“Everything will be different nowadays,” Cail said.
“Yes, it’s all very pretty, but I can’t find anything that reminds me of the descriptions in the diary.”
He pointed to the castle and slowed down, so that Elena didn’t wear herself out trying to keep up with him. The effort was starting to show on her face.
“I feel a bit tired,” he said, stretching. “How about we have a rest?”
“Rubbish!” Elena exclaimed. “Shut up and keep walking. I’ll tell you when I’m too tired to carry on.”
Cail tutted, then brought the hand he was holding to his lips.
“Now why don’t you tell me what convinced you that this might be the castle?” she continued.
“Remember that I told you I’d been here before? I’ve visited a lot of villages in Provence—my history teacher had a real passion for castles. And there are certain aspects of this castle in Lourmarin that seem very similar to what Beatrice described.”
“What do you mean, exactly?” Elena asked.
There was no need for him to reply, for as soon as the towers and keep appeared, she saw the gargoyle.
“I always thought she was talking about a lion, but I was wrong,” she whispered with her eyes fixed on the sculpture adorning the polygonal tower. “It’s more like a wolf.”
“She doesn’t say exactly what animal it was, but the diary mentions some sort of mane. And the wolf is the symbol of the Lords of Lourmarin.”
Elena kept staring thoughtfully at the sculpture, her head tilted back. “It does seem like a significant detail. But I don’t think we can base our theory on it. After all, gargoyles were one of the most popular decorations of the time.”
“It was functional, too,” Cail added.
Elena looked at him, puzzled. “You know, I’ve never really understood that. They have them at Notre-Dame, too. But it doesn’t seem as if they actually drain water. They seem more like stone guardians.”
They carried on looking at the sculpture for a few minutes but there was no real way of knowing whether it was a lion or the symbol of a wolf. Cail pointed out the entrance. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
They went up the stairs, in through the main doors, and found themselves in an internal courtyard, with a pond covered in water lilies. At one end stood a statue of a woman who seemed to be resting. “I don’t remember her,” Elena said, referring to the diary.
“Maybe she hadn’t been sculpted yet. She might be from after Beatrice’s time.”
He had a point. Who knew what had happened since then? Time distorts and hides so many things.
They kept on looking around, moving from the flower beds to the open-air market where men and women in medieval costume were showing typical local products to tourists. Once they were inside the castle, however, everything changed. The air was dense, humid. Centuries of footprints had worn away the steps of the magnificent spiral staircase.
There was no need for words. Elena and Cail exchanged a smile and set off on the visit. She did recognize that splendid staircase. She wondered whether it was the same one the castle’s owner took when he visited Beatrice in her room, at the top of the tower.
They moved through one room after another, seeing magnificent furniture, extraordinary antiques—but everything dated from later than the early 1600s, when Beatrice would have been resident there.
“I think it’s that time . . . you know, when you say you feel tired and I nod and tell you to have a rest,” Elena whispered.
They separated from the group of visitors and Cail took her into a small drawing room. They sat down by the window, on a sort of stone bench carved into the thick wall. “It’s not very comfortable, but you can see the whole valley,” Cail said. But Elena wasn’t listening. She was staring into a corner of the room that was sectioned off by a pretty, decorated screen.
Cail carried on talking, reading out the history of the castle from a book they’d bought when they arrived. “‘Built in the fifteenth century by Foulques D’Agoult on the ruins of a previous fortress, the château had many owners; at the end of the sixteenth century it passed to the Créqui-Lesdiguières family . . .’ There you go, I reckon that’s the period we’re most interested in. It could be him, Charles I of Blanchefort. Listen, it says here he married the daughter of Duke François de Bonne and inherited the duke’s estate. But . . . damn! Everything in the castle was lost. They only saved a few pieces of furniture that were hidden in a cellar . . . Elena, are you listening to me?”
She pointed mutely at the screen. Cail noticed that her finger was trembling. “What’s wrong?” he said.
Elena stood up, quickly followed by Cail, and went over to the screen. “Look,” she whispered. “It’s like my grandmother’s.”
She edged closer, scanning through the images. Cail walked around it, checking the wooden frame, then he focused on the scene it depicted.
A knight and a lady were dancing in a garden. On the next panel, he was leading her under an arch of roses. There were three clearly stylized white roses. On a third panel, the woman was leaning over a workbench, and in front of her was an alembic.
“It’s a distiller—look!”
Cail came closer and nodded. After she’d stared at the image for a few minutes, Elena went around to the other side of the screen and kept following the production of the perfume—because that’s what it was. Roses: three, white. Water and oil. Citrus: lemon and orange. Then gardenia—no, impossible—it must be iris.
Elena took a long look at the first panel, then she moved on. Now the woman in the painting was mixing the essences and pouring them into three vials. Elena hurried to the final panel. And it left her speechless.
“This is the formula, Cail. Do you see?” she said, grabbing him by the arm. “Beatrice set out the formula on this screen. Look, it’s not a painting, it’s a tapestry!”
