The Secret Ways of Perfume

by Cristina Caboni

  “I’m Scottish, that’s why I never feel the cold.” Cail grinned, picking up the pace. “Look, we’re almost there,” he said, pointing at the bridge that led to the Île.

  Light and gold, everywhere she looked, filling the night, reflected in the Seine, standing out against the sky. Even the bridge was just one long band of gold. Elena and Cail walked in silence, holding hands, immersed in the kind of atmosphere and festive smells that lift the soul and make you cast aside bad thoughts, because they simply don’t belong in the middle of such beauty.

  It was easy to relax on her way to Notre-Dame. To enjoy a spectacle that was a real treat for the soul. It wasn’t about religion. Elena hadn’t been to church for years, nor had Cail. But that moment, that place, was the most beautiful thing human genius could produce; and sharing this notion of good was something they both firmly believed in.

  When they reached the doors of the cathedral, the six o’clock mass had already started. They found a corner to sit in and stayed there until after the service had ended, listening to the treble choir who took up their singing again after a short break. The melody rose up and filled every corner of the church, mingling with incense, melted wax, smoke, myrrh and the perfume of centuries gone by.

  Elena closed her eyes. Cail had taken off his gloves and was holding her tight. His skin was warm and comforting. At that moment she realized she was feeling something that, even if it wasn’t true happiness, was very, very close.

  • • •

  “Hey, it’s snowing!” Turning her face to the sky, Elena felt the flakes melting into frozen droplets on her skin.

  Cail looked at her, then dried her cheeks with the end of his scarf. “It’s just a dusting,” he said.

  “But it’s Christmas Eve, it’s special.”

  They began walking home, but the snow was falling heavily now and Cail decided to hail a taxi. When they reached the Marais, it was like entering a fairy tale: chimneys, turrets and gables all white, buildings taken straight from one of those Christmas cards where everything looks magical.

  Once they were at home, Cail left Elena downstairs in her apartment. “Wait a minute before you come up to my place, OK? I need to do something. And no cheating, or else.”

  “You know, I find your lack of trust deeply hurtful,” Elena said haughtily. Cail chuckled and ran upstairs.

  When Elena was quite sure he wasn’t going to come back, she darted into the shop. The present she’d bought him was in the drawer where she kept Beatrice’s diary. She took out the parcel and held it in her hands for a moment, tutting at the slightly crooked bow. Before she closed the drawer again, she ran her fingers over the little book.

  “No sad thoughts today. Today we’re celebrating,” she told it quietly, pushing it to the back.

  As she walked up to his flat with the present in her hands, Elena wondered for the thousandth time whether Cail would like it. She was hopeless with presents, and even worse at wrapping them. But this one had struck her immediately. She’d found it at the Christmas market on the Champs-Élysées, where she’d gone by herself and had a fantastic time finding gifts for her friends.

  “I’m coming in,” she called.

  The door was open and the terrace was completely dark, except for a tiny light to guide the way. Elena went in, treading carefully, a sense of anticipation dancing inside her. When she reached the glass doors to the lounge, they were half-closed. She walked in, and as she did so, in one corner of the room, a tree lit up. Cail walked over to her and took her hand so he could bring it to his lips. Then he placed a gift into her palm.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  Elena fought back tears. “Thank you,” she whispered, and held out his present.

  “It’s not quite midnight yet—let’s leave them under the tree,” Cail said, taking the parcel.

  Elena was about to protest, then she noticed that there were lots of other gifts. Maybe Cail was expecting visitors? That thought made her panic. She’d never met any of his family before, and she wasn’t very good with mothers-in-law and all that stuff. An image of Matteo’s mother came to mind and she shuddered.

  “Are you expecting someone?” The question came out before she had time to think about it. “Sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  Cail laughed. “Elena, we got past the point of intruding quite a while ago. And I told you this a few days ago: I’ve got everything I need and everything I want right here.”

