The Secret Ways of Perfume

by Cristina Caboni

  • • •

  It took Cail a long time to convince Elena to leave the greenhouse. But in the end she let him drag her out into the open. There was a dreamy look on her face and a wonderful new perfume in her heart.

  “I’ll bring you back in the spring!” he’d promised, and now they were walking through the tree-lined avenues of the Île de la Cité, hand in hand. The spire of Notre-Dame stood out against the black sky, all lit up, and the Gothic statues seemed to be watching over the city from on high. The couple carried on walking, chatting as their breath condensed into clouds, talking about their hopes, their dreams, everything they wanted to do.

  “Exactly what is your field?” Elena was asking. “You said you were a consultant for the Rose Garden at the Jardin des Plantes.”

  “I still am. I’ve got a degree in agriculture, and my specialism is diseases in roses. But cultivation, as you know, is my job—it’s what my family has done for generations; it’s how we make a living.”

  Elena nodded. “So, you’re a real authority on the subject.”

  A broad smile and a kiss on the lips. Cail wrapped an arm around her shoulders and carried on walking. “Roses have always been here . . . Let’s say I make sure they stay where they’re supposed to be.”

  That was it, in a nutshell. He made sure everything went as it should. No fuss, no arguments. Cail just did what he did in silence. That attitude was typical of him, Elena thought. He had his place in the world, and he was determined to leave his mark.

  And what about her? That thought brought her joy and despair at the same time. There were times in the past when she had only existed: indeed, for a while she had merely survived. But she’d managed to distinguish, with some degree of certainty, the things she didn’t want, and from there she’d established what she did want. Then she’d pursued her goals without caring about anything else. Including herself. She’d been stubborn. And now? What were her plans, really?

  “Everything’s changed now,” she whispered, thinking aloud.

  Cail’s grin warmed her heart. “A baby changes the way you see things.”

  Yes, she was well aware of that. “I’ve got an ultrasound next week.”

  “Would you like some company?”

  He really did want to go with her—it was written in that direct look of his. He was asking her permission to enter her life a bit more. It was always like that with Cail, Elena thought. He gave her space; he didn’t pressure her. It was easy to be herself with him. Yet something still wasn’t right between them. Something was bothering him, something he hadn’t told her yet.

  “Yes, I’d really like that,” she answered.

  There were still so many questions. She’d have to deal with some of them; she knew she couldn’t put the issue off any longer. One by one her thoughts and problems had lined up, waiting patiently for her to come along and address them, resolve them and finally put them aside. First of all: the questions about Cail.

  • • •

  FROM BEATRICE’S DIARY

  Today I gave the perfume to him. Gazing sweetly at the vial, he warmed it with the palms of his hands. I long for the heat of those hands, and I would have them hold me, as they held me in the depths of the night, when the icy wind blew through the stone walls and he embraced me.

  We have reached the end, and I fear there is nothing left for me. There is a great, breathless anguish in my soul, but my work here is done.

  Now I am cold. He still stares longingly at the perfume, but he does not notice me, my tearful eyes. He is blind to everything else, lost in anticipation of the joys of victory. If what I have delivered is what was agreed, he will lavish gold on me, and strings of pearls. That was his promise.

  Now there is nothing to do but wait and see . . .

  “Are you still reading the diary?” Monique’s voice tore her from a past she was slipping into more and more often now. Beatrice had an eloquence very different from her own time. Her words never sounded forced or artificial; they had an immediacy—her feelings were laid out plain on the page. Almost shouted. Every word was passion and pain.

  Elena looked up at her friend and swallowed. “It’s heartbreaking. She knew he was going to leave her.”

  “Yep. She was a brave woman. She faced up to everything, went back to Florence and made a new life for herself.”

  “Without the man she loved.”

  Monique shrugged. “You know, sometimes I wonder about that. How do we know that afterward, with her husband, Beatrice was never happy? She even had a daughter. Love has many faces, not like lust. Lust devours you and leaves you constantly on the edge.”

  Elena would bet that Monique was speaking from experience. She didn’t want to ask her about Jacques; it wasn’t something they discussed openly and they couldn’t exactly joke about it. For a while now, Monique hadn’t been asking how things were going with Cail either. Somehow, the two friends had both become reluctant to speak openly. They tried, and sometimes it even worked, like now—but they didn’t feel comfortable with each other the way they once had.

  “Are you seeing Aurore today?” Monique asked.

  Elena nodded. “I was thinking about showing her the difference between natural essences and something synthetic. She’s really talented, you know. I think she could go far if she keeps studying.”

  “In Grasse?” Monique asked.

  “She could, or even at the Institut Supérieur International du Parfum, in Versailles. Her parents can afford it. The only potential problem is the board that would have to assess her attitude and give her a reference to get into the school.”

  Monique pursed her lips. “Or she could learn from you.”

  Elena frowned. “Come on, Monie, what do you mean? You know full well that the basics are one thing, the stuff we learned, but there’s a whole other world of aesthetic and food perfumes. At the ISIPCA, she’d stand much more chance of joining a qualified staff, getting a top job.”

