The Secret Ways of Perfume

by Cristina Caboni

  Monique had taken her home, and Jasmine, her Egyptian mother, had scolded them, dried them off and then, over a cup of ginger tea and a plate of cookies, warned them of all the dangers lurking in the streams. At Monique’s house, Elena discovered what it meant to have a real family. Her new friend had introduced her to the maternal warmth and serenity that Jasmine had in abundance. Monie made her feel like one of the family, like a sister.

  “So, will you help me?”

  “Seriously, I don’t know what use I can be to you. You know every step in creating a perfume and you’ve produced some extraordinary things.”

  Monique made a face. “Come on, Elena. We both know my perfumes are simple, convenient and popular. Even the best one was hardly subtle. But you, you’re like an artist who paints a picture with words. I don’t know anyone with your skills or your genius.”

  “Yeah, right! A genius who couldn’t even cover her costs.”

  “Don’t give me that old chestnut about your grandmother’s business,” Monique cut in. “You closed the perfumery because you’re the most stubborn person I know. As far as the business goes, if you’d followed your instincts instead of sticking to Lucia’s antiquated rules, things would have gone quite differently, and you know it. We’ve already talked about this. I just don’t understand how you could take Matteo’s ravings into account. The most he had to teach you was how to lay a table.” She snorted.

  “You never made any decisions about running the shop,” she went on. “You just let things happen. I’m sorry, but you know I like to tell it how it is, Elena. You’re a nose, that’s all there is to it. And the perfumes you made for me and my mother were truly unique. They still are. And that’s what people want: a special perfume.”

  “You know as much as I do,” Elena insisted. “We did the same studies, we’ve got the same training.” She moved over to a metal shelf where a series of different-sized vials were lined up. The glass seemed to come to life as the cold light skimmed over the sharp edges.

  “Maybe, but I wasn’t brought up in an apothecary’s workshop. Nor am I descended from generations of perfume-makers. That makes all the difference in the world.”

  Yes, that was the difference between them. Monique had had a normal childhood: parents, a brother, two sisters, school, home, university, boyfriends and, in the end, a job she liked. She’d been able to choose.

  So had Elena, in a way. And she’d chosen the easy route: obedience. She’d done everything her grandmother had asked of her, or as much as she could bear. She’d studied perfumery and applied herself conscientiously. Silently, however, she’d begun to harbor resentment toward perfume. And she’d ended up cultivating that resentment until she blamed it for all her problems.

  “Do you know what my grandmother’s last words were?” Elena asked. She waited a moment, then, spurred on by her friend’s silence, she quoted: “‘Follow the way, do not abandon the perfume.’”

  “Lucia wasn’t well at the end,” Monique replied.

  Elena’s lips curled into a gentle smile. “Her body might have given up, but her mind was there until the end. Don’t think for a minute that she did or said anything that wasn’t part of her plans. It was an obsession for her—the same as it was for all the women before her, even my mother. They always put perfume before anything else.” She reached for her friend’s hand and squeezed it. “I closed the shop because I wanted a normal life, regular hours, a man to love who loved me back, and children.”

  “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. You could have been a perfumier and had all that. It’s up to you, n’est-ce-pas?”

  No!

  The answer exploded inside her. Perfume wasn’t like that—why couldn’t Monique understand? It was all or nothing. And she hated it. She hated it because she couldn’t help but love it.

  And so she’d decided: perfume wasn’t compatible with the life she’d chosen to lead with Matteo. That was why she closed the shop. The perfume would have bewitched her in the end, like it had all the other Rossini women, jeopardizing her plans for the future. It was that fear that had pushed her to distance herself from it forever.

  “I didn’t want to risk it,” she murmured aloud.

  No, she didn’t want to risk it. She didn’t want to give in. She didn’t even want to talk about it.

  “I’m not sure giving up everything you are has made you happy.”

  Elena went pale. “Everything I am?” she repeated.

