The Secret Ways of Perfume (12 page)

Like her new neighbor, Cail McLean. She had felt good around him, comfortable, despite the awkwardness of the situation. She hadn't told
Monique anything yet. She should, she thought. Cail was . . . remarkable. Brusque, yes, but with a fundamental kindness that was part of him, part of the man he was. But this was no time to think about all that. She had a bad habit of losing herself in daydreams.

“Elena, let me introduce Philippe, the backbone of Narcissus.”

Philippe, meanwhile, had put his head to one side and half-closed his eyes as if he was delightedly savoring Monique's words. “When women start giving one compliments like that, it's time to be worried,” he said, turning to Elena. “Mademoiselle is giving me too much credit. I'm not the backbone, just the manager.”

Elena noticed that sickly-sweet smell again, but now it had turned dusty, with the stench of false modesty.

“Jacques Montier is the real backbone of Narcissus, like his father before him, and his grandfather before that. You know this is one of the few companies in this business that can boast centuries of tradition? And the shop has always been here, in Place Vendôme.” His tone had suddenly turned serious and was full of respect and consideration.

Philippe went on to explain the history of Narcissus, listing the important clients the perfumery had served. The two women stayed quiet, each carefully avoiding the other's eye.

“Monsieur Montier permitted me to smell the perfume you chose. My congratulations, mademoiselle. Working together will be . . . interesting. You have a certain aptitude—one might even say a sensitivity—for perfume, which is rare these days.”

He made a feature of long pauses throughout his entire speech, which seemed interminable to Elena and put her on edge. Then he gave her that shifty look again.

“I assume you're aware, young lady, that we don't just
sell
perfumes. Here at Narcissus we
create
them,” he said suddenly, as though the notion had popped into his mind right that second. “Naturally,
that's handled by the composers, the noses. You will need to listen to the customer, collate their requirements and explain them to the perfumier. It might seem difficult at first, but you'll get used to it.”

The two friends exchanged a surprised look. Jacques clearly hadn't told Philippe about Elena's skills. A surge of heat bubbled up inside Elena, reaching her face. The owner of Narcissus had been clear about the job she would be doing here—he'd said that, at least to begin with, she would only be selling perfumes. But why had he kept her real talents hidden from Philippe? Somewhere deep in her soul, that kernel of pride for what she was, for her heritage, stirred angrily. She felt deeply humiliated, as though someone had suddenly taunted her. Philippe's words were like a shower of stones on what she now realized had become her dreams.

“I'll do my best,” she replied, looking away.

Philippe didn't appear to notice Elena's reaction: he was too busy talking. “It takes years of experience, dedication and in-depth study to create a perfume,” he waffled on. Another pause, this time accompanied by a snort of derision. “Many people think they can invent perfumes because they have an instinct—but it's not as simple as that. Nowadays, perfumiers are popping up all over the place. It's irritating, and frankly, it's embarrassing.” His voice was monotone, flat.

“I can imagine,” Elena murmured.

The man went on for a bit, explaining things to Elena that she knew perfectly well, and exponentially increasing the irritation she was trying to keep at bay. Politeness was proving a real struggle. Philippe might well be a perfumier, but he'd never be able to identify an emotion even if it smacked him in the face, she decided, holding his gaze.

“Here we have oils, waters, essences. I won't go into detail, since these are technical processes that you wouldn't understand right now, but don't worry: with the right dose of patience and application, you'll learn.”

She wouldn't understand them? She swallowed it down, but her indignation was strong and pressing on her lips.

Again Philippe hadn't noticed anything untoward and gave her a good-natured smile, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. Elena felt her irritation die down. It was still the right job, wasn't it? She just needed to be patient for a little while longer. Philippe would soon be eating his words.

“There are few rules for employees here at Narcissus, but the ones we have must be followed to the letter.”

The man's voice had suddenly hardened. Even his expression had changed. Now he looked like an owl, with his round eyes and hooked nose. He wasn't being so kind anymore.

“I'm sure you'll have no problem sticking to them. I can tell you're an intelligent woman.”

Oh really? How? What a condescending little man. Elena forced herself to calm down; it wouldn't help anyone if she started shouting. Even though she was dying to. She unclenched her fist and stretched out her fingers, then she took a deep breath. It wasn't Philippe's fault, she told herself. It certainly wasn't
his
fault she'd left her old life and was trying to start a new one from scratch. She couldn't skip the stages, she knew that. So she searched inside herself for the drop of patience she had left and forced herself to listen to the house rules.