  If that wasn’t a heartfelt statement, nothing was. But a trace of Elena’s old caution still held her back. Lately Cail seemed to be getting more distant, more absent. And she’d made a promise to herself and the baby she was carrying that she wouldn’t let the wrong man into her life, wrong for her or for her son or daughter. She didn’t want to find out the sex of the baby; she wanted it to be a surprise.

  They ate by candlelight, relaxed and chatting in a way they hadn’t done for a long time. Cail had prepared a dinner of pumpkin risotto, cheese soufflé, omelet, filo quiches and vegetables. The wine was sweet and fragrant and the cake for dessert was light and fluffy. And she hadn’t had to lift a finger.

  Everything was simple, delicious and wonderful. And Elena felt that she mattered—she did matter—to herself and to Cail. She savored every moment, breathing in the aromas of the food, the dessert, the room . . . and him. Ah, that man’s perfume was perfect; it made her feel complete and content.

  After dinner, Elena helped Cail tidy up and they went to sit together on the sofa, wrapped up in a Scottish tartan blanket.

  “You’ll have to make do with the blanket for now,” he told her. “Maybe one day I’ll show you the real feileadh breacan, which is a proper Scottish kilt, and not that skirt thing some people insist on wearing. But that’s not going to happen today.”

  Elena pouted. “And there was I, thinking that was my Christmas surprise.”

  “Wrong!” he exclaimed. “And anyway, it’s midnight now and these,” he said, pointing at the stack of presents, “are waiting for you.”

  Elena stared at him, astonished. “All of them?”

  He nodded. “All of them. But open the little one last, OK?” There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Elena felt the urge to hug him tightly, to kiss him.

  John came over and looked at her hopefully. Elena still hadn’t got over her old fear. Yes, she would smile at the dog and talk to him sometimes, but she still found it very difficult to stroke him.

  She looked at the parcels and went over to the decorated tree, almost nervously. She sat down on the rug beside the presents and carried on gazing at them.

  “For the first few years when I lived with my grandmother I’d go back to my mother’s place for the Christmas holidays. Maurice wasn’t religious and he didn’t even like the tree and decorations. He said it was all rubbish. Once, they’d had a fight and he kicked over the nativity scene my mother had set up for me. She collected up all the little statues in silence, without complaining, and put it back together.” For a moment she could picture the scene vividly, right before her eyes. She pushed it away, and with it the bitterness and pain. “I never went back there for Christmas again. A couple of times I got invited to Monique’s house.” She paused. “There are moments when loneliness can sink into your bones,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t matter how many people you have around you. It doesn’t matter . . .”

  Cail was kneeling beside her now. “One of these days you ought to introduce me to your stepfather,” he said, handing her the first present. He didn’t touch her; he didn’t console her: there was no need. Elena could feel him there with her, part of her. He was there, no question, a promise kept.

  “You wouldn’t like him. And anyway, it’s been so long since I saw him . . . You first,” she said suddenly, breaking the tension and pointing to his present.

  Cail picked it up gently and started to unwrap it, wi
th a care that made Elena nervous.

  “This slow-motion thing can wait until you decide to do me a striptease, or when you put on your kilt, or that unpronounceable thing you told me about before. Now hurry up and open the present, or I’ll do it for you.”

  “You worry about your own presents. This one’s mine and I’ll open it however I like!” Cail retorted, pulling such a strange face that she had to laugh.

  A moment later, an antique pocket watch, in solid silver, appeared in his large hands. He opened it carefully, noticing that the wheel to wind it was actually a tiny stylized rose. Cail was lost for words. It was beautiful and encapsulated the perfection and fragility of the flower he loved above all others. She understood him. This was her way of letting him know. There was respect in Elena’s gesture, and consideration. Cail had never really minded the mocking smiles people gave him when they found out he worked with flowers and roses. But he was deeply touched by such a delicate gesture.

  Elena held her breath. Then she reached for his hand. When she realized it was trembling, she let go. “Don’t you like it? I’m sorry. I thought for you it would mean . . .”

