The Secret Ways of Perfume

by Cristina Caboni

  “There you are, at last,” Philippe said, looking up from a table where he’d arranged a series of silver bottles.

  “You told me nine o’clock,” she replied, looking at the glass clock on the shelf.

  The man glared at her. “We get here an hour before the shop opens. Bear that in mind.”

  He’d kept that part to himself.

  “I didn’t know,” she said.

  “Make sure you find out, then. I expect the most from the staff here. If you want to stay with us, you’ll need to get used to that, mademoiselle.”

  Elena was about to respond, then thought better of it. She gritted her teeth to hold back her response. A woman came over to them and Philippe cleared his throat.

  “This is Claudine,” he said, introducing a blond, poker-faced woman of around thirty-five.

  “Bonjour, madame,” Elena greeted her.

  The woman just nodded. The half smile she was feigning didn’t move. It reminded Elena of the Mona Lisa. She wasn’t expecting hugs and kisses, but she had hoped for some signs of life, rather than this strange, almost catatonic trance; there was absolutely nothing in that smile. There wasn’t even anything in her perfume—Elena could barely smell it. And it wasn’t because it was light, or delicate; it simply disappeared into the smell of Narcissus. She tried to concentrate. A whiff of benzoin reached her, intense and soft; then came incense, followed by a series of woods and musks. Then smoky notes that gave an original balance to the fragrance, enhancing its character. It was clear, sparkling, but distant. Like a perfume that had been applied the previous day. Or before a shower.

  Prada: the woman was wearing Benjoin by Prada, and she’d covered it with something that mingled with Narcissus’s ambient perfume; something she’d bet was from their own range. It was like one painting hidden beneath another. It struck Elena as a strange decision. Everyone had the right to wear what they wanted. Why go to such lengths to hide it? Perhaps Narcissus didn’t appreciate its staff using perfume from other houses?

  “You’ll be working with Claudine today,” Philippe went on. “You should follow her instructions—make sure you do,” he finished, and then, after exchanging a complicit nod with Claudine, he went over to the other side of the shop, lingering by a set of shelves.

  At last the statue came to life and turned to Elena. The woman had blue eyes mottled with green, and they were icy cold.

  “You do speak French properly, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Elena replied quietly.

  “Good. I hate having to repeat things. Follow me and pay attention. And don’t touch anything.”

  Off to a good start, Elena thought, wondering whether, at certain levels of seniority, good manners and warmth were optional. “Of course,” she said.

  The Mona Lisa didn’t turn out to be too bad in the end. Systematically, without pausing even for a second, she explained the display of all the perfumes, the premises, the tasks Elena would have to do, the official rules—and just as important, the unofficial rules—and then she took her into the laboratory.

  “You only go in here when you’re invited,” she told her, staying outside the door.

  “Of course.”

  Claudine looked at the inscrutable expression on Elena’s face and raised a curious eyebrow. “Have you ever worked in a laboratory?” she asked.

  Elena nodded. “Yes.”

  The woman stared at her for a moment. “Florentine school, right?”

  “Among other things,” Elena replied.

  “Do tell.”

  This sudden interest made her uneasy. Now what? Elena sensed that it was probably best to keep a low profile with Claudine, but her sense of pride in herself and her family came to the fore at the most unlikely moments. She might as well tell it like it was. Of course, she’d be careful not to let this woman know that she’d created her first perfumes under the supervision of her grandmother at the age of just twelve. She was better off keeping that to herself.

  “I started studying in Grasse: cultivation, extraction, all the stages up to the final perfume. I finished my studies and perfected my technique in Florence.”

  If she was impressed by Elena’s words, Claudine didn’t let it show. She just nodded her head and gave a hint of a smile.

  “You’ll have a chance to show me what you can do. Some customers prefer personalized compositions; in general we just change a few ingredients in the formulas that have already been tested. You’ll see it being done.”