Monique had wandered off. Elena watched her walking around the shop, lost in thought, staring at things. When she saw her take her tablet out of her bag, she could guess her friend was already trying to find her another job.

“Is it all right with you if I start straightaway?” she asked outright.

Philippe blinked. “I don't know. That's not the usual procedure.”

But Elena wasn't giving up. She didn't want Monique to have to keep worrying about her. The little bit of independence that had
started to grow inside her wanted both space and autonomy. In fact, it demanded them.

“I won't bother you. I'll stay out of the way and just watch. That way it'll be easier to understand how to handle sales and what kind of relationship to build up with the customers, don't you think?”

The man shrugged. “Yes, actually that might be a good idea. But I would point out that your contract doesn't start until next week, and only then will you receive your agreed salary which, I must say”—he paused, looking her in the eye—“is very generous. No one in the whole of Paris would have offered those terms to a sales assistant.”

Elena gulped, but she held his gaze. “Right, a sales assistant.” She stretched her lips into a forced smile.
You can do this
, she told herself. Empathy certainly wasn't one of Philippe's strong points, but she could ignore that. She made sure she kept a polite expression on her face.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now I'll go and say hello to Monique, if you'll excuse me.”

Elena knew that if she didn't start looking at things from the right angle, her adventure would be over before it had begun. She'd have to go back to Florence. And there was nothing for her there. She didn't have enough money to re-open the family business, and she didn't want to see Matteo again, or their mutual friends who had carefully avoided calling to see how she was.

She wanted to stay in Paris. She wanted to walk through the Marais, go back up the Eiffel Tower; she wanted to look at the stars with Cail again, smell the roses he was growing on the terrace. That was what she wanted, and that was all that mattered; she'd enjoyed the taste of the few decisions she'd made by herself and she wasn't about to give that up.

Now she just had to face Monique. Her friend might have been the
one who'd convinced her that Narcissus was the right place for her, but Elena was willing to bet that, after the way Philippe had behaved and thanks to Jacques's arrogance, Monique had changed her mind.

“
Chérie
, you mustn't worry. I'll call a friend. You don't have to put up with all this.” Just as Elena had thought, Monique had already come up with a Plan B. “I'll soon find you another job.”

That promise, so full of diligence and concern, was the last straw for Elena. The anger she'd bottled up came to the surface, like an unbearable fever. She wasn't a child; she could look after herself. Why couldn't Monie get that into her head once and for all? She was about to tell her as much in no uncertain terms, but suddenly she realized how upset her friend was. She was pale and had tears in her eyes. Elena's anger dissolved. Sooner or later, she'd deal with Jacques, she promised herself. No way did he deserve a generous woman like Monique. Elena wondered whether he was the reason her friend had so little belief in herself and her own abilities.

“No, why? This will be fine,” she replied, acting calm and serene and ignoring the genuinely astounded expression that came over the other woman's face.

“You're joking, right? Jacques won't let you in the laboratories. Didn't you hear Philippe? As long as you're working here, you'll only be able to sell perfumes over the counter like a common or garden sales assistant.”

Elena shrugged. “Have you got something against sales assistants?” she asked with a beaming smile, determined to play things down. Intent on having the last word, she walked Monique to the door. “Don't you have an appointment with Le Notre?”

Monique nodded, still looking uncertain. “If you need—”

“No. Please go—everything will be all right.” And this time Elena's voice was uncompromising. She left her friend in the doorway and
went straight back into the perfumery, determined to do whatever it took to meet the requirements set by Jacques, Philippe and anyone else if she had to. Her anger was now a knot squeezing her throat. She forced herself to breathe slowly and, when she was calm enough, she went back to join Philippe. It was time to focus on the internal organization of the shop, to carefully observe the way perfumes were arranged, and the approach to customers.

At the end of the day, as she was walking home, clutching her jacket around her, she had quite a clear idea of what was seen to be important, and what wasn't. Yet Elena was bewildered. Working alongside her grandmother in the shop for years was her basis for comparison: and none of what she knew fitted in with the way Narcissus operated. They cajoled their customers, undermined their certainty, drew them in with what was effectively an olfactory trap.

But who was she to say they weren't on the right track? That shop was successful, whereas she had closed down her grandmother's business because she didn't even have enough customers to cover her costs. When Lucia got ill, Elena's world had collapsed around her. Her grandmother had known how serious her illness was from the beginning and had insisted on staying at home. She wouldn't hear of hospitals, except for absolutely essential treatment. Elena had no choice but to go along with it.

