The Perfume Collector

by Kathleen Tessaro

  ‘I suppose, though I certainly don’t want to monopolize your time, Monsieur Tissot. I don’t want you to feel you must chaperone me the entire day.’

  ‘Yes, but I cannot allow you to wander all over Paris without an escort,’ he pointed out. ‘Your French alone, madame, would get you arrested.’

  ‘Actually,’ Grace straightened, ‘I thought it was improving.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Well then, what do you propose?’ she challenged, crossing her arms too. ‘I hope you understand, I cannot simply accept a large sum of money without knowing where or why it’s come to me. I have to have some answers.’

  ‘And what if there are no answers?’

  She held her ground. ‘Then at least I will have asked the questions.’

  Monsieur Tissot sighed, running his hand across his eyes. She was surprisingly stubborn. Not a lot of people argued with him, ever. And he wasn’t used to capitulating. But he judged the fastest way forward was to let her have her way for an hour more. And, in truth, part of him respected the fact that she wouldn’t let go of her principal.

  ‘Fine,’ he decided, ‘then I will help you. As I said, your interests are my interests.’ Suddenly scrunching up his face, he sneezed violently, three times in quick succession. ‘Mon dieu! The dust in here. Allô! Bonjour!’ he called out.

  A small middle-aged man poked his head up from behind a wall of soft furnishings. He had thick glasses and a sharp pointed nose underneath a worn leather cap. ‘Oui? Qu’est-ce que vous cherchez?’

  ‘Please tell him that I’m looking for anything to do with Madame d’Orsey,’ Grace said.

  Monsieur Tissot explained but before he’d even finished, the man interrupted him.

  ‘He says,’ Monsieur Tissot translated, ‘that most of the furniture went very quickly. He had people waiting for it, bidding against one another.’

  ‘Are you telling me there’s nothing left?’

  Monsieur Tissot quizzed the man again. But he just shook his head, waving his hand dismissively.

  ‘He says he could hardly even unload it from his truck.’

  Grace looked at him in disbelief. ‘Is that normal?’

  Before he could answer, the man began to talk again, very rapidly, hands waving emphatically. Whatever he was saying, he felt strongly about it.

  ‘Apparently, she had a reputation,’ Monsieur Tissot elaborated.

  ‘Really?’ Grace didn’t like the sound of that. ‘What kind of reputation?’

  ‘Everyone knew her. Or rather,’ he corrected himself, ‘everyone knew of her.’

  Grace bristled, suddenly defensive on this stranger’s behalf. ‘And what precisely does that mean?’

  Monsieur Migret didn’t answer but instead spat on the floor and narrowed his eyes, suspiciously.

  ‘What about the bed?’ Grace persisted. ‘Why did he leave that behind?’

  Again, Monsieur Tissot asked and the man shook his head.

  ‘Apparently the bed wasn’t his to sell,’ Monsieur Tissot explained. ‘It’s an antique, belonging to the Hiver family. The new owner is to collect it himself.’

  ‘Arnaud Hiver,’ Monsieur Migret interjected, with a low, sneering chuckle. ‘Le souvenir de son père!’

  ‘A memento from his father,’ Monsieur Tissot offered quietly, under his breath.

  Grace glared at Monsieur Migret. She didn’t like him at all. But to Monsieur Tissot she whispered, ‘Is that customary? To leave such a thing to one’s son?’

  Monsieur Tissot shrugged. ‘I’m unfamiliar with the customs of having a mistress, a son or an antique bed, madame.’

  The man stepped forward. ‘J’ai quelques plaques, des bagages, quelques lampes…’ He pointed to a table in the corner piled with odds and ends.

  ‘There are just a few things left – over there on the table.’

  Grace headed eagerly to the table and Monsieur Tissot followed.

  There were a pair of matching chinoiserie black lacquer lamps, a stack of blue-and-white china plates, a couple of large leather cases… Grace bent down, rifling through a box of books, all of them in French, while Monsieur Tissot dug half-heartedly through a box of table linens. She’d joked about the address book and journals but still she’d hoped to find something more revealing. However, the novels looked like rather mundane romantic popular fiction. There were no hidden notes inside; no telling inscriptions; no underlined passages.

