Madame Mirabou's School of Love

by Barbara Samuel

  And yet—how dare he? How dare he look so cheerful and happy? In London? Without me? The pinch rose from my chest to my throat, closing off joy, happiness, the small contentment that had been mine while I made perfume and forgot—for a few minutes anyway—that I was divorced and alone and everyone else was having a good time while I was sitting here, sore, broke, and hungover in a soulless apartment furnished with other people’s furniture.

  God, it was so not fair.

  I hated admitting it, but I was also forlorn. He looked good, my handsome ex. I’d genuinely loved him from the moment we met, when he’d stomped into my world like a big-footed bear, brown and burly and fierce. He thought I was privileged and spoiled—I was neither—and gave me a hard time. His arrogance, his ambition, his burning wish to prove himself to the world captured me.

  And I’d been a good wife to him. It wasn’t fair that somebody else was in London, had a good house and my own daughter, while I was suffering these outrageous losses.

  Unable to resist, I opened the photo again. Peered at his face.

  There were a lot of disturbing questions that arose out of this whole divorce mess. For one thing, if we were soul mates, as I’d always believed, then something had definitely gone wrong with the Great Plan.

  If we were soul mates, did that mean I would be alone forever?

  If we’d been soul mates, how could he be so happy with someone else?

  And if karma rewarded good, and punished bad, why was he full of joy and delight while I was mewling around here like a lost kitten?

  I jumped up and went to the kitchen. Gulped my coffee and poured another cup, stuck my nose into the beaker again for a quick sniff. It calmed me down, but the hexagon of emptiness still waited for me to fill it.

  When I was calmer, I went back to the computer, opened the final e-mail.

  TO: nikki@scentofhours.com

  FROM: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  SUBJECT: you are not alone

  Dear Goldfinger(s):

  Here is a link to a blog I thought you would enjoy.

  www.workingforaliving.timeblog.net.

  I had hoped to go walking today, but like everyone else in this city, I am trapped within my walls by the blizzard. What is it like where you are?

  Warmly,

  Niraj

  Something unfamiliar fluttered in my throat. A man had e-mailed me! A very attractive man. It had escaped my notice that men might talk to me. That the post-divorce period might hold something positive.

  I clicked on the link and read the tale of a young woman in London working in a restaurant for a temperamental chef she called The Ogre, and all the terrible things he did to make her life miserable. She was a good writer, and funny, and plainly liked the job, aside from the evil chef. I laughed aloud three times.

  TO: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  FROM: nikki@scentofhours.com

  SUBJECT: at least she’s young!

  Hi, Niraj.

  Thanks for the link. I really enjoyed reading it and now I don’t feel so terrible about spilling an entire glass of tea on a very grumpy businessman.

  Like you, I was planning to walk this morning (with a woman I’ve met in my apartment building; she likes to go to Ute Valley Park—have you ever walked there?), but the snow is awful here, too. I’m at Filmore and Centennial, and there isn’t a single car in sight, except the one that’s buried in a snowdrift up to the windshield. Obviously, it was abandoned last night. You wouldn’t even know there were mountains out there.

  Nikki

  (Niraj is a great name, BTW. Never heard it before you.)

  I sent the e-mail and went back to the kitchen to decide what I wanted for breakfast. Everything sounded like too much work, and I ended up making peanut butter toast.

  The perfume needed to rest until tomorrow morning, I decided, which left me nothing whatsoever to do for the rest of the day.

  My cell phone, sitting on the counter, rang and spun itself around in a circle. I grabbed it and saw that the call was from my mother. I did not particularly want to talk to her, and my heart fell. Sighing, I picked up the phone, prepared to open it—and then suddenly realized I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to. I put it down.

  From the other room, I heard the bing of e-mail arriving, and curiously went to see what it was.

  TO: nikki@scentofhours.com

  FROM: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  SUBJECT: how to use the hours

  Dear Nikki,

  I like your name, too. Nikki suits you better than Nicole. Less formal. You do not strike me as a formal sort of woman—you are a Westerner, and I like that very much.

