The Secret Ways of Perfume

by Cristina Caboni

  “Seriously?” Aurore was going to make her first perfume, and she was going to make it by herself! She still couldn’t believe it.

  The girl’s face revealed the utmost concentration. Elena would bet Aurore was already imagining how to mix the various essences, and decided she’d better give her a quick explanation before she got carried away by her artistic streak.

  “Perfume is emotion—we agree on that. But it is also objective. Perfume has a structure: it comes from a framework, it follows a route, and we have to bear that in mind. But almost immediately, the perfume becomes subjective, because it stirs something in the person smelling it. A customized perfume represents us entirely, more than anything else: we like it, it comes from us. It’s a way we communicate with others—with anyone, actually; it’s not limited to people we know.”

  “When you talk like that I could listen to you for hours,” Aurore whispered.

  They exchanged a smile, and the lesson continued.

  “For it to truly represent us, a customized perfume has to say something about us. Who are we? What do we want? What do we like? What do we not like? We can outline the concepts, then use them to create the formula. The more clearly we can establish what our customer’s perfume should represent, the easier it is to find it. In general, there are three types of people who ask for a personalized perfume. Firstly, people who want a fragrance that brings joy, well-being and happiness with every breath. Secondly, those who want the perfume to identify them: it’s unique, it belongs to them, distinguishes them from the rest of the world. Finally, those who see customized perfume as something glamourous, an expression of sophistication as opposed to standardized perfume, which has lost its identity.”

  Elena paused; now came the difficult part, and she wanted the girl to really grasp the various mechanisms involved in the process. “To really understand what a customer likes and what they don’t like, we have to start with the five senses: visual colors, tactile sensations, sounds, music, what they like about food, flavors, and of course, smells, bearing in mind which perfumes they’ve worn and why they bought them. In short, a full sensory identikit. And last but not least, you need to take into account the personality of the client, and you do that by creating a rapport: talking to them, exchanging emails, making some personal contact. These are the essential things you have to know.”

  “Everything looks different when you say it like that.”

  “Exactly. Perfume isn’t just something you put on—it’s a wonderful, complex world of its own, a symbol.” She looked at Aurore. “When the overall picture of who the customer is becomes clearer, the perfume should interpret it, transform it into smells. So then you choose the base notes; these form the backbone of the perfume. From there, you can make a few more suggestions, from which the customer can choose. It will still be a draft at this stage, though, to be corrected on the basis of its master’s feelings.”

  “The perfume’s master . . . wow. So I could become the master of the perfume we’re going to make,” Aurore said.

  “Not you could, you will.” Elena didn’t say anything for a moment; she wanted to make sure the girl understood. “Now, let’s get started. First question: who is Aurore?”

  Aurore laughed nervously, then the smile vanished from her lips and a look of real bewilderment appeared on her face. Elena grinned at her and winked. “OK, let’s start with an easy one. What do you hate?”

  “People shouting, cooked vegetables, snobs who think they rule the world, private schools, pink, people who wear fur.” After this list, Aurore seemed to relax.

  “What do you like?”

  “Blue, soft fabric, chocolate, people who smile at stupid stuff, World Music, strawberry ice cream, my mom’s and dad’s perfumes. I try to mix them but it doesn’t work properly, but I can’t just wear one. One of them might be upset.”

  Elena nodded. “I understand. But by combining them you run the risk of knocking out anyone who gets too close.”

  Aurore’s eyes widened, then she realized Elena was just winding her up. They both laughed, clearing some of the tension in the air.

  “OK, I think you’re pretty clear on the concept. Now I’d tell you to start from an idea, which will be our brief. What should your perfume mean?”

  Aurore gave it some thought, as she played with the hem of her sweater.

  “I’d like it to mean change. For there to be flowers, light clothes, the warmth of the sun on your skin and the light you see in May, when the sky is clear.”

  “That sounds like a description of spring,” Elena replied.

  “Yes. I’ve always liked spring.”

  “OK, so what do you think about starting with flowers? They could be the top notes. Then we need to go deeper into the concept, choosing the middle and then the base notes. The soul of the perfume.”

  They started to select the essences: lime wood, lily of the valley, angelica, and then other, more delicate fragrances, reminiscent of a fresh, bright Parisian spring. Arranging them on the table, they sniffed them, passed the vials around and set aside the ones that weren’t suitable. In the end they were left with just the essences they were going to use. Every time they added a new drop, letting it slip inside the tiny filters, they noted everything down on a pad, sniffed the perfume on a mouillette and decided whether or not to increase the dose.

  It took all night, but in the end, Aurore’s spring bloomed in the graduated cylinder. The perfume would have to rest for a few weeks, for the alcohol to dissolve all the molecules. Only then would they smell it again and, if need be, correct anything the girl wanted to change.

  “I’m so happy. This perfume means a lot to me.” Aurore was standing in the doorway of Absolue but showed no signs of leaving.

  Elena knew exactly how she felt. Finding a perfume, knowing it was right, smelling it and experiencing it was an incredible feeling. Creating something was always accompanied by a sense of joy.