  Cail didn’t let her finish. Clasping the watch in his hand, he grabbed Elena and gently pulled her onto his lap. “Thank you. It’s the most wonderful gift anyone’s ever given me,” he murmured.

  Elena would never forget the look he gave her then. She hoped she’d be seeing it many, many more times but, since she was a practical woman and Cail’s lips were right there, a whisper away from hers, she thought she’d show him the kind of gratitude he would enjoy.

  She kissed him with all her heart, putting all the passion she felt for him into the caresses she gave him, forgetting any doubts and silences. Cail let himself be swept up in it, reciprocating slowly, until things between them became red-hot. Then he stopped, with Elena’s face cupped in his large hands. He brushed her lips, swollen by his kisses. His expression was somber, his eyes darkened by desire and what he didn’t have the courage to finish.

  “Thank you,” he said, before he helped her up.

  “Thank you. You don’t know how much this evening has meant to me.”

  Cail took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. “It’s not over yet—there are some other things to see to,” he told her, pointing at the many parcels lying unopened.

  • • •

  Later, before she gave herself over to sleep, Elena ran her fingers over the antique gold pendant Cail had given her. It was an eighteenth-century French perfume-holder. She didn’t dare think how much it must have cost. The other presents were in the wardrobe. A red cashmere coat, a pair of boots, two thin but extremely warm sweaters in shades of blue, a scarf and gloves that seemed to have been made just for her. Two dresses and a pair of trousers. He’d been busy, even though Elena could see Monique’s touch in it all. And to think her friend hadn’t breathed a single word; Cail must have sworn her to secrecy.

  Nobody had ever done anything like this for her. And there was another surprise still to come, Cail had told her, before he gave her a long good-night kiss in the doorway. Elena’s thoughts immediately went in one particular direction. Being around Cail and putting limits on a relationship that was getting more passionate by the day was really starting to get to her. She wanted him and she could tell he felt the same about her. She was a grown woman, she knew the signs, and as if that weren’t enough, his perfume was speaking for him, growing stronger and more intense each time they were together.

  She touched her lips . . . What would it be like, making love to Cail? She found herself fantasizing about him, but her thoughts soon drifted in another direction. Why didn’t she dare go any further? And why didn’t he?

  Then the answer came with a little shudder, almost a caress from her baby. She was pregnant, and that was the end of it. The answers would have to wait until after the baby was born. Elena relived Cail’s kisses. Those kisses . . . She shivered and wondered whether there would be a price to pay for all this happiness.

  • • •

  Red, blue and a dash of gold. Absolue had welcomed the holidays with its three partners’ favorite colors. The shop was flooded with sunlight, too, which was a bit of a worry for Elena. But it was so long since she’d seen the sun that she decided to let it in and move the perfume packets to protect them from the heat.

  “Sun-kissed! I should have known you’d do just fine,” announced Jean-Baptiste Lagose as he walked into the shop.

  Elena went over to greet him. “Monsieur, what a nice surprise! How are you?”

  “All the better for seeing you, my dear.” He kissed her hand and took a look around. “Cozy, welcoming, very nice. And seeing as this is where you live, I assume it’s yours.”

  Elena smiled. “Partly, but come in, sit down. Can I offer you a hot drink?”

  “No. I can’t stay too long. I must admit I didn’t know what to expect. I went back to Narcissus, but you weren’t there. And I couldn’t find that witch . . . er, woman, your boss, either.”

  Elena didn’t say anything. She’d rather not talk about Claudine.

  “You did the right thing by quitting, my dear,” Lagose went on. “At first I had some problems tracking you down, since there’s no Elena Rossini in the phone book. But then I decided to stop by in person, since I remembered where you lived. Lovely area. The Marais has always been one part of Paris that’s a pleasure to live in.”

  She agreed; the Marais was a world of its own. “How’s your lady friend?”

