The Perfume Collector (8 page)
The girl looked at her blankly. ‘Oh no, madame. My mother would not let me keep it.’
‘Why not?’
The girl shifted. ‘You will have to ask her, madame.’
Grace watched as she slipped into the shadows of the hallway and down the stairs. Far below, she heard urgent, muted voices, speaking in French. Then a door closed and there was silence.
The proper way to enter a guest’s room is to knock, three times. First, you knock. Next, you knock again, loudly, calling out, ‘Maid service.’ Last, you unlock the door and pause. ‘Maid service,’ you say, knocking one more time. And still, you are likely to walk in on quite a few situations, the least disturbing of which is a guest emerging from the bath.
It was amazing how many people did hear you call out but didn’t seem to mind. Eva had noticed that as soon as she put on her uniform, she became invisible. And in situations which would have been considered improper if she were wearing normal clothes, she suddenly disappeared.
This was the procedure Eva followed when delivering extra towels to room 313.
There was no reply.
The bathroom door was slightly ajar and she could hear the taps running.
‘Maid service,’ she called out again. ‘I’ll leave your extra towels on the bed, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
She put them down.
There were some cards spread out on the table; in several rows, stacked in groups. Eva had seen plenty of people playing solitaire but she’d never seen a game like this one. But already, she thought she recognized some sort of pattern.
She moved closer.
It wasn’t obvious.
It was more than just suits . . .
‘So.’ Mr Lambert was standing in the bathroom doorway, wearing nothing but a bath towel, dabbing shaving foam from his jaw. ‘What would you do next?’
Startled, Eva grabbed the towels. ‘Sorry, sir.’ She headed for the door.
He leaned against the bathroom door frame. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
She stared at him. The towel was wrapped round his waist; he was well built, dark curls against the tawny skin of his chest.
He smiled.
‘Oh!’ She felt herself blushing and handed him the towels. ‘Pardon me, sir.’
‘You’re the girl who said hello to me in the hallway, aren’t you?’
‘I . . . yes.’
He nodded to the card game. ‘The way you were looking at that, I thought maybe you were trying to figure it out. Not many people can, you know.’
It sounded like a challenge.
‘Go on,’ he grinned, ‘tell me what you see.’
She looked again at the cards. ‘They’re prime numbers, aren’t they? Or superior suits, whichever comes first.’
‘That’s right,’ he nodded. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve played it before.’
‘No, sir. Cards are a bad idea.’
‘Most things are. But if you don’t play, then how did you figure it out?’
‘I’m pretty good with numbers.’
‘Really?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know you’re good at numbers?’
She felt suddenly defensive, out of her depth. ‘I’m sorry. I was mistaken.’
Mr Lambert went to the dresser, lit a cigarette. ‘Do you think I’m going to hurt you or get you into trouble?’
‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’
Mr Lambert smiled. ‘I’m bored. That’s hardly a crime, is it?’
She shook her head.
‘So,’ he sat on the edge of the bed, ‘are you going to answer me or not?’
‘I used to work for a family in Brooklyn. The man, he was a professor. He used to work on problems all day long in his study and sometimes, well, he’d leave puzzles on the blackboard.’
‘What kind of puzzles?’
‘I’m not certain what you’d call them. Number problems. They had patterns and sequences. Some of the numbers were already there and I would try to fill in the blanks.’
‘What made him think that a maid could do that? I used to live with household servants and I tell you, most of them could barely make change.’
‘Oh no, sir! I didn’t fill them in on the blackboard,’ she corrected him. ‘I did it in my head. You see, one day I accidentally erased something when I was cleaning. I wiped away a problem that he was working on. Except I didn’t know it at the time. His wife became furious. Only, I was able to copy it out again, the same way. So I got to keep my job. But he never knew about it. It was between her and me.’
‘Really?’ His interest was peaked. ‘Do you still remember it?’
‘Uh . . . maybe.’
Going over to the desk, he handed her a pen and a piece of paper. ‘Go on then.’
Eva frowned, concentrating. Then she started to write, covering the entire page.
Mr Lambert stared at it. ‘How is it that you can recall such a complicated equation? Are you trained in mathematics?’
