The Memory of Scent (16 page)

The Bal Mabile is luminous in its beautifully arranged gardens, all decorated with lighted glass balls and coloured garlands and lanterns looped across the trees. It is a wonderful spectacle. The small orchestra is set up in the centre of everything, its music wafting alongside the Champs-Élysées. The wind is softly blowing and feather-whips a healthy glow on to the cheeks of both the men and women. Almost immediately, the blond man has edged alongside me and is asking me to dance. At least that is what he appears to be doing, presuming, as he does, that I am able to fill in the pauses around his sheepish stuttering.

‘I really don’t know how, and I don’t want to look ridiculous. But if you could ask Catherine, then I could watch you both and maybe learn a little.’

The blond man is completely thrown by a refusal which somehow ends up as a compliment. He agrees to ask Catherine instead, almost thanking me for the privilege of allowing him to do so, content in the knowledge that I would be watching. I saunter around the parameter of dancers.

‘Are you just going to wander and watch?’

I don’t recognise the voice, but as I turn towards him, there is something familiar in his look. Where have I seen him before? ‘Will you dance with me?’

I know that I have just refused the blond man the same request but I feel more inclined to engage with this man.

‘If you saw me hoofing about like an untrained horse, you would turn around and walk away right this instant while your dignity is still in tact.’

‘I was always told I was good with horses.’

He is leading me toward the centre of the dancing platform before I can raise any vigorous objections. Oh no, and it’s a polka, a complicated dance. I have no option but to throw myself into it with uncoordinated abandon, like a marionette whose puppeteer is drunk. I catch the disapproving glances of some of the women behind their fluttering fans, but to be honest, I couldn’t care less. My dancing partner seems inspired to lose his finesse as well, perhaps so as not to show me up by contrast, which is quite chivalrous of him. Or else he too is a really bad dancer, which would be most unfortunate.

‘She has the coordination of a kitten on ice.’

Yes, I could hear that, as clearly as if it had been whispered directly into my ear. My partner also managed to pick it up just as the dance came to an end.

‘Well, a rosette for the horse and some warm milk for the kitten. It’s a good job I’m not allergic to animals, otherwise I fear I shall be covered in a constant rash around you.’

‘And has that become your plan, so quickly?’

‘Without a doubt.’

I can see Philippe approaching in long strides towards us. His hand outstretched.

‘George, how nice to see you. Are your parents well? Lily, George shares an apartment with my nephew Gaston.’

‘Yes, thank you, they are both in good spirits. Father’s arthritis has been nagging him a little, but apart from that …’

Philippe is taking me by the elbow and steering me towards a small group of his friends. He wishes this George well for the rest of the night.

He rocks a little on his toes and calls after me, ‘Thank you for the dance and I love your bracelet. I’d like to sketch it some time.’

Of course. It suddenly comes to me where I have seen him before. He is the dark young man who leaned forward and caught my eye several times at
Lakmé
. He probably knew I would be unlikely to remember him without some hint He must have known I was with Philippe on the night, and clearly made no approaches because of it. Ooh he is a slippery devil!

Philippe still has me by the elbow as he directs me towards a chair by a quiet table. He sits down beside me.

‘My dear, I have come to a conclusion. I cannot keep up with the parade of young men who keep turning up at Madame Del’s in the hope of securing your company for even one night, not to talk about these random swains that I’m going to have to constantly rescue you from each time we go out. Of that, I have little control. However, I can at least cut off the chain of supply that leads to Madame Del’s door. So I have decided to put you in an apartment, a very fine little place a few streets off the Champs-Élysées on the Rue de Chaillot.’

‘That would be nice, Philippe. Thank you.’

And with that, my freedom from Madame Del’s brothel has been bought.

* * *

I pack up my little Japanese-print bag along with my much larger trunks and find myself lingering at the small iron gate that I had first walked through all those months earlier. Madame Del gently crushes me in an embrace.

‘Madame, I really have no idea where I would be now if I hadn’t come here. I honestly believe I could be dead.’