After a few months, Lucia was consumed by her illness. She kept talking about the past, about Beatrice and the Perfect Perfume. She recounted the history of her family so many times: everything her ancestors, the Rossinis, had achieved. She told her granddaughter again and again how important it was to follow the “ways of perfume.” Elena knew these stories by heart but she listened to Lucia attentively and was always by her side, which left her with scant time for running the business. Closing the perfumery after Lucia's death
was the only thing she could do. She no longer had the strength or the will to carry on with it.

Out of nowhere, the notes of “La Vie en Rose” suddenly broke her chain of thought. She realized she'd already reached the Marais and there, right on the crossroads with rue des Rosiers, was an old man selling antique prints of the city in his stall. Every evening, Édith Piaf sang the well-known words of the beautiful, classic love song. The old man insisted on playing the song on a loop, come rain or shine. A gesture tinged with regret, disappointment, longing and lost love, or at least that was Monique's take on it when they had walked past one evening.

Previously, Elena had always sung along under her breath without ever really thinking about it. She liked the singer's deep, almost scratchy voice, the flavor it gave of days gone by. This time, however, she looked straight at the old man and saw only the shrewd expression in his watery eyes, and his crafty smile. Yes, he might be playing the song because it reminded him of a love, a woman, a past life—but more likely it was a ruse to attract tourists, to encourage them to open their wallets and take home a little piece of Paris and a tear-jerking story. When faced with this picturesque stall while holding hands with the current love of their life, even the most cynical of individuals would allow themselves to be bewitched by the most famous song in the world, to be told that life would be infinitely better when seen through rose-tinted glasses. Even Elena had sometimes found herself standing in front of the stall, under some kind of spell.

But this time she stalked past, and as she turned off at the first crossroads, heading toward rue du Parc-Royal, she felt both sad and cynical. She didn't like that kind of exploitation of people's feelings. And then a thought of Matteo surfaced, bringing the usual tangle of emotions with it.

The memories didn't hurt as much as they had at first, but she still
didn't want to think about him. Sadness, that was all it brought her. And a foolish desire: she'd like to see
la vie en rose
, too. She started to think about what she had, and not about what she had lost. She had a job, and a prestigious one at that. Somewhere to live—somewhere she really liked. And a chance. She had a chance.

All in all, things weren't so bad, were they? As she entered the courtyard of number twelve, she could still make out the enchanting voice of Édith Piaf, singing about nights of love that would never end, and a happiness so intense one could die.

J
ASMINE:
sensuality. Flower of the night, it only gives off its perfume at sunrise and sunset.

The fragrance is heady and warm. It evokes a magical world, blurs boundaries, bestows well-being and happiness.

The real pleasure is hidden in its small white petals: picking it is just the beginning.

T
he motorbike raced through the night. The road was dark, and heavy rain had made the tarmac slippery. Then the deafening horn of the truck tore through the silence.

Bathed in sweat, Cail stirred in his sleep. His fingers gripped the sheets. He couldn't remember much about the accident, but the sensation knotting his stomach was all too familiar. Other sensations came to mind, and into his soul. He swam through them, trying to breathe, desperately trying to find something that would allow him to rest at least long enough to regain his strength.

“A perfume of earth and roses.” Those words made their way through the nebulous layers of sleep, through the darkness and the torment. He clung on to them, keeping them with him, searching his memory for the face of the woman who'd spoken them.

He sat bolt upright, panting, his breath trapped between clenched teeth, his throat burning. When the furniture came into focus, he
realized he was in his bedroom, in the Marais. Relief flooded over him. It was just a dream . . . just a dream. Slowly, his confusion subsided. He rubbed his face and got out of bed.

John came straight to his side. Cail ran his hand through the animal's fur, then rested it on his head.

“If I hadn't let her drive, it would never have happened,” he said aloud. But that was a lie and he knew it. If he had been driving instead of Juliette, his girlfriend, the accident would have happened anyway. The truck would still have hit them. But Juliette might well have survived—that was the thought that tormented him. With his fingertip he traced the scar that disfigured the right side of his face.

He went out onto the terrace, without a shirt, and felt the cold morning air on his skin. When he reached the door that led to the stairs, he opened it and checked the lock. He would have to call in at the ironmongers to pick up one that worked. He'd promised his new neighbor he would, he thought, frowning. That way, he wouldn't find her on his property unannounced again. Not that he minded; he was quite honest with himself in admitting it—but that didn't mean that finding strangers in the house should become a habit. After all, he was fine as he was—on his own.

