The Secret Ways of Perfume (31 page)

Damn! She nervously rearranged the objects on the counter, then put them back where they started. It was unfair of her to be angry with Monique and Cail, and she knew that. But she just couldn't help it. She really was in a bad mood these days.

Cail was making regular exhausting journeys just to come back and sleep in Paris. Elena was aware that he was only doing it to make sure she wasn't on her own. But that didn't mean that she missed him
any the less. Sometimes, it felt as if both her friends had abandoned her. First Monique, now Cail. Work, work, work. And who was thinking about her? No one, that's who!

She knew it wasn't true, of course. When her bad moods gave her a moment's peace, Elena admitted to herself how lucky she was. But then all it took was one glance at herself in the mirror, and she was full of despair again. Her back pain wasn't letting up either and, what's more, it was increasingly likely that if they didn't widen the doorways soon, there was no way in hell she was going to get through them.

That afternoon, Elena was completely exhausted. She'd had a long and tiring day. Aurore hadn't said a word the whole time. On several occasions, she'd caught the girl staring longingly at the perfumier's organ she kept in one corner of the shop. It was a gift from Cail, who'd found it in a terrible condition at a street market and restored it. At first, she'd struggled to find the right kind of tiny essence bottles to suit its nineteenth-century style, but eventually she had, and now this piece of furniture was among Absolue's main attractions. It was what she showed the clients when she made customized perfumes. “Why not?” Elena decided. The next day, she would let the girl make her first whole perfume.

She tried calling Monique again, and this time she left a furious message. She'd managed to find out from Jasmine that Monique had split up with Jacques, for good. Then, on one of their phone calls—more silence than talking—Monique had told her mother that she needed a change of scene. Elena was desperately worried. How was Monique going to get through this difficult period without her friends or her family?

She wondered what might help, but nothing came to mind. Besides, she had something else to worry about: she couldn't manage Absolue
by herself, not now that the birth was so close and Cail was getting busier at work. She would have to close the shop—a terrifying thought.

She sat on one of the shop sofas and put her head in her hands. Then she heard the bell ring and pulled herself together.

“Is everything all right, dear?” Geneviève Binoche walked over to her with a big smile. Since the first time she'd come looking for her, the writer had become a regular visitor at the perfumery.

“Yes, yes. Just a bit tired. How are you?”

“I'm well,” the woman replied, settling herself down next to Elena. “I wanted to give you some good news.”

“I could really do with some,” Elena told her.

“Let's see if this cheers you up. So . . . my editor likes the idea of the perfume of Notre-Dame, and wants to give me the money to get it made. I don't need to tell you how incredible it would be to compose it on the day of the launch. Imagine the scene: you, my dear, picking out the essences one by one, and, while you measure them, telling the audience what inspired you. The grandeur of the cathedral; the cold calculation of people who give up love for wealth and power. It will be a resounding success, not to mention the good it will do for Absolue's reputation.”

“You're asking me to make the perfume?” Elena inquired.

“Of course! We've always talked about it as a possibility, and after the unfortunate incident with Narcissus I thought about scrapping the whole idea, but that would be a real shame. Elena, I have every confidence in you. I'm sure you can make this perfume.”

Elena smiled at her. “It would be wonderful.” But her mind had already started to drift in another direction.

It wasn't the desire for success that made her thoughts turn to the formula for the Perfect Perfume. It was the similarity between what had happened to the characters in Victor Hugo's famous novel and to
her ancestor, Beatrice. Phoebus, the man Esmeralda loved, rejected her so he could marry the rich Fleur-de-Lys. Charles de Blanchefort did exactly the same thing to Beatrice.

The Rossinis' Perfect Perfume had returned to her life, Elena realized with a jolt. And who better than her ancestor to express the grief of an undervalued, discarded love that was unable to compete with a man's desire for power and wealth? The Perfect Perfume could be the perfume of Notre-Dame!

Beatrice had known from the start that there was no hope for her love. The knight who commissioned the perfume had already told her it was for his future wife: a rich noblewoman of high birth who was set to change his future. His relationship with Beatrice was just a bit of fun. Elena felt a lump in her throat—for Esmeralda, for Beatrice, and also for Monie. Centuries might have passed, but men and women were still making the same mistakes.

She sighed and looked thoughtful, while Geneviève waited patiently, allowing her time to think things through. She had half the formula, Elena concluded, and she was willing to bet the rest was on the twin screen in Florence. She'd need to adapt the recipe to suit the cathedral, but it was doable.

“How long do we have until your book launch?” she asked Geneviève.

“It's in September.”

They were already approaching May. Beatrice had left the mixture to macerate for three months. The baby would be born at the beginning of June. June was also the time of the prize-giving for Cail's rose, to which he had dedicated his body and soul.

Elena went over it again and again, but even if there were three of her, there still wouldn't be enough time. In the end she sadly shook her head. “I'm afraid it can't be done.”

Geneviève's face fell. “That's a real shame, my dear. I would have liked you to be the one to handle it all. It will be difficult to find someone else to make the perfume. It really meant a lot to me.”

“We just don't have enough time, that's the problem,” Elena explained. “You see, the perfume needs to mature, and in order to compose it, I need to go back to Florence. At the moment I can't leave Absolue. Could it wait a little bit longer?”

Madame Binoche stood up, looking thoughtful. “I don't know. I could try,” she said. “I'll speak to my editor—she's trying to speed things up.”

Elena hoped some compromise could be arranged. Her desire to compose the perfume was growing stronger by the minute.

“Think about it, my dear,” Geneviève went on. “There's a very famous house lined up to buy it and distribute it. They're talking about a lot of money, and naturally you would be named as the creator of the essence.”

She would love to do it. Elena was sure Beatrice's perfume would be perfect for Notre-Dame. But she had no idea how to fit it all in.

