The Secret Ways of Perfume (5 page)

“The message is in the perfume.”

She put in tuberose: its flowers were white, like the dresses Susanna loved to wear. Then Elena had chosen gardenia: hot and green. Next she blended leather and wood, which could soften the bright, fruity sweetness. There was something jarring in this composition, though. It was the pain of abandonment: it was her way of asking Susanna to take her back.

She prepared it diligently, remembering everything her grandmother had taught her, and then she put it in a crystal bottle.

The Christmas holidays finally arrived and, holding her breath, she waited for the moment she could finally give her mother the present in Grasse.

“For me?” Susanna asked. “A perfume? Did you make it yourself, darling?”

Elena loved the sound of that voice. It was light and delicate—perhaps because she didn't use it very much. That kind tone made her feel better. And since Elena had arrived, the night before, even
Maurice had been kind. Maybe they would keep her with them, this time.

“Yes, Mom, I made it myself.”

Susanna opened it very carefully, smelling the contents. Smiling, she tried it on her wrist and sniffed.

“Aren't you clever, sweetheart? I like it; it's delicate, but at the same time it has character.”

She liked it! Elena's heart was bursting; she couldn't think of anything else. She went up to Susanna, one step at a time, as though she were afraid this perfect moment might vanish. But Susanna kept on smiling and talking to her.

The sunlight streaming through the window lit up the polished wood floor. Her mother was sitting on the sofa and had put the bottle of perfume in the middle of the coffee table, still singing its praises.

“An original composition. I can't work out the base notes . . . oh, but don't tell me, darling, I want to guess. Would you believe it, my little girl made a perfume just for me! Maurice, come and see—look what Elena did.”

The man came over. He was smiling, but his eyes were cold. He took the tiny bottle and once he'd smelled it, he put it back on the table.

“You shouldn't encourage her so much. There are some serious mistakes there. The top notes clash, and really, what about the structural failure? No, Susanna. You're not doing the kid any favors by deluding her like this. The perfume's no good, and you know it. Stop leading her on.”

“How can you say that?” Susanna murmured. “She's only twelve years old!”

Maurice spun around, slamming his fist onto the table. The bottle rolled along the polished surface and fell to the floor. The smell spread through the room, filling the air.

“It doesn't matter. It makes no difference how old she is. I'm just telling the truth, because you're not brave enough to do it. That perfume is all wrong—it's worthless.”

A tense silence fell over them, shattering Elena's dreams, crushing her hopes.

“There's no need to shout,” Susanna told him. Then she bent down and picked up the bottle. She closed the lid and went back to Elena.

“Spoiling a composition by using such bold notes is a mistake lots of beginners make. Make sure you have the olfactory pyramid and the fragrance families clear in your mind. To be daring you need knowledge that you don't have yet. But thank you, anyway. It was a really kind thought.”

Then she stood up, left the sitting room and shut herself in her bedroom. Maurice followed her immediately. The next day, Elena went to stay at Monique's house, and Susanna must have approved of the decision because she sent her luggage over. A long time later, Elena realized what was wrong with that perfume. Too much pain.

After that, she saw her mother less and less, and only on the most important occasions. From then on, their relationship became very formal. Fortunately, Maurice always managed to busy himself with something on the few occasions Elena went to Grasse, and Elena herself always found thousands of excuses to go to Monique's house.

She was almost seventeen when, in the laboratory where Susanna and Maurice were working, a gas leak caused a small explosion. Her mother almost made it to the door, but flames forced her back to the window. The fire spread in just a few seconds, fueled by the highly flammable liquids in the room. By the time Maurice managed to grab the fire extinguisher, the blaze was already out of control. The laboratory was completely overcome by smoke. So Maurice took his wife in his arms and jumped out of the window. He saved her, but the accident left him with burns to his face and serious spinal injuries.

•   •   •

Elena sighed and
dried her eyes. How was it that all she could do lately was think about the past? Her worries about the future were starting to weigh on her mind.

That morning, her thoughts were trapped in a circle, and she always ended up facing the same question: what on earth was she going to do now? She wasn't looking for a profound philosophical answer, like the meaning of life. No, her concern was more practical, immediate.

She stood up and looked around. The workshop walls were high and plain, in stark contrast to the fresco-covered ceiling. Flowers, an abundance of painted flowers, covered the entire vault, like a meadow hanging upside down. The colors of the fresco were faded: the red poppies were just a pale cherry color; the warm, powdery tones of damascene roses were almost imperceptible; little cracks decorated the edges of the petals; the blue of the irises and the still-bright violet of the anemones were also testimony to the relentless passage of time. Her grandmother had never let the arts heritage authorities get their hands on them.

