We spoke only for a few minutes; as soon as I mentioned Mr Brooke she said I should come straight away. I passed the phone back to the woman, who took down the address for me. She was now pleased with herself and solicitous. Providing me with a small map, she walked me out to the street and set me off in the right direction.
I recognised Sylvie as soon as she opened the door – and was immediately annoyed with myself as I had left the photographs Mr Brooke wanted me to give her back at the hotel. She was older than the photo, perhaps mid- to late-forties but had an energy about her, an animation that would not be captured on film.
She warmly invited me in, immediately asking after Mr Brooke and so I had to break the news without delay that he had passed away. She sat down abruptly at the kitchen table and wept inconsolably. A young girl of perhaps twelve came running from another room and stopped and stared at me furiously. She wrapped herself around her mother, murmuring questions. Sylvie held her close and spoke softly to her. The girl paled but didn’t cry, only held her mother more tightly. I wished I could leave them in peace.
After a few minutes Sylvie stood up, excused herself and left the room. The girl sat and stared at me. When Sylvie returned she had regained her composure. She offered me coffee or wine. I elected wine although the brandy was still sweet in my mouth. We sat at the table and, as instructed, I explained the full circumstances of Hammond Brooke’s death. Sylvie listened with stoicism, asking the occasional question and urging me to continue when I faltered toward the end of the story.
When I had finished and answered all her questions, I lifted the ledger out of the attaché case and placed it on the table. Sylvie gave a heartfelt sigh, her hands clasped at her lips. ‘We never touch this book. This is sacred.’
The girl pulled it toward her, opening it with a sense of casual proprietary. Sylvie was explaining something about the ledger but my attention was drawn to the girl as she turned the pages, glancing at the compositions with interest. When she reached the last page she turned the book toward me, pointing to the name of the final fragrance. ‘Je suis Aurélie.’
And I found myself staring into Hammond Brooke’s storm-grey eyes. Yes. Of course. This was Aurélie. His last and only hope.
By the time I left Sylvie’s apartment it was after 10 p.m. The prospect of my tiny hotel room was not very inviting and this was my last night in Paris – who knows if I will ever return. I stopped at a small café and ordered a glass of rosé. Now as I sit here to complete my final entry in this journal, I’m still stunned by Aurélie’s existence, with only a vague sense of the implications. I want to try and connect the strands of the story to make sense of it all.
I gave Sylvie the will, half expecting her to open it immediately – perhaps because I was curious! She put it aside and instead asked if I would stay and share a meal with them. I agreed and we sat down together over salad and cold cuts.
Sylvie was interested to know the circumstances of my involvement. Aurélie listened attentively as I explained the situation and, although she didn’t attempt to speak in English, she obviously understood much of what I was saying. After the meal, she took the ledger to the adjoining living room and sat down on the floor to read it while Sylvie told me at least some of her story.
Sylvie had trained as a chemist and joined the laboratory staff of Parfumerie Rousseau in 1936. As she explained it, she didn’t work with Hammond Brooke or even have contact with him as he was elevated to a degree where he didn’t deal with the day-to-day business, simply the creations. The only time she had contact with him was when she and the two other chemists presented drafts for his approval. These meetings, she said with a smile, were often fraught because of his high standards and short temper.
His grandfather, Monsieur Rousseau, was still alive at that time and Sylvie described him as a kind man but also demanding and uncompromising. He cared deeply for his staff but treated Hammond like a prince, which made his grandson less than popular with staff. Nevertheless they could not help but be awed by the younger man’s genius as a composer and his ability to identify hundreds, if not thousands, of different elements. He was able to smell a draft and identify a single note that should be added or eliminated which would transform the fragrance.
‘He was born for this job,’ she said. Knowing a little of Mr Brooke’s story, I wondered if she meant ‘bred’, although both are true, but she tapped her nose and pointed to her daughter in the other room. ‘She has the same.’
When I asked about Vivian’s involvement in the business, Sylvie’s expression clouded. ‘When I arrive, yes, she is involved. She is very beautiful. Sophistiquée. But she is a tyrant. If people don’t do what she wants, she is very angry.’
It seems that after she married Hammond in 1934, Vivian worked in the sales part of the company. In that capacity, she was often away in various parts of the world, particularly Saudi Arabia, where through her aristocratic connections she was able to insinuate herself with the Saudi royal family and, by association, other wealthy families. But the novelty of the work quickly wore off for Vivian and by the time Sylvie joined the firm a year later, it was rumoured that Madame Brooke did more socialising and spending than actual selling and there was growing tension between the elderly Monsieur Rousseau and his grand-daughter-in-law. Given that the family all lived together at Villa Rousseau, one could imagine these tensions must have spilled over to home.
Sometime in the year prior to the war breaking out, Vivian took herself off for an extended trip home to England and then to Germany. She returned somewhat enamoured of the Führer, with whom she had become personally acquainted, and deeply impressed by the economic affluence he had brought to Germany.