•   •   •

The nausea wouldn't
lessen its grip. Elena gently inhaled the morning breeze, bit cautiously into the end of a croissant and waited another few minutes. Insomnia, nausea, fatigue: she felt like a wreck. Finally the feelings passed and she was able to get up from the table where she'd had breakfast. She waved her thanks to Antonio and his wife, crossed the road and checked the time. While she was walking to work, she decided to take a detour. It did her good to explore Paris. She would have liked to ask Cail to give her an itinerary. In reality, she could just as well have asked Monique, and her friend would surely have kept her company. Yet she liked the idea of wandering around
with Cail. She carried on strolling, looking at the buildings—this part of Paris was so pretty. She left Saint-Honoré behind her and shortly found herself admiring the enormous column in the center of Place Vendôme, before carrying on under the arches. When she went into the shop, she looked around for Philippe.

Could nobody apart from herself really tell how intense and overpowering that fragrance was? She wrinkled her nose, hoping she'd soon get used to such a strong smell. She'd have to learn to ignore it.

“There you are, at last,” Philippe said, looking up from a table where he'd arranged a series of silver bottles.

“You told me nine o'clock,” she replied, looking at the glass clock on the shelf.

The man glared at her. “We get here an hour before the shop opens. Bear that in mind.”

He'd kept that part to himself.

“I didn't know,” she said.

“Make sure you find out, then. I expect the most from the staff here. If you want to stay with us, you'll need to get used to that, mademoiselle.”

Elena was about to respond, then thought better of it. She gritted her teeth to hold back her response. A woman came over to them and Philippe cleared his throat.

“This is Claudine,” he said, introducing a blond, poker-faced woman of around thirty-five.

“Bonjour, madame,” Elena greeted her.

The woman just nodded. The half smile she was feigning didn't move. It reminded Elena of the Mona Lisa. She wasn't expecting hugs and kisses, but she had hoped for some signs of life, rather than this strange, almost catatonic trance; there was absolutely nothing in that smile. There wasn't even anything in her perfume—Elena could barely smell it. And it wasn't because it was light, or delicate; it simply
disappeared into the smell of Narcissus. She tried to concentrate. A whiff of benzoin reached her, intense and soft; then came incense, followed by a series of woods and musks. Then smoky notes that gave an original balance to the fragrance, enhancing its character. It was clear, sparkling, but distant. Like a perfume that had been applied the previous day. Or before a shower.

Prada: the woman was wearing Benjoin by Prada, and she'd covered it with something that mingled with Narcissus's ambient perfume; something she'd bet was from their own range. It was like one painting hidden beneath another. It struck Elena as a strange decision. Everyone had the right to wear what they wanted. Why go to such lengths to hide it? Perhaps Narcissus didn't appreciate its staff using perfume from other houses?

“You'll be working with Claudine today,” Philippe went on. “You should follow her instructions—make sure you do,” he finished, and then, after exchanging a complicit nod with Claudine, he went over to the other side of the shop, lingering by a set of shelves.

At last the statue came to life and turned to Elena. The woman had blue eyes mottled with green, and they were icy cold.

“You do speak French properly, don't you?”

“Yes,” Elena replied quietly.

“Good. I hate having to repeat things. Follow me and pay attention. And don't touch anything.”

Off to a good start, Elena thought, wondering whether, at certain levels of seniority, good manners and warmth were optional. “Of course,” she said.

The Mona Lisa didn't turn out to be too bad in the end. Systematically, without pausing even for a second, she explained the display of all the perfumes, the premises, the tasks Elena would have to do, the official rules—and just as important, the unofficial rules—and then she took her into the laboratory.

“You only go in here when you're invited,” she told her, staying outside the door.

“Of course.”

Claudine looked at the inscrutable expression on Elena's face and raised a curious eyebrow. “Have you ever worked in a laboratory?” she asked.

Elena nodded. “Yes.”

The woman stared at her for a moment. “Florentine school, right?”

“Among other things,” Elena replied.

“Do tell.”

This sudden interest made her uneasy. Now what? Elena sensed that it was probably best to keep a low profile with Claudine, but her sense of pride in herself and her family came to the fore at the most unlikely moments. She might as well tell it like it was. Of course, she'd be careful not to let this woman know that she'd created her first perfumes under the supervision of her grandmother at the age of just twelve. She was better off keeping that to herself.

