By now, she’d got used to the strange half-light. She blinked; the hallway was large and the ceilings high. In one corner, beside a window, there was a plant, probably a weeping fig, and a flight of stairs led to the apartments on other floors. On the ground floor there was just one door marked 12A, and it seemed to match Monique’s description.
Elena pushed the door, which opened easily, with a squeak. So this was the apartment. She looked for the switch, and in the first flash of light she saw a large, bare room with high walls. Someone had tried to plaster over the old bricks—unsuccessfully, to judge from the results—and had instead made do with a coat of paint. Evidently, when Monique couldn’t persuade the wall it was going to be plastered, she’d ended up painting it. Somehow, she’d got her way. Elena laughed.
She walked into the middle of the room, the tiles shifting under the pressure of her feet. She frowned: they must be very old. Some of them had been taken up and piled pitifully in a corner, revealing an even older floor underneath. To her right was a window, and a door that must open straight on to the pavement, but which looked as if it had been sealed for years. Monique had told her that the apartment had been passed down through her family. None of them had ever wanted to live there, but selling it was out of the question. It had belonged to Jasmine’s father, Ismael Ahdad, a first-generation immigrant, and he had spent his entire life savings on it. Jasmine had been particularly proud of the apartment. But even so, the Duvals had never been especially fond of the place. Monique had used it as somewhere to crash for a couple of months when she arrived in Paris, but had moved to another part of the city as soon as possible.
Elena went over to the staircase, which wound upward to another floor, no doubt where she would find the bedroom and bathroom. She flicked another old switch and a bulb illuminated the landing above.
Monique told her she’d bought new bed linen, a duvet and some towels. All Elena wanted right now was a bath and then sleep.
She set off wearily up the stairs and stopped at the top to look around. She could see three rooms: a small living room with a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom. Save for a few piles of books lying around, there was little furniture: a red Formica kitchen unit, a few old appliances, three chairs and a table. On the table was a plastic bag, the source of a delicious smell.
“God bless you, Monie,” Elena murmured, rummaging around inside. She bit into a piece of baguette before going back to exploring the apartment.
Once the windows were open, a light breeze brought in other smells and sounds: the voice of a beautiful, romantic city Elena was eager to see again.
She should call Monique, tell her she’d arrived. Where had she put her phone? Oh God! And her handbag? Elena looked around frantically, then hurried back downstairs. When she saw her bag by the door, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her suitcase was there, too. Suddenly she remembered that she’d actually left them outside in the courtyard. Could the stranger have brought them in for her?
She let out another sigh at the thought, grateful to the man, whoever he was. A neighbor, perhaps? She liked that idea; it made her feel good. It was strange. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. She had never had a chance encounter with a stranger.
She closed the door and went back upstairs. Submerging herself in a tub of hot water, she began to revive. For a second Matteo popped into her mind, but she was quick to push him back out. She had too much to do, too much to organize. She was busy planning her new life. There was no time to keep going over the past.
“Too busy for love, no time for hate,” she whispered, recalling a phrase she often spotted on Facebook. It wasn’t strictly true. (There had been moments when she felt like gouging out Alessia’s eyes and stabbing Matteo.) Still, it was a nice idea and she decided to stick to it as much as possible: she would fill her days with only good things. Thoughts raced around her mind, lingering briefly before taking off again in new directions.
Relaxed but hungry, Elena got out of the bath. Once she’d eaten the treats Monique had left her, she lay down on the bed and realized that she almost felt happy.
• • •
Cail looked at the rose he’d sheltered from the rain a few days earlier. Its petals were open now. At their edges tiny droplets sparkled, waiting to join the others and roll to the ground like tears. A delicate scent of apple tea was all the flower emitted—but it was too slight, too commonplace, barely acceptable. It was a beautiful rose, of course—and he hadn’t anticipated that, when it matured, the rose would be shaped like a chalice, since it had shown no signs of this before it bloomed. The color was baby pink with an apricot center.
So in the end, he decided, his work hadn’t been totally wasted. His German clients would include it in their catalog, no problem. They’d pay well and he’d get to keep the royalties.
As he went back inside his apartment, he thought about the girl he’d met at the entrance earlier. From her accent, she seemed Italian. She had told him he smelled like the rain. He thought back to her words, turning them over in his mind, carefully weighing each one, until John came over and rubbed against his legs. The animal was nice and warm; Cail bent and stroked his fur.
“How many times have I told you you’re a dog, not a cat?” In response, John licked his hand and Cail smiled. “Are you hungry? Come on, let’s go inside.”
The apartment Cail rented was in the part of the premises that had once been used by the stable boys from the former grand mansion. It was reached by a staircase that ended at a terrace. He’d had to pay a premium for sole use of the terrace, but it was worth it. He’d surrounded it with a wooden trellis and planted a Banksiae lutea rambling rose. In just two years the plant’s long thornless branches had covered every inch of the fence, creating a screen for the rest of the terrace. It flowered once a year—tiny perfumed posies that lasted just a few weeks. In the sheltered area, Cail grew special roses: the mothers, the plants he would go on to use in his work. A little nylon greenhouse, in the middle of the terrace, contained the young hybrids he was counting on to find new varieties of roses. Around it, everything was arranged and kept in perfect order: equipment, soil, fertilizer. Next to the door to the apartment was John’s kennel.
