The Perfume Collector (12 page)
New York was engulfed in a heatwave. By the middle of July, the combination of blazing sun and torpid humidity had risen to such levels it became impossible to walk even a few blocks without dripping with sweat. All around the Hotel, guests holed up in darkened rooms, ordering ice packs for their headaches, extra fans; lying naked on top of their beds, too limp even to touch one another, or submerged in long cool baths drinking pitchers of iced tea and sugary lemonade, laced with illegal gin.
This left Eva and the rest of the housekeeping staff with the unenviable task of trying to service the rooms while the guests were still in them.
Mrs Ronald made no concession for the hot weather; the girls were expected to wear their full uniforms, including their thick black stockings. ‘We have standards, girls!’ she reminded them daily. ‘Neatness begins with your appearance.’
It might not have been so bad if they were able to clean the rooms in the early morning, but as no one in the hotel roused themselves until mid-afternoon, the girls found themselves wrestling with dirty linens and scrubbing floors at the hottest hours of the day.
‘If you feel you’re going to faint, then excuse yourself and do so in the privacy of the back hallway,’ Mrs Ronald reminded them. ‘It’s extremely awkward to have to deal with an unconscious girl. And be aware of your eyes – keep them low. Guests should never be forced to look at you directly, do you understand? You’re invisible, a pair of unseen hands.’
Unfortunately, this ideal was harder to live up to in real life.
Madame Zed was lounging one afternoon in one of her loose diaphanous creations, drinking cold black tea and smoking copiously. She appeared to be recovering from the rigorous exertions of the night before, and sat, very still, curled into the lap of an armchair, eyes closed, as if she could meditate the temperatures down by sheer force of will.
Eva went about changing the bed sheets as unobtrusively as she could, her uniform clinging to her damp underarms, her hair plastered with sweat to her forehead under her starched cap. She felt drowsy with lethargy, as if she were moving through water, fighting to finish the smallest task.
Finally, Madame opened her eyes. ‘What is your name?’
‘Eva, madam.’
‘Eva, will you please fetch Valmont for me? I cannot bring myself to move. I’m simply paralysed.’
‘Yes, madam.’
Eva trudged across to the interconnecting door, which was closed. She tried to open it. ‘It’s locked, madam.’
‘Then open it!’ Madame sighed, rolling her eyes to the gods in an exaggerated gesture of utter despair. ‘My head is splitting in two! I need him.’
Eva took out her pass key and unlocked the door. Then she knocked several times. There was no answer, so finally she gently pushed it open.
The room had only one window and, with the curtains drawn, was surprisingly dark. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Eva could just make out the outline of Valmont, curled on his side on the bed. He was sleeping naked, with just his top sheet wound around his waist. His torso was pale, thin.
Eva took a few tentative steps forward. In the hazy blackness, the air pressed in around her, sultry with sweat and sleep. Everything seemed unreal, suspended in a dream-like state.
Carefully, she leaned over him. ‘Pssstt! Sir! Wake up!’
He shifted, rolling over on to his back.
She tried again.
Bending closer, she gave his shoulder a shake. ‘Sir!’
His eyes opened, blinking to focus.
‘I’m sorry, it’s only Madame wants you,’ she explained in a whisper. ‘She says . . .’
Suddenly he grabbed her wrist. ‘Hush!’ And, still in a fog of sleep, he pulled her close.
Eva pitched forward, into his arms.
Valmont inhaled.
At first her natural scent seemed straightforward, simple; the slightly acrid, almost creamy aroma of a child’s damp skin. But underneath that, a rich, musky element seeped through, unfolding slowly; widening and expanding to a profound, primitive animalistic essence. The sheer range and complexity of her odour was astonishing. The effect, intensely arousing. It was the most compelling, deeply sensual thing Valmont had ever encountered.
Eva pushed him away, horrified. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You smell . . .’ he murmured.
‘Yes, thank you!’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘I hardly need you to tell me that!’ she hissed. ‘Madame wants to see you . . .’
