The Secret Ways of Perfume

by Cristina Caboni

  “Of course, don’t worry. I’ll send you a message when we get back tomorrow. OK?” Elena ended the conversation and put her mobile down on the bed. A rose-breeder—it was such a fascinating job. That explained the smell of earth and roses.

  Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow, she would ask him to tell her about himself and his work. She’d soon satisfy her curiosity.

  • • •

  Later that night, before he fell asleep, Cail analyzed every moment he’d spent with Elena but couldn’t find any specific explanation for the interest he was developing in this woman. He liked her—it was as simple as that. And that was something he really couldn’t understand.

  Eleven

  IRIS: trust. Precious and essential, like water, air, earth and fire.

  The fragrance is bright and intense.

  Relieves tension and renews faith in the soul.

  It was the third time Monique had been over the formula. She dipped the mouillette into the graduated cylinder and sniffed, then waited for the top notes—almond and grapefruit, both volatile—to disappear. She inhaled again, looking for what made up the heart of the perfume: white musk and tonka bean. She waited again, because there was something missing from this compound that should bring to mind the skin of a strong, determined man, the kind women dream about: sandalwood and vetiver.

  Nothing—she could smell nothing apart from the sharp tang of vetiver. It wasn’t good enough. She wanted a scent that symbolized the purest essence of masculinity—an intense fragrance that promised what no words could ever explain. What she really wanted, in fact, was the smell of Jacques.

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone!” she burst out, slamming the palm of her hand down on the table.

  The graduated cylinder holding the mixture swayed. Monique put out her hand to grab it, but it slipped through her fingers, tipping out its contents. A straw-colored halo spread across the worktop, spilling onto droppers, paper funnels and all the equipment Monique had set out in front of her, including her notebook.

  Speechless, she stared at the disaster, and then she swore. She almost ripped her lab coat in her hurry to take it off. She needed air, and space. She opened the door and walked down the corridor. Outside the laboratory that Le Notre had assigned to her, she met the cleaner. “Get rid of that mess—all of it. Now,” she ordered brusquely.

  She reached the stairs and ran down to the terrace. Despite the bright sun, her breath turned to cold mist almost straightaway. But that wasn’t what was clouding Monique’s eyes. It was tears of frustration.

  She wiped her face and then took a deep breath of icy air. “I’ll start again from the beginning,” she vowed. “It doesn’t matter if it takes me all day, I will make this perfume.”

  • • •

  Claudine had been watching Elena Rossini all morning. She liked the way this young woman did things. She was competent, polite but firm—and she wouldn’t be fobbed off by customers, suggesting alternatives instead. Yes, she was a valuable addition. And Claudine had every intention of making the most of her. After all, a practical woman like herself knew that life as a manager had its advantages. She’d offered her support to Elena Rossini because she could tell she was going to be very useful.

  Just then, a sophisticated-looking woman stopped right in front of Claudine’s counter. “I want a light perfume,” she said. “Something suitable for a very young girl.”

  She hadn’t waited to find out whether Claudine was free: she expected to be served immediately. The woman was smartly dressed and looked around condescendingly, her fingers poised on the arm of a pair of half-moon Gucci spectacles.

  Claudine knew this kind of customer all too well. After seven years of serving Narcissus’s clients, she’d developed a kind of sixth sense. She’d bet this one was going to be both difficult and stingy. One of those women who are rolling in money, and who want everything to be instant and unique, while expecting it to come cheap—less than they tip their waitresses.

  “I’ll call the sales assistant,” Claudine replied with her usual serene expression.

  She didn’t give the customer a chance to respond, savoring every second of the astonished look the woman gave her, as she blithely walked away. As soon as she caught Elena’s eye, she beckoned her over and discreetly pointed out the woman. “Madame needs a young, delicate perfume. Try to find something for her.” With that she turned and marched off, leaving Elena to it. If and when the customer pulled out her wallet, only then would Claudine need to make a reappearance, just in time to register the sale in her own name and take all the credit.

