The Secret Ways of Perfume

by Cristina Caboni

  “Madame Binoche got in touch with me again,” Elena went on. “She told me she’s almost finished writing the book. She still likes the idea of the perfume of Notre-Dame. She didn’t go back to Narcissus . . . She wants me to be the one to make the perfume.”

  “Yes, you told me. But that will have to wait, as I need to go away again, but this time I’ll have a free weekend in the middle of my trip. How about you come with me? We can finally go and see Beatrice’s castle.”

  Twenty-one

  CEDAR: reflection. Extracted from the wood, this is one of the oldest known essences.

  The fragrance strengthens and guards the spirit.

  Helps maintain clarity, balance and a sense of proportion. Encourages profound observation.

  Perfumes and colors. That was Provence. Elena remembered it well, and feelings swirled around inside her, never knowing where to settle—a bit like those butterflies she’d seen in the greenhouse with Cail. They flew around and around, and it was impossible to know where they were going to rest.

  “We’re almost there,” Cail said. “Are you feeling OK?”

  “Yep. Just fine.” But that wasn’t true. Suddenly, going on this trip didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.

  “If you keep pulling the seat belt like that, you’re going to rip it out.”

  “We’ve got insurance,” she replied, distracted, her eyes glued to the windshield of the SUV Cail had hired at the airport.

  On both sides of the road, lavender bushes marked out a silver path with no end in sight. The bushes clambered through hills, down valleys and then rose skyward again before disappearing—only to reappear moments later. When they flowered in June, the pearly gray of the leaves would be offset by the deep blue of the heads. And then there would be the wonderful perfume . . . Nothing could compare to the scent of lavender in flower. By day it was accompanied by the buzzing of bees, by night the chirping of crickets.

  That April morning, the sky was clear, almost dazzling.

  “Twenty minutes and we’ll be there,” Cail told her.

  Elena tensed. “Can’t we stay in a hotel?”

  He changed gear and slowed down. “Yes, of course. We can do whatever you want. Why?”

  “I wouldn’t want to cause problems for you.”

  “You’re not. So relax, OK?”

  Elena ran her fingers through her hair, pulled it back and tried to tie it in a knot. As soon as she let go, it fell back over her shoulders in thick golden waves.

  “You do that all the time lately,” Cail remarked.

  “What? What do I do all the time, sorry?”

  “Play with your hair, try to tie it up then let it go.”

  Elena tugged at the seat belt again, letting it out a little. She felt suffocated.

  “I’m nervous, that’s all.”

  “OK, now do you want to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?” Cail asked.

  Elena took a deep breath. “In general it doesn’t bother me, OK?”

  “What—that people like you? I beg to differ. You want everyone to like you. It’s crucial for you.”

  “But . . . that’s terrible,” she stuttered, staring at him with bright, wide eyes and a mixture of bewilderment and indignation.

  Cail shook his head. “No. Terrible would be thinking that someone cared about you just because you act the way they want you to. Terrible is being so insecure you don’t know what you’re really worth: letting yourself be manipulated by someone whose only concept of a relationship is crushing other people. That would be terrible, Elena.” He spoke calmly, without changing his tone, in the same voice he’d just used to point out something so insignificant she could no longer remember what it was. “‘Terrible’ is the perverse way some people subjugate children and adults,” Cail went on. “People who threaten not to love you anymore if you ever do something they don’t like. Look at you, Elena; you’re beautiful inside and out. Don’t be ruled by your vulnerability.”

  A long silence, then she let go of the seat belt and turned back to the window. “I don’t like being psychoanalyzed.”

  Cail smiled. “Because I’m good at it, and that winds you up. Besides, I always tell you the truth. I don’t care what you say or do. You know those things wouldn’t make me change my mind about you. That’s why you like me.”

  Elena shot him a burning glare. But when she saw the look on Cail’s face she had to bite her lip to try not to burst out laughing. “It’s not you I like, it’s the perfume you wear,” she said haughtily. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that’s how it is.”