  Elena’s heart skipped a beat. Composing perfumes at Narcissus was only a matter of time.

  “Follow me. Today we’ll be working with customers. Pay attention and don’t interrupt, whatever I say. Understand?”

  Claudine kept talking and, for a while, Elena pretended to listen; but her mind was too busy getting excited about the prospect that she would soon be able to concentrate on things she already knew inside out. Eventually the woman showed her to her place and went to get ready to welcome the first customers.

  Many people came in that morning. All the perfumery’s employees were busy. After she’d committed a fair number of Jacques’s perfume creations to memory, Elena went over to the sales counters but kept her distance. Claudine had started to serve a gentleman of a certain age who wanted a special perfume. He was clearly annoyed, his gnarled fingers gripping the handle of his luxurious walking stick.

  “No, I don’t like that one. It smells old—it smells like mothballs, for God’s sake!” he exclaimed indignantly.

  Claudine was still wearing her indestructible smile. “May I suggest a more discreet mélange, if you’d prefer? How about adding some sandalwood?”

  The man pursed his lips. “How should I know, if you don’t let me smell it?”

  He was standing at the counter, eyes blazing and disappointment written across his face. A dozen used mouillettes lay on the table. Claudine’s smile was starting to show the first signs of collapse.

  “They assured me you’d find what I wanted. Well, that was clearly an exaggeration. Why should I waste my time with you?”

  He’d raised his voice and some of the other customers were turning to look. Claudine tried again. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

  “Haven’t you been listening to me? I need a new perfume! I don’t want the same old fragrance.”

  “Every single one of these perfumes,” Claudine replied, pointing to the various bottles lined up on the counter, “matches your description. Do you want to try them again?”

  The old man half-closed his eyes. “Are you suggesting I don’t know what I want?”

  The woman’s delicate nostrils flared; she was losing ground rapidly. “One moment, please,” she said.

  Elena had been watching this scene from the sidelines. The man’s outfit was original but smart. He was nervous, and every so often he’d slide a finger under his neckerchief, trying to alleviate the tension. He was looking around at the perfumes, and that look revealed his need for something new: a second youth, something that could disguise old age, give him faith. Men made that kind of choice, trying to rejuvenate themselves, hoping for some small miracle—like a new love. Elena didn’t know where this idea had come from, but if that’s what it was, if what this elderly gentleman wanted was a change, she knew exactly what he needed.

  “Try this one. I’m sure you’ll like it,” Claudine said, handing him another mouillette.

  The man smelled it and shot her a suspicious look. “Do I look like a boy to you? Do you really think I’m going to go around smelling like that?” he replied, indignant.

  Claudine’s voice turned frosty. “If you’d be kind enough to wait another minute, I’ll see what I can find for you.”

  When Claudine walked past Elena, she still had that smile plastered on her face like some kind of stamp. That’s professionalism, Elena thought. But it appeared that Claudine really had los
t her patience, since instead of continuing to help him, she went to serve another customer who’d come in for some rosewater.

  The gentleman visibly deflated; the anger had passed but the disappointment remained, deep and stinging, and clearly had nothing to do with the perfume. It was vulnerability—it was an attempt to stop the relentless passage of time and seize another chance.

  “May I ask which perfume you used in the past?” Elena asked him, walking over. Claudine had told her not to interrupt, but she hadn’t said anything about talking to customers. Technically, she wasn’t disobeying any orders.

  She softened her tone and, seeing the man was lost in thought, repeated the question. His head shot up, as though he’d only just noticed she was there. She held out her hand, saying, “My name is Elena Rossini.” Her grandmother had always introduced herself to her customers.

  “Jean-Baptiste Lagose,” he replied. But instead of shaking her hand, he took it in his own and leaned forward to kiss it, like an old-time gentleman.

