The Secret Ways of Perfume

by Cristina Caboni

  Silence.

  “It’s amazing,” Cail said quietly, “the things you say, who you are, the passion you put into your work—that’s not an obstacle, that’s a real gift. You’re a very special woman.”

  He spoke from the heart, and every word expressed his admiration, respect and consideration. This was the moment Elena really began to fall in love with him.

  • • •

  Paris glittered like magic in November. By now, Elena was used to the tall houses with their sloping roofs and skylights that caught the sun’s rays, reflecting them onto passersby. She knew the parks and local markets. She walked around with Cail, exploring ice rinks, museums with paintings, furniture and jewelry—and one very special place that housed all the perfumes in the world.

  The Osmothèque museum, located in the heart of Versailles, was an archive of more than 1,800 fragrances, some of them otherwise extinct, others that hailed the end of an olfactory era and the start of a new one. Cail had smelled Hungarian Queen, from 1815, used by Napoleon Bonaparte, and he liked it. Elena had introduced him to Coty’s Chypre, then they discovered the sensual Mitsouko, created in 1919 by Jacques Guerlain, and the more recent Shalimar. Based on an iris and vanilla blend called Guerlinade, this perfume evoked the famous Shalimar Gardens, an Indian prince’s homage to the memory of his beloved. It was incredible to think a perfume like that could be the result of an accident: a small vial of vanilla was accidentally poured into a bottle of Jicky and the result formed the base for Shalimar.

  The museum was also home to Chanel No 5, created in 1921. On their tour, they chanced upon Joy by Jean Patou, created by Henri Alméras. It was, in its day, one of the most expensive perfumes in absolute form: it needed in excess of ten thousand jasmine flowers and three hundred roses to make just thirty milliliters of fragrance. Launched after the war, it became a symbol of luxury and revenge.

  Alongside these famous perfumes, there were also some ancient fragrances: the “Regal Perfume” created in first-century Rome, Queen of Hungary’s Water from the fourth century, and scents made from recipes handed down by Pliny the Elder. In 1927 Madame Lanvin, from the perfume house of the same name, gave her daughter, Marguerite, a delicate floral perfume with classic top notes: neroli, peach, a heart of rose, jasmine, lily-of-the-valley, ylang-ylang, and finally sandalwood, vanilla, tuberose and vetiver. The perfume was a gift for the girl’s thirteenth birthday, an elaborate composition prepared by two of the great names of that time: André Fraysse and Paul Vacher. The girl named it Arpège. On the apple-shaped bottle was the house logo: the image of a woman dancing with a little girl.

  What surprised Elena more, though, was that the list of perfumiers’ names included Giulia Rossini, one of her relatives. Her ancestor had been an expert perfumier, one of the best—and of her prolific repertoire, the Osmothèque had kept Enchanted Garden, a perfume Elena knew well, and which Lucia had often cited as a point of reference. It was a delicate fragrance, but at the same time very confident. There was orange flower, angelica and tuberose; then rosewood, cedar, myrtle, and finally amber. Knowing that it had been created by a Rossini, seeing it there alongside the most important fragrances in the history of perfume, filled Elena with happiness and pride. The affinity that she felt when she recognized it had given her a warm glow. She was one of them, a Rossini. Enchanted Garden, as it was first released: it was marvelous. Smelling it, imagining the feelings, the emotions that led her ancestor to create that fragrance was a real highlight of her day.

  Fifteen

  THYME: clarity. Energizing, invigorating.

  The fragrance dispels confusion and opens the mind to logic.

  Deciphers the uncertainty of dreams. Restores mental stability.

  Since she had started taking her vitamins, Elena had been feeling better; even the sickness had passed. Her pregnancy had turned into something that filled her with wonder and fear in equal measure. She would start talking to the baby, then stop and listen, almost as though she expected a response. It was still too early to feel it move—the doctor had told her that wouldn’t happen until the fifth month—but Elena didn’t care; she knew her child could hear her. Talking to the baby had become vital to her. Susanna had never talked to her much, and that always saddened her. She was going to be different, Elena vowed: she would tell her child everything.

  She started out with short phrases, then moved on to whole conversations and real secrets. At last, Elena had someone to confide in.

  “Who were you talking to?” Cail asked one morning, as he came into the apartment.

  “The baby, of course.”

  He stared at her and then, without saying a word, went over to give her a hug. He liked touching her, holding her close to him, keeping her safe. It was something he couldn’t understand, this attachment: but he had a bad feeling about it. Look at the past, he reminded himself bitterly; it was best to bear that in mind.

  The pain was still there. If he thought about it, if he looked for it, he could find it—and with it, memories of the young love that had come to a tragic end. He shouldn’t be throwing himself into a complicated relationship, and with Elena things would certainly be complicated. He’d even thought about leaving. But he couldn’t; it was a matter of honor. And Elena needed someone to take her out, someone to make her laugh.

  He asked her to go and get ready, trying to restore a bit of normality, create some distance. He took her to the flower-market to pick up the rosehips that were waiting for him, the ones that would produce the seeds for his new plants.