  Monsieur Tissot picked up an old leather satchel. ‘This isn’t half bad, actually. It reminds me of something I had as a student.’

  Grace got up again and began combing through another crate of kitchenwares. Serving spoons, mismatched cutlery… nothing.

  She sifted through a box of art and exhibition catalogues. Then she rifled through a pile of old shoes; opened handbags, turning them upside down. That was it. In a matter of minutes they’d been through what was left.

  And there was nothing, nothing at all specific or even remotely intimate.

  Monsieur Tissot was still examining the leather bag, testing the latch. How like a man to be fascinated by the obscure.

  Grace looked round the shop again, her frustration mounting. The whole idea of a second-hand shop had captured her imagination. Now, she was childishly disappointed. ‘Let’s go,’ she decided grimly. ‘There’s nothing here.’

  ‘I wonder how much he wants for it.’ Monsieur Tissot turned the bag over.

  First she had to drag him in here and now she couldn’t get him out. She was losing patience. ‘The strap is broken. And I don’t like that man, he’s rude. Please, Monsieur Tissot, you were right. This was a waste of time. Let’s get out of here.’

  The latch snapped open. ‘There’s something in here.’

  He took out what looked to be a delicately made blouse. Only it wasn’t.

  Grace bent in closer. ‘What is that?’

  ‘I believe it’s a dress.’ He held it up. ‘A very small dress.’

  It was a child’s pinafore, cut from white linen, now yellowed with age, finished off with smocking and tiny embroidered yellow flowers. He laid it on the table.

  ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘Maybe it belonged to someone else.’ Monsieur Tissot checked the inside of the bag again. ‘It’s empty.’

  Grace ran her fingers lightly across the yoke of the dress. It wasn’t a manufactured garment, but handmade. The delicate silk thread still gleamed, highlighting the exquisite detail and skill of the handiwork involved. It was a true labour of love; even the tiny leaves of the blooms were rendered in varying shades of contrasting greens.

  ‘I used to have a pocket kerchief with little embroidered flowers like this when I was small,’ she recalled.

  ‘Little girls have flowers over everything. Don’t they?’

  ‘These are little daffodils – narcissus. They bloom in the springtime. The English call them paperwhites.’ As she said it, she felt her cheeks flush, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I suppose it’s just a coincidence but they’ve always been my favourite flowers. Someone’s gone to a lot of effort. Embroidery like this takes real skill to make. I haven’t seen anything like it in a very long time.’

  ‘Look here.’ Monsieur Tissot held up the battered leather luggage tag. ‘I suppose it did belong to someone else after all.’

  Scrawled across a faded, yellowed label was a different address.

  M. A. Valmont

  23 Rue Christine, Paris

  Grace frowned, concentrating. ‘I know that address. I’ve seen it before, in Eva’s apartment!’

  ‘And…?’

  She looked up. ‘Do you know where that is? Rue Christine? Is it far?’ He was staring at her. ‘I mean, not that I expect you to take me or anything like that…’ she fumbled.

  It was his own fault. He should never have shown her the apartment in the first place.

  ‘Well, madam,’ Monsieur Tissot put the bag back down on the table, brushed the dust from his hands. ‘I suppose there’s only one way to find out.’ />
  Rue Christine was located on one of the narrow winding streets down by the Seine on the Left Bank. Monsieur Tissot pulled up and turned off the ignition. ‘This is it, madam. Number 23.’

  Grace’s heart sank. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Quite certain.’

  They were parked in front of an abandoned building, its doors and windows boarded up. A torn black awning flapped wildly in the spring wind.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Grace scrutinized the bleak exterior, her face falling. ‘Well, I suppose you were right.’ She conceded. ‘That’s it then. A wild goose chase.’

  A moment earlier she was full of hopeful anticipation. Now she sat back, dejected. Apparently the matter was much more important to her than he’d realized.

  And for the second time in two days, Monsieur Tissot found himself doing something he almost never did – taking impulsive action.

  ‘Let’s see about that.’ He opened the door and climbed out.

  Grace followed him. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I thought you wanted answers, Madame Munroe,’ he called over his shoulder, heading to the front door.