“It would change the smell. How can you not understand that?” she once yelled, exasperated by the insistence of the official who wanted to include the palazzo in plans for restoration.

It was true; the balance of perfumes that gave life to that room would be lost forever. Modern paints would have brought the picture back to its original brilliance, a real joy to behold. But what would have become of the perfume of the place, once it was contaminated? The cedarwood table with its sturdy feet, the delicate inlaid cupboards that contained all the essences, the display cabinet lined with leather-bound books, and the Venetian wardrobe where all the utensils were kept had always been part of the place. Every single object had its own specific smell and none of it should change.

There was something else in that vast, marble-floored room. Elena looked around for it, and sure enough, there it was. It was still in the farthest corner of the room. She walked over and ran her fingers across it.

The screen's frame was flaking and the silk covering had faded a little. But it was still in good condition, if a bit dusty. The height of a door, it opened out to create a sheltered corner. It was old, very old. They said it was as old as the house and had belonged to Beatrice Rossini herself. But there were too many legends surrounding her ancestor for Elena to believe them all. She didn't care where the screen came from; she liked the feeling of warmth and privacy she had when she was behind it, and the smell that came off the silk. In the past it had been used as a partition to protect clients who didn't want to reveal their identity. And from time to time, when things got too much, or she was up to mischief, Elena had made it her hiding place.

Elena stopped to smell it more carefully—and with a hint of surprise she realized that this was where the subtle scent of a real perfume was coming from, as though the screen had once been soaked in it. And it probably had. There were other antique objects in the house that her ancestors had subjected to experiments in an attempt to preserve fragrances for longer. Her grandmother's mahogany chest, in her bedroom, contained several pairs of vaguely scented Spanish leather gloves. Her grandmother's slippers, too, gave off an essence of Bulgarian roses. Plus several reams of paper, each with a specific scent and every one of them stamped.

But of all these bizarre objects, the old screen was still her favorite.

There were other things, too, things that actually took her by surprise, like the comfortable sense of well-being. She felt as if she'd come home. And she couldn't really explain this, since she'd never previously thought of the house like that. It had never been a place where she'd felt truly at ease. Jasmine had been wonderful to her; at her
house Elena had breathed in love and been happy, but she'd also understood precisely what she didn't have. That big old palazzo had always been her grandmother's home, not hers. She'd only gone back there because, after the split with Matteo, she didn't have anywhere else to hide. But she had done so very reluctantly.

Catching her off-guard, the warm feeling she'd felt on the first night crept up on her again. She knew that sooner or later she'd have to sort herself out and deal with her feelings. But this wasn't the right time.

Matteo had just brought her belongings back. Five boxes piled in the middle of the hall to remind her of a year of living together and a heap of stupid dreams that, it would seem, he had never shared. Stubbornly and blindly, she'd poured all her needs and desires into that relationship, fooling herself that she and Matteo had a connection that worked.

•   •   •

“You made an
error of judgment, Elena. You forgot the one thing a woman should always bear in mind,” Jasmine had told her on the phone a little earlier.

“Have you been talking to Monie?” Elena asked the one person who, for all these years, had been a mother to her.

“
Oui
, it's not good to keep secrets. Don't be cross with her.”

“You know I won't,” she replied.

“Not even if I tell you I'm happy that idiot is out of your life?”

Elena smiled through the tears. “
Non, maman
.”

Jasmine's happy sigh prompted more tears. Elena sniffed them back.

“Go on,” she urged in a shaky voice.

“You can't put all your eggs in one basket,
ma petite
. Circumstances mean you have to diversify. They call it Plan B. You have to have one, Elena: a girl always needs a Plan B.”

“And what if I don't even have a Plan A?”

“Rubbish! You've got a beautiful house full of incredible objects. You've got a vocation: whether you like it or not, you're a perfumier. You know how to create perfumes, you know how to recognize them, and if you don't want to make them, you could always sell them like Monique, don't you think? And what's more, my girl, you've got us—a family that loves you.”

More tears, and this time Elena couldn't hide them.

Jasmine sighed again. “I've never heard you cry so much, not even when you were a little girl. Are you sure you're all right? Why don't you come and stay with us in Grasse for a few days? A change of scene would do you good.”

Elena dried her face. “You know I can't do that.”

“Why? Ever since his accident Maurice never leaves the house, so you wouldn't even see him. As for your mother . . . I don't think it'd hurt to see Susanna again. You know it would make her happy, deep down.”

