‘Oh, yes.’ His face was quite serious. ‘Though not very common. It’s something of a connoisseur’s obsession.’ Lowering his voice, he indicated the beautifully dressed women who strolled in a leisurely manner from one counter to another around them, like rare, exquisite creatures, meant only for show. ‘Most customers want to smell like those they aspire to become, not who they were in the past. But perfumers are always attempting to capture scents that remind us of certain places, people, moments. It’s the great challenge, to capture not only a true scent but one that recalls entire experience.’
‘Can that even be done?’ It sounded more like alchemy than perfume.
‘Occasionally. Here,’ he gestured for her to follow him, ‘let me show you something.’
He led her behind the glass counter and into a private storeroom behind the main shop. Taking out a set of keys from his pocket, he unlocked a narrow door into a dark, cool room where he selected a bottle.
‘Close your eyes,’ he instructed, taking the lid off. Then he dabbed a drop of it on to her wrist.
Grace shut her eyes and inhaled.
Suddenly, she wasn’t indoors any more or even in Paris. But outside her parents’ home in rural Oxfordshire, on the low sloping hill facing the house. It was late afternoon, the sky heavy with thick white-grey clouds; the lights in the house windows glowing brightly, like flame. The air tasted of ice.
She opened her eyes, stared at him, her mind reaching to grasp at a certain feeling… a specific time and place. ‘I know that smell! But how do I know it?’
He grinned, delighted. ‘Snow.’
‘Snow! Of course.’ She pressed her wrist to her nose. ‘But how can you do that?’
‘It’s one of my own,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s taken me years to perfect it. You see, nothing is more immediate, more complete than the sense of smell. In an instant, it has the power to transport you. Your olfactory sense connects not to the memory itself, but to the emotion you felt when that memory was made. To recreate a scent memory is one of the most challenging, eloquent pursuits possible. It’s poetry, in its most immediate form.’
Grace looked at him with wonder. ‘I was a child, on the hill outside my parents’ house.’
He nodded. ‘Scent memory is incredibly personal, a very private experience. My own memory couldn’t be more different. Hungry, running across a frozen field. Dawn breaking.’ His expression shifted, he seemed to recede before her, slipping into another place. ‘Then the snow.’
Monsieur Androski replaced the lid.
Grace caught sight of the label: La Pologne, 1942.
Poland.
The winter after the invasion.
She watched as he replaced the bottle in the storeroom and locked the door.
They walked back out into the boutique, golden with light, soft-spoken sales assistants, the air thick with the hypnotic floral blends that Guerlain had become famous for.
He handed the card back to her. ‘Whatever she was working on, it was not meant to be an ordinary commercial perfume.’
‘She?’ Grace asked. ‘What makes you say “she”?’
He pointed to the signature at the bottom. ‘“M. Zed”. It can only be Madame Zed. Do you know who she was?’
‘I’m sorry. No.’
‘She was a very well-known perfumer in the early 1900s. Russian, I believe. There was a rumour that she was some sort of escaped aristocracy from the Russian Revolution. She became the house nose for Lanvin and created maybe fourteen or fifteen perfumes for them. And then suddenly, at the height of her success, she disappeared. Of course her most distinctive creation is world famous – Mon Péché.’
‘Mon Péché ?’
‘My Sin. Really, a very modern formula and unique for its time. Still one of my personal favourites. She completely withdrew from the perfume world after that. However, she did have an apprentice – a young man.’ He caught her eye. ‘Eventually he opened his own boutique near Saint-Germain.’
‘Andre Valmont?’ she guessed.
‘Exactly.’ He sighed. ‘I wonder what they were working on. I would have loved to have smelled it. Madame Zed had a very unique palate. Somewhat abrasive, challenging. But ultimately quite elegant. As for Valmont,’ he paused, searching for the right words, ‘he was nothing short of a genius. His library of accords and absolutes, the complexity and variation of his formulations, were nothing short of astounding.’
‘Did you know him?’
