The Secret Ways of Perfume (9 page)

As he went back inside his apartment, he thought about the girl he'd met at the entrance earlier. From her accent, she seemed Italian. She had told him he smelled like the rain. He thought back to her words, turning them over in his mind, carefully weighing each one, until John came over and rubbed against his legs. The animal was nice and warm; Cail bent and stroked his fur.

“How many times have I told you you're a dog, not a cat?” In response, John licked his hand and Cail smiled. “Are you hungry? Come on, let's go inside.”

The apartment Cail rented was in the part of the premises that had once been used by the stable boys from the former grand mansion. It was reached by a staircase that ended at a terrace. He'd had to pay a premium for sole use of the terrace, but it was worth it. He'd surrounded it with a wooden trellis and planted a
Banksiae lutea
rambling rose. In just two years the plant's long thornless branches had covered every inch of the fence, creating a screen for the rest of the terrace. It
flowered once a year—tiny perfumed posies that lasted just a few weeks. In the sheltered area, Cail grew special roses: the mothers, the plants he would go on to use in his work. A little nylon greenhouse, in the middle of the terrace, contained the young hybrids he was counting on to find new varieties of roses. Around it, everything was arranged and kept in perfect order: equipment, soil, fertilizer. Next to the door to the apartment was John's kennel.

With the dog at his heels, Cail went inside, turned on the lights and headed for the kitchen. He chopped some vegetables, put them in a pan with a little olive oil, then added a clove of garlic and a couple of basil leaves.

He picked out a CD, carefully removed it from its case and put it into the machine.

Curled up on the rug in the lounge, John dozed lazily, constantly keeping one eye on Cail. After tidying the kitchen and loading the dishwasher, Cail went out onto the terrace. The dog followed him to the doorway and stopped.

The air was cold, crisp. The clouds had dissipated, allowing for a handful of stars to shine through. Cail carried on looking at them for a while, and let Ludovico Einaudi's piano lift his thoughts. He then went inside and came back to the terrace carrying a long metal tube. He positioned it on a stand and adjusted it. A moment later, peering through the telescope, his own world seemed distant, black and, in some strange way, brilliant.

•   •   •

“Did you find
it all? The shopping, the sheets? Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, don't worry. I found everything and I slept like a log. But tell me about this house. How old is it?”

Monique sighed. “It's very old—two or three hundred years, I think. It used to belong to some nobleman who lost his head.”

“Over a woman?”

“No, on the guillotine.”

Elena shivered. “That's not funny!”

“It wasn't meant to be. That's what happened; it's hardly my fault. And besides, the masters' quarters were in another section of the building. There's no ghost wandering around your part of the house, trust me.”

“Is that why you'd rather pay to rent somewhere else than live in your own house? Haven't you got over your fear of ghosts yet?”

Monique snorted. “Don't be silly! Anyway, as soon as you've sorted yourself out we'll find you something more suitable.”

“No. I like it here, really. May we leave things as they are for now? Let's say I'm taking a holiday. I'm not ready to make any long-term plans. If I find a job, maybe I will stay in Paris, Monie. Otherwise I'll just go back to Florence.”

Unfortunately, Monique still had no definite news for her. Philippe hadn't told her anything about the application and she didn't want to call Jacques. She was sure that, with her contacts, she would find Elena a decent job sooner or later, but that wasn't enough. Monique had wanted to be like Elena for so long, she couldn't let a talent like her friend's go to waste. Narcissus was definitely the right place. She just had to work out how to convince Jacques.

“OK, relax,” she said now. “I'll come and pick you up tonight. Is around seven all right for you?”

Elena stretched, still wrapped in the goosedown duvet. “Seven sounds great.”

“Why don't you go out for a bit? The Marais has everything. Go to rue des Rosiers, buy yourself lunch and eat it outside—it tastes different, trust me.”

Elena thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Today I'll be a tourist,” she replied, looking at the fierce morning light streaming
in through the curtainless windows. “See you at seven, then. Have a good day.”

She closed her mobile and sat up. As she did so, a sudden stomach cramp made her groan. She put a hand over her mouth and sprang out of bed. She stayed kneeling by the toilet even after the retching had stopped. Her stomach was still in turmoil. The bout of nausea had passed, but she was gripped by stomach cramps so violent it was as if she hadn't eaten for days.

She slipped under a hot shower. Ten minutes later, while she was drying her hair, she decided to go out anyway. She could have breakfast in one of the bistros she'd spied the night before. And she could buy some aspirin. She picked out a comfortable pair of jeans, a white linen shirt and a red cardigan. Leaving her hair loose over her shoulders, she put on a layer of moisturizer and a dab of mascara. Then she decided to add some lipstick, too.

