The Perfume Collector

by Kathleen Tessaro

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She took a sip of wine.

  ‘You could buy a new house, travel, collect art, invest…’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She wasn’t familiar with making financial decisions. ‘I suppose the best thing would be to discuss it with a professional lawyer.’

  He folded his hands in front of him. ‘I’m lawyer.’

  ‘Well, yes, but I need one versed in English law.’

  ‘Yes but they can only advise you. What would you like to do with it?’ he pressed.

  Grace thought a moment. ‘Live, Monsieur Tissot. I’d like to live in great comfort. And peace.’ And then she added, quite to her surprise, ‘With no one to tell me what to do or how to do it.’

  He raised his glass. ‘An admirable aspiration!’

  ‘Are you making fun of me?’

  ‘No, I’m quite serious. People take for granted what is in fact an art. To live well, to live comfortably by one’s own standards takes a certain maturity of spirit, exceptional character, truly refined taste, and—’

  ‘And money.’ She tore off another piece of bread.

  ‘It helps.’

  She looked at him sideways. Perhaps it was being in Paris or the bizarre situation but she felt free to ask, ‘Do you live by your own standards?’

  He thought a moment. ‘I believe it’s a privilege, madam. One that’s earned through a certain amount of courage and adversity.’

  She laughed, shook her head. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he smiled. ‘Sometimes I do and other times I do what’s expected of me.’

  It was an oddly frank thing to say; one that, nevertheless, Grace understood. Only she’d never heard anyone say it out loud. He looked away, moving the subject back to safer territory. ‘And where would you live this life of comfort?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe by the sea. But wherever it is, they would make this bread.’

  ‘And your husband? What does he make of all this?’

  He caught her off guard. It was the first time in hours she’d even thought of Roger. And now, to her surprise, she wasn’t certain what to say. ‘My husband?’

  ‘Yes. What does he think?’

  Looking down, she brushed a few crumbs carefully off the tablecloth, ‘I don’t know. The truth is, I haven’t had the opportunity to discuss it with him.’

  ‘I see.’ He looked as if he didn’t entirely believe this. ‘Well, he’s bound to have some ideas of his own.’

  ‘Yes, that’s for certain.’

  There was a polite silence.

  ‘There are some magnificent coastlines in the South of France,’ Monsieur Tissot said after a while.

  ‘Yes,’ Grace agreed, grateful he wasn’t pursuing the subject of her husband. ‘I’ve never been but that’s what I’ve been told.’

  The chicken was served in a thick red clay pot with a lid, simmered with vegetables and small new potatoes. Warm and succulent, the meat fell from the bone. It was a simple dish yet filled with subtle layers of flavour. It struck her as lavish and exotic. When Monsieur Tissot explained that it was essentially peasant fare, she was amazed.

  ‘Chicken in a pot,’ he explained, with a little shrug. ‘You said you wanted something plain.’

  ‘It’s delicious.’

  Customers came and went, some for supper, some just for coffee. The small café was the centre of its own little universe, swirling with its own local population. Everyone seemed to know each other, and to have passionate views they never even considered keeping to themselves. They spoke freely, tossing unsolicited advice and opinions across tables. A family came in, several married couples, a pair of quite nicely dressed elderly women, a pile of young men on their way to a club, a single old man reading the paper, a couple of middle-aged women… They watched and ate and, to Grace’s delight, Monsieur Tissot would occasionally interpret for her.

  He nodded in the direction of the two women, now sitting tête-à-tête. ‘They’ve been to the cinema,’ his voice was low. ‘This one says she didn’t like the mother. And the leading man was too fat but had a nice face.’

  ‘What film was it?’

  ‘Humm,’ he strained to hear. ‘Marty? Apparently they both cried at the end. And now they’re having a drink to make themselves feel better.’

  ‘Oh, yes! I want to see that. I’ve heard it’s quite good.’

  ‘And over there.’ He pointed to an elderly couple involved in a heated discussion – he was shaking his head and she was folding her napkin, planting it firmly on the table, preparing to walk out. ‘He says he thinks the veal is fine. She knows it’s got too many capers and not enough lemon.’