  “There’s still the fact that to get into that school you need to have a certain look. Appearance is their watchword. And I don’t disagree with that, because perfumery is a world that teaches you to make aesthetics your life philosophy. But Aurore . . . I don’t know. She’d have to change, and I don’t think that’s fair,” Monique replied thoughtfully.

  “It’s still a bit early to be making conjectures like that. Maybe she’ll just keep it as a passion. Who knows?”

  But Monique disagreed. “I’ve noticed the way she sniffs anything within reach; she’s like Grenouille in a skirt.”

  “Careful she doesn’t hear you,” Elena scolded gently. “She can’t stand the character of Grenouille. On the other hand, she adores Proust and his madeleines.”

  “I’ll bet she does.”

  Monique stayed for the whole of Aurore’s lesson, then she had to leave. Elena was just about to close the shop when a woman arrived.

  “Good evening, mademoiselle. A friend of mine bought one of your perfumes. He told me you make customized fragrances. Is that true?”

  “Yes, of course. Come in and sit down,” Elena said, gesturing toward the sofa.

  The woman was in her sixties, very elegant, wearing her hair up, a midnight-blue dress and a string of pearls that stood out brightly against the fabric of her dress. Elena smelled creamy vanilla, refined and understated like her appearance, and then a hint of iris, musk, bitter almond, eccentric and full of character. The perfume spoke volumes about her, about her feisty nature. It had the scent of the countryside and the rain, drops of which were still dotted all over her clothes. The woman set down her umbrella and calmly took off her coat, looking around.

  “Did you have something particular in mind?” Elena asked, resting a notepad on her knees.

  “Yes. I’d like a simple, suitable perfume,” she replied, making herself comfortable beside Elena.

  “For what?”


  The woman frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “You said you’d like a suitable perfume—but suitable for what?”

  “Well, for me, of course.”

  “And what are you like? What makes you tick?”

  The woman was baffled. Elena smiled to herself. It was always like this. Customers rarely had clear ideas when it came to sounding out their desires; what they believed to be certainties were actually just vague ideas.

  “Tell me, Madame . . . ?”

  “Dufour, Babette Dufour.”

  Elena started to work her way through the usual questions, from what the customer loved to what she hated. As their rapport developed, the woman began to confide in Elena about her feelings, and what she thought she wanted. Elena encoded everything, imagining the kind of fragrance that might suit her needs. Every ingredient she selected to compose Babette’s perfume came together in her mind, giving her an idea of which path to follow. She would take a number of things into account, not least the synergistic effect the natural ingredients would have on her customer. This tête-à-tête was essential: it was the heart of the creative process. And this was what set Elena apart from all the other perfumiers, what made her an artistic perfumier: her extraordinary ability to feel the ins and outs of what people wanted for themselves, and to transform that into a harmony of fragrances, a real melody.

  “I’ll start working on it, and then I’ll give you a call to come in and smell the different variations. We’ll start with quite a classic, light composition: a base of delicate citrus, a floral middle, quite a lively background.”

  Babette nodded. “I like that: ‘lively.’”

  Elena would bet she did. A pinch of transgression made life much more interesting.

  • • •

  In January the snow was replaced by ice. The Parisian air smelled of woodsmoke, mixed with car fumes and heating systems, and smoke from the homeless camps set up under the bridges on the Seine; it was dense and sticky, lingering in the air and clinging to you. Elena couldn’t stand it, longing for the wind to come and disperse the layer of smog that was weighing down on the city. She recalled the Mistral winds that blew through Grasse, turning the sky blue and crystal clear.

  Of course, the fact that Cail had been away for work didn’t improve her spirits. But it was also partly due to feeling nervous about the ultrasound she was to have that day.

  “Hello.”

  Elena dropped the bunch of flowers she was holding and ran toward Cail, who was waiting for her at the door. He held out his arms and swept her up in a hug.

  “What took you so long?” Elena gasped.

  Instead of an answer, Cail gave her a gentle, devoted kiss. Elena decided that, with such a valid and convincing argument, no words were necessary.

  “I got here as soon as I could,” he said, with one last kiss before he let her go. “So, the ultrasound is this afternoon?”

  “Yes. We need to be at the clinic at five. But if you’re too tired . . .”

  “Get ready for four; it’s best to be early. Will Monique mind the shop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll see you later.”

  Elena watched him disappear up the stairs.

  “Damn you, Cail McLean.” She sighed, going back inside.

  • • •

  The first time Elena had heard her baby’s heartbeat, she was so excited she didn’t sleep a wink all night. That time, Cail had waited for her outside the clinic; when she came out to find him there, he told her he just happened to be passing. She didn’t believe him. So this time, she’d told him the date and time well in advance.

  “There, that’s a little hand,” said the doctor. “Do you see? Everything looks fine.”

  Dr. Rochelle looked at the couple clinging to each other in an almost fervent silence, their eyes glued to the ultrasound screen. The man was a striking figure: tall and masculine with a hard, frank stare. At least until he looked at the girl.

  “This is your first baby, I’m guessing?”

  “Yes!”

  They answered in unison. Then Cail tensed and moved a few inches away. Or at least, he tried to, before Elena grabbed his hand again and held on to it.