‘No, you don’t understand.’ He reached for her again; short sharp intakes now, savouring the notes, rolling them round on his olfactory palette. ‘It’s unique. Completely unique.’
‘Get off!’ Eva swatted him.
Suddenly something shifted in the bed; a body. The person next to him stretched out and rolled over onto their stomach.
It was another man.
Eva recoiled. Stumbling backward, she blundered towards the interconnecting door.
‘Well?’ Madame opened her eyes. ‘You appear to be alone,’ she observed flatly.
Reeling, Eva focused at the floor. ‘He is asleep, madam.’
‘Well then, wake him!’ Madame gasped in exasperation, running her hand wearily across her eyes. ‘I need him!’
This was dreadful, truly dreadful.
Eva tried to stall her. ‘He’s not dressed, madam. I can help you. Would you like me to fetch you something from the drug store?’
With another heavy sigh, Madame forced herself up from her chair and marched into Valmont’s room. Eva hovered in the doorway, watching in shameful fascination.
Madame stopped; she stood in the darkness a moment. Then she turned back on her heel.
And with more moans and sighs, she dug through one of her handbags until she pulled out some loose coins. She shoved them into Eva’s hand. ‘I need aspirin. And some Woolcott’s, please. I have the most blinding headache known to mankind.’
Eva stared at her. Had Madame seen what she’d seen? Did she have any comprehension of what a mortal sin it was?
It was as if her thoughts could be heard aloud.
Madame turned to her. ‘You know,’ she began, ‘there are many stages in a man’s life. Young men especially are very easily excitable. They need more variety, more experiences than girls. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, madam,’ she lied.
‘These little dalliances are merely preludes to the real interludes. They fade over time. Of course,’ she added, returning back to her chair, ‘I do worry about Andre. Gossip is the plague of the idle and insecure. I’m relying upon your discretion.’
‘Yes, madam. Of course.’
‘Then we shall speak no more about. And do close that door.’ She pressed her eyes closed again. ‘I suppose we never should have opened it in the first place.’
Andre Valmont lay on his back, fully awake now, staring into the darkness. Beside him the boy he’d met in the club in Harlem snored softly.
He closed his eyes.
He could see her smell; it glowed against the backs of his eyelids, pure shimmering gold to deep undulating amber. And he could taste each note; savour the melting progression on his tongue, the shocking, perfect combination of contrasts, underpinned by a creamy, intensely carnal core of raw sexuality. He wanted to bury himself deep in her flesh; to consume each molecule of her, one breath at a time.
And that wasn’t the way he normally felt about girls.
He pulled the sheet back. He was stiff; erect to an almost painful degree. Spitting into the palm of his hand, he closed his eyes again.
He imagined peeling off her uniform, each layer of clothing saturated more densely with her warm sweat, until there was nothing between them but skin; emanating, covering them both with the shimmering dark dew of her incredible odour . . . he trembled, ecstasy surging, shuddering through him.
Here at last was a story he understood. A song of youth; of burgeoning, ripe sexuality; of frustration and longing . . . of a nymph and a femme fatal, both trapped in the body of an graceless young girl . . . a mythic parable that could only really be captured in perfume.
And above all, her natural odour radiated. As though it were issuing from the top of a high peak. In its velvet glow, the dim landscape of his creative gifts finally came into focus.
Valmont got up, washed himself; lit a cigarette. Then he woke up the boy from Harlem and sent him home.
He had work to do.
Two days later, Grace found herself standing in the foyer of the offices of Lancelot et Delp, located in a strikingly modern concrete building near Les Halles. They had a sparse, marble lobby with floor-to-ceiling windows, manned by a desk of young women wearing telephone operator headphones. Monsieur Tissot confirmed their appointment and soon afterwards a young man bolted from one of the ten lifts at the centre of the lobby to greet them.
He was wearing a modern narrow-cut suit with a thin, bright yellow tie and thick-framed black glasses. His hair, a mass of dark curls, stuck straight up in the air. As he bounded over to them, hand already outstretched, it struck Grace that he reminded her of a human exclamation mark, with the same emphatic energy.