  Elena loved the market, the flowers, the perfumes, and the respect everyone had for Cail. All apart from the woman who served them, who was apparently called Liliane. She was constantly smiling and flirting. Elena hadn’t warmed to her at all.

  Everything in Elena’s life seemed to be going well now. Even at Narcissus things had improved. Philippe had never properly apologized for his appalling behavior, but he’d kept his distance and let Claudine deal with her. Fortunately, shortly after that nasty little episode, Philippe had to go away for a while. Montier wanted to open a branch in London and he needed Philippe to handle the logistics and find suitable premises.

  • • •

  It was almost closing time when Adeline Binoche came into the shop, followed by a woman in her fifties with very short red hair and an intense expression. She reminded Elena of summer: bright and golden. A hint of bergamot, freshly dried hay lying in the sun, and wildflowers.

  “Do you remember my sister-in-law?” Adeline asked with her usual friendly smile. “I told you about her the last time I came in.”

  “Of course, madame. Geneviève, isn’t it?” Thank goodness the woman had an unusual name, Elena thought with a hint of relief. She had no memory for people’s names, perhaps because she could remember their perfume perfectly.

  Adeline Binoche, for example, smelled of vanilla, with middle notes of rose and oak moss. Composed, sharp and lively. The fragrance suited her, Elena thought. Clean and clear, no compromises. Just as direct as that look of hers.

  “Geneviève Binoche,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. May I call you Elena?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Great,” said Geneviève. She was sophisticated, elegant, and she had a very frank, straightforward manner. “I hope you’ll be able to help me. I need a perfume—the perfume of Notre-Dame.”

  Elena felt a quiver of a laugh in the back of her throat, but she forced herself to contain it. If Claudine managed to stay serious when faced with similarly absurd requests, it must be possible.

  “In the metaphorical sense, you mean?”

  Geneviève shook her head. “No, literary. I need to smell something that will inspire me, give me a sign. I’m writing a book about Victor Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris—The Hunchback of Notre-Dame—and I want it to be different from anything that has come before. Hugo wrote a wonder
ful work that brought together the sacred and the profane . . . Good and bad, beauty and ugliness. I want a perfume that does all of that. That is as big and solid as Notre-Dame, that has the cathedral’s purity, together with Esmeralda’s innocence and sensual vitality. I need something that can evoke Phoebus’s cruelty, Frollo’s madness and, most of all, Quasimodo’s unique, all-consuming love.”

  Everything went silent for a moment. It was the concept of life itself, Elena thought. Life in the most profound sense of the word.

  “I’m wondering what could come out of a combination of perfume and literature,” Geneviève continued. “The story stirs the imagination, and that means also stirring your sense of sight, sound and touch. Music, melody, that’s all very well, but what if we could turn these concepts into a smell? In reality, Notre-Dame has its own perfume: incense, candles, antiquity, that nice musty smell of centuries gone by, the glaze that millions of breaths have put on the statues. The perfume would bring together all the senses to create a three-dimensional impression.”

  Something similar had been tried before. Perfumes had been inspired by paintings. Laura Tonatto, the famous Italian perfumier, had come up with the idea when she saw Artemisia Gentileschi’s Aurora, and then decided to create the fragrance evoked by Caravaggio’s Lute Player. It was a great way to draw the viewer into the masterpiece. Make them smell it as well as see it. Elena had liked Tonatto’s idea so much that a visit to the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, where one version of the Caravaggio is kept, had gone straight to the top of her to-do list. After all, it’s quite natural to imagine the perfume of a painting, and inevitable when you see it. But the perfume of Notre-Dame de Paris . . . now, that was such a complicated concept, so profound that it was everything and nothing all at once.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking of, exactly.”

  And Geneviève did. In immense detail, she described how the perfume she had in mind should show the path through different stages of life, feelings and emotions. How it should represent the complexity of the human soul.

  “You realize this would take me a long time to develop.”

  Geneviève nodded. “Of course. To be honest, I’m not even expecting it to be a finished perfume. It could just be a selection of essences for me to smell and draw inspiration from. But if you could create a whole perfume, that would be amazing. Of course, money isn’t a problem.”

  “So, let’s see. Give me a few days to think about it. How about we meet again next Monday?”

  “That sounds like a great idea. Thank you. Here are my details.” She handed Elena a blue business card. “Speak to you soon, I hope. This means a lot to me.” She smiled. As Geneviève and Adeline walked toward the exit, deep in animated conversation, Elena overheard Adeline say, “What did I tell you? If there’s any way to find that perfume, Elena will do it.”

  If only it were that simple, she thought.

  That night, if she wasn’t too tired, she’d take another look at the diary. Lately she’d done nothing else. Maybe somewhere in those ancient pages she’d find a clue, a sign to follow. If she was honest, she’d never cared that much about Beatrice’s famous perfume. She’d always heard about it, of course, but to her it was just a legend. She’d never really thought about it; and it was probably about time she did.

  She recommended a violet-scented cream to a customer, then went to find Claudine. She’d never seen the woman laugh, and maybe Madame Binoche’s request would be the thing that cracked her blank expression. She was keen to find out.