  “I never wear perfume,” Cail said. “I wouldn’t be able to smell the roses if I did.”

  “But . . . that’s impossible,” Elena said.

  “I swear, no perfume. Ever.”

  Elena was baffled. She could smell Cail’s perfume—even in that very moment. It was intense, spicy and enthralling. And it was the first thing she had noticed about him, even before she saw his face.

  Elena stretched out a hand to turn on the radio. But after a couple of minutes she turned it off again.

  “Relax,” Cail said. “It’s all going to be fine. My parents will adore you. They couldn’t not, even if they wanted to. You sneak into people’s hearts by the back door, unassumingly, which makes it practically impossible to kick you out. As for Beatrice, I don’t know if we’ll find the answers at the château. I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

  Silence. Cail looked fleetingly over at Elena, who was curled so far into her seat it seemed as if she wanted to disappear into it.

  “Hey, what’s wrong? Do you want me to stop the car?” he asked gently.

  “Couldn’t you just say you like me?”

  Cail smiled. “That would be an understatement, don’t you think? And I can’t really explain anything right now. Time, remember? We talked about this.”

  Elena smiled. “Yeah, yeah . . . time . . . the baby, blah blah blah.”

  They drove peacefully for a few miles. Once they’d passed Avignon, they left the main road for a smaller road, heading into the countryside. The meadows soon made way for hills. Elena noticed that right at the highest points there were clusters of houses and little villages. Covering the slopes, like a colorful blanket, were fields of flowers, vineyards and olive groves.

  “There. That’s home—La Damascena,” Cail said, pointing to an iron gate set in a stone wall. “There are ten hectares including Mediterranean scrubland, hundred-year-old olive trees and the greenhouses where we keep the roses. There’s also a stream running through it. Angus, my father, diverted it into an artificial lake, so during the wet season the water is contained and the fields don’t flood anymore. Up on the highest part there’s the main house. Then an outbuilding where my sister Sophie lives, and a bit further down, there is my house.”

  His voice held that subtle pride that comes from years spent improving, organizing and caring for your own land. In the end it becomes part of you. Elena felt the same about the Rossini house in Florence. The house she’d never considered home and had now made her own again, just as Cail had done with La Damascena.

  “And where are we staying?” There was a hint of apprehension in her question.

  “Together, obviously. My house isn’t very big, but it has two bedrooms and we should be quite comfortable. We’ll have more freedom. Once my mother gets her hands on you, it’ll be difficult to tear you away from her.”

  “I . . . have you told her about the baby?”

  Cail didn’t reply.

  Elena moistened her lips and said in a small voice, “I don’t want to cause any problems.”

  “You won’t, don’t worry. Look, we’re here,” he said, still ignoring the question that was burning in her mind.

  Even if she had wanted to say something else, there wasn’t the opportunity, for the road they�
�d taken after Cail had activated the automatic gates opened into a gravel-covered courtyard. Ahead of them were the walls of a picturesque old mill; part of its structure was still visible, the wheel plunging into the stream . . . the waters singing many a story about the property. The house was about one hundred meters away, to the right. It was certainly the most recent building in the complex: three stories high and built entirely in white stone. In the midday sun, its neat blue shutters seemed to smile. On the wooden porch stood a group of terra-cotta pots very similar to the ones Elena knew from Florence. And then roses, a profusion of roses like she’d never seen before. They were climbing along the walls, spilling from vases, carpeting the flower beds. Red, yellow, pink, in every possible shade and form, tapered, globe- or chalice-shaped. Some buds were simple and elegant, others round like marbles.

  Cail parked in front of the house, jumped out and opened the door for Elena.

  “Finally! I was starting to think you’d changed your mind.” An attractive, mature woman with a confident walk and a friendly smile came toward them.

  Elena tensed. “Don’t leave me,” she said in a panic. Cail reached for her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers.

  “Never,” he whispered, with a gentle squeeze.

