The Perfume Collector

by Kathleen Tessaro

  He moved towards the window again, his back to her, watching Grace playing on the front lawn.

  There was a movement just outside the drawing room door. Then the faint sound of footfall on the stairs.

  ‘I had a son once.’ He spat the words out, edged with bitterness and hatred. ‘He died too. Of drunkenness, debauchery and disease. The only decent thing he ever did was for his sister. Do you really think that I’m going to allow some cheap French tart to destroy my daughter’s last remaining happiness?’

  Paris, Spring, 1955

  ‘Madame Munroe? Madame Munroe?’

  Grace blinked, looking up into Madame Zed’s face.

  Madame Zed got up, went into the kitchen and poured her a glass of water. Then she set it on the table next to her.

  Grace stared at the glass. She could see it, but it was as if she couldn’t place its purpose.

  ‘What happened to her?’ she asked after a while. ‘She was dismissed. Do you remember that?’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I remember vaguely being at my grandparents’ home. That we seemed to stay there forever. A woman named Mrs Press looked after me. She was older, with thick white hands. I used to think they were made of lard. My mother always told me my father died of a heart attack.’

  ‘Well, what else could she say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Grace agreed numbly.

  Madame Zed passed her the final vial. Choses Perdus, she said. ‘It means “Lost things”. This is the accord Eva was obsessed with – the heart of the fragrance Hiver can’t reproduce.’

  Grace took it, held it up.

  Suddenly the gap in her senses closed. The air became tighter, more compressed. Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘I have never been able to smell it.’ Madame sat forward. ‘Please, will you describe it to me?’

  Grace nodded. ‘It’s the smell of wool, paperwhites, wood… and hair… my hair.’

  Paris, September 1942, during the Nazi occupation

  The letter was delivered by Jacques Hiver’s driver, in the early afternoon.

  It had been a quiet day. Eva had been dusting the shelves for the second time that week, taking the bottles down, carefully wiping each one with a damp cloth, when she saw the black Daimler crawling slowly up the street. It was surrounded by a crowd of neighbourhood children, running after it, shouting and banging against the windows. With strict petrol rationing, non-military vehicles were increasingly rare. Only the very rich or important could afford such a luxury. Eva watched as the driver shooed them away, before he came into the shop.

  The note was a typically brief communication, just a location and a time scribbled in Jacques’s spidery, perpendicular handwriting. The only thing that set it apart from the other notes he regularly sent was that this time the location was a private address rather than a hotel.

  Eva folded it back up, put it into the pocket of her skirt.

  ‘Who was that?’ Andre called from the back room. ‘A customer?’

  ‘No.’ Customers had been far and few between. ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘Oh. One of your admirers,’ he said.

  They both knew the term ‘admirer’ wasn’t quite accurate. And they both refrained from saying so.

  Ever since Eva had returned to Paris seven years ago, she and Andre had reached a kind of unspoken agreement. After her abrupt departure, he had struggled on without her, at first angry and hurt, then torn between regret and self-loathing. When, months later, he arrived one morning to find her standing, waiting on the front doorstep of the shop, he was overwhelmed with gratitude and relief.

  But as he unlocked the door, he said only, ‘Are you back?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered.

  She walked in and, without another word, set about re-arranging the counter display.

  He never asked her to explain and she never did.

  Things were different now, expectations gone. Neither of them had the reserves for strong emotional gales. A respectful distance protected both of them. Kindnesses were rendered, trespasses ignored, narrow spaces negotiated in a state of amicable reserve.

  Pushing back the thick velvet curtain that separated the shop from the storeroom, Eva leaned against the door frame. Andre was balanced on top of ladder, reaching for a sealed jar of ambergris tucked away on one of the high shelves. He was thin, very thin. Everyone in Paris had lost weight with the strict rations but often Andre was too distracted to eat even his modest share. He subsisted on a diet mostly of cigarettes, white bean stew and weak ‘coffee’ made from chicory and barley. With the decline in commissions, he channelled his considerable energies into the reorganization of his entire collection. Already he’d managed to categorize and cross-categorize his existing perfumes to a remarkable, almost pathological degree, creating occasionally bizarre, whimsical classifications, which he labelled underneath each vial. Eva knew he was simply trying to steady himself, to keep his mind from the looming shadow of the future.