‘I don’t need to recall the equation, sir. I see it. It’s like a picture in my brain. All I have to do is look at it in my head and then write down what I see.’
He thought for a moment, taking this in. Then asked, ‘Why did you leave?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Why aren’t you working for them now?’
‘They moved. Went back to Austria. But his wife, well, she didn’t like me much anyway.’
‘I should think not. Well,’ he took a deep drag, crossing his legs, ‘isn’t that a useful talent?’
‘Not for a girl, sir.’
‘And how did you do on the puzzles that he left on the blackboard?’
She thought a moment. ‘I think I did well on them, sir. Sometimes I figured them out before he did.’
Mr Lambert pointed to the cards on the table again. ‘So which one would you play over here?’
Eva could feel her heart racing. She pointed to a club. ‘That one, sir.’
‘Well done. And after that?’
‘I’d move the nine over there.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s the highest card left.’
‘How can you tell?’
It seemed obvious to her. ‘Well, because of what’s on the table. There are only fifty-two cards. Isn’t that right?’
‘How long were you here?’
‘Not long, sir.’
‘Did you touch anything?’
She shook her head.
‘But you can tell how many cards have been played and how many are left even though you don’t know the game?’
She nodded.
‘Well now, let’s see . . .’ Crossing, he sat down and began turning the cards over. After he’d turned them all over, he looked up, smiling. ‘Looks like you were right. But you don’t play cards.’
‘No, sir. My uncle used to play cards until he lost an awful lot of money he didn’t have. After that cards weren’t allowed in the house.’
‘Well, that happens. But you don’t play?’
‘You keep asking me that.’
‘Yes, I keep asking.’ Leaning back against the table, he crossed his arms in front of his chest. ‘What an interesting ability you have.’
A minute passed.
He cocked his head to one side. It was hard to tell if he were smiling or not. His lips curved but there was nothing, no warmth in his eyes.
‘Are you a communist?’ she finally blurted out, unable to bear the silence any more.
‘Why? Are you?’
‘Me? I don’t believe in anything.’
‘Well, that makes two of us.’
That wasn’t quite what she meant.
‘Are you . . . I mean,’ she was almost too embarrassed to ask, ‘is it true that you’re titled, sir?’
He made a face. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘My friend told me. She says that in England you’re Lord Lambert but you don’t like to use it.’
‘She’s right. I prefer Mr Lambert. Besides, just between you and me, I haven’t got the means to back it up.’ He smiled. ‘Lately I’ve been thinking of changing it to Mr Mutton . . . what do you think?’
Eva suppressed a giggle.
‘If you’re going to have an alias you might as well have fun.’
‘But why do you need an alias?’
He shrugged. ‘As much as I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of me, I still want to keep the shame I bring on my family to a minimum. I’m not fond of many of them but the ones I do like, I like very much. Do you know what I am?’ He grinned. ‘I’m what’s known as a scoundrel, my dear. Or in more eloquent terms, a son of a bitch.’
‘Oh, sir! You shouldn’t say such things about your own mother.’
He flicked a bit of ash in the ashtray. ‘If you only knew her. She’s the one who disinherited me. But that’s another story entirely.’ He pointed his cigarette at her. ‘I’m bad luck. I’ve been given every opportunity and squandered it. I lack self-control, moral-fibre, character – “The expense of spirit in a waste of shame!’’’ He looked over at her, staring at him, wide-eyed. ‘Shakespeare, my child. If you’re going to rant, do it in iambic pentameter. What’s wrong?’
‘Please, sir . . .’ It wasn’t her place, but she carried on regardless, ‘please don’t say those things about yourself.’
Mr Lambert, frowned, his eyes softening. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Eva, sir.’
He bowed his head a little. ‘Very nice to make your acquaintance, Eva.’ Opening a drawer, he took out a new pack of cards and handed it to her. ‘Here. I think you’d better have these.’
She wasn’t meant to take gifts. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Eva left, walking in a daze, back out into the hallway. Her heart was thumping, her palms sweating. She was having trouble catching her breath, as though she’d been running.
Sis came round the corner carrying a breakfast tray. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
Eva jammed the cards into her apron pocket. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your face is all red.’
Eva pressed her hands to her cheeks. They felt hot. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Here.’ Sis took the glass of iced water from the tray. ‘Have some. You look sick.’
