The Secret Ways of Perfume (28 page)

“Did you have something particular in mind?” Elena asked, resting a notepad on her knees.

“Yes. I'd like a simple, suitable perfume,” she replied, making herself comfortable beside Elena.

“For what?”

The woman frowned. “How do you mean?”

“You said you'd like a suitable perfume—but suitable for what?”

“Well, for me, of course.”

“And what are you like? What makes you tick?”

The woman was baffled. Elena smiled to herself. It was always like this. Customers rarely had clear ideas when it came to sounding out their desires; what they believed to be certainties were actually just vague ideas.

“Tell me, Madame . . . ?”

“Dufour, Babette Dufour.”

Elena started to work her way through the usual questions, from what the customer loved to what she hated. As their rapport developed, the woman began to confide in Elena about her feelings, and what she thought she wanted. Elena encoded everything, imagining the kind of fragrance that might suit her needs. Every ingredient she
selected to compose Babette's perfume came together in her mind, giving her an idea of which path to follow. She would take a number of things into account, not least the synergistic effect the natural ingredients would have on her customer. This tête-à-tête was essential: it was the heart of the creative process. And this was what set Elena apart from all the other perfumiers, what made her an artistic perfumier: her extraordinary ability to feel the ins and outs of what people wanted for themselves, and to transform that into a harmony of fragrances, a real melody.

“I'll start working on it, and then I'll give you a call to come in and smell the different variations. We'll start with quite a classic, light composition: a base of delicate citrus, a floral middle, quite a lively background.”

Babette nodded. “I like that: ‘lively.'”

Elena would bet she did. A pinch of transgression made life much more interesting.

•   •   •

In January the
snow was replaced by ice. The Parisian air smelled of woodsmoke, mixed with car fumes and heating systems, and smoke from the homeless camps set up under the bridges on the Seine; it was dense and sticky, lingering in the air and clinging to you. Elena couldn't stand it, longing for the wind to come and disperse the layer of smog that was weighing down on the city. She recalled the Mistral winds that blew through Grasse, turning the sky blue and crystal clear.

Of course, the fact that Cail had been away for work didn't improve her spirits. But it was also partly due to feeling nervous about the ultrasound she was to have that day.

“Hello.”

Elena dropped the bunch of flowers she was holding and ran toward Cail, who was waiting for her at the door. He held out his arms and swept her up in a hug.

“What took you so long?” Elena gasped.

Instead of an answer, Cail gave her a gentle, devoted kiss. Elena decided that, with such a valid and convincing argument, no words were necessary.

“I got here as soon as I could,” he said, with one last kiss before he let her go. “So, the ultrasound is this afternoon?”

“Yes. We need to be at the clinic at five. But if you're too tired . . .”

“Get ready for four; it's best to be early. Will Monique mind the shop?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I'll see you later.”

Elena watched him disappear up the stairs.

“Damn you, Cail McLean.” She sighed, going back inside.

•   •   •

The first time
Elena had heard her baby's heartbeat, she was so excited she didn't sleep a wink all night. That time, Cail had waited for her outside the clinic; when she came out to find him there, he told her he just happened to be passing. She didn't believe him. So this time, she'd told him the date and time well in advance.

“There, that's a little hand,” said the doctor. “Do you see? Everything looks fine.”

Dr. Rochelle looked at the couple clinging to each other in an almost fervent silence, their eyes glued to the ultrasound screen. The man was a striking figure: tall and masculine with a hard, frank stare. At least until he looked at the girl.

“This is your first baby, I'm guessing?”

“Yes!”

They answered in unison. Then Cail tensed and moved a few inches away. Or at least, he tried to, before Elena grabbed his hand again and held on to it.

That evening, as Dr. Rochelle was checking through the paperwork
for all the patients she'd seen, she noticed that something was missing from Elena Rossini's file. There was a blank space in the box for the baby's father's name.

How strange, she thought. So she wrote it in:
Caillen McLean
. Fortunately, she remembered the man's name. In fact, he had left quite an impression.

