The Secret Ways of Perfume

by Cristina Caboni

  eye of April, jewel of spring . . .

  when pretty bee flies to find food,

  or gentle breeze blows, thou shouldst

  have them sip nectar from thy ruby cups

  a dewy, and crystal-clear drop.

  She stopped reading. “Apart from the quotation from ‘Ode to a Rose’ from Giambattista Marino’s Adonis, there’s not much here you can use to make a perfume,” she commented.

  “Why are you so intent on this one passage?”

  “It’s the only thing that could constitute a recipe. The rest, before and after, are just her observations of places and courtly life. There’s another poem, also by Marino. That one’s about precious stones. Then the final part of the diary is all about him—the man who commissioned the perfume. Beatrice stayed in his castle while she was making it, a whole spring and summer. In the autumn she went back to Italy, and a few months later she got married. It was only just before she died that she told her daughter everything and gave her the diary. But she never revealed where she’d put the formula, or the identity of the woman the perfume was made for, or the man who commissioned it. She doesn’t even give the name of the castle, the family or the village. It’s a complete mystery. My grandmother spent years poring over the archives looking for the formula. She was adamant that Beatrice must have kept it somewhere. But my mother has always thought that Beatrice would have destroyed it.” Elena passed the diary to Cail.

  He carried on looking through the tiny book, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “I can’t help you with the text—the Italian is too archaic for me, but there are some words in Occitan, and I understand those.” He paused. “May I make a copy?”

  Elena nodded. “Yes, why?”

  “There are a couple of things I’d like to check. Have you seen the drawings?” he asked, standing up and walking over to the small desk in the corner where Elena had her computer.

  “Yes. They’re not alchemy symbols. I’d know those. They look like a mixture of some kind of code and just doodles, like Monie says. I thought one of the symbols was a lion’s head, although to tell you the truth, it could be a wolf. It’s quite stylized. But I don’t think Beatrice just started scribbling because she didn’t have anything better to do. I mean, it’s not as if they had biros, and paper itself was a precious commodity. But I digress.” She turned her attention back to Cail. “What are you doing? Leave the scanner, you can take the original,” she told him.

  Cail hesitated. That diary had been in Elena’s family for nearly four centuries; it was an extraordinary document, maybe their greatest family treasure. And she was offering it to him. He turned it over and ran the palm of his hand gently across the cover.

  “After the baby’s born, I’ll remember this moment, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Cail’s voice was low and hoarse. Elena felt every word. Her heart started to race.

  “Once this baby’s born, I’ll make sure you do.”

  • • •

  Claudine saw to it that Elena focused all her energies on the Notre-Dame perfume. With Philippe out of the way and Jacques almost always in London, she’d managed to arrange things so that Elena could use the laboratory whenever she needed to do so.

  Geneviève had already been back twice. The first time, she’d brought Elena an illustrated copy of Victor Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris. The next time, a CD from the famous musical. Not that she needed it, seeing as Cail had managed to get hold of two tickets for the show from his friend Ben. The musical had fortunately just come back to Paris, and Elena had been desperate to see it. The three of them—herself, Cail and Geneviève—had visited the cathedral together the following Sunday. But no towers. That was another thing that would have to wait until after the baby was born. The hospital had made that very clear: no exertion. And Cail had followed the doctor’s instructions to the letter. Motorbike included. When Elena saw a dark blue Citroën in Hermione’s place, she was so upset that she refused to get in. Cail had to swear that he hadn’t got rid of the bike; the Harley was actually safe and well. He couldn’t keep it in Paris, because he didn’t have two parking spaces, so he’d been forced to take it home, to Provence, where it would stay for the time being.

  He was quite firm about that. There was no way he was bringing it back to Paris. You can’t put a baby seat on a Harley. His explanation left Elena lost for words.