  “Think about it, Elena: since you closed the shop and went to live with Matteo, have you ever really been happy? You gave up everything you know, everything that makes you who you are, to chase after an idea, something you thought would satisfy you. But you went from one extreme to the other. Was that the life you wanted?”

  No, it wasn’t, but it was still better than standing by and watching, wasn’t it?

  “I tried. I believed in it and I tried!” she said hotly.

  Monique stared at her, then smiled. “That’s not what I asked you. But it doesn’t matter. Let’s stop this depressing talk and focus on what we need to do, because you’re going to help me find the perfume for Narcissus, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Elena nodded mechanically. But Monique’s words were still ringing in her ears. Had she really given up who she was?

  Three

  BENZOIN: composure. A dark resin with a thick and intense balsamic essence.

  The fragrance relieves anxiety and stress.

  It enables spiritual energy to grow in strength and is the ideal preparation for meditation.

  Elena’s first memory was the dazzling sun on the French Riviera; her second was a vast expanse of lavender. Green and blue and pink and lilac and white, stretching on and on. Then there was the darkness of the studio, where her mother, Susanna, worked, leaning over tables covered with tiny glass and aluminum bottles.

  Her mother worked in Provence for most of the year. That was where they had a house. And that was where Susanna had met a man, her first and only love: Maurice Vidal.

  It was in the flower fields there that Elena had learned the basics of perfumery: which herbs to pick, which to use in distillation, which to transform into concrètes, which to use to extract absolutes. Petals of all colors and sizes swirled around, carried by the Mistral winds, or fell like little pink waterfalls from the ledges where they were kept. The petal-pickers filled huge silos with hundreds of kilos of flowers, squashing them down before the real business of production began: with lavage, as it was called in perfume jargon. This process produced the concrète: a concentrated, intensely perfumed, waxy substance. Lastly, a final washing in alcohol transformed it into an absolute, separating off any impurities.

  Each step was a clear image etched into Elena’s childhood memory. In her solitary existence, perfume had become the only language she could use to communicate with her mother, a woman of few words, who took her daughter everywhere but rarely spoke to her. Elena enjoyed looking at the liquid perfume; she loved its color. Some containers were as small as her hand, others so large she had to ask for Maurice’s help to lift them.

  Maurice was tall and strong. He owned the laboratory and the fields, and he adored Susanna Rossini. He loved her at least as much as he loathed her daughter.

  Elena knew why he never looked at her. She was someone else’s child. She didn’t know what that meant exactly, but it was definitely something bad. It made her mom cry.

  One day, she’d come home for a snack and heard her mother arguing with Maurice. It happened a lot, and that day she took no notice at first. She picked up a cookie and was about to go back outside to play when she thought to take another one for Monique.

  “She’s the image of her father, isn’t she? Admit it. She doesn’t look anything like you. I can’t even bear the sight of her. How can you ask me to keep her with me? With us?”

  Elena stood still, then. A vise c
lamped around her stomach. It was the tone of the man’s voice that stopped her in her tracks. Maurice was talking quietly, the way people tell secrets. But she had heard him perfectly.

  She turned around. The bedroom door was open. Maurice was sitting on a chair, his head bowed, his fingers buried in his hair.

  “I made a mistake,” her mother was saying, “and there’s nothing I can do about it now. And anyway, when I came back, you said the past didn’t matter; you wanted us to make a new start—together. Try to understand. She’s my daughter, too.”

  Yes, she was her daughter. The way Susanna pronounced the word was strange. And why was her mother crying? She didn’t like those words, Elena thought. They stung her throat and her eyes.

  Maurice jumped up. “Your daughter! Yes—yours and who else’s? Who is her father?”

  “No one—I’ve told you a thousand times. He doesn’t even know there was a baby.”

  The man shook his head. “I can’t stand it, Susanna. I know I promised you, I know, but I just can’t do it.”