  Leather, labdanum and bergamot, Elena noted when he got closer, almost brushing against her. The smell was strong yet sophisticated, with a deep, musky base scent. She could almost see him, Jean-Baptiste, watching the merry-go-round of life that had thrown him off. She could sense the shock and, hidden beneath layers of heartache, the burning desire to get back on it.

  “Are you a saleswoman?” he asked.

  Elena nodded. “Today’s my first day.”

  The old man looked around and when he caught Claudine’s eye, he turned back to Elena. “Is that your boss over there?” He didn’t even bother to hide the fact that he was pointing at her.

  “In a sense.”

  “You poor thing,” he said, shaking his head. He cast another glance toward Claudine. “Some people have a real knack for being unpleasant.”

  She’d thought the same herself. But that was not the sort of thing you would tell a customer, so Elena steered the conversation back on to more appropriate ground.

  “You’re wearing a chypre. It’s very nice, but if I understood correctly, you’re looking for something new?”

  Suddenly, Jean-Baptiste lost all his belligerence. “Yes, that’s right. I wanted a perfume with character. Something clear but original. But that . . . erm . . . she didn’t understand. She wasn’t listening to me.”

  Elena was thinking of another chypre. Yes, it was a classic perfume with a base of oak moss, but she could put a spring in its step with lemon and vetiver to make it fuller and fresher. This man would wear it well. He seemed to have very particular and unconventional taste, judging from his outfit of blue jacket, pale blue striped trousers and red neckerchief. He was sporting a large gold ring on his right hand. There was nothing shy about him, just a real determination. He was a man with a plan. The perfume he wanted was part of a scheme to conquer a lady; it was so important to him that he was convinced he should handle the matter of a perfume personally.

  “Why don’t you smell these fragrances again? We can vary them to your taste,” Elena suggested, needing to buy some time. She had to speak to Claudine. She was sure that somewhere in the shop there would be a new-generation chypre. After all, Montier was a professional; he wouldn’t be without the latest version of the most universally loved classic perfumes.

  Jean-Baptiste immediately went back to sulking. For a moment Elena was genuinely afraid he’d refuse. She looked at Claudine, and then back at him. Maybe because of the worry on the new sales assistant’s face, or simply because he wanted to spite the witch who’d treated him with such arrogance, Jean-Baptiste stretched out his hand and started to sniff a mouillette.

  “I’ll be right back,” Elena told him with a relieved smile.

  “Take your time, my dear,” he said.

  When Elena found Claudine, she explained what she had in mind.

  “Have you got something that would have neroli, pink grapefruit or even lemon as top notes; jasmine, gardenia, magnolia or another floral mélange as the middle, amber, sandalwood and musk? Vetiver, for example, would be perfect.”

  Claudine thought for a moment. “Yes, it’s a chypre. We’ve got one that might be what you need. I think there’s some leather in it, too.”

  Elena couldn’t have wished for better. Leather was a potent, ancestral, masculine perfume.

  “That would be perfect.”

  Claudine didn’t return Elena’s smile but got straight to work. They didn’t use chypres very often; they were too strong, too rich—they were perfumes with a lot of personality, not easy to wear, and almost always thought of as women’s fragrances. But in certain compositions, with the right ingredients, they could be intensely masculine. Why not? Elena’s intuition might be spot-on. Claudine checked the storeroom, found what she was looking for and went back to the man.

  Elena followed, a few steps behind her. Jean-Baptiste was still offended. When Claudine offered him the mouillette, he pretended to be looking the other way.

  Claudine bit her lip. “Mademoiselle, could you show the perfume to this gentleman? I need you to take over for me, as Philippe requires my assistance.”

  When she had left them alone, Jean-Baptiste turned around once more.

  “Is it for a special occasion?” Elena asked him.

  The man took the strip of paper with his fingertips and lifted it to his nose.

  “Yes, very special,” he admitted.

  “Sniff it gently and think about what you want, what you would like to happen. See whether it feels right or if it’s missing something.”

  He did as she said. In silence, almost reverently. Then, after a while, he started to talk.