  ‘Why don’t we take a break?’ she said. ‘Let’s lock up the shop for half an hour and step out for a breath of fresh air?’

  Climbing down, he put the jar on the counter. ‘There’s nothing fresh about the air in Paris anymore. Besides,’ he scratched at an angry red patch of eczema that had developed, spreading across the back of his right hand, ‘I’m in the middle of something.’

  Eva didn’t press the point. She knew he hated to be seen in public, wearing the barbaric yellow star stitched onto his lapel. He only really felt comfortable now in the shop. The beautifully tailored suits he once wore hung untouched and undefiled in his wardrobe. He’d capitulated only once, stitching the badge on to his least favourite suit jacket, which he wore every day. He no longer frequented cafés or bothered to meet with friends.

  In fact, he was becoming a recluse, hardly leaving the workroom, working away in the basement, after curfew, well into the night. And the fruits of his obsessive labours could be found on the now-crowded shop shelves, vials upon vials of new formulations, sometimes two or three in a single night. It was beyond prolific; it was like a kind of brilliant possession. Andre was at the height of his powers, creating subtle, daring, elegant compositions. Frequently he spent hours showing her his notebooks, taking her through each detail of the process, as if he both doubted himself and wanted a witness to carry on his legacy. Some afternoons, he would make her test twenty different variations of the same formula, only to discount them all. Other times, he was emphatic, dictatorial, chain-smoking heavily, proclaiming amidst a fog of thick smoke that he was the only real nose left in Paris.

  Eva found this frenzied outpouring both moving and painful to witness. He was racing, running himself out. Part of her sensed that he wasn’t afraid for himself, so much as for his own talent; terrified that something uniquely beautiful might not be realized unless he coaxed it into being.

  She came, stood beside him. ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘I want to do a Greek series.’ Glancing up, he gave her an awkward smile. ‘I long for archetypes.’

  ‘Well, I may step out for a while. That is, if you don’t mind.’

  She knew the chance of anyone coming in was slim, but knew also that Andre shrank from dealing with customers.

  Today he just shrugged. ‘Do what you like. But turn the sign around, will you? I don’t want any uninvited guests.’

  He was talking about the Germans. The only people left in Paris with the money for luxury goods.

  Eva set out walking down the thronging Boulevard St Germain. Since the invasion, it seemed that more people spent time milling in the streets, rubbing up against one another, looking to each other for clues as to what was happening. During the day, the streets teamed with people standing in line for rations, bartering with makeshift stall-holders selling black market goods, spilling out from the cafés to smoke, argue and talk. At night, the same streets were eerily silent.

  She crossed the river at the Pont de Sully. The banks of the Seine were lined with fisherman, both men
and women, waiting patiently, hoping to supplement their rations by any means possible. As she headed into the 4th arrondissement, the atmosphere changed. Here the wide boulevards were quieter, the streets devoid of the many teaming bicycles and rickshaws that crowed St Germain. Suspended from the roofs of government buildings, enormous Swastika flags fluttered soundlessly in the breeze. Suddenly, Eva caught sight of a flock of birds, circling above. There were almost no pigeons left in Paris, most had been caught and cooked.

  Finally arriving through the narrow cobbled entrance, Eva stepped into the wide expanse of Les Places Des Vogues, with its stately central square. The trees were all but bare now, a few golden leaves clinging in defiance. Some children were huddled in a circle, shooting marbles in the dirt. An older man was sweeping the rest of the fallen leaves into high piles, aided by his wife, a small, stocky woman, wrapped in a knitted shawl. The four large fountains were dry; the playground equipment dismantled long ago. They all seemed to be moving like nurses around the bed of a sleeping patient, cautious and quiet.

  Checking the address again, Eva made her way to the far end. A group of German soldiers were sitting on bench, smoking. They laughed, shouting and whistling as she passed.