He shook his head. ‘Sadly, no. But I went to his shop once, shortly after my arrival in Paris. I shall never forget it. If Guerlain is a cathedral, Valmont’s shop was a pantheon, a pagan shrine to everything possible – nothing edited, nothing denied. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, glittering mirrors, lush fabrics. It was tiny, exclusive, terribly chic. There was a woman, perhaps the most extraordinary creature I’ve ever seen, who presided over the whole thing. You could not, for love nor money, get an appointment with Valmont himself. But this apparition would sit with you, talking, bringing down one bottle after another until you were drunk with scent!’
‘Why didn’t he open up again after the war?’
He face grew sombre. ‘Andre Valmont was Jewish. He did not survive the war, madame.’
‘Oh,’ she frowned.
‘He was not a conventional perfumer,’ he added. ‘And he died very young. Who knows what creations he might have made in another ten or twenty years? It’s a terrible loss to the profession.’
Grace held out her hand. ‘Thank you, for your considerable time and expertise.’
He shook her hand. ‘My pleasure, Madame Munroe. Let me know if you discover anything more. I am, and always will be, an admirer of his work.’
Grace headed out of the tranquillity of the boutique and on to the bustling pavement of the Champs-Élysées.
The sky was bright, the air balmy and mild.
She raised her wrist and inhaled.
And suddenly she was back in time again, on that late November afternoon, dense with mist and fog, standing on the ridge beyond the garden gate.
She could see her mother coming out of the house, waving eagerly to her to come in. And her father hurrying up the path that ran along the side of the house, head down, distracted. He was carrying something – notes – walking away. He wasn’t coming in to tea.
A sick, painful longing filled her entire chest.
That was one of the last times she ever saw him alive.
New York, 1927
Miss Waverley was miraculously made. She had gleaming mahogany hair, cut into a sharp, sleek bob and eyes that were the colour of dark chocolate – huge doe eyes framed by black lashes. Her skin was ivory and her proportions amazing; a thin tapered waist, high full breasts, shapely legs. She walked with such casual sensuality that it was impossible not to stare at her. And she was a woman who was used to being stared at.
Miss Waverley was well known at the Hotel. She was a regular guest, although not a paying customer herself. She just appeared, rather as an intriguing footnote to the travel arrangements of some of their wealthier male clients. They would request an adjoining room to their own suite or sometimes, if discretion were a serious consideration, another suite on the next floor up. During the time that they visited, Miss Waverley adorned the Hotel like a rare, exquisite flower, only occasionally accompanying her benefactor out in public. She never rose before 11 a.m., at which time she had a standing order for strong coffee, a bowl of ice cubes and lemon slices, and half a grapefruit. No one knew what she did with the ice. Half an hour later, no matter what the day, a hairdresser, masseuse and manicurist arrived to attend to her in her room. She emerged, two hours later, a shimmering apparition of dewy youth, as graceful and artlessly arranged as a field of wild flowers.
She had a smooth, low voice and a naughty, shocking sense of humour. Laughter followed in her wake; she collected admirers, both male and female, simply walking across the lobby. She had a certain knack for including everyone in her own private jokes, bending in
conspiratorially to say something wickedly off-colour to one of the old stone-faced dowagers waiting for a cab. The next moment, they’d both be giggling uncontrollably and Miss Waverley would be offering to have her chauffeur take the old dear wherever she was meant to be going.
If she dined downstairs in the restaurant, service to the other tables would inevitably stagnate while the staff jostled for a view from the kitchen doors to see what she was wearing.
‘Is she a movie star?’ Eva wondered, the first time she saw her.
‘She wishes!’ Rita snorted. ‘She’s a prostitute. Gets treated better than the Queen, though. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? What the world’s coming to.’
Eva couldn’t believe it. Prostitutes were women in cheap garments, standing in the shadows at the wrong end of town. ‘Really, Rita,’ she admonished, ‘you shouldn’t spread gossip.’
‘It’s not gossip. It’s a known fact. And watch who you’re calling a liar!’ Rita trotted off, chin in the air, affronted and superior.