‘Shush now. Remember I’ve been there. I’ve seen many young girls like you and always tried to help, as many times
as they needed. It can be a cruel world for an unaccompanied girl. Now, if you see me in the street, you know you can call me Delphine.’

With one final backward glance, I climb into a waiting carriage. I know it is an act drenched in vanity, but I make the cab travel the length of the Champs-Élysées and back, partly so I can get my bearings but mainly so that I can be seen. I drink in the wide boulevards, the beautifully dressed people strolling with parasols and tailored frock coats, the large shop windows with fabulous dresses and hats, and even the small shop that sells nothing but chocolates. It must surely be the greatest display of decadence in the entire world: a shop that sells nothing but chocolate. A place you go into solely for the sake of indulgence.

The door to my very own apartment is three floors up. As I unlock it I am instantly met with the scent of lilies as if an invisible perfumed carpet was rolled out to greet me. The fire has been lit and it throws a reddish glow over the abundance of textures, from the tapestry on the wall, to the rich Indian carpets scattered across the floors. Panels of pristine lace peep out from between the plump plum-coloured curtains. I carry my bag into the bedroom which has a four-poster bed draped in muslin with red velvet cushions scattered matching the red velvet covered chairs. There are four Hokusai prints on the wall with their crashing waves and blue and white mountains, and I am touched by Philippe’s powers of observation as he had clearly noted my little print bag and assumed, incorrectly, that I must be taken with things Japanese.

‘I’ve found her!’

I am sitting in the Brasserie Andler and George has barged through the door.

‘With dogged determination I’ve become an unequivocal pest. In fact I could make a livelihood out of this. Do detectives make much money?’ He has bounded towards me like a puppy and is sprawling on the chair opposite me.

‘Do you mean Babette?’ This is so exciting. I feel my eyebrows reaching more skyward than I would have thought physically possible. What primitive instinct is this inclination to raise your eyebrows when surprised or shocked? And then I do the thing that I know looks ridiculous in others when embodying the same reactions … my mouth gapes widely, and indelicately, open. I of course then cover it with first one, then two hands, as if I have stumbled across some horror. He folds himself into a deep bow.

‘The very girl. She was taken to Saint Lazare Prison.’

‘Well, we must go there.’

‘Fleur, you cannot just turn up and demand to be let in.’

Is some petty bureaucrat to be the final gate-keeper? I slump in disappointment.

‘Which is why a contact had given me the name of someone I can make enquiries of, if we get there before he leaves for the afternoon.’

I lean across the table and kiss George on the forehead. He grabs his bowler hat, jams it on his head and reaches for my hand as we run out the door and onto the street searching out a cab.

‘Can you afford this?’

‘Much as I love to play the tortured writer, I do get a healthy monthly stipend from my father. It is more to protect his reputation than to keep me from rolling around in the gutter. No matter.’

He whistles loudly for the attention of a driver. As we clatter along, my mind unreels a scenario where Babette and I meet up again. Well, no, that is incorrect; where we meet for the first time, complete with introductions. I am unsure what I shall say to her. I silently practice, but it is like throwing a pebble down a deep well: nothing resonates. We arrive at the prison entrance. I stare at the imposing front door and immediately want to back away. George must go in alone to meet his contact, so I cross to the other side of the cobbled road and begin to aimlessly twirl the postcard stand on the corner. There are dull images of the Eiffel Tower and an ink drawing of a happy
marchand de coco
. I would love if a
marchand de coco
would walk around the corner this second with his big cylinder strapped to his back and pour me a nice soothing drink. Maybe it would calm me slightly. What other visual delights can I distract myself with? There is every
manner of plump-cheeked women holding ridiculously large blooms to their faces and one silly woman framing herself with a heart-shaped floral creation of roses and peonies, coyly smiling from the stand at any passing would-be suitor. I would suggest he run for his life if he did see such a maiden rounding the corner framing herself in such way. It would, I believe, appear a little desperate. George is emerging from a side exit. But what is that gesture? He seems to be shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders as he approaches me.

‘She’s not there.’

‘What?’

