The Secret Ways of Perfume (27 page)

She brushed his face with the tip of her thumb, softly tracing the scar down his cheek. “What would you do . . .” Her voice broke, but she had no intention of stopping. “What would you do if things were different?”

Cail leaned his forehead against hers. There was no sweetness in his gestures now. Just desire. Elena felt the effects of that look, the strong sensuality of his movements. Cail moved back just a little, took her face in his hand and kissed her on the lips. Gently at first, then with more certainty. Leaning toward her, the thousand doubts about their relationship continued to haunt him.

Then Elena ran her hands over his arms, across his chest. When Cail realized she was looking for his heartbeat, he was deeply moved. She pulled him close, erasing any space that was left between them. Such honest desire cast aside his worries. He held her tightly, pressing his lips against her hair.

He was happy. Just happy.

A
MBERGRIS:
beauty. The oldest of perfumes, sweet and seductive, adored by women.

The fragrance is transported by the sea and deposited on beaches like a precious gift, after which it still retains its profound, mysterious charm.

Evokes the awakening of femininity, elegance . . . and the heat of a summer's night.

E
lena and Cail put on their coats and went outside. The sun set early at this time of year, but there was something he absolutely had to show her.

“Wow, now this is a surprise,” Elena whispered, looking at the giant greenhouses in the Jardin des Plantes. They walked alongside them until they came to one that was smaller, but just as pretty. Elena went inside with a sense of reverence, and was captivated. Even as she stood in front of the thick vegetation, she couldn't believe her eyes—but the smell, there was no way that could deceive her: intense humidity, fern, moss and flowers. She should have known Cail would leave her speechless.

She didn't know where to look; every corner of the place took her breath away. She moved forward, unable to tear her attention from bunches of colorful
Phalaenopsis
orchids, but there was too much to see to be able to dwell for long on one flower, however wonderful it might be. Nearby, a tuft of fuchsia-pink miltonias sprouted from the
trunk of a tree, next to the ferns; they looked as if they had violets inside. Elena felt the urge to touch them, to smell their perfume. Some plants had huge, bright green leaves; others seemed to be made up of long ribbons. She'd never seen anything like it.

She started to walk down the path. Immersed in the humid, perfumed air, she took off her coat and felt light and happy. She'd gone from a frozen winter to the heat of the jungle in a matter of seconds. When they had first arrived, she would never have guessed that these giant steel and glass domes concealed a little corner of the rain forest.

She couldn't get her head around such an extraordinary contrast. Under Cail's amused gaze, she walked up to the glass walls and peered outside at the layers of ice surrounding the structure. The frost had encrusted everything; the silver patina reflected the lights of the greenhouse and everything seemed to be immersed in a pearly gray. But when she turned back again, as if by magic she was catapulted into another world, one overwhelmed by colors: every possible shade of green, the pink of the orchids, yellow, fuchsia, even blue. A little stream ran across stones where dozens of even stranger-colored butterflies had settled; some of them with transparent wings. Then suddenly they took flight, forming a teeming cloud, only to return to the stones and sand a moment later.

Elena was entranced. But when a butterfly with enormous yellow wings landed on her shoulder, she grabbed Cail's arm and closed her eyes.

“Don't tell me you're scared of a little moth?” he teased.

“It's bigger than a parrot—have you seen it?” Elena hissed, her eyes still closed.

“But it hasn't got a beak. It won't hurt you, relax. Look, it's gorgeous.”

Elena opened one eye. A moment later the creature took off. Its wings were a pure, brilliant yellow, with two bold orange spots and two long tails of gold. She had never seen a butterfly so big.

“Comet Moth,” Cail told her, as she watched it go.

“Moth?”

“Yes. Not all moths are nocturnal; there are some diurnal ones, too. This one is crepuscular, so it comes out in the early morning and evening.”

“I thought it was a butterfly.”