  • • •

  Elena had a special afternoon ahead of her. All morning, thoughts of her date with Cail popped into her mind at the most inappropriate moments. She couldn’t wait to go for a walk with him, and felt happy and slightly nervous.

  She was very pleased with the way things were going at Narcissus. Even though at first it had sounded less than promising, she’d settled in pretty well. Every day, she understood the dynamics of sales a little better, and that morning she’d had some really enjoyable moments.

  A super-chic woman, who looked like an aristocrat, had bought a perfume for her daughter. She wanted to give her a special present, she said. Things were tense between them. Just like that, her little girl had vanished and been replaced by a gloomy, depressed stranger who was always picking fights. Eloise Chabot wanted something that would make her daughter realize how much she meant to her.

  Her own mother, Susanna, had given her a perfume once. Elena had almost forgotten. The memory cropped up out of nowhere, taking her by surprise. It was a birthday present. She’d never opened the perfume; it must still be in Florence, somewhere in the enormous chest in which her grandmother had kept everything.

  Elena recommended a simple composition for the woman: almond, honey, peony, chocolate and tonka bean; and as a base note, the warmth and velvety softness of amber. It had a flavor of childhood but also a hint of malice and seduction.

  “It’s not a girl’s perfume, but it’s not an adult’s either. It doesn’t have the certainty of someone who’s arrived. There’s still a way to go.”

  Eloise thanked her with a big smile. When they said goodbye, the woman almost gave her a hug.

  It was never like this before, Elena thought as she hurried home. She’d never felt the deep sense of satisfaction that came from knowing that her work was important, that she’d done something significant for someone.

  Her mind went back to the perfume her mother had made for her. When she first received it, she felt ridiculously happy for a moment, almost crazy. It was always like that when she got something from Susanna. She held the parcel in her hands . . . then her happiness gradually faded. It felt as if she was holding a broken glass container, full of cracks, and all the contents were seeping out. She made herself put the present away without opening it. She didn’t need that kind of gift from her mother. A perfume, for heaven’s sake. She could have all the perfume she wanted. Her grandmother was always creating new ones. And besides, if she really wanted a perfume, she’d make one herself.

  What she actually wanted from her mother was quite different, the young Elena thought, as what remained of her momentary happiness turned to anger and bitterness. What she wanted was a hug, hours of conversation, attention, laughter, even tellings-off, the kind that end with tears and promises. She wanted to tell her about the time Massimo Ferri from 3B had asked her out and how disappointing it was when he kissed her. And the way he smelled . . . so wrong.

  Oh God! Where had she unearthed that memory from? The blast of a car horn brought her back to reality. A smile crept onto her face. How silly! Massimo Ferri . . . She’d had such a crush on that boy whose name she could remember, but not his face—a crush that disappeared just as quickly as it came.

  As ever, she banished anything to do with her mother, and all the pain that went with it,
to a suitably deep, dark part of her soul. But she was still curious about the perfume: what Susanna had ended up choosing for her, whether it was vanilla or gardenia, neroli or lavender.

  When she reached the crossroads with rue des Rosiers she glanced over at the print-seller. He was huddled up in his big old jacket and had put on a red wooly hat that left his eyes uncovered and made him look younger. She stopped for a moment to watch him, stamping his feet, which had frozen stiff in the cold. When she got home she’d put boots on, she decided. She wanted to be warm on the walk and to see everything Cail had to show her.

  In the meantime, the old man had turned on the record player. There it was: “La Vie en Rose.”

  She smiled and headed home.

  • • •

  When Cail arrived, she’d been ready for a while. She was wearing a midnight-blue skirt, a white shirt and a wide-necked sweater. She’d bought it just after she arrived in Paris, in one of those little vintage shops that had cropped up all over the city. It was soft, thick and powder pink; she would never have dreamed of wearing that color when she lived in Florence, and now she loved it. Besides, according to the assistant, it looked divine on her.

