The Memory of Scent (19 page)

‘The painter? Are you still concerned with that? Did you not invest more than enough of your time on that whole business chasing after the model girl and all that? He’s dead. What more is to be said?’

‘I think … there’s something … in my mind. Something tells me I was there.’

He plants both feet firmly on the floor and leans towards me.

‘I have this strong sense that I was there. I can see him. I even think there is a faint breath still in him. But I do nothing.’

This is so hard to tease out in my head, which is why I must say it out loud to try to make sense of it. My lost moments usually only throw up some indiscretion like ending up entangled in the arms of a strange man and wondering how I met him, but the Spaniard’s hallway is giving me that same aftertaste where my mind becomes like a jumbled ball of wool that I must patiently unravel.

‘It is all so vivid. I’m standing looking down at him. The air is stifling … there is a smell of a mixture of turpentine, and sweat, and, and … I’m not sure what else. His head is at an angle and he is wedged against the front door.’

‘Fleur, these are just bad dreams. He was found at his easel.’

‘No. No. You see that was the rumour going around and that is the first time I knew for sure that something wasn’t quite right, because I knew he was at the foot of the stairs and not in his studio. George, I think I may have had something to do with it. I may have killed him.’

There! I’ve said it out loud. There is a lingering pause, and then George laughs, casting his eyes towards the ceiling.

‘You killed him? And why in God’s name would you have done that and what makes you think that you could. Fleur, you’re starting to worry me. This is ridiculous. Let’s have another drink.’

And this is where I must decide: do I unburden myself to George and alert him to my fragile mental state, to the moments of anxiety that are so crippling that can render me immobile? I bite down on my lip as George sips at his drink. I really do want to pledge myself to him here and now, whatever he wishes that to mean. The few times, more frequently than I would care to admit, that I had allowed my imagination to wander down the rose-scattered path of romance, I would try to stop myself, vowing that I would
not become exposed to the certain heartbreak I would suffer when he would up and leave, as I knew he would. But then I would hear Maria in my head telling me I should just live in the moment. Maybe if I got myself a job somewhere like a luxury goods shop, maybe working in an environment like that would make me seem more respectable to George or to his family.

I had never really considered it before, although mother always said that pretty girls of poor means could only chance upon a rich husband by working in a decent shop, somewhere the gentlemen would come to buy expensive gifts. Trying to so manipulatively land a rich husband had just never occurred to me before. But to fall in love with someone who happened to be wealthy – that, by my own code, was less unseemly. I spread my palm out on the cool marble top so that my finger tips grazed George’s. He immediately pulls his hand away and gulps down the last of his beer. In that second, I realise I have lost him.

* * *

Things are made clearer, though no less burdensome, in the letter I receive from George. It reads as follows:

The café is a sanctuary where I can easily become distracted by the transformational powers of a sprinkling of tarragon, but at home,
Maman
now needs my entire concentration. Last night, I couldn’t stop myself from staring at her arms as I sponged them with warm soapy water. These arms, with skin now like crêpe, once used to hug me and protect her. Arms against which I could brace myself from whatever onslaughts a little girl could conjure up: scary monsters under the bed, the moon falling from the sky, baby birds being blown out of their nests because the wind was too strong, and the greatest fear of all, that of losing her. These pale, skinny arms were once my shield. The fingertips were salty against my lips as I kissed them gently.

I could try, but I know that I’m unable to wash away the cloying layer of sadness and confusion that thickens on her pale skin just that little more each day. Nor can I sponge away the rash on her palms and soles of her feet. I have so far ignored it, but I fear that this may be a sign of syphilis that seems to be stalking certain areas and households. I fear that only a short-term hospital spell will give her the best chance, not arsenic, or blood-letting, not fresh air or the daily bottle of claret in a Bordeaux blend, all of which had been recommended as cures. I am not protecting her by trying to convince myself that warm tubs of lavender infused water will make all the difference. I cheered us both up by frying
up some herring with mushrooms, shallots and a bunch of chervil which we ate in contented silence.

* * *

We are taking another trip out to the Bois de Bologne and the circus. Maria, who has been sketching away her boredom and confinement as she is due within a matter of weeks, has talked me into it.

‘There must be some way of speeding up this process.’

I suppose it is not unreasonable to believe that the grind and crunch of a train on a track would go some way towards jolting a new life from even the snuggest of wombs. Maria rubs her swollen stomach and looks pleadingly at me, as if there were something – anything – I could do.