“In honor of Paris,” she declared, addressing the mirror.

She picked up her bag and went downstairs. As she was walking through the living room to the door, she let herself imagine what the space could really be like. And she surprised herself: these were the thoughts of someone who wanted to stay, organize and create things.

“Don't go making long-term plans. It won't do you any good,” she chided herself, closing the door behind her.

In daylight, the entranceway seemed much like any other. Maybe just a bit darker. The only window was shielded by the thick branches of a plant, and the ceiling was vaulted. Elena got to the door and, when it opened easily, she was surprised. There was no way she'd developed superhuman strength overnight: those hinges had been oiled.

“At eight in the morning?” she wondered. That was surprisingly efficient maintenance work.

She was about to go out when a thought popped into her head.
She stretched out a hand and pressed the switch. The white ceiling light lit up. She stared at it for a moment, then turned it off. A smile lit up her face in turn. It was him. She couldn't be certain, but she'd bet it was.

When she got outside, it was like going back in time. An Italian-style garden occupied the central part of the large courtyard, with flower beds divided into colored sections. The wet leaves of the trees dripped onto the heads of children running along the paths. She kept looking around with a mixture of happiness and astonishment. Were it not for the numbered doors around the edges, she would have sworn she was in the courtyard of a castle.

She stopped for a few minutes to watch the children, ignoring curious looks from a group of men talking among themselves. It seemed she'd become the topic of conversation for the morning. And while once she would have been mortified to be the center of attention, right now she couldn't care less. The sky had cleared, streaks of cobalt blue between neat lines of rooftops. Cold air, all the smells of a morning just beginning: freshly baked bread, coffee, croissants. Her appetite had returned.

She stopped in a café at the end of rue des Rosiers and ate hungrily. She had to laugh when, paying the bill, she discovered that Antoine, the owner, was in fact Antonio Grassi, who had been born and lived in Naples until a few months earlier. “Come back and see us, signorina. You won't find a better cappuccino in Paris.”

She carried on walking through the quarter's ancient streets, careful not to stray too far, losing her way and finding it again. It was comforting, walking without a purpose, without a schedule, without having to let anyone know or take anyone else into account. She felt free, completely and utterly free. She could do whatever she wanted. She could stop and look at the sky, the river, or through shop windows as long as she liked. Nobody was judging her; nobody knew who she
was. It was as though, suddenly, someone had let go of the string on the balloon that was her life.

For the first time, she didn't mind being alone. Elena realized that the pressure she had felt to be with someone was no longer a need; it wasn't even a desire.

For the first time, she was happy by herself.

R
OSE:
love. A difficult essence to obtain. Sweet and light.

The fragrance symbolizes feelings and emotions.

Encourages personal initiative and the arts.

“B
onjour, ma chérie.
I read your friend's CV. If you're still thinking of putting her forward for the job, let's talk about it over dinner. I can't pretend I'm not interested, but the fact is, Narcissus is not a recruitment firm. You'll have to convince me. Come prepared.”

It was the third time Monique had listened to the message Jacques had left on her voice mail. Waves of anger rose up inside her, spilled over, abated, then started all over again.

Jacques would send a car to pick her up tonight. She had been summoned. How dare he treat her like that?

She picked up her bag and left. Oh, she'd convince him, all right! There was no question he was about to see just how convincing she could be.

•   •   •

“Are you ready?
I'm taking you out—I want to introduce you to someone,” Monique said, walking through the front door.

“I thought it would be just the two of us,” Elena replied, giving her a hug. “Is it me, or are you in a bad mood?”

Monique looked at her. “I'm sorry. It's Jacques; he makes me want to kill someone. I know I'd promised you a girls' night, but this is important—it's about your future career.”

Elena held her friend's gaze. “I'm not sure it's a good idea to force your boss—
ex
-boss, actually—to hire me. Especially now that things between you aren't exactly amicable.”

“When did you become so . . . insightful?”

Elena got the feeling that wasn't exactly what Monique wanted to call her. She ignored the barb and decided to make her position clear.

“Don't get me wrong. I'm really grateful for everything you're doing for me, but I'm also quite sure I'd be able to find a job by myself.”

“I've never thought otherwise,” Monique retorted. “The point is, you have a great talent and I don't think shutting yourself away in a kitchen and being an assistant chef is the best choice.”

“And who says that's what I'm planning to do?” Elena asked crossly.