Cail looked again at the images. “You’re right.” He walked around it: front and back, then again from the beginning. “So, now you know what’s in the mysterious perfume?”
Elena shook her head. “No, this is only part of the recipe. Beatrice formulated the perfume exactly as we do today: she didn’t simply combine essences, she thought about it. Rose, citrus, iris . . . I’ve got no idea how many drops, maybe just three, maybe thirty. I’ll have to try,” she said. “Then she added water—if that is, in fact, water—and waited three moons. Right?”
“Yes, there are three moons in that sky. What makes you say this is just part of it?”
Elena kept on gazing at the screen. “There should be other ingredients . . . and in Florence, there’s a very similar screen in my grandmother’s workshop. The structure is identical, but the design is different, although it’s in the same style.”
“You think it’s got something to do with this one?”
“I’m not sure . . . They were very common items of furniture in those days.” But she hoped so; she really hoped so. There was a good chance. Even if she hadn’t determined the formula, maybe the tapestry in Florence would hold some clues. So, two screens: one in the castle where Beatrice had stayed, all those centuries ago, and one where she lived. Yes, there was such a thing as a coincidence, but Elena was convinced that there was a link between the two. Perhaps one was the key to the other?
“If the other piece of the formula really is in Florence, the Rossinis had it under their noses all these years. That’s crazy, don’t you think?” she mused.
“It depends what it shows. Without this one,” Cail said, pointing toward the screen, “how would you have known that it was part of a formula? Without both the tapestries, no one could have known.”
“It’s a truly ridiculous way of recording a perfume composition.”
“Not that ridiculous, if you want to keep it hidden.” He pulled out the camera he’d used to immortalize the gargoyle and started to take photos.
<
br /> • • •
They didn’t leave Lourmarin until the evening, spending the rest of the day looking for other signs of Beatrice’s existence, but apart from the screen and the gargoyle with a wolf’s head, they didn’t find anything else significant.
Though perhaps it was a sign that there were so many surnames of Italian origin among the village population. Apparently, there had been mass immigration from Piedmont under the first Lord of Lourmarin, and the Italian settlement had then been boosted by a skilled workforce of silkworm-breeders. The migration encouraged by the first de’ Medici queen, Catherine, continued until the second Italian Queen of France, Marie.
Cail and Elena had discovered that almost by chance as they read the guidebook. Then they’d asked in the restaurant where they had lunch, Le Moulin—with two Michelin stars, no less.
They arrived back at La Damascena exhausted. Cail had another meeting the following morning, then in the afternoon they were going back to Paris.
Elizabeth and Angus spent a lot of time with Elena. They were both dying to ask about the baby, but they held back. And she was glad they did, because she wouldn’t have known what to tell them. Of course, she could tell them the truth: that the baby was just hers. But there was too much at stake. She’d cleared up some of their issues, but not all. Cail was always at the forefront of her mind, but she still didn’t feel ready to take things any further, and she knew that he wasn’t ready either. The strange compromise they’d reached together was their business and no one else’s. Sooner or later, things would move on. Or Elena hoped they would . . . with all her heart.
• • •
Avignon was exactly as Elena remembered it: full of charm, understated and refined. The high-walled Papal Palace still took her breath away with the grandeur of its battlements and pointed towers.
Cail drove Elena to the gardens. Flowers, plants and swans—an incredible number of swans gliding peacefully along the streams that ran among the fragrant greenery. They took a long walk, had lunch on a restaurant terrace, then headed back to the airport.
While they were waiting, Elena called Monique. She couldn’t wait to tell her about the screen and the possibility that it might reveal part of the formula. Her ancestor had been very imaginative in handing down the Perfect Perfume. She spoke to Monique for a few minutes, giving her a brief update, then she turned to Cail and said, “Do you want to go out for dinner? Monie’s just been promoted, and she’s taking us to the Lido de Paris to celebrate.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Have they made her vice president or something?”
Elena laughed. “Hah! So we’ll go?”
“Aren’t you too tired?”
“Did you hear what I said? The Lido de Paris on the Champs-Élysées!” she repeated, enunciating each syllable carefully.
“Oui, ma belle,” Cail replied.
“We’re coming!” she almost shrieked. And the two women went on talking for a while. By the end of the call Elena was feeling decidedly happy. “Monie says hi,” she told Cail, who was still reading through the various leaflets he’d picked up in Lourmarin.
“How is she?”
“Same as usual. That Jacques . . . Well, it’s probably better if I don’t say anything,” she decided. “Anyway, she says she can’t wait to hear all about our trip. You know, when we were little we were always speculating about Beatrice and her Perfect Perfume. It almost doesn’t seem real that the formula could be so simple. At least the top notes. I can’t speak for the rest yet.”
“And what if it’s the second screen that holds the secret?”
Twenty-two
YLANG-YLANG: expression. Warm and feminine, tropical and sweet.
The fragrance enables us to overcome disappointment and offense.
