The Secret Ways of Perfume

by Cristina Caboni

  All he had to do was hire her friend. And who knows, perhaps that would actually be a good move. This Rossini woman seemed as if she had an in-depth knowledge of perfumery. Besides, he’d put her in sales to begin with. She was nice enough, nothing special, but she’d look pretty good in the right dress. Yes, he decided. He’d hire her, but not as a perfumier. He wasn’t stupid enough to put that much trust in a stranger, whatever credentials she might have. The decision cheered him up. He was starting to enjoy this game he was playing with Monique. He was going to win, he was sure. No matter what she might think, in the end he was the one calling the shots.

  They finished their dinner in a more relaxed atmosphere. Jacques really turned on the charm. Yet the conversation never broached anything serious, just touched on a little of this and a little of that, like a light breeze, sometimes warm, but unreliable.

  • • •

  Later, several hours after her taxi ride home, Elena was still tossing and turning in bed. She didn’t like the way they had left things. Of course, now she had a job at Narcissus . . . but she was also convinced that she hadn’t got it on her own merit. And that made her angry, because even though a job at Narcissus was exactly what she wanted, this wasn’t the way she’d imagined getting it.

  She plumped up the pillow, tried lying on her stomach, but the worry wouldn’t leave her alone. Monique had stuck to their deal to let Elena handle the situation herself, but that didn’t change anything. That job was still a gift. If Montier hadn’t had his eye on Monique, and if she hadn’t been Monique’s friend, she doubted he would have given her a chance. What’s more, at the end of dinner he’d made it very clear which job he had in mind for her. He wasn’t interested in her experience as a perfumier. At least, not for the moment. First he was going to give her a trial as a simple sales assistant. It brought a lump to Elena’s throat to have to accept such humiliation. For a moment she’d even thought about saying no. But then she caught Monique’s eye: she knew how much trouble she’d taken to arrange this meeting. So she swallowed her pride and accepted. She didn’t want to disappoint Monique. Besides, the important thing was to become part of Narcissus, wasn’t it? There would be time to make this man rue his air of superiority. She just needed to be patient for a little bit longer.

  She fidgeted, then she sat up. For God’s sake, she’d spent her entire life being patient. Patience was her middle name. And she was absolutely sick of it.

  The uncomfortable feeling in the middle of her chest turned to rage. How dare he? Who did this guy think he was? Her family had been producing perfume for centuries, and she was willing to bet she knew more than all the Narcissus employees put together, including Jacques himself.

  Her grandmother would just have given him a look; she wouldn’t have needed to say a word. She could almost see Lucia putting the arrogant bastard in his place. That made her feel better; but she still couldn’t sleep. For a minute she thought about putting on the essence lamp; a few drops of lavender in the water might help her relax and drop off. But she knew she was too wound up.

  She got out of bed and put on some clothes, deciding to go for a walk. The night was mild—warm enough for her to go out without a jacket. Once she was in the courtyard, however, she stopped, suddenly frozen by fear. Not because of the dark—she wasn’t afraid of that—but of what she might find in the night-time city on the other side of the gate. All she wanted to do was relax, sit down somewhere and look at the stars. She knew it wasn’t sensible to go out alone at this time of night, so perhaps she could go up to the roof and find somewhere secluded enough to get some peace and quiet.

  She turned back. Once she was inside the entrance to the building, she headed for the stairs. At first, she couldn’t work out how many floors there were above her apartment. She’d climbed just three flights when, pushing a door, she found herself out in the open. In front of her, under a starlit sky, there stood some sort of pergola. An intense perfume hung in the air.

  Roses. Someone was growing roses up here.

  How was that possible? For a moment, she thought she must be mistaken. Come on, they were in the Marais in October, more than thirty feet aboveground. Who could possibly have a garden on the rooftop? But despite what logic told her, her nose wasn’t wrong. They were roses all right: tea roses, Damascus roses, Gallic roses, and mint, basil . . . other aromatic herbs. A whole garden. She could smell those perfumes, clear and distinct, as they were carried away and brought back together, drifting on the nighttime breeze. Curious, she tiptoed forward, partly because of the dark and partly because she felt as if she was intruding. That harmony of fragrances was calling to her. Wet, rich earth. Fruit. To taste and to touch. So many flowers, but predominantly roses. Whoever looked after this garden had created an extraordinary mélange, something with top, middle and base notes. A full, strong, intoxicating perfume. A man, she would have said. A practical, decisive man, someone who did things carefully and above all with precision. And then she remembered him.

  “Who’s there?”

  His voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned to leave—her heart pounding. Then something grabbed hold of her sleeve, pulling her back. A dog! Fear coursed through her. When she felt the animal’s teeth on her hand, she let out a scream.

  Nine

  FRANGIPANI: unparalleled charm. Extracted from the plumeria flower and intensely floral.

  The fragrance of blossoming femininity opening itself up to life.

  Bold and voluptuous.

  “What’s going on? John, stay!” Cail ordered.

  What on earth was a woman doing on his terrace at this time of night?

  “Don’t panic, John won’t do anything to you.”