  The perfume of Notre-Dame, no less . . .

  As she walked down the corridor, she started to think about the idea seriously. The middle and base notes would need to come from the novel. Incense, of course, wood and wax. The more volatile notes, though—the top notes that hit you straightaway, they could correspond to what Geneviève thought of as purity, carnal instinct. White flowers, perhaps. Because yes, this perfume began with an objective vision, but obviously, the woman’s feelings had to come into it, too. In the end it was a subjective concept. And that meant they would have to work together.

  “I’ve just been commissioned to make a perfume,” she told Claudine when she went into her office, knocking politely first.

  “Tell me everything.”

  Elena recounted Geneviève Binoche’s proposal and Claudine’s smile did make a brief appearance, but was gone just as quickly, and replaced by a look of greed.

  “And you’re telling me she’ll pay whatever price we ask?”

  Elena shrugged. “That’s what she said.”

  “Can you do it?”

  Elena had been waiting for that question. Somewhere inside, she could feel her enthusiasm stirring. Yes, she could do it, but much more importantly, she wanted to do it.

  “I can give it a go,” she said. Better to err on the side of caution, she thought, although the truth was she wanted to get straight to work; she was both fascinated and tempted by the idea.

  Sitting at her desk, Claudine raised her hand and gestured toward the seat in front of her. “Sit down. We need to have a serious think about this. We could do it as a simple personalization.”

  Elena shook her head. “No. If I’m going to do it, I need to work from the text. I can’t use a ready-made mélange and correct it. I need to find the right essences; only then will I be able to come up with a formula to prepare. Then I’ll change all the possible variants, according to the customer’s requests.”

  Claudine stared at her. “How long will it take you?”

  Elena felt a flicker of happiness. Claudine was going to give her the go-ahead to make the perfume. She couldn’t wait to tell Cail. A major perfume, the perfume of Notre-Dame, no less!

  “At least two months, probably three.”

  As Claudine counted the days on a desk diary, Elena cleared her throat.

  “Yes?” The woman’s voice turned cold; Claudine’s rapid mood swings always made Elena feel uneasy. She should have been used to them by now, and yet they always took her by surprise.

  “What if Monsieur Montier wants to take care of this perfume himself?” Elena asked.

  Claudine pursed her lips. “He’s too busy at the moment. But I’ll let him know. For now, just get on with the project yourself. As soon as you’re ready we’ll start preparing the mélanges.”

  Elena stood up. “Very well.”

  She’d got as far as the door when Claudine called her back.

  “I expect the utmost discretion from you. If this project comes off, there’s a lot to be gained—both financially and in terms of reputation. The perfume of Notre-Dame de Paris: you realize what that could mean for us? And for you, too. Philippe will really have to eat his words, my dear.”

  Elena looked away. “Of course,” she said.

  Deep in thought, she closed the door behind her and went back to work. In spite of Claudine’s assurances, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that something wasn’t quite right; and her unease was in no small part due to the expression on her colleague’s face. There was something shifty about that look . . . Whatever it was, it gave her the shivers.

  • • •

  Cail had to knock twice before Elena decided to open the door.

  “Hi, are you all right?” he asked, studying her face.

  “Why do you keep knocking when you’ve got keys?” Elena said irritably.

  “Those are for emergencies.”

  “Just another way of keeping your distance,” Elena muttered. She was in a bad mood, and trying to decipher passages from Beatrice’s diary hadn’t made her feel any better.

  They had never discussed the need to keep their relationship within precise boundaries, but they were both trying to stick to some sort of unspoken agreement they believed was best for everyone. Every once in a while, though, Elena forgot. And he found it difficult to keep his distance when he wanted her so much. Every time
he touched her he had to force himself to stop and take a step back.

  He went over to her and kissed her on the lips. “Not feeling great?”

  She made a face, then said more gently, “You smell good. I could sprinkle you with oil and distill your perfume like Grenouille, the character in Süskind’s novel. I’d make a fortune, and I wouldn’t have to torment myself with this diary ever again. Nostradamus made himself perfectly clear by comparison,” she joked bitterly.

  He kissed her again, running his fingers through her hair and letting it fall down over her shoulders.

  “Like strands of silk,” he told her, moving away a little.

  Elena half-closed her eyes. “In a book I had when I was little, the main character was a tall, dark count. He had a scar running down his face, too. And instead of spoiling his appearance, it made him devilishly handsome. I loved him. I was absolutely smitten.” She stopped and looked into his eyes. “You’ve got him to thank for your success with me, you know.”

  Cail smiled. “So, come on, tell me what’s wrong.”

  Elena went over to the sofa, handed him the diary and sank back into the cushions.

  “OK, look—tell me if you understand any of this,” she said. “Because I give up.”

  Very carefully, Cail picked up the tiny book, opened it and frowned. “I’ve only got schoolboy Italian. This bit looks difficult.”

  “Not really, it’s just a poem.” She held out her hand. “Give me the diary, I’ll translate it for you.” And she started to read.

  Rose, heaven-sent laughter of Love . . .

  above other flowers Lady sublime

  purple of gardens, splendor of meadows