  So how will you spend your day instead? I am making a very elaborate meal for my supper—rack of lamb with shallots—which I learned from a friend who lived in New Zealand.

  What does your e-mail address come from? Scent of Hours—it sounds like a movie.

  Cheerfully,

  Niraj

  P.S. You needn’t feel you must answer quickly. There are obligations with my work that require me to monitor e-mail carefully, even on a snow day. Not everyone is as chatty as I.

  TO: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  FROM: nikki@scentofhours.com

  SUBJECT: scent of hours

  Niraj,

  Your e-mails are very welcome. There isn’t much to do in a little apartment—I’m used to much more space, and many more toys. I’ve only been living here for a week and I’m not used to it. The perfume is resting. There are not many ingredients in the house to cook with, or like you I’d likely make something elaborate and warming for supper. The lamb sounds fantastic, and I think you must be a wonderful cook if you undertake something like that. Unusual for a man!

  Where in the world do you get lamb in Colorado Springs?

  Scent of Hours is a business name I dreamed up awhile back. I make perfume and would like to have a business devoted to it someday, so I reserved the domain name. That’s what I did this morning, instead of a walk. I made perfume. It’s brewing on the counter, still missing something. Not sure what.

  What is your work? Computers, of course, but what sort of work?

  I guess I’m babbling and will stop now.

  Best,

  Nikki

  In the middle of the afternoon, I turned on the tiny television in my living room, and watched old movies on AMC, dozing for hours. It was oddly healing. When at last I roused myself, there was one more e-mail from Niraj.

  TO: nikki@scentofhours.com

  FROM: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  SUBJECT: lamb and perfume

  Dear Nikki,

  You make perfume! How unusual! Did you find the missing ingredient? I buy lamb from a rancher in the East. He sells his own stock—it’s very good.

  My work: I’ve done many things with computers over the years, but now I write compression algorithms for transmitting video images across the Web.

  It is not unusual for a man to cook if he has spent much of his life alone and he enjoys good food. Both are true for me. I have often lived alone and did not want to spend all my pennies eating out, which is not as pleasant as one’s own kitchen. Do you like to cook? If you were making something elaborate today, what would it be?

  Would you like to take a walk with me this week sometime?

  Cheerfully,

  Niraj the Nerd

  TO: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  FROM: nikki@scentofhours.com

  SUBJECT: walk

  Dear Niraj the Nerd,

  I ordinarily don’t allow myself to be seen in public with geeks and nerds, but in your case will make an exception. I would enjoy walking with you. My schedule is pretty flexible at the moment, so let me know when a good time would be.

  If I were to cook something elaborate, it would be a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, which I love.

  I’ve never eaten lamb, by the way. Just saying.

  Sweet dreams,

  Nikki

  8

 
Nikki’s Perfume Journal

  Ingredients

  Clove; Category: Spice

  Through steam distillation of the dried flower buds (called cloves). The flowers are hand-picked when the buds are ready to open out and turning pink. They darken and take on their unique final shape after three days in the sun. Clove essence is extracted through steam distillation of the leaves. The crown, which holds the clove, yields yet another essence characterized by a dry and spicy smell.

  Each day I worked things went a little more smoothly. Annie had hired another new waitress, a round-faced girl with elvin eyes named Tabitha, and there was enough staff, enough bread, and crowds that were not too demanding. I started to find my rhythm, and when it got busy and I found myself losing my sense of humor, I’d remember the blog link that Niraj had e-mailed me, and felt better.

  It also helped that I started to get the hang of the job. I liked the people I worked with, learned some of the signals that meant I needed to back away from Mary, the dragon of the kitchen, and started to understand who my allies would be. I left the job pleasantly spent, which meant I could sleep through the night and didn’t wake up at three A.M. freaking out.