•   •   •

A couple of
weeks later, Cail went away again. In the days she spent alone, Elena dedicated all her time to Absolue. She crushed, distilled, filtered and composed. What she didn't make herself, she bought from other herbalist perfumiers, who bought her creations in exchange. They belonged to a chain of producers who had made the collection and processing of herbs and essences their philosophy. And so they prepared talcs, hydrolats and candles using the same methods employed by their predecessors, who in turn were inspired by the most exquisite artisan traditions from centuries and centuries ago.

Elena was managing almost everything now. Monique was away more often. If it wasn't because of Jacques, it was Le Notre. But if Cail left, Monique arrived. They were synchronized; Elena would bet the two of them had made a pact she didn't know about. She wasn't entirely happy that Cail had asked Monique to keep her company, although there were moments when she felt flattered by all this extra attention. She'd been alone for a long time, and having someone dedicate himself to her with such unshakable commitment made a very pleasant change.

•   •   •

With the pregnancy
progressing, Elena was getting tired quickly. Fortunately, Aurore had started coming into the shop more often.

“Thank you for coming.”

“You know it's my pleasure.” And it really was. Aurore no longer resembled the girl who had introduced herself to Elena at Christmas, all
skin and bone and attitude. As the lessons went on, she was gaining confidence and composure. She no longer mixed ready-made perfumes; Elena had shown her how to put a few essences together, nothing difficult, just a couple of combinations, and Aurore had demonstrated that she could handle everything she was being taught. The girl was clearly longing to make a whole perfume. And she was studying nonstop to make sure she was up to it. If Elena recommended reading a few pages of a book, Aurore devoured it from cover to cover and then went looking for another one. Perfumes were no longer a mystery to her. She knew the techniques, since Elena had explained them to her step by step. Soon, very soon, she'd be making her first perfume.

Aurore had changed her look, too. Elena was almost certain that was due to Monique and her fabulous wardrobe. Monie was the epitome of style and elegance. The ripped jeans and black sweaters the girl used to wear in defiance had been replaced by happier colors and shapes that accentuated her figure. One day, she turned up at the shop with a mane of amber-colored hair so lustrous it left Elena and Monique momentarily speechless.

“I know people who would kill for that hair color,” Monie breathed, “and all the time she kept it hidden under that ghastly blue Smurf thing.”

Unlike Monique, Elena had made no comment. But now, as an adult herself, she finally understood what her grandmother must have thought of all the mischief she used to get up to.

•   •   •

FROM BEATRICE'S DIARY

The scent has triumphed. My darkest fears have come true.

Soon they will be married.

Never have I created a more precious substance. There is nothing to match it in the entire Kingdom of France or beyond. At times it gives the
sense of walking beneath an arch of roses, with a sweet and favorable sun: and then at night, when the fleeting moonlight bathes the leaves in silver
.

He is happy, laughing, eager for what will soon be his—those great riches. He steals the joy from my heart, the light from the stars . . . and yet he knows nothing of it.

Can one die from love? How much pain can a single heart endure? I ask myself, as I smile and wish that tears would soothe my pain. His fortune is my disgrace. I brought this torment upon myself. I was deceived by his love.

He will abandon me.

I have no honor and I care not. If he wanted me, I would rejoice at his feet, but such reflection is futile now. Futile and hard.

What he needed is already his.

I must leave before he drives me away.

Elena closed the diary, that same pain in the back of her throat. How many times had she read those lines? She knew the text by heart now. But the pain these words evoked was always deep, perhaps because she knew that they were not just the fruit of an author's imagination, but came from a life that had been all too tragically real. It was part of her past: Beatrice Rossini and her magnificent perfume.

Elena let it drift away, the sorrow and the deep sense of regret that clung to her after she'd read the diary. The Perfect Perfume was utterly sublime: nothing could compare to the celestial fragrance that the knight had had stored in a golden vial as a gift for his princess.

What in heaven's name was in that formula? Elena thought desperately. What
could
Beatrice have put in there in seventeenth-century France?

“Still got your nose in that diary?”

