hamartia
, which translates, “to miss the mark”. That’s the meaning I prefer.’
‘To miss the mark,’ Eva repeated, committing it to memory.
‘Yes,’ Madame continued. ‘We try and fail, like archers who aim for the target but fall short of the mark.’ Eva watched as she removed the lace shawl. ‘When you are older and have swum out into the stream of life, you’ll see – there are no “good” people, little girl. We’re all trying and failing, trying too hard and failing too often. Remember that. We shouldn’t judge too harshly, in the end, the sins of others.’
‘No, madam. Of course not.’
Eva wasn’t sure she’d answered her question.
But the older woman sank down into the armchair, stretching her legs out on the ottoman. She took another drag of her cigarette. Her voice softened to almost a whisper. ‘Sometimes I think the only things we have in common with one another are our shortcomings’
Eva stood enthralled.
Exhaling a long stream of smoke, Madame closed her eyes and her head lolled to one side.
Eva waited for her to continue.
Madame’s hand relaxed.
The cigarette fell to the floor.
Eva rushed to put it out before it burned a hole in the carpet.
Then Madame began to snore, so loudly that Valmont came in.
‘Oh. It’s you,’ he said, jamming his hands sullenly into his pockets. ‘I should’ve known.’
Eva planted her hands on her hips. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He ignored her question. ‘Jesus! She’s been to Chinatown again. Help me get her on to the bed,’ he ordered, lifting Madame up under her arms.
Begrudgingly, Eva grabbed her legs. ‘Goodness!’ she gasped. ‘She weighs a lot for someone so skinny!’
Together they hauled her onto the bed. Madame didn’t even so much as miss a beat in her snoring and rolled over heavily on to her side.
‘I’ve never heard anyone so loud.’
‘It is a bit much,’ Valmont admitted. ‘It goes right through the door at night. I sleep with about four pillows on my head. She’ll be passed out for the rest of the day now.’