“Thank you for understanding,” she said.

Geneviève gave her a gentle hug and told her she'd call her for her final decision.

•   •   •

It was Cail
who had first played her Ludovico Einaudi's piano music. He put it on while they were looking at the stars. Elena liked to lie back in the rocking chair, wrapped in a blanket, while he tinkered with the telescope. These were moments of total relaxation; few words and real contemplation. And so many thoughts. “Nuvole Bianche”—“White Clouds”—was her favorite piece. Cail had given her some long compilations on CD, and she had started to put them on while she was working. It had become a habit now.

“Don't you get bored of it?” Aurore asked as the notes of the piano
began almost unnoticed, rising in a crescendo to come back down and pick up the same swirling rhythm before subsiding again. This music was a background. For happy thoughts, sad thoughts, for people who had had enough of their problems, but more than anything, Elena thought, it was the perfect companion because they both liked it, she and Cail.

“It helps me concentrate . . . It's like a stream to rest my thoughts on; it softens the bumps. And besides, it's soothing. When I was little and composing my first perfumes, I couldn't control the essences—I was under their power. I saw them in the form of colors. I was afraid of them; I loved them. Whenever I smelled them, the emotions I felt were so intense they made me euphoric and upset at the same time. Music like this would have been a great help.”

“That's amazing!” Aurore was awed.

Elena gave a half smile. “I didn't think so at the time. Perfumes weren't always something I wanted. For a long time I detested them. Then they became a necessity, a duty. It's only recently that I rediscovered them for what they really are, and they became a source of joy and happiness again.”

Aurore didn't understand. “How could you ever hate perfume?”

“Good question. Maybe one day I'll tell you. But for now, let's get on. So, you're not wearing perfume today, right?”

“No, you told me not to.”

“Good. Let's move on. First thing: the essences . . . we've got those. They're the ones in the aluminum bottles.” She pointed them out one by one, then she froze.

The scene was like déjà vu. An image flashed into her mind, jostling its way through her memories. Herself as a little girl and her grandmother showing her the essences in exactly the same way, making the same gestures as she was now. Elena felt a deep sense of belonging and loss at the same time. Suddenly, she felt terribly alone.
She desperately missed Lucia. She missed her grandmother's presence, the way she handled everything—she even missed her silences.

Then Elena came to her senses and realized that Aurore was asking her something. The image gradually faded: the Rossinis' laboratory disappeared and became her bright workspace in the Marais once more. But Elena had learned something important in the last few moments: that, despite the acute sense of nostalgia she was feeling for her grandmother, there was no longer any sadness in her. She was celebrating Lucia Rossini with the gestures that had once belonged to her grandmother and were now hers, passing on the knowledge she'd learned, teaching someone who would also make good use of it one day.

“Yes, yes, you told me that already. Then what? What comes next?”

There was a clear impatience in Aurore's voice. Elena almost wanted to laugh: the girl was as twitchy and eager as an athlete on the starting line. Setting aside her memories and feelings, Elena focused on the work they were about to do.

“Dropper,
mouillettes
, cylinder to put our composition in, alcohol, paper filters. We've got everything we need. But today I thought we wouldn't make just any perfume: this one will be
your
perfume.”

“I don't understand,” Aurore said quietly.

Elena smiled. “This perfume will belong to you—it will be Aurore's perfume. You'll make it according to the process we use to create a perfume of the soul—or ‘a customized perfume,' as the customers would have it.”

“Seriously?” Aurore was going to make her first perfume, and she was going to make it by herself! She still couldn't believe it.

The girl's face revealed the utmost concentration. Elena would bet Aurore was already imagining how to mix the various essences, and decided she'd better give her a quick explanation before she got carried away by her artistic streak.

“Perfume is emotion—we agree on that. But it is also objective. Perfume has a structure: it comes from a framework, it follows a route, and we have to bear that in mind. But almost immediately, the perfume becomes
subjective
, because it stirs something in the person smelling it. A customized perfume represents us entirely, more than anything else: we like it, it comes from us. It's a way we communicate with others—with anyone, actually; it's not limited to people we know.”

“When you talk like that I could listen to you for hours,” Aurore whispered.

They exchanged a smile, and the lesson continued.

“For it to truly represent us, a customized perfume has to say something about us. Who are we? What do we want? What do we like? What do we
not
like? We can outline the concepts, then use them to create the formula. The more clearly we can establish what our customer's perfume should represent, the easier it is to find it. In general, there are three types of people who ask for a personalized perfume. Firstly, people who want a fragrance that brings joy, well-being and happiness with every breath. Secondly, those who want the perfume to identify them: it's unique, it belongs to them, distinguishes them from the rest of the world. Finally, those who see customized perfume as something glamourous, an expression of sophistication as opposed to standardized perfume, which has lost its identity.”

Elena paused; now came the difficult part, and she wanted the girl to really grasp the various mechanisms involved in the process. “To really understand what a customer likes and what they don't like, we have to start with the five senses: visual colors, tactile sensations, sounds, music, what they like about food, flavors, and of course, smells, bearing in mind which perfumes they've worn and why they bought them. In short, a full sensory identikit. And last but not least, you need to take into account the personality of the client, and you do
that by creating a rapport: talking to them, exchanging emails, making some personal contact. These are the essential things you have to know.”

“Everything looks different when you say it like that.”

“Exactly. Perfume isn't just something you put on—it's a wonderful, complex world of its own, a symbol.” She looked at Aurore. “When the overall picture of who the customer is becomes clearer, the perfume should interpret it, transform it into smells. So then you choose the base notes; these form the backbone of the perfume. From there, you can make a few more suggestions, from which the customer can choose. It will still be a draft at this stage, though, to be corrected on the basis of its master's feelings.”