The Secret Ways of Perfume (8 page)

“I'll admit, it does seem like a good idea. But there's a problem. I don't know anything about new perfume technology. I'm not up-to- date.”

Monique went over to the table where the packaging from the Indian perfume was still sitting. “Book the ticket,” she said. “Email me the flight number, and leave the rest to me.”

Monique ended the call, picked up the
mouillette
that still held a slight perfume, and inhaled it slowly. Then she opened her mobile phone and dialed a number.

“I'm sending you a CV,” she told Philippe.

H
ELICHRYSUM:
understanding. Sweet as honey and bitter as a sleepless dawn. An intense perfume.

The fragrance of kindness; to be used sparingly, blended with delicate scents like rose that can take on its qualities.

Unites heart and mind, passion and reason. Evokes compassion.

T
he Marais was one of the few quarters to have retained the character of seventeenth-century Paris. Once a favorite of the aristocracy, who preferred to live next door to the royal court rather than in it, the area came through the Revolution unscathed and survived subsequent visions for town-planning, the Seine floods that deluged southern parts of the city, a succession of kings, and Napoleon.

Elena walked through the narrow streets in search of the apartment where she was about to start her new life. In spite of the rain, dozens of tourists stubbornly continued to hunt for things, admire them and take photographs. Elena left them behind in rue des Rosiers, the ancient heart of the Jewish quarter within the Marais, and entered a maze of back streets. Here, the ambience changed, and she felt as if she was somewhere else, a tiny village suspended in time.

She stopped under a
boulangerie
sign, checking the piece of paper
with the address on it for the thousandth time: rue du Parc-Royal, number 12A. She carried on walking almost automatically. At one point, the wheels on her case stopped cooperating, weighed down by the rain. Muttering crossly, Elena gave the suitcase a sharp tug before realizing she'd finally arrived.

“At last,” she said, stopping in front of a stone archway marked with the number twelve, and peering through the wrought-iron bars. In the dim glow of a few beams of light, she could make out a garden, some bicycles and a couple of parked cars.

Monique had emailed the code for Elena to open the main gates—but the rain had smudged the numbers she'd jotted on a piece of paper. Annoyed, Elena crumpled the note into a ball. Then, weighed down by her wet clothes and wretched mood, she leaned against the wet wall. It smelled of brick, plaster and exhaustion; the same exhaustion Elena could feel in her whole body. The journey from Florence had not been easy. The plane was late, then she couldn't find a taxi at the airport and she had had to take the bus.

At that moment, a car drew up beside her. The driver activated the automatic catch on the gate and drove slowly into the internal courtyard. Dragging her suitcase behind her, Elena limped through the gates just before they closed. The first door on the right was marked as the entrance to apartments 12A and 12B. A wave of relief swept over her.

Monique had sent her a text message saying that she'd stopped by that afternoon to switch on the heating and hot water, and to drop off some shopping, and that she'd left the shared entrance door ajar. Elena only had to give it a shove, Monique said, since it was inclined to stick, and she'd be in.

Leaning both hands on the huge door, Elena followed her friend's instructions. But it didn't budge. A musty smell filtered through a tiny
gap in the door: as though inside there were piles of old books, plants and moss.

With her eyes closed and her hands on the wooden door, Elena found herself suddenly transported into another world: the world of scents. Smoke rose from the charcoal fires of restaurants nearby: she could smell grilled fish and mixed vegetables—zucchini and peppers—then the icing on a chocolate cake. Semolina and freshly baked bread. In addition, the breeze brought with it the perfume of cedar trees, their leaves heavy with rain, and flowers: gardenias, Michaelmas daisies, then the seductive, delicious scent of roses. And finally, the smell of a hard day traveling without a break. Impatience, fatigue—and doubt. Then a riot of color: red, green, purple. She opened her eyes wide. The emotions took her breath away and spiraled inside her . . . and she felt them brush against her, then swirl, concentrate, and explode. It was too much. She
had
to stop them—she
had
to stop feeling.

She pushed with all her might—and the door suddenly burst open, catapulting her forward into darkness. A strong arm caught her waist, breaking her fall, and a voice said “What the hell . . . ? Are you all right?”

It took Elena a couple of seconds to realize what had happened. Thank God this man had caught her before she ended up on the floor. That would have been the final straw, she thought.

“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, stunned.

When he didn't respond, Elena fidgeted nervously—the man was still holding her tight.

“You can let go of me now,” she told him awkwardly.

Suddenly he let go, stepping away from her. “I didn't mean to frighten you,” he said sharply.

Elena was struck by something in the stranger's voice, a hint of
sadness. The emotions that had overwhelmed her a moment ago dissolved, and new ones took their place.

There was pain in the man's words—old and unjust suffering. Elena wondered why and wanted to get to know him; she wanted to hear his story. This wasn't something she could explain; it was instinct.

“I can't see you—it's too dark,” she told him, taking his hand. Her fingers grasping his, she turned around to see his face. The lamplight coming through the open door outlined the strong figure of a man but left his face in shadow. Elena couldn't make out anything more than a tall, broad silhouette. His voice was slightly harsh, but still polite, and deep.

“I'm not scared of you,” she said, and gave him a smile.

He didn't reply, just held on to her fingers. Elena knew it was irrational—absurd even, not to want to let him go. But lately she'd stopped acting rationally.

“You smell nice.” It was an impulse, this confession; the words simply tripped off her tongue.

She immediately blushed. God, it sounded as if she was trying to pick him up. Monique would have been proud of her.

“Sorry, you must think I'm crazy,” she babbled, “but I've had a horrible day and the first good thing that's happened to me was you rescuing me. If you hadn't caught me, I'd have ended up in a heap on the floor. A perfect end to a terrible day. I was just taken by surprise because the door opened all of a sudden.”