  ‘I do. But this place is deserted!’

  He peered between the boarded-up windows. ‘It looks like some sort of shop.’

  ‘A shop?’ Grace came up next to him, squinted to see through the dirty glass. ‘What kind of a shop?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Let’s find out.’ Monsieur Tissot stepped back and prised off the large board nailed across the front door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Grace hissed, panicking.

  ‘I’m conducting a thorough investigation on your behalf.’ Leaning in hard with his shoulder, he pushed. The door handle was jammed.

  ‘Well, stop it this instant!’ She looked around quickly to see if anyone had spotted them. ‘I don’t want you to! This is against the law, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s all a matter of intent. You don’t intend to steal anything, do you?’ He pushed again, harder. The rotting wood of the door frame splintered and the door gave way, groaning as it opened. ‘Voilà!’ he smiled, triumphant.

  ‘You’re mad!’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Gingerly, they both stepped inside.

  Ahead of her in the cool darkness, Grace could just make out the dim outlines of a shop counter, high shelves lining the walls. It smelled of damp, of cold, stale air and mildew. Wind whistled in through the shattered corner of one of the windows.

  Monsieur Tissot jiggled the light switch to no avail. ‘There’s no electricity.’ He pulled back the heavy velvet curtains that hung across the front windows and light flooded in.

  ‘My goodness!’ Grace gasped.

  Even in its state of extreme neglect, the room dazzled; walls of glass and mirrors reflecting light so that Grace was blinded for a moment. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that the space had been designed as a series of bold contrasts. The dark wood counter was a rich warm mahogany. The floor was covered in black and white marble tiles. A tiered crystal chandelier, thick with dust and filmy cobwebs, hung from a heavy black silk cord in the centre of the ceiling. And the shelves were filled with rows and rows of slim glass flacons, cloudy grey with dirt.

  In the curve of the bay window a pair of salon chairs stood, covered in black velvet, faded and rotting, and an ottoman in leopard skin. Grace reached down to touch the smooth fur. It was real.

  Silvery white silk taffeta lined the walls, now badly water damaged and falling away in strips. The ceiling was fitted with an enormous mirror, cut from a single piece of glass, now shattered in one corner, long cracks reaching out like fingers from the central wound. Somewhere in the back recesses, water dripped; leaking, into a bucket long overfilled.

  On the counter were a number of shapely glass bottles, in various sizes, with crystal stoppers.

  ‘This isn’t like any shop I’ve ever seen,’ Grace said. ‘It’s more like a nightclub. But it’s in a dreadful state – like it’s been ransacked.’

  ‘It clearly hasn’t been open in years but it may have been plundered by the Nazis. They weren’t known for their manners. Also, we’ve been having strikes lately. There has been some violence.’

  Grace pushed aside a curtain, peering into the back room. ‘What do you think it was? Some kind of chemist?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Monsieur Tissot reached up and took down one of the bottles. She watched as he removed the stopper; a rich floral fragrance escaped.

  Raising an eyebrow, he looked across at her. ‘I think we’re in a perfumery.’

  Grace stared in amazement at the walls crowded with hundreds, even thousands of tiny bottles. ‘You mean, these are all filled with scent?’

  The sheer number was astonishing.

  ‘I have to admit, this isn’t like any perfumery I’ve ever seen.’ Monsieur Tissot reached up, fitting the flacon back on the shelf. ‘A traditional perfumery has just a few categories, like florals, orientals, greens and citrus… maybe a dozen bottles for each…’

  Grace looked across at him. ‘How do you know so much about perfume?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge. I know what everyone knows,’ he insisted. ‘Every man alive has bought perfume at one time or another.’

  ‘My husband has never bought me perfume.’

  ‘Your husband isn’t French. Besides, all women love perfume.’

  ‘All women except me.’

  ‘Madame Munroe,’ he sighed, shaking his head, ‘you are an exercise in perversity!’

  ‘That’s not quite a compliment, is it?’ she pointed out.

  ‘What have you got against perfume?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I never found anything that didn’t seem too… too loud.’

  ‘You mean strong,’ he corrected her.

  ‘No, loud. And I hate to be contradicted, monsieur.’