Elena closed the little book and stood up. “I can't find the ingredients, Cail, and it's driving me mad. I mean, when my ancestors were
looking for them, they didn't have the Internet; information didn't travel at the speed of light. They didn't have half the knowledge I've got at my fingertips. I'm so frustrated that I can't work out where Beatrice hid the formula.”

Cail thought about letting her in on his suspicions. He'd come up with a theory: if Beatrice had described the castle but never given its name or the title of the gentleman, or the princess, there was a high chance there was something in that place—the village or its castle—that was linked to the formula for the perfume, something that could reveal the mystery. He was convinced of it. Before he talked to Elena about it, however, he wanted to look into it himself.

“Madame Binoche got in touch with me again,” Elena went on. “She told me she's almost finished writing the book. She still likes the idea of the perfume of Notre-Dame. She didn't go back to Narcissus . . . She wants me to be the one to make the perfume.”

“Yes, you told me. But that will have to wait, as I need to go away again, but this time I'll have a free weekend in the middle of my trip. How about you come with me? We can finally go and see Beatrice's castle.”

C
EDAR:
reflection. Extracted from the wood, this is one of the oldest known essences.

The fragrance strengthens and guards the spirit.

Helps maintain clarity, balance and a sense of proportion. Encourages profound observation.

P
erfumes and colors. That was Provence. Elena remembered it well, and feelings swirled around inside her, never knowing where to settle—a bit like those butterflies she'd seen in the greenhouse with Cail. They flew around and around, and it was impossible to know where they were going to rest.

“We're almost there,” Cail said. “Are you feeling OK?”

“Yep. Just fine.” But that wasn't true. Suddenly, going on this trip didn't seem like such a good idea anymore.

“If you keep pulling the seat belt like that, you're going to rip it out.”

“We've got insurance,” she replied, distracted, her eyes glued to the windshield of the SUV Cail had hired at the airport.

On both sides of the road, lavender bushes marked out a silver path with no end in sight. The bushes clambered through hills, down valleys and then rose skyward again before disappearing—only to
reappear moments later. When they flowered in June, the pearly gray of the leaves would be offset by the deep blue of the heads. And then there would be the wonderful perfume . . . Nothing could compare to the scent of lavender in flower. By day it was accompanied by the buzzing of bees, by night the chirping of crickets.

That April morning, the sky was clear, almost dazzling.

“Twenty minutes and we'll be there,” Cail told her.

Elena tensed. “Can't we stay in a hotel?”

He changed gear and slowed down. “Yes, of course. We can do whatever you want. Why?”

“I wouldn't want to cause problems for you.”

“You're not. So relax, OK?”

Elena ran her fingers through her hair, pulled it back and tried to tie it in a knot. As soon as she let go, it fell back over her shoulders in thick golden waves.

“You do that all the time lately,” Cail remarked.

“What? What do I do all the time, sorry?”

“Play with your hair, try to tie it up then let it go.”

Elena tugged at the seat belt again, letting it out a little. She felt suffocated.

“I'm nervous, that's all.”

“OK, now do you want to tell me what's going on in that head of yours?” Cail asked.

Elena took a deep breath. “In general it doesn't bother me, OK?”

“What—that people like you? I beg to differ. You want everyone to like you. It's crucial for you.”

“But . . . that's terrible,” she stuttered, staring at him with bright, wide eyes and a mixture of bewilderment and indignation.

Cail shook his head. “No. Terrible would be thinking that someone cared about you just because you act the way they want you to. Terrible is being so insecure you don't know what you're really worth:
letting yourself be manipulated by someone whose only concept of a relationship is crushing other people.
That
would be terrible, Elena.” He spoke calmly, without changing his tone, in the same voice he'd just used to point out something so insignificant she could no longer remember what it was. “‘Terrible' is the perverse way some people subjugate children and adults,” Cail went on. “People who threaten not to love you anymore if you ever do something they don't like. Look at you, Elena; you're beautiful inside and out. Don't be ruled by your vulnerability.”

A long silence, then she let go of the seat belt and turned back to the window. “I don't like being psychoanalyzed.”