  Grace couldn’t believe it. ‘They’re fighting like that about food?’

  He nodded.

  ‘That would never happen in England.’

  ‘I know,’ he smiled.

  Afterwards, since the rain had stopped, he walked her the short distance back to the hotel.

  She stopped outside. ‘Monsieur Tissot, am I correct in assuming from what you’ve said that you have access to Madame d’Orsey’s apartment?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And that it’s not been sold yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see.’ Grace folded her arms across her chest. ‘Then I would like to see it, please.’

  He hesitated. ‘My instructions were to ensure you were in receipt of the proceeds from the sale. I don’t believe it was ever Madame d’Orsey’s intention that you should visit the property.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Grace countered, ‘but without my signature on the power of attorney, there will be no sale. Am I right?’

  ‘Yeees…’ he said slowly. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And this is a situation which requires a delicate legal approach.’

  His eyes narrowed ‘You’re quite tenacious, aren’t you?’

  ‘And I believe you’re stalling.’

  Rocking back on his heels, Monsieur Tissot pushed his hands deep into his pockets. She was more resourceful than he’d given her credit for. And she was also intelligent and amusing in a very particular English way. He could easily show her the apartment and still complete this business quickly. ‘Very well, Madame Munroe. What time tomorrow would you like me to collect you?’

  New York, 1927

  Almost every night there was some sort of party at the Hotel. Many started in the bar then worked their way up into the rooms. But often there were simply outbreaks of dancing and drunkenness which flared up, taking over whole floors without warning like a kind of impromptu orgy. Doors would be propped open, and guests who formerly hadn’t even been on nodding terms gathered in hallways, collecting in doorways, laughing and shouting, music and smoke filling the air. Illegal liquor appeared, bottles were passed; more ice and glasses were in constant demand. Within the hour, cars pulled up outside, from the opposite end of town or the suburbs, laden with fresh recruits; girls piled on each other’s laps, shrieking with delight and young men wearing evening jackets, as if they’d been permanently on call for just such an occasion. Racing past the doorman, they followed the noise like bloodhounds tracking a scent, fearful of missing ‘the best bits’.

  The chorus girls were famous for these ongoing revelries; interrupted only briefly by bouts of sobriety and the occasional comatose slumber. The entire cast of the Follies seemed to be condemned to the Sisyphean fate of forever reeling from room to room, floor to floor, searching for the next cocktail, the next dance partner, the next eruption of intensity. The following morning, or more often late in the afternoon, survivors could be found wandering bleary-eyed round the corridors and lobby; girls without shoes and missing their handbags, men clutching car keys, with only the vaguest memory of where they might have parked, politely enquiring as to where they were before heading off again.

  Cleaning up after these affairs was far less glamorous. It wasn’t unusual to discover that someone had relieved themselves on the balcony, in a potted palm or an ice bucket; stra
y stockings and missing undergarments were wound about bedposts, jammed into dumb waiters and stuffed between sofa cushions; pools of vomit attracted flies and cockroaches and, along with blood and lipstick, required intense bouts of scrubbing to remove from the carpet. Almost once a week a body would turn up somewhere, sometimes quite dead looking, but usually in a state of extreme intoxication; a person no one knew or remembered, who was eventually carted off by the police to the local hospital.

  At the same time, movie and Broadway stars were apt to manifest like sudden, dazzling apparitions. Douglas Fairbanks, Will Rogers, John Gilbert and W. C. Fields frequently charmed young women in the bar, while Ruth Etting, Marion Davies, and Fanny Brice could be glimpsed, wrapped in furs, gliding through the lobby before disappearing into chauffeur-driven cars.

  The air itself crackled with undercurrents of possibility. Fame, intoxication, sudden sexual encounters – both welcome and unwelcome – simply materialized, as unstoppable and unpredictable as the weather.

  And in the summer time, it only got worse.

  ‘Mr Waxman has tried to commit suicide again,’ Sis sighed, when they were folding linens one stifling Tuesday morning.

  ‘What do you mean, again?’