  ‘As do I.’

  ‘I wanted something that whispered, not shouted. I gave up a long time ago.’

  ‘Well, if you were interested in perfume, this would have been the place to come, I can guarantee you that. Look, you probably cannot read these headings, with your appalling French, but allow me to translate.’ He pointed to a section. ‘There are entire scent collections listed under sun, sea, air, earth – they’re referenced and cross– referenced… some under ages.’ He indicated another shelf. ‘This row is devoted to women between the ages of thirty to thirty-five and then over here, for forty-seven to forty-nine.’

  Grace moved closer, fascinated. Each vial had handwritten notations on a small card underneath. She pointed to one. ‘What does this say?’

  ‘“Diminishes”,’ he read, moving on to the next one. ‘“Wears well”. Look at this one! “Caution! Overstays its welcome”.’ He snorted. ‘I’ve sat next to women in the theatre wearing that one. And there’s more.’ He gestured to other clusters of vials. ‘“Romantic”, “Realist”, “Vain”, “Sophisticate”, “Sensualist”, “Timid”. “Extreme”, “Calm”, “Nervous”, “Talkative”, “Bright”, “Soft”… and here are the names of gods and goddesses – “Aphrodite”, “Artemis”, “Narcissus”, “Hera”.’

  ‘How could anyone come up with all of this?’ she wondered. ‘It’s more like a laboratory or a wizard’s workshop.’

  She took down one of the vials from the self. Jasmin de la Mer, the label said. Opening it, she sniffed the cork. Its contents had long since evaporated, leaving a slightly grainy amber residue at the bottom of the bottle. But there was a ghost of the intensely white bloom, undercut by a coolness, an almost metallic airiness, slicing through the depth and lushness that lingered still.

  It was disturbing how quickly the scent transported her; she felt a fleeting sense of euphoria and vastness completely unrelated to her surroundings. It was as though someone was playing a trick on her. It was a long way from the staid, single-note fragrances she was used to – Penhaligon’s talcum powder and spray, with a dainty little drawing of a bluebell on the label.

  Monsieur Tissot lean
ed over and smelled it too. ‘Remarkable!’

  She put the lid back on. ‘Is this a collection? I don’t recognize any of the names. Not that I’m an expert, but there are no familiar perfume brands here. But… but,’ she turned, gazing at the thousands of bottles, ‘that’s impossible, isn’t it? A person would have to be completely obsessed to create such a comprehensive library of scent!’

  They continued to pick their way through the derelict surroundings.

  There was a slender black lacquer oriental cabinet to one side. With some difficulty, Grace managed to open its doors. Inside was shelf upon shelf filled with easily several hundred much more elaborate perfume bottles. Each had a specific name on it: commissions. Underneath each bottle was a card and notation. Others were clearly works in progress, distinguished only by numbers. Grace reached up to the top shelf. There were stacks of ledgers, leather-bound journals filled, when she opened them, with clients’ details, dates and long lists of ingredients, presumably formulations for scent.

  ‘Look at this!’ she called excitedly.

  Monsieur Tissot came, leaning over her shoulder to read what was written.

  Certain pages were devoted each to a single client. For example, in 1932 Mademoiselle Dallois commissioned a perfume. There was a list next to her name. Grace tried to make out the words. ‘“Pink roses”, “clean hair”…’ She pointed to the next line. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘“Papa’s pipe. And cake”!’ he read. ‘My God, this sounds like a child!’

  Grace scanned the hundreds of bottles. ‘Do you think it’s here?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Dallois’s perfume.’

  She stood on her tiptoes, reaching further on the shelf to the bottles at the back.

  Had someone managed to create a fragrance equivalent to cake and pink roses?

  ‘Here, let me,’ Monsieur Tissot offered.

  Something fell to the floor – a faded, yellowed note card.

  Grace bent to pick it up when suddenly there was a sharp crack on the counter behind them.

  They both whirled round.

  ‘Dehors! Sortez!’ It was an elderly woman, tall and very thin, dressed in a rather old-fashioned black wool dress that hung from her gaunt frame, a walking stick poised like a weapon in the air between them. ‘Sortez!’