  “So, how’s it coming along?” Claudine had washed her hands before coming into the laboratory and, careful not to touch the aluminum flasks containing the essences, she went over to take a better look at the contents of the cylinder Elena had in front of her.

  “I’ve got the top notes,” she told her, her eyes fixed on the dropper. “And maybe the middle. But I still can’t get the base.” She was pale and tense. The essences were mixed, but the combination wasn’t balanced. Something was missing—she felt it instinctively. She’d concentrated hard on what color she should be seeing, but her efforts had brought her nothing but exhaustion. Fortunately, Cail was coming to the shop to collect her later. By now she was getting tired very easily.

  She rubbed her belly—she’d started to do it often now. Every day, the bump was more visible. Soon she’d have to tell Montier she was pregnant. And that was worrying her; she didn’t know how he’d take it, and whether the news would have repercussions for Monique. She knew the two of them were still seeing each other, and that Monie was unhappy. Their relationship was toxic, not least because they had to keep it a secret. If the newspapers were to be believed, Montier would soon be married.

  “Let me see,” said Claudine, dipping a mouillette into the compound. She leaned toward it, closed her eyes and took one deep breath, then another.

  She couldn’t believe it. The perfume, which according to Elena was still unfinished, was one of the best compositions she’d ever smelled. It recalled the complex structure of a chypre, but this was something new. Harmonious, captivating—fresh, even. It was perfect. The best way she could describe it was “just right.” She breathed in again, filling her lungs: hesperidium, definitely. But she couldn’t say whether it was lemon, neroli or bergamot . . . No, it was something more delicate. She was still thinking about it when the fragrance changed, turning into a garden full of flowers at sunset. Roses made way for jasmine; it, too, disappeared, to be replaced by an earthy, musky smell. Finally, at the end of this journey of the senses, Claudine felt herself enveloped in sensual sandalwood and myrrh.

  “Tell me the composition again,” she said after a few seconds.

  Elena nodded. She could have read out the formula, but she preferred to go through the mélange in her head, dividing, sectioning and recomposing the essences one by one.

  “Pink grapefruit, lavender and lime as top notes. For the middle: rose, jasmine, peach, artemisia, angelica. Finished off with myrrh, oak moss, leather and amber.”

  Claudine shook her head. “I can smell something else. Have you added a fougère?”

  Elena nodded. “Yes, vanilla and lavender.”

  “You didn’t mention that.”

  Elena frowned. Claudine seemed to be interrogating her. Why was she making such a fuss when the formula was written on the pad in front of them?

  “I told you, I’m still working on it. The perfume isn’t ready; it’s still missing the idea of the cathedral, its grandeur—and that’s one of the key aspects. I need to try the blends again and replace some of the elements,” Elena said.

  “No! It’s more than perfect as it is!”

  “What’s wrong with you? It’s certainly not perfect. You can tell that from a mile away,” Elena argued. She was starting to get really annoyed. She couldn’t understand why Claudine was behaving like this.

  Suddenly, the door opened and Philippe Renaud strode into the laboratory, followed by Jacques Montier.

  “What is going on?” Jacques’s tone shifted from
surprise to outrage in the space of a second.

  “Hello, I didn’t know you were back already,” Elena said.

  “Obviously not.” Philippe’s response troubled her. The man folded his arms across his chest, an accusatory look on his face.

  Elena looked at Claudine, who stood there in silence, stiff as a post. The tension in the room was palpable. A shiver of apprehension ran down her spine, intensifying the panic her colleague’s behavior had already provoked. She decided to take charge: it was best to explain everything. Perhaps Claudine hadn’t told Montier they’d be researching mélanges that day.

  “I think the perfume is missing a note,” she told him, leaning over to pick up the pad where she’d written down all of that day’s steps.

  “Do not touch that notebook!” Philippe yelled, reaching out.

  But Claudine got there first and snatched it out of his hands. Elena instinctively recoiled, frightened.

  “Have you all gone completely mad?” she demanded.