Cail smiled. “Because I'm good at it, and that winds you up. Besides, I always tell you the truth. I don't care what you say or do. You know those things wouldn't make me change my mind about you. That's why you like me.”

Elena shot him a burning glare. But when she saw the look on Cail's face she had to bite her lip to try not to burst out laughing. “It's not you I like, it's the perfume you wear,” she said haughtily. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that's how it is.”

“I never wear perfume,” Cail said. “I wouldn't be able to smell the roses if I did.”

“But . . . that's impossible,” Elena said.

“I swear, no perfume. Ever.”

Elena was baffled. She could smell Cail's perfume—even in that very moment. It was intense, spicy and enthralling. And it was the first thing she had noticed about him, even before she saw his face.

Elena stretched out a hand to turn on the radio. But after a couple of minutes she turned it off again.

“Relax,” Cail said. “It's all going to be fine. My parents will adore you. They couldn't not, even if they wanted to. You sneak into people's
hearts by the back door, unassumingly, which makes it practically impossible to kick you out. As for Beatrice, I don't know if we'll find the answers at the château. I guess we'll find out when we get there.”

Silence. Cail looked fleetingly over at Elena, who was curled so far into her seat it seemed as if she wanted to disappear into it.

“Hey, what's wrong? Do you want me to stop the car?” he asked gently.

“Couldn't you just say you like me?”

Cail smiled. “That would be an understatement, don't you think? And I can't really explain anything right now. Time, remember? We talked about this.”

Elena smiled. “Yeah, yeah . . . time . . . the baby, blah blah blah.”

They drove peacefully for a few miles. Once they'd passed Avignon, they left the main road for a smaller road, heading into the countryside. The meadows soon made way for hills. Elena noticed that right at the highest points there were clusters of houses and little villages. Covering the slopes, like a colorful blanket, were fields of flowers, vineyards and olive groves.

“There. That's home—La Damascena,” Cail said, pointing to an iron gate set in a stone wall. “There are ten hectares including Mediterranean scrubland, hundred-year-old olive trees and the greenhouses where we keep the roses. There's also a stream running through it. Angus, my father, diverted it into an artificial lake, so during the wet season the water is contained and the fields don't flood anymore. Up on the highest part there's the main house. Then an outbuilding where my sister Sophie lives, and a bit further down, there is my house.”

His voice held that subtle pride that comes from years spent improving, organizing and caring for your own land. In the end it becomes part of you. Elena felt the same about the Rossini house in
Florence. The house she'd never considered home and had now made her own again, just as Cail had done with La Damascena.

“And where are we staying?” There was a hint of apprehension in her question.

“Together, obviously. My house isn't very big, but it has two bedrooms and we should be quite comfortable. We'll have more freedom. Once my mother gets her hands on you, it'll be difficult to tear you away from her.”

“I . . . have you told her about the baby?”

Cail didn't reply.

Elena moistened her lips and said in a small voice, “I don't want to cause any problems.”

“You won't, don't worry. Look, we're here,” he said, still ignoring the question that was burning in her mind.

Even if she had wanted to say something else, there wasn't the opportunity, for the road they'd taken after Cail had activated the automatic gates opened into a gravel-covered courtyard. Ahead of them were the walls of a picturesque old mill; part of its structure was still visible, the wheel plunging into the stream . . . the waters singing many a story about the property. The house was about one hundred meters away, to the right. It was certainly the most recent building in the complex: three stories high and built entirely in white stone. In the midday sun, its neat blue shutters seemed to smile. On the wooden porch stood a group of terra-cotta pots very similar to the ones Elena knew from Florence. And then roses, a profusion of roses like she'd never seen before. They were climbing along the walls, spilling from vases, carpeting the flower beds. Red, yellow, pink, in every possible shade and form, tapered, globe- or chalice-shaped. Some buds were simple and elegant, others round like marbles.

Cail parked in front of the house, jumped out and opened the door for Elena.

“Finally! I was starting to think you'd changed your mind.” An attractive, mature woman with a confident walk and a friendly smile came toward them.