  The insurance company was still stalling, and I started to wonder if I needed to hire a lawyer. Until this was settled, I couldn’t sell the land, which was enormously valuable even without the house on it.

  Wednesday, I worked the lunch shift, and didn’t leave the restaurant until nearly five, which put me right in the thick of rush hour. I was able to avoid the highway by taking back roads, but I still had to stop at the grocery store across the street from the apartments at the worst possible time of day.

  It was the usual five P.M. zoo, the well-tended occupants of the lush condos around the corner popping in for their fresh greens and imported cheeses; the harried mothers from Holland Park stocking up on Rice-A-Roni and hot dogs, and macaroni and cheese in a box; the singles like me, from the dozens of apartment complexes in the area, coming in after work to buy frozen dinners and quarts of milk.

  I felt tired and frazzled in the store. I’d stepped in a giant puddle left over from the blizzard a few days before, and my right shoe squished uncomfortably when I walked. It also made a loud squeaking noise on the shiny floor, which was more than annoying. I had my list and tried to be methodical about the aisles, but I still didn’t know this store very well, and had to keep backtracking. It seemed there were awful children in every aisle, too, which always made me upset at the mothers who ignored the poor kids until they were hysterical, then overdisciplined them with sharp jerks or spats to the bottom or other physical reprimands, and then had the nerve to apologize to other adults for the child’s behavior. Dan used to complain that I was a nosy parent, and it was true. I hated to see kids get the blame for things that were not their fault.

  Not all kids were awful or all parents, either. Every so often, you ran across a genuinely miserable child. An overburdened mother trying to soothe a miserable baby or toddler.

  Or both, in this case. As I passed the pharmacy, knee-deep with customers, I saw my neighbor Wanda in line, a baby on her shoulder crying softly in obvious pain, a two-year-old in the cart, a boy a few years older leaning on her leg. All three bore the raw, oft-wiped noses of colds, and the toddler in the basket stared glassily toward nothing, his thumb in his mouth.

  Wanda swayed back and forth with the baby, whispering to him. The boy on her leg was crying softly, miserably, “I just want to go home!” he said. “My head hurts. Please!”

  “I know, honey,” she said, her hand smoothing the hair on his crown. “We’re just going to get your medicine and then we’ll go.”

  “Wanda,” I said. “Do you remember me?”

  She looked up. Dark shadows ringed her makeupless eyes. “Hi, Nikki! Yeah, of course I do. Much wine the other night.” She grinned. “That’s the most fun I’ve had in a year. How could I forget?”

  “Me, too, honestly.” I gestured toward her babies. “Looks like you have your hands full. Let me help you.”

  “Oh,” she said. “It’s okay. I don’t know what you can do, really.”

  “How about if I stand in line for the medicines and you take the boys home and I bring it over when it’s done?”

  Her ice blue eyes filled with tears. “That would be so great. They’re starved and sick and we’ve spent the whole afternoon at the doctor’s office.”

  “Give me the info and I’ll bring it over when they get it filled. Can I bring anything else? Chicken noodle soup? Juice?”

  “Chicken and stars!” said the boy on her leg.

  “You don’t have to shop, too,” she said. “The medicine will be fine.” She pulled a list and money out of her purse. “We just got paid, and that’s the cough syrup they need, too, over-the-counter stuff. Just forge my name. They don’t know me.”

  “Got it.”

  “I owe you big,” she said. “Come on, guys, let’s get you home.” Forty-five minutes later, I climbed the stairs to Wanda’s apartment with two bags of groceries, plus the medicines. I’d just picked up a few things—several cans of soup, milk, apple juice (which, as I recalled, was easier on young sore throats than orange), some small snacks and easy things to cook. I’d only used her money for the medicine, since I didn’t know her budget. My tips had been good— a few extra groceries would hardly be noticed.

  She opened the door, looking even more exhausted than she had at the store. Waving me in, she said, “Welcome to my nightmare.”