‘Good afternoon! Welcome! I’m Albert Dubois.’ He pumped both their hands hard. ‘Pleasure to meet you! Would you like coffee? Tea? Have you been here before?’ All the while he was speaking, he ushered them to the lifts, heedless of any answers.
‘How lovely that you speak English,’ Grace commented, as they stepped inside and the doors closed.
‘Oh, I also speak German, Spanish, Portuguese and a bit of Japanese. The one that always trips me up is American!’ he laughed, pushing his glasses further back on his nose.
‘Japanese!’ Monsieur Tissot looked at him as if he were mad. ‘Whatever for?’
‘I’m telling you, they’re picking themselves up – they’re going to be a force to be reckoned with soon.’
‘I seriously doubt it,’ Monsieur Tissot disagreed.
The lift opened again and they stepped out, pushing through a pair of glass double doors.
The din hit Grace first; the sound of a hundred voices all speaking at once. Row after row of desks stretched to the end of the huge office, each desk with at least two phones; young men in shirtsleeves were shouting across to one another and there was a large board mounted on the far wall, where more young men ran from one end to another, making constant adjustments to the numbers.
‘Sorry about this,’ Monsieur Dubois filtered them off to a private side office and offered them a seat. ‘New York has just opened so things are heating up. So.’ He sat down across from them at his desk and took out a file. ‘You’re here about the d’Orsey stocks, is that right? Oh, so sorry for your loss,’ he added, looking at Grace.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, trying not to catch Monsieur Tissot’s eye.
‘Well, I have to say,’ he smiled as he opened the file, ‘one of my all-time favourite clients, Eva d’Orsey. What a nose she had for this game!’
‘What do you mean?’ Monsieur Tissot sat forward, interested.
Monsieur Dubois sifted through the papers in front of him. ‘She came to me about five or six years ago with a handful of Hiver stocks. A gift, she said. She knew nothing about the stock market and wanted someone to advise her. Fine. I made a few conservative recommendations – commodities, gold, bonds, things like that. But before I knew it, she was calling me with suggestions. Did I know that Citroën was building a new suspension braking device? Was I aware that Goodyear were expanding in Mexico? What did I think of the new American rock ‘n’ roll dance craze?’
‘Really?’ Monsieur Tissot laughed incredulously.
‘She was quite extraordinary. She understood the numbers, did research.’ He passed Grace a report from the top of the file. ‘She took that handful of cosmetics stocks and finessed it into a valuable long-term investment portfolio.’
Grace looked down the long list of company names – United States Steel, EMI, Standard Oil, Firestone, Citroën, Le Monde, Amoco . . . somewhere near the bottom she noticed Hiver. And next to each entry, there was a monetary value in francs. Her mind was swimming; drowning in information. ‘I’m sorry, but what does this all mean, Monsieur Dubois?’
He nodded to the file. ‘This portfolio was Madame d’Orsey’s sole means of income. And she was very savvy – with every excess profit, she bought more stocks. What this means,’ he explained with a gleam in his eye, ‘is that you’re quite a wealthy woman, Mrs Munroe.’
Grace turned to Monsieur Tissot as they left the offices of Lancelot et Delp. ‘This is mad! Some sort of bizarre mistake.’ She felt giddy, slightly light-headed from the news. ‘I’ll wake up any minute now – the real Grace Munroe will suddenly appear, probably from Australia or something, and I’ll be sent packing back to London.’
‘You
are
the real Grace Munroe. You’re just in shock.’ He offered her his arm as they crossed to where the car was parked on the other side of the street. ‘You need to eat something.’
She shook her head, smiling. ‘You know, food isn’t the answer to everything.’
‘Spoken like a true Englishwoman.’ He opened up the car door. ‘I know the perfect place.’
‘You cannot keep taking me out to eat,’ she protested. ‘It’s too . . . too extravagant.’