An awkward silence fell over them.

“Why are we quarreling?” Monique asked all of a sudden.

Elena sighed. “I have no idea. But arguing in the hallway isn't a good idea. Come in, we can bicker more easily inside,” she said, closing the door.

Monique laughed and gave her another hug. “I'm sorry,
chérie
, for being so grumpy. But you know me, I've got a plan.”

“You don't say,” Elena muttered. “I'm almost afraid to ask.”

“Nonsense! Listen, Jacques went crazy for that perfume you chose. He wants you to work for him, even though he'd rather die than admit it. And you need this job—not to survive, obviously, but for your future. Think about it, Elena. Picture a shop of your own, where you'd be the one making all the decisions, from the way you arrange the furniture to customer relations. Bright and modern, just the way
you've always wanted it. And you'd have a career at Narcissus behind you. Success is practically guaranteed.”

Elena listened to her friend in silence. “I'm not stupid, Monie, and you know that it was the thought of working for Narcissus that finally pushed me into coming to Paris. But I can't let you resort to lowering yourself to deal with that man. Do you understand?”

Monique shrugged. “I won't have to. I'll take you with me tonight, and he'll realize he'd be a fool to let you go.”

Put like that, it seemed perfectly simple, but Elena wasn't convinced. From what Monique had told her, this Jacques was a shrewd man. Elena wasn't about to be manipulated. She shook her head.

“I should have known it would be more complicated than it seemed,” she said. “Maybe I should look elsewhere. It's not as if Narcissus is the only perfumery in Paris, is it?” She had no intention of giving up her newly discovered dream, but nor would she allow Monique to compromise herself on her account.

“No, but it's the right one. Narcissus creates, Elena, it doesn't just make do with selling second-rate stuff. You're exactly what Jacques is looking for, and in turn he's got everything you need.”

“I don't know . . .”

Monique started to pace restlessly, trying to find the words that would make Elena believe her. Suddenly, everything she'd kept bottled up inside for years came pouring out.

“Why don't you get it?” she said passionately. “I'd give anything to be like you! But I don't have your gift! I have to settle for my mediocrity. You can't just throw away everything you know, Elena. I'll say it again: I'd do
anything
to be like you!”

Elena opened her eyes wide. “Come on, what are you on about? Are you blind? Have you seen me lately? Have you really forgotten that a couple of weeks ago you practically scraped me up off the floor and offered me a new life in Paris?” Suddenly, she was really angry.

Monique hadn't seen so much fight in Elena for so long that she was stunned. “That's not the point. You needed a change of scene, of everything. You'd have done the same for me.”

“Oh, I don't believe it,” Elena retorted, rolling her eyes. Then she took Monique's hand and held it between hers. “There are things I need to do for myself, on my own. I can't let you fight all my battles. Do you understand, Monie?” she said softly.

“I'm not trying to fight your battles.” Monique sighed. “Don't get me wrong, Elena. Narcissus is a competitive place, and whatever you get there you'll have to slave for. Even if Jacques does hire you, you'll need to do whatever it takes to keep hold of that job.”

The two friends looked at each other. Up until a month ago, Elena would never have considered a job in perfumery, and now she was discovering that this was what she truly wanted. Isn't life funny? she thought.

“If you let this opportunity slip away, you'll be making a big mistake,” Monique pressed.

It was true. They both knew it. Still, it wasn't easy to admit. Too many emotions all at once, too many things to reassess.

Monique decided to let it go, at least for the moment. They needed a break so they could both cool down a bit.

“This place is terrible.
Maman
should just get rid of it,” she said, looking around.

“I like it. I've noticed that the window and the door to the street have bars and a huge bolt—as if someone wanted to keep the whole world out.”

Monique opened her mouth to respond, then changed her mind and went up into the kitchen.

“Those perfumes you found in your grandmother's study, did you bring them with you?” she asked, sitting down and running her fingers over a bunch of tulips Elena had bought at the market. “Incredible
what a few flowers and a tablecloth can do for a place,” she murmured. The kitchen was still the same, but Elena had cleaned it from top to bottom and put out some ornaments she found in the closet.

Elena sat down opposite her.

“Yes. I brought Beatrice's diary with me, too.”

Monique's eyes widened. “Really? Fantastic! You could make a fortune. Do you realize what it would mean to bring perfumes from hundreds of years ago back to life? You'd have a line that was one of a kind, absolutely authentic. Nobody would be able to compete with that.”

“I'm not sure. People's tastes were different then. A bit like perfumes from the sixties. Who would wear those today?”