  “How can you be so sure?” With her back against the wall and her hands stretched out defensively in front of her, Elena was trembling with fear. “I’m scared of dogs,” she managed to say.

  “That much is apparent. But like I said, John won’t attack you. If you hadn’t come sneaking into my house like that, he would never have gone for you.”

  The harshness of these words didn’t make Elena back down. “I didn’t know that anyone lived here. I . . . I just wanted a bit of peace,” she said. “And anyway, you should have put something outside, a bell, a nameplate, something like that.”

  A fraying cloud suddenly dissolved and let the moonlight through. Now she could see the man, not clearly but enough to make out his strong features, his penetrating stare. He looked silver; in a world full of grays the white sweater he was wearing really stood out. Long hair fell down over his shoulders and there was something across his face, a scar.

  Then she recognized him.

  “It’s you! You helped me yesterday.”

  The perfume woman. Cail recognized her, too.

  “Nobody comes up here. There’s never been any need for a lock.”

  “There’s a first time for everything, you know. And anyway, the fact that you never have visitors isn’t a good enough reason.”

  “No, true. Some people are just nosier than others.” Cail leaned his head to one side, still looking at her. Elena scowled. She wasn’t being nosy; she’d gone up there for a specific reason.

  “Why are you scared of dogs?”

  She thought about telling him—at least then he would understand there were real reasons to explain her terror. Then she changed her mind. She didn’t actually know him at all; she didn’t have to justify anything to him. “I was bitten, obviously,” she retorted.

  The man shrugged. “You say that as if it was my fault.”

  Elena peeled herself from the wall. He was a few steps away. He was so tall, yet he didn’t frighten her. The shiver running through her now was due to something else—to the memory of that time when she was a girl and Maurice’s German Shepherd Milly had bitten her. And the night air had turned cold.

  As Elena moved, Cail stepped back away from her, his arms c
rossed over his chest in a defensive, almost hostile pose. Perplexed, Elena wondered if she had offended him in some way.

  “No, of course it’s not your fault,” she said. “But you don’t live on top of a mountain here, do you? There are other residents, and someone else would have come up here, sooner or later.”

  “No. You’re the only one.”

  Elena was speechless. “What?”

  Cail pointed at the door. “You and I are the only ones who live on this staircase.”

  “Ah,” she replied. Things were starting to make sense. “I see. Even so, you should still get a new lock.”

  He carried on looking at her calmly, the same way he’d spoken to her, enunciating his words, no rush. Elena took a breath. The man’s perfume was different that night, a bit warmer, a bit more complex. She realized she’d woken him up. He must think she was crazy.

  “Why did you come up here?” The question took her by surprise. What was she supposed to tell him? The truth.

  “I just wanted to look at the sky.”

  She didn’t know why she’d come out with it. Why should this man care about her inner turmoil, her need to lose herself in contemplating the night? She stood there, unsure what to do with herself until Cail spoke again.

  “Give me your hand,” he said.

  “Why?”

  Cail pointed at her arm. “I want to check John didn’t hurt you.”

  No, not even a scratch. Elena felt a little ashamed. The dog had just given her a warning, not used his teeth with any force. Maybe he’d just licked her hand—but even if she’d overreacted, it made no difference. Dogs scared her to death.

  Elena fidgeted nervously. “You’re not going to punish your dog, are you? I can assure you he didn’t hurt me at all and, besides, it’s not his fault.”

  “That’s very strange, coming from someone who hates dogs.”

  “I don’t hate dogs,” she insisted. “I’m just careful to stay well away from their teeth, that’s all. Anyway, look, I’m totally fine. But, is there no light on this terrace?”

  Cail tensed. “To see the stars, you need darkness.”

  “I don’t understand . . . the stars?” For a moment she thought she’d misheard him.

  “Yes. You said you wanted to look at the sky, and I’ve got a telescope.”

  Unbelievable. This man smelled like roses—and he looked at the stars.

  “Come on, over here. It’s nothing special, but it’s enough to get a clear view of Alpha Centauri, Sirius and Altair. To be honest, you could see them with the naked eye, but you get a different effect through the telescope.”

  Elena didn’t know much about stars; it was enough for her to look out into the night and stare at the blackness punctuated by so many sparkling lights. It made her feel peaceful . . . and then it was easy to let go and contemplate infinity. But she’d always admired people who could identify the constellations. She was happy she could even name Ursa Major and Minor.

  “Look inside, like this.”

  He showed her what to do. When he stepped aside to make room for her, she bowed her head and put her eye to the lens. It was like slipping into a world of black velvet, where enormous objects glowed with a unique, profound light she’d never seen before, making her feel small and humble. Awe stirred up inside her, as the bright wake of the Milky Way shone so close; in reality the distance was infinite.

  She looked up. The stranger was right there, beside her. If she’d stretched out her arm, she could have touched him. He was looking at her, too, lost in the same silence. Yet there was no awkwardness between them; rarely had she felt so in tune with somebody. It was like knowing, sharing. She bent down to the telescope again, and in that half-light discovered how deceptive the huge, mysterious stars could be.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she said after a while, lifting her head.

  “Does it matter? I don’t know your name either.”

