The Memory of Scent (26 page)

Have I enough tarragon? I am not used to measuring with any great precision and I must use my instinct alone. I shall chop up some more. The café looks lovely, so fresh and appealing. I had toyed with various themes when it came to decorating. I thought perhaps of using rich fabrics and colours, like velvet and crimsons and white and gold, or of turning it into a parlour room with lace netting and embroidered table cloths, but opted instead for a light and airy style with seaside colours and wooden chairs painted white and the walls in a soft blue. I hung some heavy fishing nets along one side and decorated them with porcelain starfish that I picked up from a Chinese trader.

I expanded the choice of fish dishes and added salmon in Champagne cooked with crayfish, and
hors d’oeuvres
of herrings and also fish stews. I have kept the kitchen in the same cosy undisturbed warmth that Agnes is used to toiling away in, not wanting to alter it in any way. I spent the afternoon turning jars on the shelves so that they are all facing me,
checking the cold storage and the hooks where meat is to be hung, casting my eye over the several baskets of vegetables lined up on the counter.

A special table has been set aside for George and Babette, Maria and Henri and Gaston along with a few spare places. As customers drift in, hanging their hats and coats on discreet wall hooks, Agnes hands out a welcoming drink of claret with Seville oranges, cinnamon, cloves and castor sugar which I prepared earlier. Let me think; the soups and
hors d’oeuvres
have been prepared, while steaks, cutlets and little birds on skewers are sizzling away in the ovens. The sauces have been created for the fish dishes and the quantity of garlic has been checked and re-checked. Agnes has been whipping up pastry all afternoon which is ready for a filling of
crème patisserie
. I can then perfume it with vanilla or chocolate or almonds, depending on the customers’ wishes. I feel over-wrought with excitement. This is all so very important to me.

Flitting around the tables while offering polite chatter, I notice the light from the doorway darken slightly and I turn towards it. Walrus ambles through with a walking stick and a wide grin.

I smile, and dip into a little curtsey. ‘I am honoured to have you here, Monsieur.’

He takes my hand and kisses it lightly. ‘Mademoiselle, I am determined that indigestion will kill me and not some uninspiring accident of fate. Though my toe throbs, my spirit and stomach are willing.’

My head is a little light. It must be the excitement but I suddenly feel ill and without wishing to make a fuss, I slip through the kitchen and out the back door where I sit on a step to take some fresh air.

‘Are you quite all right?’

I raise my head and follow the long lines of Dr Philippe’s legs. I immediately stand up, dusting off the back of my skirt.

‘Yes, yes. Just a little tired. This has been a lot more work than I realised. Have you news of my mother?’

There is a look of concern on his face, which I am becoming very alarmed about. He fumbles first in one pocket, then in another and retrieves something.

‘I have a gift for you from Babette.’

Maybe it is what happens to people in the medical profession over time: their countenance petrifies into one that seems to be always on the verge of breaking bad news. A smile must require supreme effort as they are instinctually inclined towards reflecting concern. It is what they see most. Who would intentionally pay them a visit harbouring anything other than a worry about something? They must always remain in a state of readiness for this. I shall therefore excuse his grim demeanour.

I pop open the glass stopper and sniff deeply. It is the sweetest jasmine. It is startling. I sniff again. It is familiar. There is more. It is … I close my eyes and feel a swinging in my head, in my mind.

Swing … it is so familiar. As if swinging in a jasmine-scented breeze, I am back in the hallway, back at the Spanish painter’s studio. He is dying and bloodied. I am crouched near his head and can hear the faintest of breaths. Turpentine and blood and jasmine. No, I am now at the top of the stairs. I am holding … I’m not sure what … a cast of a foot perhaps, the kind artists use to sketch. I wipe it with a rag and replace it on a shelf.

* * *

Who are all of these men standing in a circle around me? They look aghast. Some are whispering to each other, others rubbing their chins, some shaking their heads. I am wearing a simple crisp white shirt and a plain grey skirt, nothing that would draw the attention of a group of men. It is like a dour carousel, only it is me who is pivoting in the centre, trying to recognise and interpret these bearded faces. Ah, there is Philippe. Thank God, he will make sense of this for me.

‘Fleur?’

I cock my head a little. He looks tired. I think perhaps he needs an outing. Maybe I should suggest another trip to the opera.

‘Philippe, don’t be silly, it’s Lily.’

It is odd how we have maintained this pretence. He knew me as Lily from Madame’s house and even though he has long since learned that my name is really Babette, we have kept that little charade going. Maybe it was easier for both of us.

‘Babette?’

Oh for heaven’s sake, he is in a very confused state today. If he wants to call me Babette, that is perfectly fine.

‘Yes, Babette if you like.’

The dour faces collapse into a chain of whispering. I try, through a steely gaze, to flash my annoyance at them. I am not sure if I am hitting enough of my targets.

‘Philippe, would you please explain why I am here?’

I have a horrible feeling that he does indeed want me to be Lily, and to introduce me to these men. Maybe, indeed, he wants to pass me on to another benefactor and this is some type of selection process. Or to pass me around them all. How dare he. Surely he has retained some fondness for me even though he is well aware of my feelings for George. I shall simply turn and walk out of here. This is unacceptable.
He is trying to stop me. I hear myself shout.

‘Let go of her arm.’

‘Whose arm?’

‘Leave Babette alone.’

I am so ashamed. I seemed to have shoved Dr Philippe in his chest. He has taken a few steps back and has had to balance himself. What are all these men twittering about? They are like a murder of crows, all lined up on a branch. My head is swirling. A murder … there was indeed a murder.

‘Dr Philippe, there was a murder. I must tell you. A man was killed. Must I confess here and now? I killed a man.’

‘Fleur? Is that you Fleur? Why would you kill a man?’