Miss Waverley stayed in room 321 for ten days at the end of July. She’d come at the bequest of Senator Henry Clayton Grimsby of the Boston Grimsbys. However, Senator Grimsby was also travelling with his teenage daughter and son. Therefore, Miss Waverley had a corner room not too far, not too close. And, due to the fact that it was the Grimsby children’s first trip to New York, a little more time to herself.
Eva was only allowed to service her room after 3 p.m. And she looked forward to it as a child anticipates its birthday. At 3.00 precisely, Eva unlocked Miss Waverley’s door and stepped inside a world of glamour and luxury.
The wardrobes were bulging with packages from dress designers and hat makers. Beautiful gowns lay tossed onto the backs of chairs from the night before. Tissue-thin stockings were bunched on the floor; filmy underthings of satin and lace, too sheer, too delicate to even imagine wearing, lay crumpled on the bed. Eva moved slowly, carefully, savouring each moment, hanging the clothes, making the bed, pulling back the thick curtains to let in the blazing afternoon sun. The air smelled of some exotic, rich perfume and stale cigarette smoke. There were full ashtrays on the side of the bath; half-finished glasses of champagne left on the balcony.
Everything about Miss Waverley fascinated Eva. And she refused to believe that someone so sophisticated and charming stooped to the moral depths Rita described. It was most likely that she’d misunderstood; after all, Rita was far too eager to believe the worst of everyone.
Eva’s favourite bit was cleaning the dressing table. Here was the front line of female alchemy. Eva owned an old hairbrush she’d had since childhood and a small box of wiry hairpins to secure her hat – those constituted her only toiletries. But Miss Waverley’s dressing table was covered in mysterious jars, bottles and compacts; gold lipstick cases, round face-powder puffs, tins of pink rouge, black squares of eyeliner and a large perfume atomizer. She dusted and rearranged them, wondering how they were all put to use.
Eva liked to imagine this was her room she was cleaning; that she’d been up all night dancing with Mr Lambert and that these were her golden shoes on the balcony, their half-empty glasses of champagne. Here she was, hanging her beaded dresses, ready for their next evening out; these were her expensive nightgowns she was folding.
She pressed her cheek to the cool, smooth silk. This is what sophistication felt like, what it felt like to be a grownup woman.
‘It’s handmade. I had four fittings on the bodice alone. You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get that.’
Eva’s eyes shot open.
In the doorway stood Miss Waverley.
Dressed in a tailored black-and-white summer dress and a large rimmed black sun hat, hand on her hip, she looked like some exquisite, if angry, apparition.
Eva dropped the nightgown.
‘Easy does it! Do you have any idea of what that cost?’
‘No, ma’am.’
Miss Waverley tossed her gloves and handbag on the bed. ‘Pick it up. And mind you don’t rip it.’ Taking off her hat, she gave her head a shake and her hair fell automatically back into place. ‘Did you steal anything?’
‘No, ma’am. I wouldn’t dream of it! I’m so sorry, ma’am.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, huh?’ She looked at Eva hard. ‘Just a bit curious, I suppose.’
‘I apologize, ma’am.’
Taking out a silver cigarette case, she lit one. ‘How old are you anyway?’
‘Fourteen.’
She inhaled deeply. ‘I was curious at your age. Got me into a lot of trouble.’ She walked over to the window.
‘Maybe I should come back, ma’am. Clean the room later.’
‘No, no. Later won’t be a good time.’ She took another drag. ‘Later is never a good time. Do it now.’
She went out on to the balcony, where she sat smoking, looking out over the skyline, while Eva finished the room.
One day Miss Waverley’s regular hairdresser, masseuse and manicurist failed to show up. Her breakfast tray sat, untouched, outside her door. Then, somewhere just after noon, she rang for more towels. Eva delivered them, knocking repeatedly on the door before eventually using her pass key.
‘Hello?’ She stepped into the bedroom. The curtains were still drawn and the bed sheets were in a tangle. There were vases of flowers, heavily scented and beginning to rot in the cloudy, stagnant water.
‘Hello, housekeeping?’ Eva almost tripped over a pair of shoes.
‘In here.’ The voice that came from the bathroom was weak, hoarse.