‘Before this, people at the factory were discrets. We respect the private world of the family,’ explained Sylvie. ‘But at this time, when Madame Brooke came back from Germany, this changed. There were Jewish people working there who knew the truth of what was happening. There was a Polish cook at the villa; she was very afraid. She told the chauffeur, Monsieur Lapointe, of the conversations in the house. He is also the driver for the business and he hears many conversations in the car. So everyone knows Madame Brooke has sympathy with this terrible Hitler.’
I asked Sylvie if she knew what Mr Brooke thought of all this at the time.
‘I think he listens to Vivian’s opinions but he doesn’t care about politics. He doesn’t care about anything he cannot smell. He held a fascination for anything that did smell. He had his head up in the cloud – always. He is the artist. Vivian liked to dance and to visit the casino but at that time he will never go where there is smoking. This is very bad for the nose – smoking is never allowed at the villa. People say she has a liaison with other men. So this is not good for the family who have great respect from everyone.
‘So, the workers were very happy when Madame Brooke went away. We know this is not her decision but that of Madame and Monsieur Rousseau. They are people of great honour. They have a dévotion for France and belief in liberté, égalité, fraternité. They have no sympathy for these fascistes.’
The Rousseau household began hosting Jewish friends and colleagues fleeing Paris. ‘Many Jews were coming from the north, not just escaping the Occupied Zone but Vichy France as well. We hear stories that Jews are being sent away and murdered – this seemed impossible!
‘Monsieur Rousseau came to me one day and said he had seen my fine handwriting. I thought – hmm, unusual, a compliment for me? He asked me some questions, about what I thought of the Jews. I said that I thought nothing, we are all French. He asked if I would help save the lives of some people. I said of course. This is how it started.’
It seems that Monsieur Rousseau realised that the resources the firm used for labelling and packaging perfume could be employed to create false documents for Jewish refugees; new identities that would allow them to cross the border into Italy or Spain.
‘So then we would stay in the evening and make these together, the two of us. It was nice.
We talk while we work. This work is delicate. It takes time but not as difficult as you might think because in France every département has some different documents. So we can make certificats de naissance, carnet de rationnement, diplômes scolaires to look very much authentique. At that time, I had no knowledge of what happens after this. Monsieur Rousseau does everything else. But then the Gestapo, they came to Villa Rousseau and everything changed.’
It was early 1943 when they arrived and searched the villa and grounds. Fortunately they found nothing incriminating but they liked what they saw and evicted the Rousseau family. Madame and Monsieur were forced to go and live with relatives in the nearby town of Menton. Madame Rousseau had suffered heart troubles for some years and within weeks of their eviction she passed away. Monsieur Rousseau, now almost eighty years old, also became unwell and was not able to continue the work with Sylvie.
‘So this is the end of Hammond’s golden life,’ said Sylvie. ‘He starts to live in a small apartment over the factory. Now there is no Free Zone, les Boches are our masters. So there are many, many Jews needing help for escape. Monsieur Rousseau wanted Hammond to take over this work. This is now more important than making perfume.’
Although Hammond respected his grandfather’s wishes, he was apparently far from happy about it. He thought the Jews could look after themselves. His only interest was to keep the business going.
Then, a strange twist in the story occurred: Vivian reappeared in residence at Villa Rousseau, managing the house and entertaining the Gestapo top brass who used the villa as a retreat. Hammond was invited for a meal at his own home.
Sylvie said that he had attended out of curiosity. It was a surprise to be introduced as Vivian’s brother but he played along. The last thing he wanted to do was raise any suspicions and so he aligned himself with Vivian, appearing sympathetic to the Nazi cause. The Gestapo must have been satisfied because orders for perfume began to arrive for wives back home in Germany. The business was now under the dubious protection of Vivian, but something had changed for Hammond Brooke.
‘He was shocked by the things he heard that night. He realises the truth about these invaders; he woke up from his dream world. Now he understood the wish of his grandfather. So, then Hammond and myself, we work together in the night to make the papers.
‘The driver, Didier Lapointe, he moves the people from one place to another. The building of the factory is a very old château. This building has tunnels into the town. Many places to hide people. We had many children hidden. Of course, by now there was la filière and la résistance – this part was growing. Some Jewish people could speak French but many cannot and children alone cannot cross a border. They are hungry and sick and the doctor of the Rousseau family came every day to treat them. The Italian curé, Monsieur Furolo, he takes the children by foot for hundreds of miles across Italie to Yougoslavie. In this he is helped by the people from many different monastères. People risk their lives.
‘I came to know Hammond very well in this time. We spent many hours together working and we had some arguments and felt some fear but we also laugh and I came to love him. So then I was staying also in the little apartment. It was not safe to leave the factory late at night – there was a curfew.’
She explained that when the Gestapo came to the factory it was in force. They found nothing but must have had credible information because they set dynamite and destroyed most of the building. Hammond and Sylvie escaped and fled to Menton, where Monsieur Rousseau was still living.
‘At that time, we rent an apartment near to Monsieur Rousseau and this is a very happy time for us. Here we discover we will have a baby and this made Hammond very happy. Monsieur Rousseau is also happy. Hammond is married to Vivian and in peacetime this is le scandale but in wartime – and no other child born in this family – this is different.’