  The concierge, a rather frightened, dour young woman, was waiting for her outside of one of the buildings. She led Eva up a set of marble stairs to an apartment on the first floor. She unlocked the door and disappeared back downstairs before Eva could ask her anything.

  ‘Hello?’ Eva stepped inside.

  It was empty, unfurnished.

  ‘Hello, is anyone here?’ she called again.

  Her voice echoed off the bare walls and floor. Was this some sort of joke? What was he playing at?

  She was drawn to the wall of windows, overlooking the city. It was a remarkable vantage point, a sprawling panorama stretching in all directions for miles.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  Eva turned.

  A striking woman was standing in the doorway. She was only a few years older than herself, with an elegant, lithe figure and strong features. She was wearing a simple day dress and flat shoes, as if she’d been out shopping or running errands; two activities it was impossible to believe. She looked Eva up and down, regarding her as if she were a cut of meat dangling in a butcher’s window.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Eva scoured her memory. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

  ‘No,’ the woman answered. She untied the silk headscarf she was wearing, revealing a mass of dark curls, re-arranging it so it draped loosely around her neck. ‘And we never will. Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked, taking a gold cigarette case out of her handbag.

  She lit one, not bothering to wait for Eva’s reply.

  ‘So, do you like it?’ the woman asked again, shooting a stream of smoke at the ceiling. ‘It has an exceptional view, don’t you agree?’

  Coming over, she stopped in front of the window. ‘I think it will do nicely. Don’t worry about furnishings. I’ll send over some pieces later on in the week. I mean,’ she laughed a little, smoke streaming from her nose, ‘I’m sure your taste is more than adequate. But you’ll appreciate that these additions are special.’

  Now Eva knew who she was.

  She slid her hands into her coat pockets. ‘I’m not sure that will be necessary, Madame Hiver.’

  Something flickered in Yvonne Hiver’s dark eyes. ‘Well, it’s up to you of course,’ she said lightly. ‘You work in the little perfume shop, don’t you? What’s the name of that place?’

  Eva didn’t answer.

  Yvonne titled her chin down, watching Eva’s face carefully. ‘You’re not the only one, you know. There are others.’

  ‘I presume you’re referring to other women.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Yvonne took another drag. ‘My husband’s quite sentimental. Some girls he’s held on to since we were engaged. Sweet, I suppose.’

  ‘Or lazy.’

  Yvonne exhaled slowly. ‘How did you meet him, anyway?’

  Eva nodded to the cigarette she was smoking. ‘Do you have another one?’

  Yvonne frowned, irritated. Nevertheless, she took out the gold case again. ‘I suppose rationing has made beggars of us all.’

  Eva took one and, leaning forward, lit it from Yvonne’s. ‘I have plenty, thank you. I simply prefer yours.’

  Yvonne stared at her then smiled. ‘You were about to tell me how you met.’

  ‘At the Casino de Paris. He followed me out one night. I’d left my winnings behind. He was under the impression it was a mistake and wanted to return them to me.’

  Yvonne eyed her carefully. ‘But it wasn’t a mistake?’

  ‘I didn’t care about the money. I only go to play cards.’

  ‘So he gave you your money and bought you a drink, no doubt.’

  Eva exhaled. ‘Actually I told him to fuck off. But he took the money back to casino, and had the cashier hold it for me in chips for the next night. When I came back, he was there, waiting.’

  Yvonne took a moment to register this information. Clearly, it didn’t fit her imaginings. ‘Do often you go to casinos on your own?’ she asked, as if she were make conversation at a party.

  ‘Yes,’ Eva answered truthfully. ‘I find it soothing.’ She gestured to the empty apartment. ‘Is this your idea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Instead of answering, Yvonne opened the French doors, stepping out on to the terrace. ‘You know, no one is going to have any money to buy perfume any more. Not while there’s a war on. But then I’m sure you already know that. I’m amazed that little shop hasn’t shut down already.’

  Eva followed.