“What of?”

Elena was confused. “What of . . . what?”

“You said I smelled nice. What of?”

“Oh, yes.” She laughed, a light, velvety sound. “It's an occupational hazard.”

But he didn't laugh, just kept on staring at her intensely. Elena felt his gaze on her, sensed the importance of her reply and the words that this man, whoever he was, was waiting for. So she closed her eyes and let his perfume speak to her, telling her things only she knew how to hear.

“You smell like the rain, and the cold, but sunshine, too. Like words you've thought, long silences and reflection. You smell like earth and roses . . . You have a dog, and you're a good person who stops to help and who's grieving for something in his heart.”

A long silence. Then, without warning, the man snatched back his hand.

“I have to go,” he said. “Leave the main door open, as the light in the entrance doesn't work. Take care.”

He backed away, slowly, without taking his eyes off her. Only when he reached the door did he turn around and leave.

Elena stifled a sudden urge to call him back. Then, with her eyes still on the door, she started to laugh. What on earth had got into her? She might as well have asked the guy for his phone number. She just grabbed hold of a strange man and . . . well, really it was he who grabbed hold of her. She was half-amused, half-shocked by her own behavior. But these thoughts were soon swept away as she lifted her head, trying to breathe in that perfume again. It was a promise kept, it was the sweetness of trust, and the weight and responsibility that go with it. It was action and need. She searched for it again, breathing in the night air, trying to retrace the thread as it disappeared. But it was gone, leaving her with a sense of something close to longing.

By now, she'd got used to the strange half-light. She blinked; the hallway was large and the ceilings high. In one corner, beside a window, there was a plant, probably a weeping fig, and a flight of stairs led to the apartments on other floors. On the ground floor there
was just one door marked 12A, and it seemed to match Monique's description.

Elena pushed the door, which opened easily, with a squeak. So this was the apartment. She looked for the switch, and in the first flash of light she saw a large, bare room with high walls. Someone had tried to plaster over the old bricks—unsuccessfully, to judge from the results—and had instead made do with a coat of paint. Evidently, when Monique couldn't persuade the wall it was going to be plastered, she'd ended up painting it. Somehow, she'd got her way. Elena laughed.

She walked into the middle of the room, the tiles shifting under the pressure of her feet. She frowned: they must be very old. Some of them had been taken up and piled pitifully in a corner, revealing an even older floor underneath. To her right was a window, and a door that must open straight on to the pavement, but which looked as if it had been sealed for years. Monique had told her that the apartment had been passed down through her family. None of them had ever wanted to live there, but selling it was out of the question. It had belonged to Jasmine's father, Ismael Ahdad, a first-generation immigrant, and he had spent his entire life savings on it. Jasmine had been particularly proud of the apartment. But even so, the Duvals had never been especially fond of the place. Monique had used it as somewhere to crash for a couple of months when she arrived in Paris, but had moved to another part of the city as soon as possible.

Elena went over to the staircase, which wound upward to another floor, no doubt where she would find the bedroom and bathroom. She flicked another old switch and a bulb illuminated the landing above.

Monique told her she'd bought new bed linen, a duvet and some towels. All Elena wanted right now was a bath and then sleep.

She set off wearily up the stairs and stopped at the top to look around. She could see three rooms: a small living room with a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom. Save for a few piles of books lying around,
there was little furniture: a red Formica kitchen unit, a few old appliances, three chairs and a table. On the table was a plastic bag, the source of a delicious smell.

“God bless you, Monie,” Elena murmured, rummaging around inside. She bit into a piece of baguette before going back to exploring the apartment.

Once the windows were open, a light breeze brought in other smells and sounds: the voice of a beautiful, romantic city Elena was eager to see again.

She should call Monique, tell her she'd arrived. Where had she put her phone? Oh God! And her handbag? Elena looked around frantically, then hurried back downstairs. When she saw her bag by the door, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her suitcase was there, too. Suddenly she remembered that she'd actually left them outside in the courtyard. Could the stranger have brought them in for her?

She let out another sigh at the thought, grateful to the man, whoever he was. A neighbor, perhaps? She liked that idea; it made her feel good. It was strange. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. She had never had a chance encounter with a stranger.

She closed the door and went back upstairs. Submerging herself in a tub of hot water, she began to revive. For a second Matteo popped into her mind, but she was quick to push him back out. She had too much to do, too much to organize. She was busy planning her new life. There was no time to keep going over the past.

“Too busy for love, no time for hate,” she whispered, recalling a phrase she often spotted on Facebook. It wasn't strictly true. (There had been moments when she felt like gouging out Alessia's eyes and stabbing Matteo.) Still, it was a nice idea and she decided to stick to it as much as possible: she would fill her days with only good things. Thoughts raced around her mind, lingering briefly before taking off again in new directions.

Relaxed but hungry, Elena got out of the bath. Once she'd eaten the treats Monique had left her, she lay down on the bed and realized that she almost felt happy.

•   •   •

Cail looked at
the rose he'd sheltered from the rain a few days earlier. Its petals were open now. At their edges tiny droplets sparkled, waiting to join the others and roll to the ground like tears. A delicate scent of apple tea was all the flower emitted—but it was too slight, too commonplace, barely acceptable. It was a beautiful rose, of course—and he hadn't anticipated that, when it matured, the rose would be shaped like a chalice, since it had shown no signs of this before it bloomed. The color was baby pink with an apricot center.

So in the end, he decided, his work hadn't been totally wasted. His German clients would include it in their catalog, no problem. They'd pay well and he'd get to keep the royalties.