  That was when he noticed her. “What are you doing here?” he yelled.

  Speechless, Elena stepped back, then ran away.

  She shed only a few tears on the way back to Monique’s house, because Monie hated crybabies. Crying didn’t get you anywhere. Her friend had often told her that, and it was true. The pain was still there, like a chasm in her throat. But she told her friend everything, because she listened and she understood her.

  As she was talking to Monique she realized that Maurice was wrong. She’d never had a dad. Maybe she should tell him, and that would make things better.

  But however hard she tried over the next few days, the man’s stern glare frightened her. The words refused to come out; they got trapped in her mouth, caught on her tongue. So she came up with the idea of a drawing.

  She had to use the whole page because Maurice was very tall, but she managed to fit him in. She drew the three of them together: Susanna holding her hand, and there, at their side, was Maurice, not another dad.

  Before she gave him the drawing, she showed it to her mother.

  “It’s beautiful, darling,” Susanna told her.

  Her mother really liked her drawings, even though she never had time to look at them properly. But this one was special, as Elena had insisted when she showed her mother all the details. Details were important; her teacher told her that all the time. She’d drawn Susanna’s long black hair that came down to her shoulders, Maurice, and herself in the middle, holding them both by the hand. She was wearing a pink dress—she really liked that color.

  She didn’t have a dad, so Maurice could be hers, if he wanted. And as for who she looked like, he was most certainly wrong. Jasmine had assured her that when she grew up, she’d look just like her mother. And Jasmine knew what she was talking about; she had loads of children.

  One day, when Maurice was in a terrible mood, Elena decided to give him the drawing to cheer him up. Ignoring the somber expression that frightened her, she mustered her courage and handed him the piece of paper. He took it without saying anything, and after giving it a quick glance, she saw his face twist with rage.

  Elena instinctively shrank back, her palms sweating and her fingers gripping the fabric of her dress. Maurice turned to Susanna, who was preparing dinner, brandishing the piece of paper.

  “Do you think this will fix things between us?” he asked in a hushed voice, almost whispering. “One big happy family? You, me, and . . . his child? Now you’re using the girl to convince me?”

  Susanna turned pale. “It’s just a drawing,” she told him in a tiny voice.

  “You know full well what I think,” he shouted, scrunching up the paper in his huge fist and throwing it into a corner. “What will it take to make you understand?”

  A tense silence fell over them, broken by a single sob from Elena.

  As though he suddenly realized what he had done, Maurice looked at the little girl, then slowly picked the paper up from the floor, smoothing it out in his fingers.

  “Here,” he said, holding it out to her.

  But she shook her head. Maurice put it on the table, gave a shrug and, out of nowhere, he started to laugh.

  If she tried hard, even after all these years, Elena could still remember that harsh, forced sound.

  Susanna sent her to play at Monique’s house. As she was leaving, Elena heard them begin to argue and then she started to run. Jasmine dried her tears, assuring her that Maurice just hadn’t understood what she’d drawn. “Grown-ups often do things like that,” she said. “They don’t understand and they get scared.” Then she took the child by the hand and walked her home.

  Maurice wasn’t there anymore. Susanna’s eyes were red and puffy. Jasmine made tea and stayed with them late into the night. The next morning, Susanna packed their bags and she and Elena left. They were away for the whole spring. But then they went back.

  They always went back, and Maurice was always there. And that was where Elena had first encountered the smell of hatred. Cold, like the smell of a starless night after the rain has stopped but the wind continues to howl. The smell of hatred is frightening.

  A few months later, Elena turned eight. In the autumn they left again, and this time she stayed in Florence with her grandmother.

  • • •

  “I like these,” Elena said, breaking the thread of her memory and returning to Florence and the Pitti Fragranze event.

  The crystal bottles she’d been looking at sparkled under the spotlights; they were unique, all angles and character.

  “No, too bold. Jacques wants something more harmonious.”