“I started studying in Grasse: cultivation, extraction, all the stages up to the final perfume. I finished my studies and perfected my technique in Florence.”

If she was impressed by Elena's words, Claudine didn't let it show. She just nodded her head and gave a hint of a smile.

“You'll have a chance to show me what you can do. Some customers prefer personalized compositions; in general we just change a few ingredients in the formulas that have already been tested. You'll see it being done.”

Elena's heart skipped a beat. Composing perfumes at Narcissus was only a matter of time.

“Follow me. Today we'll be working with customers. Pay attention and don't interrupt, whatever I say. Understand?”

Claudine kept talking and, for a while, Elena pretended to listen;
but her mind was too busy getting excited about the prospect that she would soon be able to concentrate on things she already knew inside out. Eventually the woman showed her to her place and went to get ready to welcome the first customers.

Many people came in that morning. All the perfumery's employees were busy. After she'd committed a fair number of Jacques's perfume creations to memory, Elena went over to the sales counters but kept her distance. Claudine had started to serve a gentleman of a certain age who wanted a special perfume. He was clearly annoyed, his gnarled fingers gripping the handle of his luxurious walking stick.

“No, I don't like that one. It smells old—it smells like mothballs, for God's sake!” he exclaimed indignantly.

Claudine was still wearing her indestructible smile. “May I suggest a more discreet mélange, if you'd prefer? How about adding some sandalwood?”

The man pursed his lips. “How should I know, if you don't let me smell it?”

He was standing at the counter, eyes blazing and disappointment written across his face. A dozen used
mouillettes
lay on the table. Claudine's smile was starting to show the first signs of collapse.

“They assured me you'd find what I wanted. Well, that was clearly an exaggeration. Why should I waste my time with you?”

He'd raised his voice and some of the other customers were turning to look. Claudine tried again. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

“Haven't you been listening to me? I need a new perfume! I don't want the same old fragrance.”

“Every single one of these perfumes,” Claudine replied, pointing to the various bottles lined up on the counter, “matches your description. Do you want to try them again?”

The old man half-closed his eyes. “Are you suggesting I don't know what I want?”

The woman's delicate nostrils flared; she was losing ground rapidly. “One moment, please,” she said.

Elena had been watching this scene from the sidelines. The man's outfit was original but smart. He was nervous, and every so often he'd slide a finger under his neckerchief, trying to alleviate the tension. He was looking around at the perfumes, and that look revealed his need for something new: a second youth, something that could disguise old age, give him faith. Men made that kind of choice, trying to rejuvenate themselves, hoping for some small miracle—like a new love. Elena didn't know where this idea had come from, but if that's what it was, if what this elderly gentleman wanted was a change, she knew exactly what he needed.

“Try this one. I'm sure you'll like it,” Claudine said, handing him another
mouillette
.

The man smelled it and shot her a suspicious look. “Do I look like a boy to you? Do you really think I'm going to go around smelling like
that
?” he replied, indignant.

Claudine's voice turned frosty. “If you'd be kind enough to wait another minute, I'll see what I can find for you.”

When Claudine walked past Elena, she still had that smile plastered on her face like some kind of stamp. That's professionalism, Elena thought. But it appeared that Claudine really had lost her patience, since instead of continuing to help him, she went to serve another customer who'd come in for some rosewater.

The gentleman visibly deflated; the anger had passed but the disappointment remained, deep and stinging, and clearly had nothing to do with the perfume. It was vulnerability—it was an attempt to stop the relentless passage of time and seize another chance.

“May I ask which perfume you used in the past?” Elena asked him, walking over. Claudine had told her not to interrupt, but she hadn't
said anything about talking to customers. Technically, she wasn't disobeying any orders.

She softened her tone and, seeing the man was lost in thought, repeated the question. His head shot up, as though he'd only just noticed she was there. She held out her hand, saying, “My name is Elena Rossini.” Her grandmother had always introduced herself to her customers.

“Jean-Baptiste Lagose,” he replied. But instead of shaking her hand, he took it in his own and leaned forward to kiss it, like an old-time gentleman.

Leather, labdanum and bergamot, Elena noted when he got closer, almost brushing against her. The smell was strong yet sophisticated, with a deep, musky base scent. She could almost see him, Jean-Baptiste, watching the merry-go-round of life that had thrown him off. She could sense the shock and, hidden beneath layers of heartache, the burning desire to get back on it.