  Below them, the garden square was like most of the city, relatively untouched by the Germans. It was easy, seductive even, to make believe that nothing was happening. Of all the disturbing aspects of the occupation, Eva found the veil of normalcy the most sinister. Was any wound more painful than the one no one else could see?

  ‘I’ve done a little research on you, Mademoiselle d’Orsey,’ Yvonne confessed. ‘I know that you have a running tab at the Café Flore that you never quite manage to pay off. I also know that they like to seat you in the back because you drink too much. I’m already aware that you enjoy spending your evenings gambling, in dubious company. And that your business partner, Andre Valmont is a Jew. I also know that my husband is fond of rescuing things – frightened kittens, wounded sparrows, women who’ve misplaced their morals.’

  Eva took a long drag. ‘And that’s why you’re offering me an apartment?’

  Yvonne leaned forward, resting her elbows on the railing. ‘It occurs to me that you have very little to lose and a great deal to gain. All I want you to do is continue to entertain Jacques and a few of his new friends. Only naturally, I’d like you to be able to do it in fitting style.’

  ‘And would these new friends by any chance be wearing grey uniforms and jackboots?’

  Yvonne stubbed out the half-finished cigarette, tossing the butt over the side of the balcony. ‘None of us has anything to gain by watching Hiver Cosmetics go under. We must cooperate.’

  ‘Or rather, I must cooperate,’ Eva corrected her. ‘You will keep your distance.’

  ‘We have never met, mademoiselle. And we never will.’

  ‘Why are you making these arrangements? Why not Jacques?’

  ‘I don’t trust him.’ Yvonne seemed to find this amusing. ‘Imagine that?’ she laughed. ‘But some matters are too important, too delicate to leave to his judgment.’

  Eva’s head hurt, hunger gnawed at her stomach. She turned, gazing out over the landscape of Paris. She was unused to seeing it from this height, of viewing it spread out in its entirety. Suddenly she felt angry, betrayed. Paris was as beautiful as ever. There was something duplicitous, deeply wrong with this beauty.

  She looked down. The soldiers were still there.

  The whole of Paris was crawling with them; theatres and galleries, restaurants and nightclubs – wall
-to-wall with Nazi uniforms, the air punctuated with guttural German sounds. They strolled in the parks, ordered beer in cafés, stood frowning in front Matisse’s paintings with art catalogues in their hands. There were women, French women, who laughed at their stories, hung on their arms, allowed them to buy them drinks. Eva found them pathetic and desperate, avoided looking them in the eye. She knew what she would find there – fear and despair dressed up in childish bravado and defiance.

  ‘I’m not that fond of your husband,’ she said after a while.

  Yvonne shifted, sighed, like someone forced to wait for a bus when they wanted a cab. ‘What you will get in return is this apartment, and a generous, regular stipend.’

  ‘I prefer stocks.’

  Frowning, she pursed her lips. ‘As you wish. Do we understand each other?’

  Eva turned to face her. ‘So you want me to do you a favour?’

  ‘A favour?’ Yvonne’s eyes flared.

  ‘What price is your husband’s company or your reputation, Madame Hiver?’ She smiled softly. ‘I’ll consider it, on one condition. I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Andre Valmont. I want Hiver to hire him. I want you to ensure he’s protected and classified as essential wartime personnel to the company.’

  Yvonne’s eyes narrowed. She folded her arms across her chest. ‘We’re not hiring anyone. Especially not Jews.’

  ‘He’s a world-class perfumer. A genius. Just the kind of visionary Hiver needs.’

  ‘I don’t know what you expect me to do.’

  ‘What if he created a perfume for Hiver?’ Eva persisted. ‘One that was sold exclusively under the Hiver name. Then it would prove he was essential to the future of the company.’

  ‘The Nazis have taken over our factories,’ Yvonne explained, exasperated. ‘We’re not producing cosmetics right now. We’re making nylon for parachutes and God knows what else!’

  ‘We could make it, Andre and I – in the shop. We still have supplies. We could produce the formulation in small batches. Your products are still being sold.’