‘No, no, it’s fine. She was released into the care of her sister.’

‘So she is free? Oh, thank God.’

I suddenly feel the weight of responsibility lift from my shoulders. I relax into a brief hug with George. ‘Your mission is complete. She is probably this very instant having a picnic with her family. Look how glorious this afternoon is. In fact, let’s make up a basket and go down by the Seine. I feel like some
brie
.’

The afternoon yawns and stretches before us like a cat in front of a fire. For the first time, in a long time, I can banish all thoughts of the patchouli girl. It is like the satisfaction of having completed a particularly difficult puzzle and just as easy to walk away from. We pick up a little
brie
and
roquefort
, two bottles of wine, bread, some
pâté de fois gras
and slices of glazed ham, then find a nice spot and spread out our little feast. I give the impression that I am surveying the people near the river, when really I am stealing glances at him. His long limbs are stretched out as he supports himself with one elbow while sipping from his glass. He slides so easily into these moments that I am envious. Whenever I am gifted such a pause, my mind becomes cluttered and urgent
with the very many things I should be using that moment to accomplish. I spread the soft cheese on to a heel of bread and hand it to him.

‘George, didn’t you start off wanting to be a painter? Was it really of no interest to you at all?’

‘I think it was more the idea of it that I wanted. You know, people strolling about the
Salon
admiring my work, admiring me by extension. But, when I came to Paris and met actual painters and realised how very grim many of them were … oh, and how hungry, come to think of it. The thing is I really don’t like to be hungry. If I was laden down with God-given talent, I may have thought differently. It might seem a radical idea for many here to comprehend, but I like to eat.’ He tops up my glass. ‘I have an idea, Fleur. Why don’t you come to the country with me this weekend? I know of a charming inn where we can hire out a boat. And there are beautiful gardens and lovely tea rooms.’

I pull my knees towards me and clasp my arms around them as he continues.

‘We can book into two rooms. I don’t mean to presume for one second …’

‘George, I’m sure there are some very fine ladies who would jump at the chance to stroll around a scented garden with you.’ Why am I doing this? He keeps reaching out, trying to make a connection, and I thwart him at every point. I begin clearing up the debris of the picnic. ‘I have too much to be doing without ambling off among the flower beds.’

I can detect a look of irritation and impatience from George as he helps me clear up, and that is perfectly understandable. My attempts at conversation are met with silence as we leave the riverside. When we politely part at the bottom of Montmartre, I remind myself that, overall, it has
been a very good day. Babette is safe and I need never think of her again. I now have a space in my mind which will soon, no doubt, be flooded very quickly with something else.

* * *

And I soon decide what that is to be. The bell is sounded and another service pronounced. I arrange five plates of green beans, fried with tomatoes and seasoned frogs’ legs on my large tray then bend my head to inhale the steaming plates. Did they need more garlic? Balancing five large glasses of beer, I carry the small feast to a noisy table and stand back, watching the customers mindlessly gorge their food without care or curiosity, drowning each morsel with gulps of warm beer. Walrus is reading a newspaper while sipping at a
digestif
. I have been feeling strangely bereft without Babette and her patchouli rattling around my brain. Glancing around, I slide into the seat opposite him.

‘Teach me about food.’

‘Mademoiselle, if you are serious, nothing would give me greater pleasure. This is a precious art form, and I shan’t have it besmirched by some ingénue. This for me has taken years of study; do you appreciate that? Worshiping and sharing at the tables of the greatest and most prodigious gourmands who ever lived. Is serving up this fodder to the sundry and indiscriminate palates that happen through these doors not sufficient?’

‘Not any more. I want to excel at something, to have command over something. Do you understand?’ Lowering my voice I find myself twisting a glass in front of me. ‘I’d like to be able to make a statement, you know, to be surprising.’

With his soft, pudgy hand, Walrus pats mine affectionately.

‘Then, my dear, you have much to learn, and we will start tomorrow afternoon with the street vendors, and by the time
we get to the best place in Paris for meringues, creations as light and imperceptible as the flutter of an angel’s wing, you will astound even yourself.’