“You really think so? I wouldn't be so sure. She's never been to see me.”

“True, but you know why that is. She feels responsible for Maurice; she doesn't want to leave him on his own in his condition.”

“That's ridiculous; it wasn't her fault,” Elena whispered. “It was an accident—it could have happened to anyone.”

“But it happened to Susanna. And regardless of anything else, Maurice was badly injured saving her. She'll never forget that.”

A thoughtful silence came over them, and then Jasmine added, “I'm not condoning the way she treated you, let's be clear on that, but perhaps it's time you put your resentment aside. Susanna made some bad choices, and she's paid dearly for them. But she is still your mother.”

Yes, she was still her mother. But that didn't matter anymore. She hadn't been part of Elena's life for years now. One day she'd simply stopped hoping Susanna could love her. But it wasn't that simple.

Even though what Jasmine was saying made sense, Elena had no intention of thinking about Maurice or her mother; right now, she couldn't face it. And it wasn't just them. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, dragging her into a vortex of feelings that she didn't know how to escape. Her heart ached.

“I'll think about it,” she managed, before she hung up.

L
AVENDER:
relaxation. Intense and sweet; herbal with balsamic undertones.

The complex fragrance seduces and bewitches.

Refreshes and purifies the spirit; relieves exhaustion, fear and anxiety.

P
ARIS

B
y day, Paris was rich and fascinating beyond belief; by night, the city showed its true character as
La Ville Lumière
—the City of Light. As Monique flew above it, gazing at the lights in the tall townhouses, the Eiffel Tower and the long, gold ribbons of illuminated streets dividing up its most stylish quarters, she knew that some of those lights, shining like diamonds, were in reality just the headlights on thousands of cars speeding through the streets. Yet from the sky they looked like jewels. Paris was a city that knew the value of appearance.

Jacques had sent her a message. He wouldn't be coming to meet her at the airport. Something had come up at the last minute, something really important. But he'd send the car.

Monique sighed. Things had started “coming up” a lot lately; he always had something more important to do.

She carried on watching the city as it sparkled happily, resolutely staving off the wave of self-pity that was threatening to emerge from the depths of her soul. They would be landing soon, the pilot announced. The slightly distorted voice told them to keep their seat belts fastened until the doors were open, gave the final instructions for landing and ended with a curt, “Welcome to Paris.” When the wheels touched down, a tired round of applause rippled over her. Monique unfastened her seat belt, collected her bag and stood in the line to disembark.

•   •   •

“Wake up,
mon
amour
. It's not like I'm going to let you sleep, anyway.”

Monique opened her eyes and jumped up, with Jacques's fingers still touching her.

“Get that hand off me, now.”

He gave a lazy smile, then got off the bed and straightened his tie. His expression was inscrutable.

“Nervous,
chérie
?”

Monique rubbed her hand over her face, trying to dispel sleep. Then she clenched it into a fist, to stop the shaking.

“What are you doing in my house?”

Jacques smiled at her again: hair perfectly slicked back, piercing dark eyes, the look of a man who knows he has the world at his feet. Standing in the middle of Monique's little loft apartment, he looked like lord and master of everything. He was confident, determined—everything would go just the way he planned it.

God, he was handsome! Monique had to force herself to keep her distance. She grabbed hold of the sheet, clutching it like a lifeline. The urge to beg him to continue what she'd just told him to stop was almost overwhelming.

“I wanted to put things right. I haven't treated you very well,” he replied, unbuttoning his jacket.

“That's one way of putting it,” Monique muttered.

Jacques went over to the window and opened the curtains. The sun came flooding into the room. Monique shielded her eyes, unused to the sudden brightness.

“So, how was Florence?” he asked smoothly.

“Old, beautiful, dilapidated.”

“Yes, it's a charming city. I should go with you next time,” he said, as though he really meant it. But, if there was one thing Monique had learned from their relationship, it was that Jacques said a lot of things. Words, phrases, promises, which he duly forgot. They were just another adornment for him, like the clothes he wore, his jewelry, his stylish looks. There was never any truth in what he said, even though he led her to believe the opposite. Sometimes, Monique thought he must be a magician, an emotional conjurer.

Jacques looked at her again. Lying eyes that charmed and deceived at the same time. It was so easy to believe him, Monique thought, to delude herself that she really was important to him. He was too gallant, too handsome, too much of too many things, all at once.

She took a deep breath and got out of bed. As she walked toward the wardrobe she was careful not to catch the look in his eye that made him so irresistible. She could feel her desire for him quivering inside her. And for a moment, she was tempted to believe him. Maybe he really had missed her; maybe he did want to apologize for having behaved like the worst kind of bastard.