  “Di-vine,” she repeated to herself as she walked down the stairs, trying to recall the exact inflection the woman had used.

  “Hi,” she said, opening the door.

  Cail stared at her without saying anything. Elena felt him look her up and down. She held her breath; her heart was racing.

  “You should wear a jacket,” was all he said.

  “Oh.” Elena scowled. Short, sharp and to the point. God, it wasn’t as if she was expecting a kiss or anything. Liar, she scolded herself, fighting the sting of disappointment.

  “Right, here it is,” she said, turning around. On the wall was one of those old-fashioned coatracks, and on it hung a long wool jacket.

  Cail took it out of her hand, felt the material and shook his head. “That won’t do. You need something thicker.”

  “I’ll be right back.” A few minutes later she came down wearing a leather jacket and a scarf around her neck.

  Cail looked at her and nodded his approval. But he didn’t return her smile; he appeared to be deep in thought. Now what was wrong? He almost seemed angry.

  “Look, if you’ve changed your mind, if you don’t feel like going anymore, that’s no problem.”

  He ignored what she was saying. Instead, he asked: “Are you all right?”

  No, of course she wasn’t all right. She was confused and couldn’t understand what had got into him. She frowned. “Yes. Are you?”

  “Seriously, Elena. We’re taking the motorbike and it’ll be cold.”

  Motorbike? She’d never been on one—she’d always been a bit scared of the noise. Then all her doubts disappeared. Cail had a motorbike and he wanted to take her on it!

  “I didn’t know you had a bike. But won’t I need a helmet? I don’t have one,” she said with a hint of disappointment in her voice.

  Cail raised an eyebrow. “There’s a spare helmet,” he said. Then he stretched out his hand and, with the tip of his forefinger, he lifted a lock of hair that was hanging in her face and tucked it behind her ear.

  “Do your jacket up.”

  He stepped back and cast that moody look over her again, from top to toe. Elena felt her heart flutter.

  “Let’s go, it’s getting late,” he said, putting an end to their strangely charged moment. Two minutes later, Elena was looking at a giant chrome racer, metallic black, with red flames painted on the gas tank. Hermione, Cail told her it was called.

  Elena didn’t bat an eyelid. Who was she to tell him it was ridiculous to give a motorbike a woman’s name? So she bit her lip until the urge to giggle had passed, focusing on the best way to get herself onto the thing.

  “Here, I’ll show you,” Cail told her.

  “It’s easy for you, but my legs are nowhere near as long as yours,” she protested, looking apprehensively at the seat of the Harley. Cail shook his head. Once he’d fastened the strap on her helmet, he slid an arm around her waist. A moment later she was on the back of the bike. The engine rumbled, low at first, then louder. When they set off, Elena was clinging so tightly to Cail she was afraid he might object. In the end, she decided nothing would have convinced her to loosen her grip.

  • • •

  City of Light.

  If three little words could describe Paris, it would undoubtedly be those. The city shone and sparkled with life. It was only five in the afternoon, but a veil of cloud had dimmed the sunlight and the whole of Paris had lit up in response to the invitation. And, as Elena thought about it then, it was that glow that had lingered in her mind since childhood—that and the perfume. The city smelled of cars, people, food and tobacco. There was another perfume that came off the Seine, too, hot and stifling. Only now it was different, for there was also the smell of this man she was holding on to so tightly: strong, warm and intriguing, a mixture of herbs and leather, and sweetness.

  It was comforting to have his firm back to cling to. She also felt slightly concerned, as if she was about to do something stupid. After all, he was a stranger, a charming man who had decided to show her a wonderful and very romantic city. If only she could hear the strains of “La Vie en Rose,” she thought, the moment would have been even more magical.

  They reached Île de la Cité and drove toward a car park.

  “Here we are,” Cail said, helping Elena, who had already started struggling with her helmet strap.