  “Things ended badly, and all over nothing. We were young, proud. Now . . . things are different. I never married; she’s a widow.” He kept gently wafting the chypre-soaked paper back and forth. Elena stayed quiet, entranced by the story.

  “She wasn’t the only woman I ever loved, it’s not like that. But she was the one I suffered for the most. And she’s always been in my thoughts; it’s surprising how long she’s stayed there.”

  He paused and shook the strip of paper. “She’s annoyingly stubborn,” he said, frowning again. “But when she smiles, her eyes light up and she looks straight into your soul. She’s beautiful, she really is, in spite of all the years that have gone by. She’s beautiful to me.” He smelled the perfume again. “It reminds me of a garden, not just flowers, but plants. I feel as if I can hear running water, lemon . . . or maybe it’s orange. We once went to a citrus grove together. It was a lovely day, we laughed so much; we were very happy in those days. Then we came back to the city.”

  He’d gone back to his memories . . . and it was all thanks to the perfume. Elena was almost moved to tears.

  “Have you ever been in love, mademoiselle?”

  “No, I . . . I don’t think so,” she said honestly, after a long pause. He gave her a strange look.

  “Don’t worry, you’re pretty and you’re kind. You’ll find the right man soon enough. It’s sad to be alone, my dear. Pride may look hot on the surface, but it makes a cold companion. Try to follow your heart.”

  Suddenly Elena felt the need to tell someone about a man she’d met only twice, in the dark. She didn’t even know what he looked like, really. But his smell, she knew that well enough. She felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach, but then chased away those thoughts and focused on Jean-Baptiste.

  “Well, I was engaged once,” she told him, “but he . . . he’d rather . . . It didn’t work out,” she concluded. Jean-Baptiste reached out a hand and placed it on top of hers.

  “He’s an idiot, that’s for sure. Don’t worry, ma petite. Life may present us with things, God may provide, but we have the final say on everything.”

  “True,” Elena murmured, although she didn’t really believe it.

  “I like this perfume very much,” the man went on. “It
reminds me of the past, but it has something new. It’s exactly what I wanted. Hope. Life has no meaning without hope, as you know, mademoiselle.”

  Yes, she knew. That was what had brought her to Paris, almost without even thinking about it. She’d done it even though she knew it wouldn’t be easy. So why did she have a lump in her throat? And tears stinging her eyes? She chased them away and forced a smile.

  “So I’m learning,” she said.

  Jean-Baptiste beamed. “You’re a clever girl. Now, give me a package of this perfume—but not too big, mind. That way I’ll have an excuse to come back soon.”

  He winked and Elena saw that he must have been a real heartbreaker in his youth. Who knew what stories she might have, this mysterious woman who’d prompted him to seek out a special perfume, something to remind her of the good old days and convince her to try again, to give their relationship a second chance?

  That wasn’t the only sale Elena made that day. Under the watchful eye of Claudine, she served several customers and took two big orders.

  On her way home, tired but very pleased with the way things had gone, she tried to remember what she knew about composition—but she was too tense to concentrate. The customers’ emotions had invaded her, and she could hear them speaking to her. She’d tried to fight it and push them back, more out of habit than anything else. But they’d managed to get through her defenses, and there they were, like birds perched on a branch, never taking their eyes off her, not even for a second. She listened to their requests, but more than anything she wanted to give them what they wished for. Because she knew how to do it: that was the one thing she could do better than anything else. And that scared her. She was terrified of her own abilities, terrified that the Rossinis’ obsession would manifest itself in her, the way it had in her mother and grandmother.

  Her ancestors had given up everything for perfume. Would she be able to resist it? Could she make her peace with perfume without becoming enslaved to it?

  She didn’t know. Or rather, she wasn’t sure, because right then, she was enjoying herself. Being at Narcissus, helping customers find the right smell for their lives and their dreams, had made her happy. No, it was more than that: it had given meaning to her day.