  “She’s never been mine. And if I ever had any doubts in that regard, she set me straight.” Lagose was tense. “She’s as stubborn as a . . .” He mumbled the end of his sentence. “She says she’s too old to get married. Can you believe that?” He wrinkled his forehead, genuinely baffled.

  “Do you really need to? I mean, perhaps she needs a different kind of relationship now.” Elena would never have believed she could come out with something like that—she, the girl who had sacrificed everything for security. But her relationship with Cail had really changed her view of life. Now she lived every moment as though it were unique, not determined by something that might happen sooner or later. Living like this had forced her to take life as it came, putting herself and her baby first.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing, I suppose. It didn’t work before, why should it work now?”

  “But this lady feels the same about you, doesn’t she?”

  “I thought so. But people like to delude themselves, you know. It’s one of many people’s favorite pastimes. And right now, I’m not so sure she feels the same.”

  “Did you argue?” She hoped she wasn’t being indiscreet, but she was genuinely curious.

  “Got it in one,” he said, and checked the time on his watch. “I’m very glad I stopped by this morning, but it’s getting late and I have to go.” Lagose said he would come back soon—he wanted another perfume. A chypre like the other one, he explained, but one even better suited to his personality. Like his clothes, he wanted to be unique, the only man who smelled a certain way. Another customized perfume.

  Elena felt sorry for him. He seemed resigned, and that was a dangerous state to be in. A resigned person doesn’t fight; they let things go. Thoughtful, she went back to arranging the perfumes.

  After Monsieur Lagose, Elena saw another of her old customers: Eloise Chabot. She remembered her well. Rather, what she could recall precisely was the perfume she’d adjusted for her daughter.

  “I really hoped it was you when I read the flyer,” the woman said. “It’s such a coincidence. You see, I live on rue des Rosiers.”

  “Madame, how nice to see you! Just around the corner . . . This is a real coincidence.”

  Eloise gave her a hug. A cloud of strong, sweet perfume enveloped her, tickling her nose. There was something strange in the mélange the
woman was wearing. A discordant note—something that didn’t suit her style. Her appearance was always immaculate: from her hairdo to her charcoal-gray dress. Chanel, probably. So why was she wearing such a strange perfume, if she could afford to buy herself something better?

  “Absolue, what a lovely name. Is this your shop?”

  “Yes—well, partly. Let’s just say it’s also mine.”

  Eloise looked around, taking in every detail. She was fascinated.

  “Perfume has always been important to me. I can’t do without it. It’s the first thing anyone notices about a person, and the last. Do you know that my daughter Aurore wants to become a perfumier? It’s partly because of you, my dear. She really liked the perfume you recommended for her. When I told her you’d corrected it to suit our needs, it was as if I had opened the door to a whole new world. Since then she’s done nothing but mix together my perfumes. She’s even moved on to her father’s. There’s no point buying any more because she just keeps on playing with them. It’s becoming really quite . . . embarrassing.”

  Elena had to stop herself from smiling. “You mean that perfume you’re wearing has had an unfortunate encounter?”

  “It used to be a wonderful Chanel Coco Noir. Now, I just don’t know. She doesn’t do it maliciously; it’s just that at some point the balance goes completely. It makes me think of an elegant, beautifully painted fingernail that suddenly starts scraping down a blackboard.”

  Elena laughed. “How old is Aurore?”

  “Eighteen.” Eloise let out a long sigh more eloquent than any words. “Until she was thirteen, everything was fine. But I’m telling you, the last few years have been really difficult. And now she’s happy. Just like that, from one day to the next. I just don’t understand it.” She paused and put her hands up. “Nothing changed, apart from the fact that she’s playing with perfumes. Don’t get me wrong, there are still times when it’s difficult to talk to her, but at least now we see her smile. In general, that happiness coincides with us wearing her creations. As soon as my husband gets to work he has to have a good wash. Aurore doesn’t seem to be able to tell the difference between masculine and feminine notes. Last time, she mixed her father’s aftershave with violet water.”