  “We stopped to admire the view,” he said. “Mom, this is Elena.”

  “Of course it’s her. Who else would it be?” Elizabeth replied, unraveling herself from her son’s embrace. “Welcome, my dear. Now, if my son would be so kind as to let go of your hand, I’d like to greet you properly.”

  “Thank you,” Elena said quietly.

  Elizabeth smelled of roses, but her perfume was delicate, discreet, like the scent coming from the rosebuds. First came gardenia, then vanilla. It was sweet, like the look she was giving Elena.

  She hadn’t expected such a warm welcome. And when Angus McLean arrived, a few moments later, she needed no introduction. Looking at him gave Elena a fairly good idea of what Cail would look like in another thirty years.

  Giving her a big bear hug, he kissed her on each cheek. “Good gracious, my boy. You’ve always been one for surprises, but this is two for the price of one!” he said, gesturing toward Elena. “I think you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

  Elena, Cail and Elizabeth tried to ignore his allusions, but he continued to congratulate his son, patting him heartily on the back and grinning. Like Cail, Angus smelled of roses. Both men were well-built and strong, so confident in themselves that they weren’t afraid of sporting a supposedly feminine fragrance. There was nothing vulnerable or affected about them. In Angus, however, there was something else: black pepper, cedar and other woods. It was unusual, this perfume, and strong. How a couple as talkative and exuberant as these two had produced a reserved man like Cail was beyond her.

  Elena was pampered by them all. While Angus took her to see the garden and showed her the greenhouses, Cail got Hermione out of the garage and took the bike for a spin. Elena saw him disappear with a deep roar that resembled the panic in her stomach. But before there was time for it to develop into anything more substantial, she heard him come back—and when he took off his helmet and gave her a wink, she burst out laughing.

  Then Sophie arrived. Cail’s sister was a real beauty, without seeming to put any effort into her appearance. Simple, like the scent of golden citrus that spoke of long hours in the sun, she also smelled of roses. Gentle, subtle, combining with jasmine to become complex and intense.

  She asked Elena all about perfume. She was very well-informed about the plants the essences were extracted from, especially when it came to protecting endangered species. Cail had told Elena that the environment was an issue close to his sister’s heart. She was a primary school teacher and spent her free time cultivating native plants that were disappearing, which she then replanted in the wild with Cail.

  “And what about whales, musk deer, beavers and civets? Is it true that parts of those animals are used to make perfume?”

  Elena chose her words carefully. “I could say yes . . . but that wouldn’t be entirely true. Ambergris is a spontaneous secretion produced by sperm whales. It’s very rare. As for other animal products, nobody uses them anymore.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Apart from the fact that it’s prohibited by law, all the perfumiers I’ve worked with replaced them years ago with synthetic substances that are more acceptable from all points of view.”

  “So you don’t make perfumes with those ingredients?”

  “For me, perfume is about well-being, about respect for nature. Of course, that means I have to work with fewer essences, but that’s fine. I believe that every perfumier should take an ethical stance on this. Extracting natural substances can have a huge impact on the environment, too. Sandalwood, for example, is now a very precious substance; it’s practically on the verge of extinction. And it takes tons of water to produce just a liter of bergamot essential oil. In these cases, a product made by a chemical laboratory is an excellent alternative. It’s best to dispel the myth that natural equals good and synthetic equals bad. All the choices we make should be as well-informed as possible.”

  Sophie listened attentively to Elena’s explanations, the color of her eyes, such a dark blue they seemed almost black, giving an added intensity to her gaze. She was blond, like her mother, with a pale complexion. Cail, however, had inherited his features from his father, who, with a certain pride, still sported a lion’s mane of chestnut-brown hair, with just a fleck of white at the temples. He was tall and well-built, like his son, and just then the two were having an animated discussion in front of the huge stone fireplace in the dining room. Elizabeth glanced over at them from time to time as she set the table. Elena couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she was watching them with growing concern.