  “Urgh, I can’t wait to get this thing off,” she grumbled. She was hot and, despite the fact that she could see her breath condense in front of her, she could feel her face burning up. But most of all she was happy. She’d felt joy and dread in equal measure and she’d loved every minute of the adrenaline rush. She couldn’t wait to do it again.

  There were people milling around everywhere, and after a while Cail took her hand. “Stay close,” he said, gesturing toward the crowd.

  “If you insist,” Elena replied, rolling her eyes.

  Puzzled, Cail squinted at her; when she laughed happily, he realized she was joking and found that he wanted to laugh along with her. He felt good—she made him feel good. They stood there, in the middle of a crowd, staring at each other, searching for some unspoken understanding.

  “Come on, let’s go,” he said brusquely, once again snapping them out of that strange intensity they’d fallen into.

  “Where?”

  “You’ll like it.”

  No, he wasn’t the chattiest character, but Elena was starting to get used to his style. Besides, she felt safe with him, holding his warm hand in hers.

  “Come on, give me a bit more. You can’t expect me to follow you if you don’t even tell me where we’re going.”

  Cail seemed to think about it, then he turned to her. “Chocolate,” he whispered, getting close to her lips for a moment. Elena started to giggle. Chocolate was, by far, her biggest weakness.

  “If this is a dream,” she said with a grin, “don’t wake me up.”

  Cail tutted, but when he went to take Elena’s pulse, brushing his thumb over the network of veins on her wrist, her heartbeat was racing. It was a tender and intimate gesture. Elena could have taken her hand away at any point—Cail was only holding on gently—yet she felt bound to him, and it troubled her.

  They carried on walking, hand in hand, in silence. When the crowd got busier, Cail pulled her closer, putting his arm around her, and after an initial moment of surprise, she let herself sink into his embrace.

  There were lots of tourists in front of Notre Dame. A long line had formed from one end of the square to the other.

  “We’ll never make it up there,” Elena murmured, staring mournfully at the tops of the bell towers. She would have loved to see Paris from above again, and she would have loved to se
e it with Cail. The view from the bell towers was magnificent; it was unique. She could still remember it, after all these years. Then a thought struck her from somewhere: if they saw it together, they would have something to share.

  “We’ll find a way, trust me,” Cail assured her.

  Elena looked at him, and she could tell that he meant it.

  The bakery wasn’t far from the cathedral, no more than one hundred meters. It was all pink—Elena could hardly believe her eyes. She stopped a few meters away and breathed in the perfume coming from this beautiful shop. Forest fruits, honey, chocolate, peach. And the unmistakable smell of melting sugar, seconds before it browns and turns to crunchy caramel.

  A sudden wave of lethargy made her realize she was starving. Then the tingle in her stomach became a viselike grip and she froze, scared that she was going to feel ill again.

  “It’s not Ladurée,” Cail told her suddenly, as though he felt the need to apologize.

  Elena shrugged. “If it tastes even half as good as it smells, it will be heaven.” The strange pang of sickness had vanished again, leaving just ravenous hunger.

  Inside, everything was a shade of cream, from the seats to the shelves stacked with jars in every size, shape and color.

  Elena could tell immediately that the smell of freshly baked cookies wasn’t coming from the kitchens, but was the sophisticated composition of a perfumier. She smiled to herself as Cail helped her take off her jacket. Olfactory psychology. Lots of shops had their own perfumes made nowadays to associate them with a happy feeling, and to leave an unforgettable impression on their customers. This place was a sheer delight for the senses: the wonderful view, the smell, the taste, the feeling of well-being.

  A girl dressed in white served them straightaway, bringing a selection of pastries, fruit macarons, a hot chocolate topped with cream for Elena, and a black tea for Cail. Wasting no time, Elena dived in. The desserts were delicious. As she sank her teeth into the thin, fruity crust, the soft pastry melted in her mouth.