  It was true—and it was strange, to say the least. Suddenly she started to laugh, a delicate, feminine sound, then she held out her hand to him. “Elena Rossini.”

  “Caillen McLean. Cail, if you like,” he replied, shaking her hand. “You’re Italian.” It wasn’t a question. Caillen McLean had a very direct, almost brusque way about him.

  “Yes. I just moved here. And you?”

  “Me, what?”

  “Have you lived in Paris for long?”

  He shook his head. “Five years in December.” A shadow had appeared in his voice: it was little more than an inflection, but it was there. Elena stared at him, but the night was too dark to work out what that look was hiding. Then she realized he was probably just tired. Not everyone suffered from insomnia like her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sometimes I lose track of time. I should get going.”

  Cail didn’t object. He just looked at her, expressionless. “I’ll walk you back.”

  She felt a twinge of disappointment. For some reason she’d expected him to ask her to stay awhile. That was ridiculous, she told herself. Then she instinctively stretched her hands out in front of her, worried that she’d bump into something in all that darkness. Once again, they’d met in the dark. “Thank you, you’re very kind.”

  Before she went on to the landing, Elena stopped. “John, I mean, your dog . . . I didn’t see him again. Do you think he was frightened?”

  Cail laughed quietly. “No, he’s just a bit offended. Don’t worry. Maybe next time you can make friends.”

  Make friends with a dog? Never in a million years. But Elena didn’t tell him that. She liked that “next time.” Then, all of a sudden her natural reserve got the better of her and she said stiffly, “I . . . I don’t think so. Thank you, and I’m sorry for keeping you up. I can’t get to sleep at night and I tend to forget it’s not the same for everyone.”

  “No problem, Elena,” Cail said quietly.

  “Remember that lock,” she said in the doorway.

  “OK.”

  “Good night, then. And thanks again . . . Cail.”

  He remained where he was, looking in her direction even after she’d closed the door behind her. Then he went back into the apartment, yawning. “Come on, John, let’s get some sleep.”

  • • •

  A few days after their dinner at Jules Verne, Jacques asked Monique to bring Elena to Narcissus.

  “How about we walk there?” Monique suggested to her friend.

  “Is it very far?” Lately, Elena tired easily, and she was none too enthusiastic about the prospect of a long walk.

  “Half an hour, but Place Vendôme—where the perfumery is—is almost straight down rue de Rivoli. We won’t have time to get bored.”

  “OK. Fine by me.”

  A couple of hours later Monique was waiting for her at the entrance to the apartment. Both women were feeling a bit stressed, but they soon relaxed. Rue de Rivoli was quite a sight, bustling, lined with all kinds of shops, and as she walked along with Monie, chatting and giggling, Elena felt calmer. The worry of having such an important appointment disappeared. And then, there it was: the perfumery she’d heard so much about. Beneath the majestic colonnade of thick stone arches surrounding the famous square, a massive wooden door was wedged between two large windows; above it, a simple, old-fashioned nameplate: Narcissus.

  Gold. If she’d had to define Narcissus by a color, Elena would have chosen gold. She walked around the inside of the shop, looking up at the high walls covered with mirrors in elaborate frames, wood paneling, pink marble worktops and glass shelves. There were bottles of all shapes and sizes waiting to be filled, and others already brimming with the most classic and simple scents. Even the floors were made of pink marble, reflecting the light. Everything seemed to sparkle; there was luxury in abundance. Hopes, dreams, delusions and seduction—this place had everything.

  Yet the per
fume Elena could smell in the air wasn’t right; it was too rich . . . almost suffocating. It seemed as if the shop had no consideration for the needs of people who came in looking for something for themselves. The space was completely occupied by intense fragrances. There was no suggestion, only imposition. Wonderful, luxurious . . . but always decided for you.

  Elena felt a kind of oppression weighing down on her. It was like Jacques. That shop was Jacques: it reflected the way he lived, the way he managed everything.

  She understood why Monique had decided to sever that link. She was quite sure her friend was still in love with Jacques, but letting him control her life . . . no, not Monique. The man was vain and selfish and only wanted to possess her. Jacques was dominant in every sense of the word.

  Elena took a deep breath and, the moment that all-pervading perfume “invaded” her, she regretted it. It wasn’t that it was nauseating—no, that wasn’t the problem. It was more like seeing a jumble of mismatched colors: it was overwhelming. Had it been up to her, she would have done everything she could to make the room as neutral as possible. She would let just a few light base notes filter through; something simple and discreet that would go with any composition, from the most intense to the most delicate, and never overwhelm. She would have suggested essences, never imposed them on her customers.

  She turned to Monique to say so, when she saw that her friend was now accompanied by an extremely well-dressed man with a gaunt face and shifty eyes. He had a thin, black mustache above a smile he’d mustered for the occasion; his hair was the same color. He was wearing a sickly-sweet perfume, almost saccharine, that concealed something more pungent: ammonia. Elena frowned at the confusion. There were other aspects of Philippe that didn’t add up. He didn’t seem at all happy to meet her, for example. Something bothered her about the look he gave her, his circumspect expression. He was judging her.