Cail shook his head. “Look at the antennae: a butterfly's are long and thin; moths' are bigger and different shapes. Some of them look like tiny combs. Butterflies close their wings like a book, and moths fold them differently.” He pointed at the insects sitting on the sand at the edge of the brook.

Elena was dying to know much more. It was always like this: every time she found out something new, she had to know everything she could on the subject. She'd always thought that butterflies were beautiful creatures, but she'd never stopped to properly consider them. She was about to ask Cail another question when a butterfly landed on her head. “Thank God this one's smaller,” she whispered, in case her voice disturbed the insect. She didn't want the marvelous creature to fly away. She stretched out her arm and waited for it, unmoving: when her perseverance was rewarded, she focused on the feeling of the butterfly's legs on her arm, the bright colors of its wings and the smell of the place. She breathed it in a few times, fixing it in her memory. Because she wanted to remember this forever.

“I had no idea you knew so much about butterflies,” she said to Cail.

“Actually, I just know the name of the Comet Moth and a few others. In the spring I was a consultant for the Rose Garden here. Lucien Musso, the manager, told me about this project, and he showed me the different phases of introducing the insects into the garden. Putting butterflies in the Exotic Species House is just an experiment for now. The idea is to re-create a corner of tropical rain forest, and to include
all the species you might find there. Butterflies are disappearing, Elena. Even though there are lots of breeders striving to reintroduce them to their natural habitats, they keep dying before they've completed their life cycle. They often fail to lay eggs.”

“Let me guess—pesticides?”

“It's a lethal cocktail, molecules designed to destroy insects. They make no distinction between a fly, a bee, or a butterfly.”

•   •   •

It took Cail
a long time to convince Elena to leave the greenhouse. But in the end she let him drag her out into the open. There was a dreamy look on her face and a wonderful new perfume in her heart.

“I'll bring you back in the spring!” he'd promised, and now they were walking through the tree-lined avenues of the Île de la Cité, hand in hand. The spire of Notre-Dame stood out against the black sky, all lit up, and the Gothic statues seemed to be watching over the city from on high. The couple carried on walking, chatting as their breath condensed into clouds, talking about their hopes, their dreams, everything they wanted to do.

“Exactly what is your field?” Elena was asking. “You said you were a consultant for the Rose Garden at the Jardin des Plantes.”

“I still am. I've got a degree in agriculture, and my specialism is diseases in roses. But cultivation, as you know, is my job—it's what my family has done for generations; it's how we make a living.”

Elena nodded. “So, you're a real authority on the subject.”

A broad smile and a kiss on the lips. Cail wrapped an arm around her shoulders and carried on walking. “Roses have always been here . . . Let's say I make sure they stay where they're supposed to be.”

That was it, in a nutshell. He made sure everything went as it should. No fuss, no arguments. Cail just did what he did in silence. That attitude was typical of him, Elena thought. He had his place in the world, and he was determined to leave his mark.

And what about her? That thought brought her joy and despair at the same time. There were times in the past when she had only existed: indeed, for a while she had merely survived. But she'd managed to distinguish, with some degree of certainty, the things she didn't want, and from there she'd established what she did want. Then she'd pursued her goals without caring about anything else. Including herself. She'd been stubborn. And now? What were her plans, really?

“Everything's changed now,” she whispered, thinking aloud.

Cail's grin warmed her heart. “A baby changes the way you see things.”

Yes, she was well aware of that. “I've got an ultrasound next week.”

“Would you like some company?”

He really did want to go with her—it was written in that direct look of his. He was asking her permission to enter her life a bit more. It was always like that with Cail, Elena thought. He gave her space; he didn't pressure her. It was easy to be herself with him. Yet something still wasn't right between them. Something was bothering him, something he hadn't told her yet.

“Yes, I'd really like that,” she answered.

There were still so many questions. She'd have to deal with some of them; she knew she couldn't put the issue off any longer. One by one her thoughts and problems had lined up, waiting patiently for her to come along and address them, resolve them and finally put them aside. First of all: the questions about Cail.

