The Secret Ways of Perfume (13 page)

“Are you a saleswoman?” he asked.

Elena nodded. “Today's my first day.”

The old man looked around and when he caught Claudine's eye, he turned back to Elena. “Is that your boss over there?” He didn't even bother to hide the fact that he was pointing at her.

“In a sense.”

“You poor thing,” he said, shaking his head. He cast another glance toward Claudine. “Some people have a real knack for being unpleasant.”

She'd thought the same herself. But that was not the sort of thing you would tell a customer, so Elena steered the conversation back on to more appropriate ground.

“You're wearing a chypre. It's very nice, but if I understood correctly, you're looking for something new?”

Suddenly, Jean-Baptiste lost all his belligerence. “Yes, that's right.
I wanted a perfume with character. Something clear but original. But that . . . erm . . .
she
didn't understand. She wasn't listening to me.”

Elena was thinking of another chypre. Yes, it was a classic perfume with a base of oak moss, but she could put a spring in its step with lemon and vetiver to make it fuller and fresher. This man would wear it well. He seemed to have very particular and unconventional taste, judging from his outfit of blue jacket, pale blue striped trousers and red neckerchief. He was sporting a large gold ring on his right hand. There was nothing shy about him, just a real determination. He was a man with a plan. The perfume he wanted was part of a scheme to conquer a lady; it was so important to him that he was convinced he should handle the matter of a perfume personally.

“Why don't you smell these fragrances again? We can vary them to your taste,” Elena suggested, needing to buy some time. She had to speak to Claudine. She was sure that somewhere in the shop there would be a new-generation chypre. After all, Montier was a professional; he wouldn't be without the latest version of the most universally loved classic perfumes.

Jean-Baptiste immediately went back to sulking. For a moment Elena was genuinely afraid he'd refuse. She looked at Claudine, and then back at him. Maybe because of the worry on the new sales assistant's face, or simply because he wanted to spite the witch who'd treated him with such arrogance, Jean-Baptiste stretched out his hand and started to sniff a
mouillette
.

“I'll be right back,” Elena told him with a relieved smile.

“Take your time, my dear,” he said.

When Elena found Claudine, she explained what she had in mind.

“Have you got something that would have neroli, pink grapefruit or even lemon as top notes; jasmine, gardenia, magnolia or another floral mélange as the middle, amber, sandalwood and musk? Vetiver, for example, would be perfect.”

Claudine thought for a moment. “Yes, it's a chypre. We've got one that might be what you need. I think there's some leather in it, too.”

Elena couldn't have wished for better. Leather was a potent, ancestral, masculine perfume.

“That would be perfect.”

Claudine didn't return Elena's smile but got straight to work. They didn't use chypres very often; they were too strong, too rich—they were perfumes with a lot of personality, not easy to wear, and almost always thought of as women's fragrances. But in certain compositions, with the right ingredients, they could be intensely masculine. Why not? Elena's intuition might be spot-on. Claudine checked the storeroom, found what she was looking for and went back to the man.

Elena followed, a few steps behind her. Jean-Baptiste was still offended. When Claudine offered him the
mouillette
, he pretended to be looking the other way.

Claudine bit her lip. “Mademoiselle, could you show the perfume to this gentleman? I need you to take over for me, as Philippe requires my assistance.”

When she had left them alone, Jean-Baptiste turned around once more.

“Is it for a special occasion?” Elena asked him.

The man took the strip of paper with his fingertips and lifted it to his nose.

“Yes, very special,” he admitted.

“Sniff it gently and think about what you want, what you would like to happen. See whether it feels right or if it's missing something.”

He did as she said. In silence, almost reverently. Then, after a while, he started to talk.

“Things ended badly, and all over nothing. We were young, proud. Now . . . things are different. I never married; she's a widow.” He kept
gently wafting the chypre-soaked paper back and forth. Elena stayed quiet, entranced by the story.