“Quite a few people,” Monique replied, still nosing around. “Chanel No 5 is from 1921.”

“But that's different,” Elena protested. “It was the first time aldehydes were used to enrich a perfume. It's still a classic. Nobody could ever call it obsolete.”

“And what about Shalimar or Mitsouko by Guerlain? You know better than I do how current they still are. At the end of the day, it's up to you to modernize those compositions. Do you think it would be that difficult?”

No, it wouldn't. And Monique might be the one bringing it up now, but while she was still in Florence Elena had already started thinking about possible variations of perfumes created by the Rossinis. The idea of restarting the business no longer seemed so painful. She would have to adapt the perfumes, of course, and she had no idea how, or how much she'd need to transform them. It still wasn't clear, but it was starting to look like a challenge.

“The more special and difficult it is to reproduce a perfume, the more people want it. And they'd be willing to part with some serious cash,” Monique said.

“You reckon? I don't know,” Elena mumbled, deep in thought.

“Well, I'm sure of it. And the diary is incredibly valuable, too—both historically and from a business point of view. It could solve all your problems.”

It was true. Those formulas were invaluable; they were her heritage. All of a sudden, Elena's mouth felt dry.

“When we were together, Matteo wanted me to sell the house in Florence. But I never agreed to it.” She stopped and sat down. “I've got no intention of selling, Monie,” she said, looking her friend in the eye. “I don't know why my life has suddenly turned upside down, or why what I wanted to do for years—get away from perfume, from the Rossinis and their obsessions—is now completely out of the question. I just know that's how it is.”

Monique paused to consider Elena's words, then she nodded.

“I think it's normal to treasure your roots, your past. Look at my mother. She hated this place with a passion, and now she can't bear to be separated from it. It can seem as if you don't care about what you've got—you can even come to loathe it. But then something changes. In the end, life's all about perspective.”

In a woman as determined as Monique, the ability to stop and listen might have seemed like a contradiction. But Elena had always liked that aspect of her friend's personality. Monie knew when to step back and give her friend the space she needed to express herself.

“It's even more complicated than that, I'm afraid,” Elena whispered. Then she stood up. “I haven't even offered you anything. Shall I make you some tea?”

Monique shook her head. “Sit down and finish talking.”

Elena reluctantly did as she was told, but maybe talking would help her restore some kind of order to the chaos her mind had become.

“I never wanted to be a perfumier, you know that,” she burst out after a little while, her bottom lip trembling. “Looking for the Rossinis'
wretched Perfect Perfume, perfume in general, it's brought me nothing but pain. But now it seems as if that revulsion, that anger I had inside me, has just completely disappeared. Can you tell? It makes no sense—it makes me feel like someone who doesn't know what they want!”

Elena's indignation was so heartfelt—and so completely unreasonable—that it brought a smile to Monique's lips.

“Come on—we've talked about this so many times in the past. It's not the perfumes you have a problem with; it's the perfumiers themselves: women who had empty lives and decided to fill the void with something they thought would make them rich and famous.
They
were wrong, not the perfume. You inherited their special gift, but not necessarily their curse.”

Elena shook her head. “It's not that simple. Do you know, the first thing I notice about someone when I meet them is their smell? And do you think it's normal to cry over the harmony of a bouquet, or to get all worked up because you can't identify every component of a mélange? To give each ingredient a color whatever it takes, to hear them talk to you through their essence? Monique, I think I am one of those crazy women.”

“Of course you are, Elena. We're all a bit mad, don't you think? But remember, there aren't many people who are as sensitive as you, who have your sense of smell. Even fewer who've had the privilege of being raised in the art of perfumery the way it used to be done: with your mind, with your heart and soul. So why don't you try and just go with it? Listen to your feelings, without caring what other people think. Who are these people, anyway?”

Indeed, who were these other people? Her grandmother, who'd loved her for the role she would one day fill. Her mother, who'd abandoned her to live with a man who couldn't stand her daughter. Matteo
and his lies. She rubbed her eyes, as though she were trying to wipe away traces of tiredness, and after a moment's silence, she met her friend's gaze.

“I had a dream about the shop,” she confided suddenly. “It was right here, downstairs. And it was beautiful—small and decorated in shades of cream and pale pink, with a wood-and-glass counter, a table for talking to people, a little sofa and some lamps.”

Monique smiled. Never in a million years could she think this place was beautiful. Jasmine hadn't told her much about her own childhood growing up here, but she got the feeling that her mother had been very unhappy, and that was enough for her.