Aurélie was born in January 1944 but less than a month later her parents had a late-night visitor. Didier came with information that Vivian had denounced Sylvie. He was certain that she knew nothing of their work but Sylvie posed a threat to Vivian’s future – now she was using her influence to eliminate the problem. By the time the Gestapo arrived the next morning, Sylvie and Aurélie had been spirited across the border into Spain.
It was during this next year that Monsieur Rousseau and Hammond together created Aurélie. This collaboration, explained Sylvie, was an extraordinary event akin to a collaboration between Monet and Matisse or Strauss and Mozart. These men were recognised as the masters in their field.
While the approaches of the two perfumers may have differed, they were united by their objective: both equally determined to evoke something beautiful and pure amidst the tragic ruin of France. They shared a vision of a reborn France, as symbolised in the inherent promise of a child. A child born in the midst of despair and conflict: Aurélie.
Raw materials were difficult to procure. There were many visits to the ruins of the factory to scavenge for anything that survived. They did not have the luxury of plentiful materials to create dozens of drafts but had to draw on memory and imagine the combined effect. Their burning desire was to extract hidden potential from the depths, to illuminate and glorify the obscure.
By the time France was liberated, they had created a fragrance they believed worthy of what both men realised would be their final composition. Hammond’s sight was now failing and in early 1945 Monsieur Rousseau passed away. The fragrance bible of Parfumerie Rousseau had originally travelled to Menton with Monsieur Rousseau and it would seem that once that final composition was recorded it was lodged, together with Hammond’s will, in the safe deposit box in Monte Carlo.
The war was finally over. Sylvie and Aurélie, now fifteen months old, returned to France, initially to Paris where Sylvie was reunited with her own mother. In his letters Hammond had been adamant that by the time Sylvie returned, he would be divorced and they would marry. But with Hammond’s loss of sight, things had become increasingly complicated. Vivian refused to grant a divorce and was still in possession of the villa. Although the family had been wealthy, their funds in French banks had been stolen. The villa itself had been quietly plundered – Vivian had been powerless to prevent the loss of many paintings and antiques. Hammond needed to start production of the new perfume to generate much-needed funds.
Shortly before Sylvie was to return to Grasse with Aurélie, she had a telegram from Hammond asking her to meet him at a hotel in Lyon instead. ‘We stayed for three days in the hotel; it should have been the beginning of our life together but it was the end. Hammond told me that Vivian knew about our daughter and she was very angry. He said to me that she is dangerous, she has powerful friends. He doesn’t want us to come to Grasse. He fears for Aurélie’s life. He told me to go back to Paris and wait.
‘I came to work at the université and gave that address. I don’t want Vivian to find where I live. The letters from him become less because he cannot see but every month some money came to my bank to help us. The years pass, and he is too ill to travel, but what can we do?’
‘Do you know what happened to the perfume – Aurélie?’ I asked.
‘I know this not from Hammond, but from my friend Hervé, who works at that time in the factory. It was, of course, very successful after the war when people needed something beautiful and magical in their life. But this was made exclusively by Parfumerie Rousseau in a little factory in Grasse. They could not make enough. The materials were very expensive but Hammond did not want to make this perfume for rich women and this was also the wish of his grandfather. Aurélie was to bring joy to ordinary women. Women who suffered in the war. Women who helped win the war.
‘But, of course, Vivian’s idea is not this. She needs money and wanted to sell the product to a big manufacturer. Hammond refused. She makes some threats to staff but only Hammond has the complete formulation. She makes a war with him about this. So, in the end, he said enough. And he stopped.’
Sylvie toyed with the envelope containing the will. �
�Hammond has already told me about this document. Everything is for Aurélie. She will carry on the work. That is why Hammond asked you to bring it to me.’
‘But what if she would prefer to do something else?’
She shook her head with a smile. ‘When we meet in Lyon, Aurélie was one-and-a-half years old and we see already she had the gift. Everywhere she goes, she smells. Even when she is a baby she brings everything to the nose. She understands this world through smell. This makes Hammond very happy.’
But, even assuming that the villa now belonged to Aurélie, how would they evict Vivian when Hammond had failed? Would she have the resources to take legal action? She responded to this question with a shrug. ‘This is what I hear: ever since the war these two have been at war. Vivian occupies the villa and Hammond the little house. She makes money from the guests to continue there. Hammond was not able to make her leave – this is very complicated – but I think something will happen . . .’
About to tell me something more, Sylvie hesitated and glanced into the sitting room where Aurélie lay curled up on the floor asleep, one hand resting on the ledger. Excusing herself, Sylvie left me alone at the table and ushered her daughter off to bed. It was a gift to have a few moments to gather myself after the avalanche of information. Little did I know there were even more startling revelations ahead.
Sylvie returned and made us coffee. It was getting late but I felt in no hurry to leave. The kitchen opened onto a small balcony. We moved outside and sat in the velvety warmth of the summer night.
The French Perfumer Page 18