‘Calm yourself: I wasn’t suggesting Maxim’s,’ he said. ‘But this is a cause for celebration. And, as I’m the only person you know in Paris, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.’
They drove back into the city and he pulled up in front of Fouquet, on the Champs-Élysées.
Grace looked up at the sky as they climbed out of the car. The clouds had grown dark and heavy; the temperature was dropping. ‘Do you mind if we sit outside?’
‘Not at all,’
They dined under the distinctive red awning and before she could stop him, Monsieur Tissot ordered them both oysters and champagne.
‘Have you ever had oysters before?’ he asked as the waiter set a platter down in front of them.
She bit her lower lip. ‘No.’ They were a great deal wetter and more raw than she’d imagined. This went far beyond the confines of her normal luncheon of tea and toast.
‘Don’t be frightened. They’re not nearly as difficult as they seem,’
‘I’m not frightened.’
‘You’re terrified.’ He poured the champagne. ‘And your lip is curling.’
‘They look like something one would avoid stepping on in the street.’
‘Don’t be bourgeois.’
‘Bourgeois!’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Well, then, explain this to me – how is one meant to eat them without looking foolish?’
‘Simple.’ He demonstrated, taking one. ‘You just let it slide down.’
She watched in horror. ‘You don’t chew?’
‘No. I like a squirt of lemon, that’s all.’ Taking a slice, he squeezed the fresh juice on to them.
‘But what if I choke?’
‘Then I’ll move to another table. Go on,’ he dared. ‘Tilt your head back and relax your throat!’
Taking off her gloves, Grace picked one up warily. ‘You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Playing “Torment the English Girl”.’
‘Trust me, if I wanted to torment you, there are cheaper ways.’
‘Fine.’ Closing her eyes, she braced herself; swallowed. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she gasped, wide-eyed.
‘Now,’ he handed her a glass, ‘have a sip of champagne – quickly.’
The crisp, icy bubbles exploded against the back of her palate. ‘Oh, yes,’ she laughed, surprised. ‘That is good!’
‘Bravo! To the English Heiress!’ he toasted.
‘To the Impostor!’ she toasted back. ‘How many of these am I allowed to eat?’
‘As many as you like. As long as you don’t eat these six, which are mine and completely off-limits.’
‘Spoilsport.’
He sat back and lit a cigarette, watching as she squeezed the lemon carefully on each one and devoured them.
‘Do you feel better now?’ he asked after a while.
‘Yes, thank you, I do.’
He smiled, exhaled.
‘Actually,’ she went on, ‘I feel like a sheet of paper that someone’s torn into tiny pieces and thrown to the wind. But the wind in Paris is rather nice.’ Grace downed another oyster. It was sinful, how delicious they were. ‘See, you can’t call me bourgeois now.’
‘I could,’ he corrected her, taking a drink, ‘but it would be inaccurate.’
‘
Mon Dieu
! Have you always been so pedantic?’
‘Always. And please don’t speak French – it’s nails across a chalkboard.’
‘I suppose splitting hairs is quite useful in your profession.’ She sat back, opened her handbag and took out a pack of Chesterfields. Leaning across the table, he gave her a light. As she inhaled, the thick acrid smoke mixed with the salty brine of the oysters and the cool, moist air – an unexpected, earthy combination. She took another sip of champagne. ‘So, is the law your life, Monsieur Tissot?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘Do you spend much time with your family?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m a bachelor.’
‘Oh!’ The shock in her voice was unmistakable. For some reason she’d naturally assumed he was married.
He caught this, and, looking down, smiled. ‘Not everyone is suited to a domestic life,’ he pointed out.
‘No, of course not,’ she agreed quickly. ‘I’ve often wondered if I’m not one of them.’
‘Also, I’ve never had the luck of finding anyone who could tolerate my glittering personality.’
She laughed. ‘They must be dazzled by the light. You should provide sunglasses.’
‘Actually,’ he flicked a bit of ash into the ashtray. ‘I like to repair things in my spare time.’
‘Really?’ She was relieved the subject had changed. ‘Like what?’