  ‘He does it every once in a while. Gets too drunk, starts hollering and then goes out on the ledge and stands around a while. He’s gonna have to leave. They already asked him to leave once but they’re gonna have to get the police to do it this time.’

  ‘Why does he do it?’

  ‘Question is, why doesn’t he do it? I mean, if you’re gonna jump, jump! It’s all this in-and-out business that’s so upsetting. He’s meant to be writing some movie or something and every once in a while he just has to get out there and make a fuss. “There’s nothing to live for! This is it! There is no God! Nothing can save you!” Last year everyone panicked. This year they just let him go on and after a while he climbed back in and ran himself a bath.’

  ‘Doesn’t he know suicide is a sin?’

  ‘So’s standing around on a ledge upsetting everyone. Besides, Mr Waxman’s a Jew. They can do what they like.’

  ‘Who knows.’ Eva rearranged a row of fresh sheets. ‘Maybe he has a point.’

  Sis glared at her. It was far too hot already, making everyone more irritable. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just saying…

  ‘Oh, honestly!’ Sis shook out a bath towel with an imperious snap. ‘God has better things to do than float Mr Waxman down from the eleventh floor. And I’m not gonna let some crazy man dictate to me about the nature of the divine.’ Then she stopped. ‘Hey, heathen, where’d you get those shoes?’

  ‘Do you like them?’ Eva showcased the sophisticated t-bar design with a twirling dance move. They were only slightly too big around the heel.

  ‘Sure. But where’d you get them?’

  ‘Gino gave them to me. Said his sister outgrew them.’

  ‘You mean Pots and Pans?’

  Eva nodded. Gino was a dish washer in the kitchen.

  Sis put her hands on her hips. ‘And he gave you shoes? What’s his sister doing with a pair of shoes like that anyhow?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eva shrugged. Why was Sis making such a thing of it? ‘I thought it was nice of him.’

  ‘Humm,’ Sis frowned.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nobody ever gives anything away for free.’

  ‘You’re a cynic.’

  ‘And you’re too young to be wearing high-heeled shoes. He has designs on you.’

  Eva wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s an old man! Besides, they’re hardly worn.’

  Sis moved the stack of towels Eva had just arranged to the opposite side of the cupboard. ‘Old or not, he’s a man. Give ’em back or you’ll find yourself living in a two-room apartment in Brooklyn with his entire family.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Honey, to my knowledge, he doesn’t even have a sister.’

  Eva’s heart sank. ‘He doesn’t?’

  Sis shook her head. ‘Say they don’t fit you and give ’em back. Say your aunt is going to get you a new pair. You can’t be too careful.’ Sis turned out the light and closed the linen closet door. ‘Mr Waxman’s not the only crazy person around here.’

  Eva looked wistfully down at her feet. They’d been without a doubt the most exciting thing she’d ever worn in her life. Then she thought of Pots and Pans; his balding head and the way the spit gathered in the side of his mouth, forming a little pocket of foam when he spoke. ‘I guess you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I am.’ Sis headed down the hallway. ‘And whatever you do, don’t talk to Mr Lambert in 313.’

  ‘Why not?’ Eva ran to catch up with her, which was more difficult than she thought in the new red shoes.

  ‘He’s a Dangerous Man. You know Otto, from reception?’

  ‘The one with the red moustache?’

  ‘That’s the one. He has it on good authority that Mr Lambert is a communist. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Sis turned on her. ‘Oh, they’re just the worst! For example, they believe in common property. Do you know what that means? What I have would belong to you too and vice versa. Isn’t that barbaric?’

  Eva thought about Sis’s bolt of Irish lace. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Otto says he believes in blacks marrying whites, white people not marrying at all, everyone living in communes and the entire overthrow of democracy.’

  Eva tried to imagine a black man marrying a white woman. What colour would their children be?

  ‘And real communists, the ones in Russia, have no religion at all. It’s outlawed. There’s not a church for thousands of miles!’

  ‘What do they do on Sunday mornings?’