Elena tensed. “Don't leave me,” she said in a panic. Cail reached for her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers.

“Never,” he whispered, with a gentle squeeze.

“We stopped to admire the view,” he said. “Mom, this is Elena.”

“Of course it's her. Who else would it be?” Elizabeth replied, unraveling herself from her son's embrace. “Welcome, my dear. Now, if my son would be so kind as to let go of your hand, I'd like to greet you properly.”

“Thank you,” Elena said quietly.

Elizabeth smelled of roses, but her perfume was delicate, discreet, like the scent coming from the rosebuds. First came gardenia, then vanilla. It was sweet, like the look she was giving Elena.

She hadn't expected such a warm welcome. And when Angus McLean arrived, a few moments later, she needed no introduction. Looking at him gave Elena a fairly good idea of what Cail would look like in another thirty years.

Giving her a big bear hug, he kissed her on each cheek. “Good gracious, my boy. You've always been one for surprises, but this is two for the price of one!” he said, gesturing toward Elena. “I think you've outdone yourself this time.”

Elena, Cail and Elizabeth tried to ignore his allusions, but he continued to congratulate his son, patting him heartily on the back and grinning. Like Cail, Angus smelled of roses. Both men were well-built and strong, so confident in themselves that they weren't afraid of sporting a supposedly feminine fragrance. There was nothing vulnerable or affected about them. In Angus, however, there was something else: black pepper, cedar and other woods. It was unusual, this perfume, and strong. How a couple as talkative and exuberant as these two had produced a reserved man like Cail was beyond her.

Elena was pampered by them all. While Angus took her to see the garden and showed her the greenhouses, Cail got Hermione out of the garage and took the bike for a spin. Elena saw him disappear with a deep roar that resembled the panic in her stomach. But before there was time for it to develop into anything more substantial, she heard him come back—and when he took off his helmet and gave her a wink, she burst out laughing.

Then Sophie arrived. Cail's sister was a real beauty, without seeming to put any effort into her appearance. Simple, like the scent of golden citrus that spoke of long hours in the sun, she also smelled of roses. Gentle, subtle, combining with jasmine to become complex and intense.

She asked Elena all about perfume. She was very well-informed about the plants the essences were extracted from, especially when it came to protecting endangered species. Cail had told Elena that the environment was an issue close to his sister's heart. She was a primary school teacher and spent her free time cultivating native plants that were disappearing, which she then replanted in the wild with Cail.

“And what about whales, musk deer, beavers and civets? Is it true that parts of those animals are used to make perfume?”

Elena chose her words carefully. “I could say yes . . . but that wouldn't be entirely true. Ambergris is a spontaneous secretion produced by sperm whales. It's very rare. As for other animal products, nobody uses them anymore.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Apart from the fact that it's prohibited by law, all the perfumiers I've worked with replaced them years ago with synthetic substances that are more acceptable from all points of view.”

“So you don't make perfumes with those ingredients?”

“For me, perfume is about well-being, about respect for nature. Of course, that means I have to work with fewer essences, but that's fine.
I believe that every perfumier should take an ethical stance on this. Extracting natural substances can have a huge impact on the environment, too. Sandalwood, for example, is now a very precious substance; it's practically on the verge of extinction. And it takes tons of water to produce just a liter of bergamot essential oil. In these cases, a product made by a chemical laboratory is an excellent alternative. It's best to dispel the myth that natural equals good and synthetic equals bad. All the choices we make should be as well-informed as possible.”

Sophie listened attentively to Elena's explanations, the color of her eyes, such a dark blue they seemed almost black, giving an added intensity to her gaze. She was blond, like her mother, with a pale complexion. Cail, however, had inherited his features from his father, who, with a certain pride, still sported a lion's mane of chestnut-brown hair, with just a fleck of white at the temples. He was tall and well-built, like his son, and just then the two were having an animated discussion in front of the huge stone fireplace in the dining room. Elizabeth glanced over at them from time to time as she set the table. Elena couldn't hear what they were saying, but she was watching them with growing concern.