Releases hidden feelings and helps us to express the poetry in our souls.
The Lido de Paris. Monique had decided tonight would be different. She was sick of staying at home; that kind of life wasn’t for her. Merde! She almost didn’t recognize herself.
While she was getting dressed, she listened to Apocalyptica’s first version of “Hope.” Yes, she could certainly use some of that. She started to dance in her bare feet, letting the sound of hard rock penetrate to her core, and a moment later, when it was suddenly replaced by a sweet melody, she thought she actually felt better. Soaring, violent chords echoed in her heart and became a slow, harmonious melody, moving her to tears. Wasn’t that what life was like?
No, lately hers wasn’t.
She felt a familiar knot, one that had been crushing her throat for a while now, sometimes even preventing her from breathing. But she refused to give in to the unpleasant sensation.
“You don’t like it? Then stop whining and do something about it,” Jasmine had told her in no uncertain terms, the last time she’d visited Grasse. Her mother was a very pragmatic woman. And she was completely right! Monie knew she should change the things she didn’t like. Jacques hated her going out without him. In reality, especially recently, all they did was stay at home, in bed. Their relationship had been reduced to sex, nothing more. It was good—no, it was fantastic, amazing. But that was it. Every time they tried to discuss anything, they ended up arguing, so they’d gradually stopped talking and met in the only place they actually seemed to understand each other. But afterward . . . afterward she felt sad, so full of resentment. And she’d had enough.
Tonight she was going out as a single girl, while her friends were now a couple. True, it wasn’t the perfect time for Elena to be getting involved in a relationship, but the pregnancy was quite far along now. The wait was coming to an end. Soon Monique would become an honorary aunt, Elena a mom—and who knew how Cail would act? She sincerely hoped that for once, things would turn out a little bit like they do in fairy tales.
That night, Monique wore an indecently short, sparkling black Dolce & Gabbana dress. Just two silk straps, a scrap of material and an enormous number of glimmering beads. High heels, curled hair, and a touch of her new perfume. Le Notre was excited about this creation. She couldn’t take all the credit, of course. Ilya Rudenski, the new maître parfumeur, had come up with the fragrance, while she had simply guided the variation of the perfume toward simpler, more popular tastes.
It had been very interesting working with Ilya. The man was a genius: the perfume was impressive, and almost entirely synthetic. It had to be, to give it that intensity and durability. The imagination, the vision that Ilya had shown, had convinced everyone. The perfume was completed by a few natural essences, which gave it body and a retro charm.
Elena would have been horrified by the composition. But Monique wasn’t interested in the backstory of a perfume. She was only ever interested in the final scent, not what went into it. She loved to change her scent, depending on her mood. For her, perfume was like a dress: one today, another tomorrow.
Thinking about clothes, she decided to take something with her. She would happily bet that Elena didn’t have anything to wear. That woman was hopeless when it came to fashion.
She finished getting ready: a dash of lipstick, a light jacket and one last look in the mirror.
“Too bad, Jacques!” she said. “When you get back from London I’m going to tell you just how much fun I had.”
• • •
Elena unpacked, watered the plants and had a little chat with them. Then she started to panic. There was nothing in her wardrobe that could possibly be suitable for an elegant night at a place like the Lido. Once she’d rejected every single dress she owned, she phoned Monique.
“I can’t come. I’ve got nothing to wear!”
“I’m on my way. And I’m bringing a couple of things for you. So take a deep breath, have a long hot shower and put your hair up. I’ll take care of everything. OK?” She hung up immediately, before Elena could object. She was going out tonight, whatever it took.
Elena scowl
ed at her mobile. Then muttering something about how stick insects would never understand whales in a million years, she took a long bath, tied her hair back in a low bun, leaving a couple of loose strands on either side of her face, and put on mascara and a lick of eyeliner.
“Come up,” she yelled as soon as she heard Monique’s voice calling her from downstairs.
Monique handed over a coat hanger with a couple of dresses on it. Elena was in a filthy mood, and the banana-yellow dressing gown she was wearing wasn’t making things any better.
“See if you like one of these dresses. They’re floaty, and blue is so slimming.” Monique looked her friend up and down. “You look really well, chérie—this holiday’s taken years off you. So, what’s new?” she asked, giving her a wink.
Elena pointed at her protruding stomach. “Well, I’ve put on two pounds for starters. But the real news is that we’ve probably found out where Beatrice stayed during her months in France—and who the man was who broke her heart!”
Monique was dying to ask her more about the discovery, but it was clear Elena was ready to explode.
“I’m so huge,” she moaned. “I don’t even know if I can get these on.”
“Don’t worry,” Monique said soothingly. “I’m sure you’ll surprise yourself. Have you got a pair of high heels?”
Elena took the dresses, retreated into the bathroom and half-closed the door.
“Yes,” she called. “All the ones you brought me. How you manage to walk in those damn things I will never know.”
The Secret Ways of Perfume Page 30