  “Me, too. You know, I’m really impressed by your intuition, by the way you chose the essences. You showed real skill and extraordinary sensitivity. I think it’s time for you to think properly about continuing your studies in the subject. You would make a great fragrance designer.”

  Aurore’s face lit up. “Next time can I make a perfume for my mom?”

  Elena nodded. “Of course. Next time you can make a perfume for Eloise.”

  Twenty-three

  TUBEROSE: change. White, intense, sweet and seductive.

  The fragrance of audacity and awareness.

  Stimulates creativity, evokes the power of change.

  “I’m going away.”

  “What do you mean?” They were sitting around Elena’s kitchen table. Monique had arrived first thing that morning, as soon as Absolue opened. Elena had taken one look at her friend and, realizing how upset she was, she’d pulled down the shutters and brought her inside.

  “Le Notre needs someone in the New York branch. I volunteered.”

  Elena gripped the cup she had in her hand. The aroma of tea was helping to absorb the shock. “What about Absolue?”

  “You know as well as I do that it’s much more yours than it is mine,” Monique replied after a long pause. “And let’s be honest, chérie; natural perfume is your field. You have a God-given gift: incredible intuition, the magic touch—call it what you want. But I don’t belong here. I need stability, and for me to get real results I have to use synthetic molecules.”

  It was true. Everything Monie was saying was completely true. Elena had heard this conversation ever since she was a child. Her mother and grandmother had done nothing but argue about it, and neither of them would change their stance: one natural, the other synthetic. As for her, she’d chosen niche perfumery because she didn’t want to have to compete with others and because she had a feeling for essences. It had been a rational and conscious choice. But it wasn’t an easy job.


  “How will you get by? You invested nearly everything you’d put aside in Absolue. I’ve got a bit, but—”

  Monique interrupted her with a firm hand gesture. “Don’t even think about it. You need that money for the baby. I already feel awful, knowing that I probably won’t be here when he or she is born.” Monique was so overcome, so sad, that Elena couldn’t find the words to reply.

  “I’m so sorry things have turned out like this.”

  Monique pulled her hair back and tied it up. She’d straightened it that day and it came down to her waist. The cobalt-blue dress she was wearing suited her perfectly. She looked beautiful, as always, but she’d lost that self-assured edge that made her so special. Despite her stunning appearance, there was real despair in her eyes.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Elena asked.

  Monique shook her head. “I’ll get over it. But I need to leave if I want to get my strength back. Jacques knows me too well: he knows how to trick me, how to say the right things. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I started dreaming about the two of us . . . How he would say it was all just a misunderstanding, how he’d convince me I was the one he really loved. And when I came to see that, even after everything he’s done to me, I still wanted him back in my life—I felt sick. I actually threw up. Then I knew I had to put as much distance as possible between us.

  “I have to do it now, Elena, before I lose this last scrap of pride, before he destroys it, along with whatever is left of my soul. I don’t know who I am anymore—I don’t know anything anymore!” Her lips were trembling so much she couldn’t get the words out.

  “Chérie,” Elena whispered, trying to comfort her friend.

  Monique wiped a finger over her eyes, dabbing them to make sure her makeup didn’t run. She took a few breaths and smiled. “I feel completely pathetic, I swear, feeling so sorry for myself. Now I understand Beatrice. In the end she went away to find herself.”

  The two friends cried together, cursed and devised all sorts of torture they’d like to inflict on Jacques and his fiancée with all her wealth and titles.

  “She’s the daughter of Dessay, one of the biggest perfume exporters in the world,” Monie explained. “I never stood a chance. But you know what? In the end, I don’t think he’s even worth it.”

  That wasn’t true, and they both knew it. Right now, all Monie could do was wallow in her suffering and the belief that fate would somehow deal Jacques an appropriate punishment. This heartbreak was a phase, that was all: anyone who’d had their feelings trampled on got over it sooner or later. Eventually, there would be an afterward . . . there always was. And then, all being well, Jacques would just be a regret, a poignant wish that things had gone differently. Life would go on.

  Monique could rely on her work, Elena thought as she kissed her friend goodbye. A prestigious, interesting job in an exclusive, almost elite atmosphere. She would be successful. Elena was sure of that. And perhaps she’d meet someone who could love her for who she was. At least, that’s what Elena hoped. Secretly she knew that, whatever the future held, the love Monique had once felt for Jacques would still be there somewhere, deep in her soul; it would never disappear entirely.

  Moving to New York . . . Elena couldn’t imagine it. It was so far away, so different; another continent. Monique would surely miss Paris. And even if she had asked for an advance on her salary, she couldn’t manage without money, alone in New York. She needed cash.

  Elena thought it over again and again. And her thoughts focused on one thing: Madame Binoche and Beatrice’s formula. In a month or two, it would be impossible for Elena to make the trip to Florence. It all depended on the baby, on her health, on her documents for traveling abroad.