  After a moment, Elena said thoughtfully, “Harmony is a subjective concept and it’s definitely not a trendsetter. If it’s something new you’re looking for, Monie, you have to go further. You have to be daring.”

  Her friend stared at her for a moment. “What would you choose, Elena?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. How about we split up to find the right perfume? Then Jacques would have two choices. He loves that kind of thing. Oui, it’s decided. We’ll meet here in an hour and then I’ll take you to lunch. Today there’s Sunday brunch at the Four Seasons—it’s quite an experience. I’ve got Jacques’s credit card, we’ll go all out, and you can do me the favor of wiping that miserable look off your face. Come on, so you lost a lover, it’s no big deal. Do you have any idea how many men would go crazy for you if you let them?” asked Monique, wagging a finger. “Loads, chérie. Guys would be lining up.”

  “Yeah, course they would.” Elena didn’t even have the energy to lose her temper with Monie, and why should she? Tact had never been her friend’s strong point; she knew that well enough. Even as a child, Monie had spoken her mind without worrying about the consequences.

  Suddenly, she needed to be alone. Monique was the person she loved most in the world, but at that moment Elena felt too vulnerable and exposed. All it would take was a look, one word, to tip the balance she was trying so hard to reestablish.

  “Shall we split up, then?” Now that she was no longer afraid of immersing herself in the perfumes, that kind of respite seemed too good to be true.

  Monique pulled a face. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that hopeful tone.” She grinned. “Go on then, go! Gather your thoughts and try to calm down. But remember—I want that perfume. I really need it. Vite, vite! I’ll see you back here in an hour.”

  Elena gave a hint of a smile, then moved away.

  She’d taken just a few steps when she realized she didn’t have the slightest idea what Jacques wanted. All she knew was that he owned Narcissus, the company where Monique worked, that he belonged to a well-established and illustrious family of perfume-makers, and that her friend had been in a brief and intense relationship with him. The “best sex of her life,” was how Monique had summed up Jacques Montier
.

  She turned back to look for Monique in the crowd. The stands were full of people intently breathing in the atmosphere saturated with smells. Elena eventually spotted her friend standing next to a huge orchid, a white Phalaenopsis, in front of a table lined with crystal jars. As she walked over to join her, Elena studied the liquids in the luxurious glass bottles. The different shades ranged from pale pink, through various tones of opalescent gray, to the clearest amber yellow.

  “Monie, you haven’t told me what Jacques actually wants,” she said, once she was standing next to her. The other woman immediately spun around, her fingers clutching a smooth, square bottle with neat corners.

  “Non, c’est vrai. But it doesn’t matter,” she replied, turning her attention back to the little crystal masterpiece. “The perfume isn’t for him. Jacques wants a new, energetic fragrance he can include in his catalog and sell at Narcissus. He’s hoping to start a trend that will satisfy high-flying Parisian women. Nothing too predictable, but something that’s still feminine and harmonious.”

  “Right . . . as easy as that,” Elena joked.

  Monique gave her a smile. “You’re going to surprise him. Or rather, I am. I’ll take all the credit, seeing as you don’t know what to do with it.”

  “If this is your way of getting me to consider the idea of working with perfume again, it’s not going to happen,” Elena told her firmly.

  Yet as she walked around the stands, running her fingers over the packaging and feeling the energy the different aromas gave off, Elena realized that the uneasiness that had always accompanied her while she worked on a new essence seemed to have vanished—along with the irksome sense of obligation and duty. There was just the shadow of a concern in the back of her mind—but she couldn’t feel it anymore, like an old scar.

  Now, something different was stirring in her, a need that drove her to inhale deeply, to fill her lungs with one ingredient after another. The nausea had gone, too. All that remained was a sense of urgency. She was suddenly curious—she was desperate to smell, as though it were the first time she’d smelled an essence, as though this world hadn’t always been a part of her life. This restlessness was almost ridiculous. Ridiculous and out of place—but there it was.