“She wasn't the only woman I ever loved, it's not like that. But she was the one I suffered for the most. And she's always been in my thoughts; it's surprising how long she's stayed there.”

He paused and shook the strip of paper. “She's annoyingly stubborn,” he said, frowning again. “But when she smiles, her eyes light up and she looks straight into your soul. She's beautiful, she really is, in spite of all the years that have gone by. She's beautiful to me.” He smelled the perfume again. “It reminds me of a garden, not just flowers, but plants. I feel as if I can hear running water, lemon . . . or maybe it's orange. We once went to a citrus grove together. It was a lovely day, we laughed so much; we were very happy in those days. Then we came back to the city.”

He'd gone back to his memories . . . and it was all thanks to the perfume. Elena was almost moved to tears.

“Have you ever been in love, mademoiselle?”

“No, I . . . I don't think so,” she said honestly, after a long pause. He gave her a strange look.

“Don't worry, you're pretty and you're kind. You'll find the right man soon enough. It's sad to be alone, my dear. Pride may look hot on the surface, but it makes a cold companion. Try to follow your heart.”

Suddenly Elena felt the need to tell someone about a man she'd met only twice, in the dark. She didn't even know what he looked like, really. But his smell, she knew that well enough. She felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach, but then chased away those thoughts and focused on Jean-Baptiste.

“Well, I was engaged once,” she told him, “but he . . . he'd rather . . . It didn't work out,” she concluded. Jean-Baptiste reached out a hand and placed it on top of hers.

“He's an idiot, that's for sure. Don't worry,
ma petite
. Life may
present us with things, God may provide, but we have the final say on everything.”

“True,” Elena murmured, although she didn't really believe it.

“I like this perfume very much,” the man went on. “It reminds me of the past, but it has something new. It's exactly what I wanted. Hope. Life has no meaning without hope, as you know, mademoiselle.”

Yes, she knew. That was what had brought her to Paris, almost without even thinking about it. She'd done it even though she knew it wouldn't be easy. So why did she have a lump in her throat? And tears stinging her eyes? She chased them away and forced a smile.

“So I'm learning,” she said.

Jean-Baptiste beamed. “You're a clever girl. Now, give me a package of this perfume—but not too big, mind. That way I'll have an excuse to come back soon.”

He winked and Elena saw that he must have been a real heartbreaker in his youth. Who knew what stories she might have, this mysterious woman who'd prompted him to seek out a special perfume, something to remind her of the good old days and convince her to try again, to give their relationship a second chance?

That wasn't the only sale Elena made that day. Under the watchful eye of Claudine, she served several customers and took two big orders.

On her way home, tired but very pleased with the way things had gone, she tried to remember what she knew about composition—but she was too tense to concentrate. The customers' emotions had invaded her, and she could hear them speaking to her. She'd tried to fight it and push them back, more out of habit than anything else. But they'd managed to get through her defenses, and there they were, like birds perched on a branch, never taking their eyes off her, not even for a second. She listened to their requests, but more than anything she wanted to give them what they wished for. Because she knew how to do it: that was the one thing she could do better than anything else.
And that scared her. She was terrified of her own abilities, terrified that the Rossinis' obsession would manifest itself in her, the way it had in her mother and grandmother.

Her ancestors had given up everything for perfume. Would she be able to resist it? Could she make her peace with perfume without becoming enslaved to it?

She didn't know. Or rather, she wasn't sure, because right then, she was enjoying herself. Being at Narcissus, helping customers find the right smell for their lives and their dreams, had made her happy. No, it was more than that: it had given meaning to her day.

When she entered the courtyard, she walked up to the door without even looking around, so lost was she in her thoughts. She rummaged through her bag for her key, and slid it into the lock.

“Hello, Elena.”

Cail.
She looked up and there he was, a few meters away, casually leaning against the wall. The light from the streetlamp outside sharpened the angular features of his face. He had deep, dark-blue eyes, she saw, and brown hair with reddish hues. She felt her heart skip—and it was as though her mind cleared just by looking at him.