  Claudine didn’t respond; she just held on tight to Elena’s notepad. Philippe was still glaring at Elena with contempt.

  “What do you think you’re doing in the laboratory? You’re not authorized. How did you get in?” Montier snarled.

  “Of course I’m authorized—you’re the one who signed my pass.” Elena couldn’t understand what was going on. She grabbed her card and showed it to him.

  Jacques’s face turned red with anger. “That’s fake.”

  “Did you hear that, monsieur—what she just said to you? It’s shameless! She clearly has no qualms about lying,” Philippe hissed. By this point he was purple in the face. “Wanted to steal the formulas, did you? Well, they’re—not—here.” He enunciated every word, as though he were talking to an idiot. “There’s nothing you can do here. Apart from ruin the equipment, obviously.”

  “What on earth have I done to make you treat me like this?”

  Philippe stiffened. “You haven’t been honest from the start.”

  “What do you mean?” Stress was creating a knot in her stomach. “This is ridiculous.” Elena tried to gather her thoughts and explain everything. He probably didn’t want her working on the perfume. But it was Claudine who’d given her permission—they must know that!

  “The Notre-Dame perfume is an ambitious project, I know, but—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Just two steps brought Montier face-to-face with Claudine, who so far had not opened her mouth. “I want to know what you’re doing. What’s all this about a Notre-Dame perfume?” he barked.

  “Nothing—it’s silly, really. Elena, Mademoiselle Rossini, made a big sale today, so I thought I’d give her an incentive and show her how a perfume is put together. One of the customers asked for a fragrance that evokes the magnificence of Notre-Dame. She’s a famous writer called Madame Binoche. We were testing out blends and Elena showed me a few ideas.”

  Philippe ground his teeth. “She is not authorized to be in the laboratory,” he insisted.

  “Like you said before, there’s nothing in here she could take,” Claudine replied, still not looking at him.

  “Silence, both of you.” Jacques held out his hand. “The notebook, please.”

  Claudine gave it to him. Jacques stared at it for a moment and started to flick through. There were pages and pages of formulae, scribbles and notes. He knew Claudine’s handwriting, and this wasn’t it. Yet he’d never signed a pass for Rossini. He didn’t even bother to ask what Claudine was trying to do that secretly involved Elena. Because he already knew. He’d deal with both of them later. All he really cared about at that point was the perfume, not who had made it. He cast a quick glance over the mélanges. They showed real vision, pure intuition. She’d used an obsolete technique, building it around individual notes and starting from the top until she found the base. No one these days would have made a gamble like that. But the perfume was good; it was more than good. He reread some of the more complex passages, then gently picked up the cylinder and brought it to his nose.

  Luck, pure luck, he kept telling himself. But the perfume was bursting with heady notes. How on earth had she managed to achieve such a balance without using any of the latest techniques? Jacques took this as a personal insult. In a flash, his annoyance turned into open hostility.

  Elena Rossini might very well think she was a perfumier, but he wasn’t about to let himself be swindled just because she’d somehow managed to hit on a good mélange. That thought made him feel better. Yes, he’d make sure this woman stayed well away from his laboratory.

  “There’s been a misunderstanding, mademoiselle. You were not hired by this company to make perfumes, remember? We talked about this. I have expert staff to handle that. Your job is sales. You should apply your efforts there and leave the composition to someone qualified. As you can see, you’re obviously not suited to such a delicate task. Perfumery is not an improvised art form.”

  Elena was stunned. She’d simply stood and listened to what Claudine had said because she had no comeback. She’d trusted this woman, and she’d been deceived. Suddenly, it all made sense: Claudine wanted the perfume formula for herself. That’s why she was so keen to let her make it, keeping their bosses in the dark. And Elena had fallen for it. She hadn’t checked whether Philippe or Montier knew about her project. She’d never even thought to do so because she’d been so wrapped up in creating the perfume of Notre-Dame. In the end, it was her own fault.