‘No. I’m fine.’
‘You better not throw up on the carpet.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Sis shrugged, continuing down the hall. ‘But you look like a beet.’
Eva sat alone on the fire escape that wound round the back of the building, holding the pack of cards. They were beautiful, with bees on them.
She never showed anyone what she could do with numbers. It was secret; something private that she did, to calm herself, to take her mind away from anything that made her anxious, or to ease her boredom. And the puzzles were her own guilty pleasure; the only form of entertainment she’d had in that sombre, silent house. In fact, she couldn’t recall a time when numbers hadn’t appeared like vivid colourful shapes, carving through the chaos in her mind, bringing order.
It felt strange to think that now Mr Lambert knew, of all people. But he hadn’t ridiculed her or teased her. Instead he’d given her a gift.
It was wrong to keep them. Against the rules. What would Sis say if she knew?
That she was being corrupted; that it was the beginning of a rapid descent into depravity.
Eva thought of the family she’d worked for in Brooklyn. The way the Professor’s wife used to follow her around, checking her work. How ferocious she was about every little detail and the way she used to stare at Eva, when she didn’t think anyone was looking, as if she hated her. Frau Brohemer had lost her baby son shortly after they arrived in America, from pneumonia, presumably contracted on the journey. It had made her bitter and mean.
The Hotel was much better than that. She should be grateful for what she had and leave well enough alone.
But Mr Lambert was only being kind to her. What was wrong with kindness? She just wanted to see the cards, to look at them for a few minutes.
Eva broke the seal on the box and fanned them out.
Already the numbers and suits were arranging themselves in intricate patterns in her head and she felt a warm, familiar surge of contentment in her chest.
After a few minutes, she knew she was never going to give them back.
Eva didn’t see Mr Lambert for the next few days but she carried the pack of cards with her at all times, in the pocket of her uniform apron. She was afraid to leave them in the room she shared with Sis but she also wanted them close. He had given them to her.
When she finally did see him again, he was escorting a laughing blonde to his room, whispering in her ear.
Eva froze at the other end of the corridor, standing rigid in the hallway with her bucket and mop.
They swayed and reeled, clutching one another and giggling; sharing a private joke.
Mr Lambert unlocked his door, arm round the blonde’s waist, and pushed it open.
She in turn threw her arms round his neck, tilting her face towards his as they fell inside.
The door shut.
The Laughing Blonde was wearing the same un fortunate shade of lipstick that Eva had found on the glasses.
Wrapping her fingers round the cards in her pocket, Eva stared at the closed door.
Men were like that, she told herself. They liked cheap-looking girls that laughed too easily, too loud.
He probably didn’t even notice her hideous rouged lips.
But then again, he probably hadn’t given her anything either.
The next morning the blonde was gone. Mr Lambert was having coffee and reading the paper, lingering over his breakfast tray when Eva knocked.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said brightly.
He turned over another page. ‘Good morning.’
Silence stretched out before them.
‘I . . . I wanted to thank you for the playing cards, sir.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She hovered behind his chair.
‘It was very nice of you,’ she added.
Mr Lambert took a sip of his coffee. ‘I’m a nice man, the nicest you’ll ever meet. Also, I need more lavatory paper.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She stood stupidly, unsure of what to do next. She wanted him to talk to her more, the way he had the other day, but she didn’t know how to start the conversation.
‘Besides,’ he folded his paper, put it down, ‘I thought you said cards were a bad idea. Root of all evil. I’m surprised you kept them.’
‘Well, I . . .’ She was suddenly wrong-footed. ‘Why did you give them to me if you didn’t think I should have them?’
He shrugged, lit a cigarette. ‘Innocence, like virginity, is more fun to lose than to keep.’
‘Both are quite expensive, sir.’
‘Well!’ he laughed. ‘Aren’t you full of clever observations? Have you played at all?’
‘Only by myself.’
He exhaled, forcing a stream of smoke through his nose like a bull. ‘That’s not going to get you anywhere. Sit down.’
Tucking his cigarette into the corner of his mouth, he took a deck of cards from his jacket pocket and began to shuffle. ‘I’m going to teach you a game called Twenty-one.’