  What if she went straightaway? The thought sprang into her mind like one of those crazy notions that you usually dismiss out of hand. But not this time. Elena hurried downstairs and turned on the computer. She went to the website of Charles de Gaulle airport and checked the daily flights to Florence. There were still seats available, although it would cost a fortune. She checked the clock again. The flight left in the afternoon. If she wanted to get there in time, she’d have to get a move on.

  She chose a travel agency, entered her details to make the booking, declared she was thirty-four weeks’ pregnant, hesitated for a few seconds—and then hit SEND. Leaving so suddenly, without telling anyone . . . it was insane, it made no sense.

  But then Monique’s face appeared in her mind and Elena knew it was the right thing to do. She couldn’t stop to think. If she did, she’d never leave. And she had to go now, immediately.

  Fortunately the airport was less than an hour from the Marais by taxi. It would take her another couple of hours to get to Florence. She wouldn’t need long there—a day, maybe two. Then she’d be able to compose the perfume back here, in Paris.

  Elena hurried into her bedroom, threw a couple of dresses, her medicines and vitamins into a suitcase, then she called Aurore.

  “Can you look after the shop until I get back?”

  “Yes, of course. When? I’ll tell my mom. She’ll be happy to help, too.”

  “Now, right away. I’m going to Florence.”

  “Wow. In that case, I’m on my way now,” Aurore promised.

  “OK, thank you. I’ll be away for a couple of days at most,” Elena said breathlessly. She finished arranging things with Aurore, told her where to find the keys and ran her through the system for opening and locking the doors. And anyway, she’d have her mobile with her all the time: they could get in touch if anything came up.

  She called a taxi and, as she went downstairs, decided she’d phone Cail from the airport. Something told her he wasn’t going to be best pleased about the decision she’d just made. She quickly pushed that thought to the back of her mind. One thing at a time, or she was going to go crazy.

  Two hours later at the airport, Elena was starving. The plane to Florence didn’t leave for another half an hour and, as if that weren’t enough, she hadn’t been able to get through to Cail.

  She checked her documents and the tickets she’d printed out again. The cost of them was enough to make her pass out. But it would be worth it; she could feel it. She put her head back, resting it against the wall. She was tired, and the baby had done nothing but wriggle around the entire trip. She closed her eyes for a moment, waiting for them to call her flight.

  “There we go,” she said, struggling to get up. She checked the telephone for the thousandth time, hoping that Cail had got her message, but his mobile was still unreachable.

  “Merde, merde, merde,” she cursed. Then she went over to the flight attendant who was waiting at the boarding gate.

  “Are you feeling all right?” the woman asked.

  Elena forced a smile. “I’ve still quite a long way to go, don’t worry.”

  The woman smiled politely. “Yes, I see your ticket has the due date on it—tenth of June, right? But I’m afraid you also need a doctor’s note.”

  Elena’s eyes widened. “The declaration isn’t enough?” she asked, alarmed.

  The flight attendant shook her head. “A certificate would be better. The baby might decide to be born early and as you know, on a plane we’re not exactly equipped.”

  “But the flight is leaving,” Elena stammered, getting upset. “I absolutely have to go to Florence, please! It’s really important.”

  The attendant looked at the documents again. “I suppose, under the circumstances, the information on the ticket might do,” she said after a few seconds, eyeing the line that was starting to form behind Elena. “OK,” she said eventually. “Go on, and have a good trip. But bear in mind that after thirty-six weeks, no airline will let you fly.”

  “Of course,” Elena replied with a relieved smile. She took the documents the attendant was holding out to her and hurried past. Thank goodness she’d bought a return ticket, she thought.
And as for her due date: well, she hadn’t exactly lied; she’d just taken into account the fact that first babies are usually born a little late. Where had she read that?

  “Everything will be fine,” she found herself whispering. She ignored the shiver running down her spine and carried on walking. She wasn’t in pain, she was healthy and she had a mountain of things to do. One day—she just needed one day. She would find the formula, pick up a couple of things from her grandmother’s laboratory and come back to Paris. What could possibly go wrong?

  • • •

  Cail took the SIM card from what was left of his mobile phone and put it into the new phone he’d just bought. It was only a stupid accident, but it was one he could have done without. When he’d left Elena that morning, she had seemed fine, talking happily about Aurore and how the girl had made her first perfume.

  Cail entered his PIN and the smartphone started to vibrate. Ten missed calls. He felt a knot in his stomach. Elena! The baby. Of course it had come the minute he wasn’t there. He called her back, getting the number wrong, as he couldn’t find it stored anywhere. He waited with his heart in his mouth.

  The person you have called is not available. He swore and tried again. Then he ran to the car. As he made his way into the traffic he called Elena’s gynecologist. She would be able to tell him where they’d taken her. Paris was barely an hour away by car; he just had to hurry. After a couple of attempts, the doctor answered—but she didn’t know anything about her patient.

  “I can assure you she’s not in labor. She has a code, so even if she were taken to another hospital I would have heard. Don’t worry, your wife is fine.”

  “Thank you,” Cail said. But he wasn’t convinced; he wouldn’t be until he’d heard it directly from Elena, and if he could confirm it for himself in person, even better. He tried calling her again, but her telephone was still switched off.