‘Shall I leave the towels outside?’
‘No.’ There was a pause. ‘I need help.’
Eva slowly pushed the bathroom door open. Miss Waverley was doubled over in the bathtub, but there was no water. She was wearing a pale pink silk nightgown. From the waist down it was bright red.
She raised her head. Without make-up, her face looked childishly small and washed out. Her eyes were bloodshot, swollen. ‘I need a doctor,’ she told Eva. ‘You must not call reception. I need a doctor who will come up the back stairs, do you understand?’
Eva wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded and put the towels down on the basin.
Racing out of the room and into the hallway, she spotted Rita trundling down the corridor towards her, pushing her cart.
‘There’s a problem!’ Eva rushed up to her. ‘Miss Waverley, she’s sick. Very sick.’
‘Jesus! Keep your voice down, will you?’ Rita winced. She was nursing a hangover.
‘But what should I do?’
‘Do?’ She looked at her as if she were insane. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘But she’s ill!’
‘The woman deserves what she gets. Close the door and get on with your business, that’s what I say.’ Rita sniffed, giving her trolley a shove.
Eva ran down to the front lobby and over to Alfonse, the doorman, who was still on duty from the night shift. He was the man who could get you what you needed when you needed it, without any questions. At least, that’s what she’d heard.
‘There’s a problem,’ she panted. ‘I need a doctor.’
He didn’t even bother to look up from his paper. ‘See reception.’
‘No, the kind who can come and go through the back entrance.’
He looked up, eyes narrowed, then put the paper down. ‘Staff or guest?’
‘A guest.’
He picked up the phone. ‘What room?’
She told him. Then she went back to Miss Waverley.
Eva knocked softly. ‘It’s me.’
She was still in the bathtub, eyes closed. ‘Is the doctor coming?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get me a drink, will you?’
Eva had never seen so much blood. It ran in thick dark rivulets into the drain, pooled in eddies around her pale feet. ‘Shouldn’t we… I mean, shouldn’t you…’
‘Just get me a drink.’
Eva went to the next room and poured her a whisky. She came back in. ‘Here.�
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‘Thank you.’ Miss Waverley’s hand was shaking. She took a sip, wincing, and handed it back to her. ‘Don’t be frightened. It looks much worse than it is. Does he know what room to go to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’ She closed her eyes again, lay her head on her knees. ‘You can go now.’
Eva laid her hand across Miss Waverley’s damp forehead. ‘You’re hot.’
‘So I am.’
Eva turned on the water and washed the blood away. Then she took a washcloth and very gently doused Miss Waverley with lukewarm water. It ran over her slim frame, down through her shoulder blades, over her chest. The silk gown clung to her.
The phone rang.
Eva got up.
Miss Waverley looked at her, sudden panic on her face. ‘He mustn’t know,’ was all she said.
Eva picked up the receiver by the bed. ‘Miss Waverley’s room.’
The person on the other end hesitated. Finally a man’s voice said, ‘Is she there?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Miss Waverley is indisposed. May I take a message?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Housekeeping, sir.’
‘No. No. Tell her I’ll… no, no message.’
He hung up.
When she went back into the bathroom, Miss Waverley was resting her head against her arms. ‘You’re clever,’ she murmured, without looking up. ‘You’re a clever girl.’
Soon the doctor arrived, a rather shabby-looking man with a worn black case. While he examined Miss Waverley, Eva tidied the room, changing the sheets and hanging up her clothes. After a while he came out and handed Eva a bottle of thick black liquid.
‘I presume she has no husband.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘Not that I know of, sir.’
He sighed, rubbed his eyes. ‘She doesn’t want to go to the hospital. But she’ll need this for the pain. And she needs to eat something and drink lots of fluids. Give her anything – just so long as she rests and takes it easy. Do you understand?’
She nodded. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
He put on his hat. ‘She’s having a miscarriage. Quite a good idea to sit in the bath actually. Here.’ He handed her a bill. ‘Call me again if her temperature rises or the pain gets too bad.’
The Perfume Collector Page 15