‘Bicycles, toys, clocks. I managed to fix a revolver once but nearly blew my ear off in the process.’ He made a whistling noise. ‘It went right past. Gave me the shock of my life. I have a garage behind my building. There’s a work table, tools, all manner of spare parts hanging from the ceiling.’ Looking down, he smiled to himself. ‘I’m very popular with the children on my street. Also, I play the guitar.’
‘Are you any good?’
He picked up another oyster. ‘I’m an exceptional artist. Trapped in the body of man with no musical ability.’ He tilted his head back and swallowed. ‘But I don’t let that stop me.’
‘I don’t envy your neighbours,’ she smiled
‘Neither do I. And you, do you have children, madam?’
Grace shook her head. ‘No. No I don’t.’
A barely perceptible shadow passed across her eyes. Taking another drag, she looked away, into the busy avenue crowded with traffic and passersby. He could sense, by her silence, this wasn’t a topic she wanted to continue.
‘The description of your workshop reminds me of my father,’ she said, after a minute or two. ‘He loved making things.’
‘Making requires more vision. I’m a fixer. For me the challenge comes in spotting the flaw and eliminating it.’ He refilled their glasses. ‘Is your father still alive?’
‘No, he died of a heart attack when I was very young.’
‘I’m sorry.’
There was a low growl of thunder, a flash of lightning and the skies erupted in a sudden downpour, emptying the streets of people; sending them scattering. Beyond the shelter of the awning, pedestrians rushed past, heads bowed, ducking into doorways and crowding onto the front steps of buildings for refuge. Most of the café customers moved to tables inside.
They alone remained.
Grace leaned forward, resting her chin in her elbow, watching the rain pour from the red awning in a sheer, translucent veil. On the other side, Paris became a distant, muted place. ‘It’s kind of you to bring me here. I’m very grateful for your consideration.’
It wasn’t often that he was accused of being thoughtful.
‘My pleasure, madam. Your business is nearly at a conclusion. And you’ve had the best possible results,’ he reminded her gently.
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she agreed.
‘When you’ve signed all the papers, we can begin marketing the apartment. Then you’re free to return to England.’
‘Yes.’
Closing her eyes, Grace breathed in. The air was a delicate cocktail of things foreign and familiar; both damply green and faintly musty; as sea-soaked as the oysters, as crisply refreshing as the champagne. She took another drag. ‘Do you mind very much if we just sit here for a while?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I don’t know why,’ she confessed, ‘but I’ve always loved the smell of rain.’
‘
Bonjour
,
madame
.’
‘
Bonjour
,’ Grace nodded to the doorman standing at attention as she passed into the lobby.
She stopped by the concierge’s desk. ‘Excuse me, are there any messages for Madame Munroe?’
‘Ah, let me see,’ the concierge riffled through the papers in front of him. ‘There it is!’ He held up a telegram triumphantly and then presented it to her with a little bow. ‘For you, madame.’
Grace could feel her mouth go dry with nerves. At last. ‘Thank you.’
On her way to the lift, she eagerly tore open the envelope:
DARLING STOP WHAT NEWS STOP MALLORY
.
Her heart sank.
Mallory had the decency to contact her before her own husband did.
It had been at least a week now since she’d informed him, with perfunctory politeness, of her planned trip to Paris. A week without so much as a letter or a phone call.
Wadding the telegram up, Grace went to shove it into her coat pocket but there was something already in there. She took it out. It was the card she’d found on the floor of the shop when she and Monsieur Tissot were startled by the old woman. She must’ve put it in her pocket by accident, without thinking.
Grace examined it for the first time.
It was written in stylized, energetic script and the card itself was watermarked and yellowed with age. She turned it over; it was covered on both sides by dense writing.
Ma chérie, Quelle idée merveilleuse pour un parfum
! the correspondence began, but beyond that her French failed and she needed help.
She had a French dictionary in her room.
The lift doors opened and she stepped on.
At least an exercise in translation might take her mind off the echoing silence from across the Channel.