•   •   •

FROM BEATRICE'S DIARY

Today I gave the perfume to him. Gazing sweetly at the vial, he warmed it with the palms of his hands. I long for the heat of those hands, and I would have them hold me, as they held me in the depths of the night, when the icy wind blew through the stone walls and he embraced me.

We have reached the end, and I fear there is nothing left for me. There is a great, breathless anguish in my soul, but my work here is done.

Now I am cold. He still stares longingly at the perfume, but he does not notice me, my tearful eyes. He is blind to everything else, lost in anticipation of the joys of victory. If what I have delivered is what was agreed, he will lavish gold on me, and strings of pearls. That was his promise.

Now there is nothing to do but wait and see . . .

“Are you still reading the diary?” Monique's voice tore her from a past she was slipping into more and more often now. Beatrice had an eloquence very different from her own time. Her words never sounded forced or artificial; they had an immediacy—her feelings were laid out plain on the page. Almost shouted. Every word was passion and pain.

Elena looked up at her friend and swallowed. “It's heartbreaking. She knew he was going to leave her.”

“Yep. She was a brave woman. She faced up to everything, went back to Florence and made a new life for herself.”

“Without the man she loved.”

Monique shrugged. “You know, sometimes I wonder about that. How do we know that afterward, with her husband, Beatrice was never happy? She even had a daughter. Love has many faces, not like lust. Lust devours you and leaves you constantly on the edge.”

Elena would bet that Monique was speaking from experience. She didn't want to ask her about Jacques; it wasn't something they discussed openly and they couldn't exactly joke about it. For a while now, Monique hadn't been asking how things were going with Cail either. Somehow, the two friends had both become reluctant to speak openly. They tried, and sometimes it even worked, like now—but they didn't feel comfortable with each other the way they once had.

“Are you seeing Aurore today?” Monique asked.

Elena nodded. “I was thinking about showing her the difference between natural essences and something synthetic. She's really talented, you know. I think she could go far if she keeps studying.”

“In Grasse?” Monique asked.

“She could, or even at the Institut Supérieur International du Parfum, in Versailles. Her parents can afford it. The only potential problem is the board that would have to assess her attitude and give her a reference to get into the school.”

Monique pursed her lips. “Or she could learn from you.”

Elena frowned. “Come on, Monie, what do you mean? You know full well that the basics are one thing, the stuff we learned, but there's a whole other world of aesthetic and food perfumes. At the ISIPCA, she'd stand much more chance of joining a qualified staff, getting a top job.”

“There's still the fact that to get into that school you need to have a certain look. Appearance is their watchword. And I don't disagree with that, because perfumery is a world that teaches you to make aesthetics your life philosophy. But Aurore . . . I don't know. She'd have to change, and I don't think that's fair,” Monique replied thoughtfully.

“It's still a bit early to be making conjectures like that. Maybe she'll just keep it as a passion. Who knows?”

But Monique disagreed. “I've noticed the way she sniffs anything within reach; she's like Grenouille in a skirt.”

“Careful she doesn't hear you,” Elena scolded gently. “She can't stand the character of Grenouille. On the other hand, she adores Proust and his madeleines.”

“I'll bet she does.”

Monique stayed for the whole of Aurore's lesson, then she had to leave. Elena was just about to close the shop when a woman arrived.

“Good evening, mademoiselle. A friend of mine bought one of your perfumes. He told me you make customized fragrances. Is that true?”

“Yes, of course. Come in and sit down,” Elena said, gesturing toward the sofa.

The woman was in her sixties, very elegant, wearing her hair up, a midnight-blue dress and a string of pearls that stood out brightly against the fabric of her dress. Elena smelled creamy vanilla, refined and understated like her appearance, and then a hint of iris, musk, bitter almond, eccentric and full of character. The perfume spoke volumes about her, about her feisty nature. It had the scent of the countryside and the rain, drops of which were still dotted all over her clothes. The woman set down her umbrella and calmly took off her coat, looking around.