With the dog at his heels, Cail went inside, turned on the lights and headed for the kitchen. He chopped some vegetables, put them in a pan with a little olive oil, then added a clove of garlic and a couple of basil leaves.
He picked out a CD, carefully removed it from its case and put it into the machine.
Curled up on the rug in the lounge, John dozed lazily, constantly keeping one eye on Cail. After tidying the kitchen and loading the dishwasher, Cail went out onto the terrace. The dog followed him to the doorway and stopped.
The air was cold, crisp. The clouds had dissipated, allowing for a handful of stars to shine through. Cail carried on looking at them for a while, and let Ludovico Einaudi’s piano lift his thoughts. He then went inside and came back to the terrace carrying a long metal tube. He positioned it on a stand and adjusted it. A moment later, peering through the telescope, his own world seemed distant, black and, in some strange way, brilliant.
• • •
“Did you find it all? The shopping, the sheets? Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, don’t worry. I found everything and I slept like a log. But tell me about this house. How old is it?”
Monique sighed. “It’s very old—two or three hundred years, I think. It used to belong to some nobleman who lost his head.”
“Over a woman?”
“No, on the guillotine.”
Elena shivered. “That’s not funny!”
“It wasn’t meant to be. That’s what happened; it’s hardly my fault. And besides, the masters’ quarters were in another section of the building. There’s no ghost wandering around your part of the house, trust me.”
“Is that why you’d rather pay to rent somewhe
re else than live in your own house? Haven’t you got over your fear of ghosts yet?”
Monique snorted. “Don’t be silly! Anyway, as soon as you’ve sorted yourself out we’ll find you something more suitable.”
“No. I like it here, really. May we leave things as they are for now? Let’s say I’m taking a holiday. I’m not ready to make any long-term plans. If I find a job, maybe I will stay in Paris, Monie. Otherwise I’ll just go back to Florence.”
Unfortunately, Monique still had no definite news for her. Philippe hadn’t told her anything about the application and she didn’t want to call Jacques. She was sure that, with her contacts, she would find Elena a decent job sooner or later, but that wasn’t enough. Monique had wanted to be like Elena for so long, she couldn’t let a talent like her friend’s go to waste. Narcissus was definitely the right place. She just had to work out how to convince Jacques.
“OK, relax,” she said now. “I’ll come and pick you up tonight. Is around seven all right for you?”
Elena stretched, still wrapped in the goosedown duvet. “Seven sounds great.”
“Why don’t you go out for a bit? The Marais has everything. Go to rue des Rosiers, buy yourself lunch and eat it outside—it tastes different, trust me.”
Elena thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Today I’ll be a tourist,” she replied, looking at the fierce morning light streaming in through the curtainless windows. “See you at seven, then. Have a good day.”
She closed her mobile and sat up. As she did so, a sudden stomach cramp made her groan. She put a hand over her mouth and sprang out of bed. She stayed kneeling by the toilet even after the retching had stopped. Her stomach was still in turmoil. The bout of nausea had passed, but she was gripped by stomach cramps so violent it was as if she hadn’t eaten for days.
She slipped under a hot shower. Ten minutes later, while she was drying her hair, she decided to go out anyway. She could have breakfast in one of the bistros she’d spied the night before. And she could buy some aspirin. She picked out a comfortable pair of jeans, a white linen shirt and a red cardigan. Leaving her hair loose over her shoulders, she put on a layer of moisturizer and a dab of mascara. Then she decided to add some lipstick, too.
“In honor of Paris,” she declared, addressing the mirror.
She picked up her bag and went downstairs. As she was walking through the living room to the door, she let herself imagine what the space could really be like. And she surprised herself: these were the thoughts of someone who wanted to stay, organize and create things.
“Don’t go making long-term plans. It won’t do you any good,” she chided herself, closing the door behind her.
In daylight, the entranceway seemed much like any other. Maybe just a bit darker. The only window was shielded by the thick branches of a plant, and the ceiling was vaulted. Elena got to the door and, when it opened easily, she was surprised. There was no way she’d developed superhuman strength overnight: those hinges had been oiled.
“At eight in the morning?” she wondered. That was surprisingly efficient maintenance work.
She was about to go out when a thought popped into her head. She stretched out a hand and pressed the switch. The white ceiling light lit up. She stared at it for a moment, then turned it off. A smile lit up her face in turn. It was him. She couldn’t be certain, but she’d bet it was.
When she got outside, it was like going back in time. An Italian-style garden occupied the central part of the large courtyard, with flower beds divided into colored sections. The wet leaves of the trees dripped onto the heads of children running along the paths. She kept looking around with a mixture of happiness and astonishment. Were it not for the numbered doors around the edges, she would have sworn she was in the courtyard of a castle.