  “They always do this,” Sophie told her. “My dad loves flexing his muscles, but with Cail around there’s not much he can do. I’ve never met such a stubborn man.”

  Elena smiled, but she was still worried. What if she was the reason they were arguing?

  Sophie seemed to read her mind and gave her a nudge of encouragement. “Dad’s so contrary. You know he’ll disagree with everything Cail says,” she went on, pouring a glass of wine that smelled of blackberries. “Then, as soon as my brother’s back is turned, all he does is brag about his success, his theories. ‘Cail says this, Cail says that.’ Do you know that in Paris, at the start of June, there’s going to be a competition for new roses at the Parc de Bagatelle?”

  Elena nodded.

  “We’re entering a special rose. Dad’s really happy with the work Cail has done. He thinks Cail’s rose will win—actually, he’s sure it will. But he’ll still argue with him about it, come up with other options that Cail just rejects. He’s already decided what he’s going to show. A new rose, a red rose.”

  Elena knew; Cail had often talked to her about the competition. It was one of the most important dates of the season. They were going to go together, and she couldn’t wait.

  At that moment he caught her eye, smiled at her and raised his glass in her direction.

  “Cail doesn’t seem bothered by the argument,” she commented.

  Sophie looked at her, puzzled. “Why would he be? He’s having a whale of a time. Ever since he grew as tall as our dad, when he was about thirteen, fourteen, he’s done nothing but hold his own. I used to enjoy watching them argue. You know, Elena, it couldn’t have been any other way; our dad’s such a strong character.”

  Her grandmother was, too, but Elena, like her mother, had always tried to avoid confrontation. Susanna had even left to seek her own path, casting aside anything that could get in her way.

  And Elena? Well, she, too, could be pretty stubborn when she wanted to be. Didn’t she refuse to follow Lucia’s teachings just to prove she had the right to choose? And hadn’t she tried to marry a man she didn’t love and who, thank God,
had cheated on her and got caught? She sniggered. Where had that thought come from? Thank God that she’d caught him at it with Alessia. The betrayal had taken her by surprise, throwing everything into disarray. But in the end, life really was all about perspective. Now she was glad it had happened. It seemed almost absurd, but it was the truth. Matteo’s infidelity had triggered a chain reaction that had brought her into Cail’s arms and given her a new life, a new Elena.

  For the first time in a long time, she could make sense of so many things: she had ambitions, a plan, goals. She looked over at Cail, who was still talking to his father. Sparring. It really was wonderful; she was a lucky woman.

  She just had to wait until the baby was born to be absolutely certain.

  • • •

  “Are you sure this is the castle?”

  Elena was still looking at the majestic building that stood proudly on top of a low hill, between a village and a beautiful green valley. They’d set off early, leaving La Damascena at dawn. Cail called in to see a customer on the way, then they arrived at the village of Lourmarin.

  “No, but there are a couple of things that made me think it might be.”

  Elena carried on gazing at the castle, which still seemed too modern. “I don’t know—look at the towers, and then down there. Doesn’t it look . . . well, new?” she said, pointing at one wing of the building.

  Cail stared at her. “New? Not if we assume it was seriously damaged during the French Revolution. This part might have been restored more recently.”

  Yes, that was possible. Elena looked around, trying to find details that would bring her back to the diary, to what Beatrice had written. They were in the village now, the sun reflecting off the bright stone of the houses and medieval turrets, part of whose walls had been incorporated into the subsequent constructions. Tourists wandered around the narrow streets, where lush ivy climbed the walls. All in all, Lourmarin wasn’t much different from the other hundreds of small Provençal villages. Solid structures of stone and seasoned wood, squares with shops selling local fabrics in red and turquoise, essences and perfumes bearing the label “natural,” bunches of dried lavender and other herbs. Then all the cafés and restaurants where people stopped to try local dishes. But there was also something special about Lourmarin, something soothing. It was truly lovely, with a quiet beauty that came from its simplicity.