“Finally we see each other in the light,” she said with a pleasant smile.

Cail suddenly switched moods. In one swift movement, he peeled himself away from the wall and took a step back. His hands were buried in the pockets of his leather jacket and his expression was forbidding. Elena's smile died. What on earth had got into him? She hadn't meant to offend him.

She turned the key, but it wouldn't move. She tried again; still no luck. “Damn it,” she cursed before giving the door a kick.

“Let me do it,” Cail said, moving forward almost reluctantly. Elena glared at him.

“Sure you want to get that close?”

He frowned, then glanced around. “It's just that it sometimes bothers people if I get too close.”

“You're joking, right?”

But he didn't look as if he was joking.

Elena shook her head. “OK—look, we barely know each other, you don't have to explain yourself to me.”

She could tell he'd got closer, because she heard him catch his breath. For a moment she thought about moving out of the way, or even being rude, but she was too tired to start arguing with him. She took a deep breath and the burst of anger that had seized her completely disappeared. Then she smelled his perfume again, altered this time by his discomfort and something like a hint of disappointment. She sighed, then stepped aside.

“Fine, you try,” she said.

Cail stretched out one hand and gave a tug on the handle with the other. At that point the key turned. The click echoed loudly around them.

“There we go,” he said, opening the door.

Elena walked into the main entrance hall. “Come in, I'll make you a coffee.”

Cail didn't answer; he just stood there in silence, his hands back in his pockets. Elena immediately regretted the invitation. It was a stupid idea: you could see from a mile away that he wasn't remotely interested.

“OK, forget it,” she mumbled. “See you later. Thanks for the door.”

“I'd prefer tea.” Cail's deep voice resonated, undoing Elena's worries. He flicked on the light switch. “Do you
have
any tea?” he asked, looking straight at her again. “If you don't, it doesn't matter. I've got some upstairs.”

Apparently they were going to have a cup of tea together; apparently he wasn't completely hostile. She needed to relax, Elena thought. Being
on the defensive like this was doing her no good. She smiled faintly, telling him, “No, it's OK. I think I've got some tea bags somewhere.”

He seemed about to say something but then just walked over to the door of her apartment.

“Could I have the keys?” she asked, stretching out the palm of her hand toward him.

“Shall I do it?” Cail offered, waiting for her permission.

Elena found herself nodding.

“Yes, OK. Go ahead.”

It only took him a moment to open the apartment door and then he stepped aside to let her through. Elena went inside, a little troubled. She didn't understand what it was, but she knew something had happened between them. Acutely aware of his presence and his perfume, she walked quickly past him and over to the staircase.

“I've never been in this apartment,” Cail said, taking a long look around. “It's really interesting—the original structure is completely unchanged.” He stretched out his arm, pointing to the series of arches supported by the thick stone walls. “You see how high it is? They used to keep carriages in here. And the servants' quarters were upstairs.”

He kept talking, describing the architecture of the ancient building. Slowly he began to bring it to life, and at one point it was as though the walls around them had lost their layer of mold and the plaster had regained its strength.

“It's a shame to leave the ground floor like this,” he concluded. Elena was still watching him from the bottom step.

“If it were mine,” she said, “I'd refurbish it and turn it into a shop—you know, a perfumery.”

“Is that what you are?” Cail asked. “A perfumier?”

Suddenly everything made sense. “A perfume that smells of earth and roses . . .” Perfume had an important place in this woman's life. There was something else, Cail mused. For a moment he'd thought
she was the same as everyone else. His scar wasn't that terrible, but people are instinctively repulsed by anything that isn't perfect. He'd got used to it over time, and besides, not everyone was his cup of tea either. When he'd felt Elena looking at him, he'd noticed her surprise and he'd recoiled, like he always did; people hated being too close to him. In general, he just needed to give them a bit more space, keep his distance, to make them less nervous. But she had amazed him again, by getting angry. Then she'd gone back to being friendly, even invited him in for coffee.