She stopped for a few minutes to watch the children, ignoring curious looks from a group of men talking among themselves. It seemed she’d become the topic of conversation for the morning. And while once she would have been mortified to be the center of attention, right now she couldn’t care less. The sky had cleared, streaks of cobalt blue between neat lines of rooftops. Cold air, all the smells of a morning just beginning: freshly baked bread, coffee, croissants. Her appetite had returned.
She stopped in a café at the end of rue des Rosiers and ate hungrily. She had to laugh when, paying the bill, she discovered that Antoine, the owner, was in fact Antonio Grassi, who had been born and lived in Naples until a few months earlier. “Come back and see us, signorina. You won’t find a better cappuccino in Paris.”
She carried on walking through the quarter’s ancient streets, careful not to stray too far, losing her way and finding it again. It was comforting, walking without a purpose, without a schedule, without having to let anyone know or take anyone else into account. She felt free, completely and utterly free. She could do whatever she wanted. She could stop and look at the sky, the river, or through shop windows as long as she liked. Nobody was judging her; nobody knew who she was. It was as though, suddenly, someone had let go of the string on the balloon that was her life.
For the first time, she didn’t mind being alone. Elena realized that the pressure she had felt to be with someone was no longer a need; it wasn’t even a desire.
For the first time, she was happy by herself.
Eight
ROSE: love. A difficult essence to obtain. Sweet and light.
The fragrance symbolizes feelings and emotions.
Encourages personal initiative and the arts.
“Bonjour, ma chérie. I read your friend’s CV. If you’re still thinking of putting her forward for the job, let’s talk about it over dinner. I can’t pretend I’m not interested, but the fact is, Narcissus is not a recruitment firm. You’ll have to convince me. Come prepared.”
It was the third time Monique had listened to the message Jacques had left on her voice mail. Waves of anger rose up inside her, spilled over, abated, then started all over again.
Jacques would send a car to pick her up tonight. She had been summoned. How dare he treat her like that?
She picked up her bag and left. Oh, she’d convince him, all right! There was no question he was about to see just how convincing she could be.
• • •
“Are you ready? I’m taking you out—I want to introduce you to someone,” Monique said, walking through the front door.
“I thought it would be just the two of us,” Elena replied, giving her a hug. “Is it me, or are you in a bad mood?”
Monique looked at her. “I’m sorry. It’s Jacques; he makes me want to kill someone. I know I’d promised you a girls’ night, but this is important—it’s about your future career.”
Elena held her friend’s gaze. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to force your boss—ex-boss, actually—to hire me. Especially now that things between you aren’t exactly amicable.”
“When did you become so . . . insightful?”
Elena got the feeling that wasn’t exactly what Monique wanted to call her. She ignored the barb and decided to make her position clear.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m really grateful for everything you’re doing for me, but I’m also quite sure I’d be able to find a job by myself.”
“I’ve never thought otherwise,” Monique retorted. “The point is, you have a great talent and I don’t think shutting yourself away in a kitchen and being an assistant chef is the best choice.”
“And who says that’s what I’m planning to do?” Elena asked crossly.
An awkward silence fell over them.
“Why are we quarreling?” Monique asked all of a sudden.
Elena sighed. “I have no idea. But arguing in the hallway isn’t a good idea. Come in, we can bicker more easily inside,” she said, closing the door.
Monique laughed and gave her another hug. “I’m sorry, chérie, for being so grump
y. But you know me, I’ve got a plan.”
“You don’t say,” Elena muttered. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Nonsense! Listen, Jacques went crazy for that perfume you chose. He wants you to work for him, even though he’d rather die than admit it. And you need this job—not to survive, obviously, but for your future. Think about it, Elena. Picture a shop of your own, where you’d be the one making all the decisions, from the way you arrange the furniture to customer relations. Bright and modern, just the way you’ve always wanted it. And you’d have a career at Narcissus behind you. Success is practically guaranteed.”
Elena listened to her friend in silence. “I’m not stupid, Monie, and you know that it was the thought of working for Narcissus that finally pushed me into coming to Paris. But I can’t let you resort to lowering yourself to deal with that man. Do you understand?”
Monique shrugged. “I won’t have to. I’ll take you with me tonight, and he’ll realize he’d be a fool to let you go.”
Put like that, it seemed perfectly simple, but Elena wasn’t convinced. From what Monique had told her, this Jacques was a shrewd man. Elena wasn’t about to be manipulated. She shook her head.
“I should have known it would be more complicated than it seemed,” she said. “Maybe I should look elsewhere. It’s not as if Narcissus is the only perfumery in Paris, is it?” She had no intention of giving up her newly discovered dream, but nor would she allow Monique to compromise herself on her account.
“No, but it’s the right one. Narcissus creates, Elena, it doesn’t just make do with selling second-rate stuff. You’re exactly what Jacques is looking for, and in turn he’s got everything you need.”
The Secret Ways of Perfume Page 8