  ‘Nothing. No God, no heaven, no hell. I mean, that’s just asking for trouble.’ She sighed deeply. ‘He’s a Fallen Man, my friend. Forsaken. He only stays here because they won’t let him back into the Continental on account of the oyster incident.’

  Eva’s eyes widened. ‘What’s the oyster incident?’

  ‘Believe me,’ Sis waggled a finger in Eva’s face, ‘you don’t want to know! But I’ll tell you this, the young lady involved was very offended.’

  They’d reached the end of the corridor, where the service trolleys were kept.

  ‘You may have to clean his room,’ Sis continued, ‘but don’t talk to him. And don’t let him tell you about any of his ideas.’

  ‘OK.’ Eva pulled out her cart and adjusted her cap again, which kept falling down about her ears.

  A jumper in room 1129 and an Enemy of the State in 313.

  She was definitely going to need extra towels.

  For the first week, Eva hardly saw Mr Lambert. Then one day she noticed him locking his room, heading down the hallway.

  He was distracted; head down, in a hurry. He looked like any other middle-aged man; of average height, not fat or too slim, brown hair. His gait was awkward, as if one leg faltered, but it appeared not to bother him.

  She stared hard.

  He didn’t look fallen. Or did he?

  ‘Good morning, Mr Lambert.’

  She didn’t know quite why she did it. And she said it softly, under her breath.

  He hadn’t heard her.

  So she said it again, a little louder.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Lambert.’

  (Sis was going to kill her.)

  Stopping, he turned and looked straight at her. He didn’t have the eager enthusiasm of an American but seemed to weigh up whether he would speak or not.

  ‘Good morning.’ His voice was low and cultured and he tipped his hat, ever so slightly, before heading down the hallway again.

  Eva watched, terrified and thrilled, as he turned the corner.

  He had eyes so blue they were almost navy and a thin dark moustache just like John Gilbert. Sis had neglected to mention he was handsome.

  Eva let herself into his ro
om.

  There was that particular stillness which pervades after a flurry of activity; a palpable sense of energy settling. She walked into the bathroom; the air was still damp and humid, smelling of soap, warm flesh and aftershave.

  Picking up the wet towels from the floor, she washed the dark hairs from the drain, wiped everything down, arranged his shaving kit and toothbrush at right angles on either side of the sink. Eva collected his laundry, retrieved stray socks from under the armchairs, and smoothed the rumpled sheets of his bed where he’d lain only twenty minutes before, propped up on one arm, reading the morning newspaper and drinking coffee. Was it her imagination or were they still almost warm?

  She felt a closeness to him she didn’t feel for any of the other guests. A proximity that mimicked intimacy.

  There were extra glasses in his room, one smeared in lipstick marks, a cheap waxy shade of bright pink. What kind of man wanted to look at that on a girl’s face?

  Eva put the glasses in her cart and took out fresh ones. But as she dusted and hoovered, she spotted nothing more damning – no strange leaflets with slogans calling for the overthrow of Western civilisation, no foreign newspapers or telegrams in other languages; not even the odd book in Russian.

  Eva opened the window to let air in and turned round. The room was clean.

  Still, she lingered just a bit longer than she needed to. According to Sis, men were both stupid and dangerous, in much the same way that poison ivy is one of God’s worst ideas and all too easy to catch. But there was clearly a world of difference between Pots and Pans’s high-heeled shoes and the refined corruptions of Mr Lambert.

  Fallen women were common; all you had to do was have sex before you were married to qualify. But for a man to fall required much more – a deliberate turning away from God, a conscious decision. Such decisions were rare. Religious sloppiness was easy. Rejection required moral and intellectual convictions.

  For this reason, along with the way he tipped his hat and the unnatural blueness of his eyes, Eva decided that Mr Lambert was worthy of respect.

  Paris, Spring, 1955

  There was a chill in the air as they got out of Monsieur Tissot’s tiny red Citroën and walked across the park in the centre of the Place des Vosges, the oldest residential square in Paris. It was a vast, elegant enterprise, a triumph of early civic planning with an aesthetic unity rarely seen in a public structure. Imposing brick buildings bordered the central park on all sides, built over galleries which housed shops and restaurants.