  The apartment was almost the same as mine, a little bit larger in the kitchen area, with no fireplace. All three boys were howling, two in the living room, the baby on her shoulder. The room was wrecked; not dirty but strewn with toys and discarded clothing and dishes stacked on the counter as if waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. A basket of clean laundry sat on the dining room table. Another pile looked as if it had been dumped there to make room for the other.

  “I so remember this,” I said, laughing softly, “and I only had one. You really have your hands full.” I put the bags down on the counter. The two-year-old was yanking at his tennis shoe and I knelt to help him. “Where do you want to start?” I asked Wanda. “What needs to be done? Medicine? Baths? Supper? What?”

  “Let’s do medicine, supper, baths. Maybe then they’ll all crash for the night. Which I could really use.”

  “I bet.”

  With two adults to split the chores, it wasn’t such an impossible undertaking, and within an hour, I was helping the two older boys, Tommy Jr. and Ricky, to put on their pajamas, while Wanda sat in the living room and nursed the baby. Spying the books along the wall of the boys’ room, I said, “Do you want me to read you a story before you go to bed?”

  “Yay!”

  “Go kiss your mom good night and I’ll read to you when you’re under the covers.”

  “Can she come kiss us when she puts Pete to bed?”

  “Is that what she usually does?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” I read Goodnight Moon and the first two pages of Owl Moon, and they were both out cold before I got to page three. Wanda was putting the baby down, and came out of the room shaking her arms.

  “You,” she said, “are my guardian angel today. I was about ready to burst into tears in that grocery store.”

  “I understand. It’s horrible when they’re sick. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Do you want some wine? I have some. I can only have about a half a glass in case the boys need something, but by golly, you’ve earned it.”

  Her “golly” made me smile. “I’d love that.” I looked around the apartment. “Why don’t you let me help you put things away first so you can wake up to a little more order? I was never particularly neat, but I can tell you must be.”

  “Can you? In all this mess?”

  “Yes.” I pointed to dusted windowsills, sparkling counters except right by the sink. The only real clutter was books, and she obviously liked reading a lot, but even the
bookshelves were very neatly tended. No books stuck in sideways, or in front of others. I suspected if I examined the shelves, they’d be alphabetically arranged. “It’ll only take a few minutes if we work together.”

  “I feel guilty, but I want it neat again so bad, I’m going to let you help.”

  When that was done, we sat at the table beneath a set of family photos—the boys as babies; a family shot with Wanda, her sturdy, swarthy husband, and the two older boys when they were very small. A wedding photo showed two much more relaxed-looking humans, with sunny smiles.

  “I never thought about how hard things like this would be for the wives of the soldiers. My mother did it, when my dad went to Vietnam, but I was little. I don’t really remember.”

  “It’s usually not that horrible. With all of them sick and nobody to help, it was pretty crazy today.” She touched my hand across the table. “Thank you. Really.”

  “No problem.”

  She poured wine into my glass. “So, you must have children if you managed all that so well.”

  “I do. A daughter.”

  “That’s right. You mentioned she’s in London with her dad. Will she live with you when she gets back?”

  “No.” I sighed, feeling the weight of it pressing against my chest. “The truth is, I didn’t fight as hard as I should have for full custody, and he has a lot more money, so it seemed like it would be better for Giselle.”

  “Is that her name, Giselle? That’s very pretty.”

  “Thanks.”

  A rap sounded at the door, and Wanda jumped up to answer it. Roxanne stood there, obviously freshly home from work. “How you doing, hon?” she asked. “Got everything you need?”

  “I’m great, thanks to Nikki rescuing me at the grocery store.” She shifted to point at me, and I waved.

  “Good for you,” Roxanne said. “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t killed anybody. Ya’ll have fun now.”

  “We will.” Wanda gave Roxanne a quick hug, and then closed the door.

  Wanda sat back down. “She’s really in trouble, you know. You don’t have to tell her it was me who said it, but I worry about her all the time. And I worry about her kids. She’s sleeping around all over the place and not for the fun of it.”