‘He was hurting Babette. Babette is so beautiful, men were always hurting her, but she would never defend herself, so in a way it was her own fault. Who are all of these people?’

‘Colleagues of mine, Fleur.’

I must gesture to Dr Philippe to come closer to me, because it is a confidence I am sharing. He leans his head low so I can talk softly in his ear.

‘Her uncle did dreadful things to her when she was a very young girl. You see, I’m good at taking care of people, so I was only trying to help her. I’m not sure that I meant to kill the Spanish painter, or maybe I did. I am so confused. He had to leave Babette alone, but he wouldn’t have, unless I stopped him.’

‘Fleur, are you quite sure it was you? How do you know?’

‘It was the jasmine. We like jasmine. My mother used to collect sprigs of it and place it on our pillow when I was very small. She tried to distance herself, Babette did, from our childhood, by wearing patchouli. It’s quite pungent you know. One of us was wearing jasmine the day he was killed. I can smell lavender on you Doctor. It’s very pleasant.’

‘Yes, Babette made it for me.’

‘Doctor.’

‘Yes, Fleur?’

‘My mother would like to speak with you.’

‘Madame Delphy? Madame Delphy, would you like to see me? Here, let me get you a chair.’

‘Thank you Doctor. I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I seem to have run out of that ointment you gave me. I think Fleur used more than you instructed her to.’

‘That’s quite all right, Madame. I can make another appointment for you.’

‘That is so kind of you. I am very grateful.’

* * *

I have a new friend in Madame d’Aubrey, who is said to suffer from a nervous disposition. What nonsense! Are we always to trust these doctors here? Madame d’Aubrey has taken up painting with ducks being her subject of choice. However, she always asks their permission first and if she senses their disapproval, she apologises profusely and removes her easel to another part of the pond. I can see the rim of her straw hat bobbing with each determined step as she marches towards me.

‘You. You there. I implore you to take Hector and feed him to your most intolerable customer in this new café of yours. Hector is trying to cause mutiny on the pond. They were perfectly happy for me to paint their portraits, but Hector, well he is not a very handsome bird, and I suspect he knows this, so he makes the most unsettling commotion every time I approach.’

‘Madame d’Aubrey, you are confusing me with my daughter. It is she who will be running the restaurant. Needlework is where my skills lay.’

‘Well, whichever and whomever, I shan’t be curtailed by a mutinous duck. Mutiny, I tell you. Mutiny.’

‘Duck will undoubtedly be on the menu, Madame d’Aubrey. She will come for him when he least expects it.’

My mind is busy today. Fleur knows what to do with duck.

Duck. Let me think. I could slice it up simply and serve it with a little sauce of Seville orange or I could get hold of some of those new shallow pans where you can cook by the table on a small flame stove. Yes, that would prove interesting for the customer. Walrus will be pleased.

‘Madness’ is an unfair word. It didn’t sit easily on my friend of so long ago, the very sweet and exceptionally kind Fleur, nor is it a fair way to describe my son, Maurice. My first solo exhibition and I know that Fleur would have loved it. It was what she always presumed for me. It is what she encouraged me towards.

Maurice can brilliantly and instinctively capture the streets and alleys of Montmartre in his drawings. When I look at them, my mind’s eye brings me back to nearly three decades ago when two friends tried to survive on our wits and whatever talents we could cultivate. From what I can understand,
her mind was derailed as a young girl. She suffered abuse and then losing her baby, well, it all became too much. I have tried to be sensitive to the complex workings of the mind and the spirit, as I realised from when he was a very small boy, that Maurice was possessed of a fractured spirit.

He has been shunted between various family structures as I experimented with rural domesticity and husbands and lovers. It is with complete conviction that I believe we belong to Montmartre. I want him healthy and content, but that seems beyond his reach. He has the potential to be a great artist, but are great artists ever truly content? There can be a fragile beauty in the most disturbed of minds and, if we are fortunate, it leaks out onto canvases and musical instruments and pages and we are all the better for it.

It is the lust for drink that diminishes Maurice. I wish I could find and make safe what it is he is trying to quench. When he falls into fits of violence and gets himself detained and incarcerated, it is only his piss-stained wretchedness that is evident to all who jeer him. I fear that one day, I will be powerless to do anything but watch his gifts flow down one of the drains of his beloved Montmartre and disappear forever.

I could not help Fleur in any way. I did not know that she was even in need of help as it is only Fleur that I knew. She spoke of her mother, but when I visited she was always occupied doing something else. I think that was my first inkling that she had a disquiet nature. Fleur spoke of conversations that we all had, when in truth, her mother was not someone I had ever met.

And there were the absences – long stretches of time when she just disappeared. I came to expect them and to not be surprised by them. She was always so cheerful and caring
whenever we met up that it never occurred to me to be concerned. I was probably too self-absorbed. Fleur and I were like climbers on a trellis – one minute we’d be entwined and blooming, then we’d be shooting off to entangle ourselves somewhere else. It was the great Dr Philippe who became intrigued professionally when he happened upon Babette at Madame Delphine’s. She was at first a trinket that he merely purchased but then began to realise that she was a fascinating psychological study.

Madame Delphine knew immediately that something was amiss, as she had already been in Babette’s life when she was Fleur. The young pregnant girl would have killed herself by throwing herself down some stairs if Delphine had not come across her. At the time, she had told Fleur that she would always be there for her, and that her door would always be open to her. She was both glad and saddened that the young girl did indeed turn up at her door, for she knew that life could not have gone very well for her. She knew that she could once again, offer her a safe haven. Babette did not realise that she had already been rescued by Delphine. Delphine urged the patron of the Guerbois to be patient, and he was. He may well have been familiar with Madame’s house, and was happy to oblige.