  But she wasn’t going to stay and work there: she knew she couldn’t stand another moment in that place.

  “You know what, Montier, you’re quite right. There has been a very serious misunderstanding,” she said, taking off her white coat. “I’ll get my things and leave you to make, sell and wear your own perfumes.” She finished her speech as she reached the door. Then she stopped and turned around.

  “Give me back my notebook.”

  A sneer spread across the man’s face. “You mean this?” he said, holding up the pad.

  “Precisely.” Elena gritted her teeth; she was at the end of her tether. She focused on Jacques, because if she’d looked at Philippe or Claudine, she would have started screaming.

  “This doesn’t belong to you. Everything that is formulated, tested or simply experimented with inside Narcissus is mine. Didn’t you read your contract?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jacques smiled. “Come to think of it, that clause probably escaped you. After all, it applies to perfumiers and you, mademoiselle, as I have already told you, were a sales assistant.”

  It wasn’t the first time Elena had encountered such pettiness but this intention to hurt, to willfully humiliate someone, was completely new to her. Jacques’s malice was cold, slimy. It turned her stomach, but there was no way she was going to break down in front of those people. She had to be tough. She could think of only one thing: finding the exit, getting out of that place and forgetting all about them. She poured every ounce of her contempt into the look she gave Montier. Then she left: she didn’t even want to breathe the same air as them.

  “Keep my notes,” she muttered.

  They wouldn’t do him any good. They were just observations, the odd paragraph. Elena had made a note of the mélanges but she’d changed them at the last minute. She was about to write down the new quantities when Claudine came in. Of course, Elena knew that a good perfumier would be able to work it all out—but they’d have to use gas chromatography. That test was the only way they had of finding out for sure which essences she’d used in the composition, and in what quantities. It was scant consolation, but enough to give Elena the strength to push the open button. Once she was out in the corridor, she walked to the cloakroom at the end, put on her coat, took her bag out of her locker and slipped out of the back door.

  The air was like a wall of ice against her skin. She stood for a few seconds, trying to
adjust to it. She felt ill. A pain had started in her chest and ran all the way up to her throat. She wasn’t crying, that wasn’t it. Maybe that would have been better. Instead, this anger, this knot was caught inside her, like a warning. She’d been tricked and cheated because of her foolish trust in other people. She’d just lost her job, her future, her dreams, at the hands of someone she’d all too lightly assumed to be a loyal colleague. This was the second time she’d put her trust in the wrong person.

  She slid her hands into her pockets for warmth and started walking. People rushed around her but she paid no attention. She couldn’t hear anything; she was wrapped in a numbness that protected her like a cocoon. She just needed to walk: soon she’d be in the Marais, and home. She’d have to move out, she realized. But she didn’t want to think about that. Suddenly, she heard a voice behind her.

  “Elena, what’s wrong? Why didn’t you wait for me? I told you I’d come and pick you up.”

  She kept on walking, putting one foot in front of the other. He wouldn’t stop calling her, but she didn’t want to answer. What could she possibly say to him? “I didn’t wait for you because I couldn’t bear to stay in that place a minute longer”?

  Cail followed her for a few meters. When she still wouldn’t speak, he took her arm and led her into a café.

  “A cup of tea will do you wonders,” he said, helping her take off her coat. He ordered tea for them both and asked for a slice of Sacher torte.

  “Can you sit down on your own, or do you need a hand?” Cail kept his tone light, but he was worried sick. Elena was frighteningly pale and shaking. But her eyes sparked with fury.

  “I walked out,” she said, out of nowhere, still standing up.

  Cail wanted to storm off immediately to Narcissus and demand an explanation from Elena’s boss. But for now, it was more important for her to sit down, drink her tea and start breathing normally.

  “OK. You’ll find a better job. Obviously that one wasn’t really right for you.”

  “He stole my notes. He said he owns everything that’s produced there.”