  That evening, as Dr. Rochelle was checking through the paperwork for all the patients she’d seen, she noticed that something was missing from Elena Rossini’s file. There was a blank space in the box for the baby’s father’s name.

  How strange, she thought. So she wrote it in: Caillen McLean. Fortunately, she remembered the man’s name. In fact, he had left quite an impression.

  • • •

  A couple of weeks later, Cail went away again. In the days she spent alone, Elena dedicated all her time to Absolue. She crushed, distilled, filtered and composed. What she didn’t make herself, she bought from other herbalist perfumiers, who bought her creations in exchange. They belonged to a chain of producers who had made the collection and processing of herbs and essences their philosophy. And so they prepared talcs, hydrolats and candles using the same methods employed by their predecessors, who in turn were inspired by the most exquisite artisan traditions from centuries and centuries ago.

  Elena was managing almost everything now. Monique was away more often. If it wasn’t because of Jacques, it was Le Notre. But if Cail left, Monique arrived. They were synchronized; Elena would bet the two of them had made a pact she didn’t know about. She wasn’t entirely happy that Cail had asked Monique to keep her company, although there were moments when she felt flattered by all this extra attention. She’d been alone for a long time, and having someone dedicate himself to her with such unshakable commitment made a very pleasant change.

  • • •

  With the pregnancy progressing, Elena was getting tired quickly. Fortunately, Aurore had started coming into the shop more often.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “You know it’s my pleasure.” And it really was. Aurore no longer resembled the girl who had introduced herself to Elena at Christmas, all skin and bone and attitude. As the lessons went on, she was gaining confidence and composure. She no longer mixed ready-made perfumes; Elena had shown her how to put a few essences together, nothing difficult, just a couple of combinations, and Aurore had demonstrated that she could handle everything she was being taught. The girl was clearly longing to make a whole perfume. And she was studying nonstop to make sure she was up to it. If Elena recommended reading a few pages of a book, Aurore devoured it from cover to cover and then went looking for another one. Perfumes were no longer a mystery to her. She knew the techniques, since Elena had explained them to her step by step. Soon, very soon, she’d be making her first perfume.

  Aurore had changed her look, too. Elena was almost certain that was due to Monique and her fabulous wardrobe. Monie was the epitome of style and elegance. The ripped jeans and black sweaters the girl used to wear in defiance had been replaced by happier colors and shapes that accentuated her figure. One day, she turned up at the shop with a mane of amber-colored hair so lustrous it left Elena and Monique momentarily speechless.

  “I know people who would kill for that hair color,” Monie breathed, “and all the time she kept it hidden under that ghastly blue Smurf thing.”

  Unlike Monique, Elena had made no comment. But now, as an adult herself, she finally understood what her grandmother must have thought of all the mischief she used to get up to.

  • • •

  FROM BEATRICE’S DIARY

  The scent has triumphed. My darkest fears have come true.

  Soon they will be married.

  Never have I created a more precious substance. There is nothing to match it in the entire Kingdom of France or beyond. At times it gives the sense of walking beneath an arch of roses, with a sweet and favorable sun: and then at night, when the fleeting moonlight bathes the leaves in silver.

  He i
s happy, laughing, eager for what will soon be his—those great riches. He steals the joy from my heart, the light from the stars . . . and yet he knows nothing of it.

  Can one die from love? How much pain can a single heart endure? I ask myself, as I smile and wish that tears would soothe my pain. His fortune is my disgrace. I brought this torment upon myself. I was deceived by his love.

  He will abandon me.

  I have no honor and I care not. If he wanted me, I would rejoice at his feet, but such reflection is futile now. Futile and hard.

  What he needed is already his.

  I must leave before he drives me away.

  Elena closed the diary, that same pain in the back of her throat. How many times had she read those lines? She knew the text by heart now. But the pain these words evoked was always deep, perhaps because she knew that they were not just the fruit of an author’s imagination, but came from a life that had been all too tragically real. It was part of her past: Beatrice Rossini and her magnificent perfume.

  Elena let it drift away, the sorrow and the deep sense of regret that clung to her after she’d read the diary. The Perfect Perfume was utterly sublime: nothing could compare to the celestial fragrance that the knight had had stored in a golden vial as a gift for his princess.

  What in heaven’s name was in that formula? Elena thought desperately. What could Beatrice have put in there in seventeenth-century France?

  “Still got your nose in that diary?”

  Elena closed the little book and stood up. “I can’t find the ingredients, Cail, and it’s driving me mad. I mean, when my ancestors were looking for them, they didn’t have the Internet; information didn’t travel at the speed of light. They didn’t have half the knowledge I’ve got at my fingertips. I’m so frustrated that I can’t work out where Beatrice hid the formula.”

  Cail thought about letting her in on his suspicions. He’d come up with a theory: if Beatrice had described the castle but never given its name or the title of the gentleman, or the princess, there was a high chance there was something in that place—the village or its castle—that was linked to the formula for the perfume, something that could reveal the mystery. He was convinced of it. Before he talked to Elena about it, however, he wanted to look into it himself.