One glance at the coffee table brought her back to reality. The two packages she'd carried with her from Florence were open. A strip of paper—a
mouillette
—was resting next to the perfume Elena had chosen; another lay crumpled up on the floor. Her hopes faded, then disappeared altogether, leaving only a cold realization.

“Couldn't you wait until tomorrow?” she asked, trying to hide her irritation.

“Why? Would something have changed? You found what I wanted. Get dressed—I'm taking you out. I want to celebrate. The perfume you chose is just right. You're a genius.”

Monique let him approach her. It was Elena who was the genius. She was about to tell him so when he grabbed hold of her, and the words died on her lips. Jacques kissed her and ran his hands over her body.

She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of his warm skin expertly caressing her. As their passions rose, she let out a moan. The man pressed his lips to her neck and Monique knew she had to say it.

“I'm not your genius.”

She could have lied. Elena wouldn't have minded—the perfume didn't mean anything to her. But then what? How would she live with knowing that Jacques's admiring looks, his respect . . . everything was based on a lie? She would be taking what rightfully belonged to Elena, and only to Elena.

But in that moment, none of this mattered: she wanted him, desired him, and she knew it wouldn't take much to get him back. All she had to do was lie. Despite her best intentions to be honest, Monique would have done anything to keep him.

Jacques tensed. “Don't be silly,” he whispered against her skin, before sinking his teeth in, biting her gently.

No one could make her melt the way he could. Heaven, or indeed all the wonders of hell, were as nothing compared to what Jacques could do.

“What if it were true? What if I'd asked someone else to find the perfume for me?”

She regretted her words almost immediately. She could have kept quiet, and he would have loved her. When Jacques pulled away from her, took a step back, she could see that a doubt had found its way into her lover's mind. And then, under the layers of delusions, desire and lies, something else emerged: the bitter taste of shame.

Had she really been reduced to lying to keep Jacques? What kind of woman had she become?

She hung her head, trying to recover her pride, or what was left of it, and once again was overwhelmed by the sweet and captivating scent of ambergris. But this time she felt no shivers, she didn't see the sea or feel the sun. She quickly tied her hair in a ponytail, and without looking Jacques in the eye, she walked over to the bathroom.

“When you leave, put the keys on the table by the door. The next time I find you in my house uninvited, I'm calling the police.” She didn't wait for Jacques to reply, locking the door behind her.

•   •   •

It took a
while, but when she came out of the bathroom Monique had calmed down. She didn't need to check to know that Jacques wasn't there anymore. She could feel his absence.

She let some of the anger bubbling inside her rise to the surface and was almost happy to feel it, to let it chase Jacques and his stupid flattery out of the pathetic place in her heart that still guarded her dreams.

“Go to hell,” she swore at the card he'd left on the bed. She grabbed it and crumpled it up, throwing it onto the floor. “As if I'm going to call you.”

She was willing to bet he'd taken the perfumes as well. Both of them. Jacques was a man who liked to keep all his options open. The essence from the Indian manufacturer that Elena had chosen was what he wanted, but the other one, the one she'd found, was also a good option. She had enough experience as a perfumier to know her own worth.

The room around her was decorated in perfect minimalist style and neutral tones, striking a contrast with the elegant dresses hanging in her antique rosewood wardrobe. She picked out a bottle-green silk dress and paired it with a light purple woolen cardigan, a dash of makeup and
her hair tied back. She should have her hair cut short, she thought. But she could never go through with it. She was a bit like Elena in that respect, sticking with something that had identified her for so long. She should call Elena, tell her all about Jacques, let her friend know that her formidable instinct for perfume was at the heart of it.

Whether she liked it or not, Elena was a nose. She always had been. Actually, she was much more than that, because she could even deduce emotions from smells, and she knew how to explain them. For Elena, her sense of smell was as fundamental as sight is to anyone else. The fact that she refused to admit it, that she rejected this talent, was another matter altogether.

Monique sighed. Before she went out, she glanced in the mirror, then picked up her handbag. In one of the compartments, she'd stashed a business card. It was a deep ivory color, thick and deliciously perfumed: musk and sandalwood, she was sure. In the background, Monique could detect a bitter third note, perhaps another wood. She pondered for a while, trying to identify it. Not that it mattered. Then she stopped thinking and just breathed in the perfume, a truly captivating
mélange.

Alain Le Notre of the perfume house La Fougérie was a smart, sophisticated man, and he'd made her a good offer. The time had come to find out exactly how worthwhile a new job might be.