‘Very soon you might be ruing the day you were in such a rush to get that baby out. At least now you have a bit of control over your time. That will be gone as soon as the little Emperor or Empress makes an appearance. It could be a holy terror when it arrives.’

‘I’m terrified Fleur.’

‘It will be fine. Yes, painful but you just have to remind yourself that it won’t last forever. When Isobel was born, if you had handed me fifty thousand francs, I wouldn’t have been able to recall the pain with any great accuracy.’

‘It’s really not the pain that I’m terrified of.’ Maria rubs her belly. ‘It’s what will become of me. What about my life? My choices? Fleur I can’t tell you how much resentment I’ve felt over this little creature. I’ve already cast it in the role of some scowling Mother Superior who is out to do nothing but restrict me. My lovers? My modelling? My painting? I have this crushing feeling that my life is over.’

In my heart of hearts, I cannot reassure her that her
mother will be there to help her because Madame Valadon is nothing but a gnarled, gin-soaked crow, who seems to lack any warmth. In fact, I fear for the child’s wellbeing, unless Maria takes complete charge, which clearly is not an idea that she relishes. One of them is going to have to work, and as a charwoman, I am not sure how much in demand Madame Valadon continues to be. She undoubtedly was hard-working in her day, and had even scrubbed the floors of the Café Guerbois, but the flask welded to her hip seems to demand most of her attention most of the time.

But sometimes, there has been a glimmer of something else. A number of days ago, when I was visiting Maria who was clearly in great discomfort, I turned at the sound of a heavy-footed approach and with the howl of an outside gale at her back, Maria’s mother heaved open the door and shook a powdering of early snow from her shoulders. She peeled away her shawl and draped it over a chair. She jerked her head at me and motioned me towards the door, signalling me to get out and leave them alone now that she had returned. Madame Valadon took a quick sip from her flask, wiped her nose with her sleeve and pulled up a small stool beside her daughter. I hated having to leave and glanced back with fury at the old lady, but saw that she was holding Maria’s hands in her own and covering them with soft kisses. I watched as mother and daughter locked eyes and what I realised I was witnessing, was tenderness.

Maria is suddenly surging with energy now that we have arrived at the circus – even more so upon her uncle’s approach. He seems to have been expecting her. I suddenly feel at a loss as they whisper conspiratorially.

‘Uncle has set something up for you, Fleur.’

I am led over to a practice ring where trapeze artists normally
run through their routines. Uncle unravels a swing and lowers it closer to the dirt ground. He stands behind it, tightly clasping the roughly hewn ropes with his wide hands.

‘Fleur, this was always my thinking place. I would sit here and swing higher and higher until my thoughts were flung upwards and out into the clear, blue sky.’

I am confused and a little embarrassed. I would have presumed that my demeanour was always one of cool indifference that betrayed nothing of my inner turmoil. I batten down my anxieties everyday and project instead an exaggerated concern for every misfortunate soul who trundles across my path. I am a fraud and a shameless abuser of other people’s vulnerabilities because I am so full of fear. Maria is my oldest friend, so how presumptuous of me to think that I can fool her. I obediently position myself on the slim bar and rock a little on my rump to tug my skirts out from under me so they are not in a bunch. Uncle speaks in a voice that has the weave of a vagabond life, all knotted and sinewy, firm, strong and sure, as compacted and steady as the rope that is rutting into my hands.

‘Hold on tight’, he instructs close to my ear, with the low growl of an earth rumble, ‘and let go.’

And I know what he means, the minute I gulp in that first patch of sky blue. ‘Let go.’ Not of the rope but of the weightiness that grounds me, that has me shuffling and dead-footing any lightness of being I once possessed.

Swing.

The surge of air tugs and loosens my hair.

Swing.

My cheeks feel as if they are being lightly slapped.

Swing.

I fling my head further back, trusting the sky won’t drop me to the earth.

Swing.

My eyes snap tightly shut. And I see …

Swing.

The body. The blood trickle. The shape of a woman.

Swing.

Am I looking up the stairs – or down the stairs?

Swing.

I am looking up. She’s at the top of the stairs.

Swing. Whoooosh. Whooosh. Whoosh. Shush. Shhh.

* * *

Maria’s baby, a boy she named Maurice, was born on the 26 December, at the tail end of the year 1883. I imagine that December babies are angry babies who grow into anxious people, because everything is in a headlong rush towards new beginnings. If it was a bad year, then people are happy to get it over with. If it was a memorable year, then there is a nostalgia and a desire to hold on to it. December comes round year after year, bringing with it a sense of closure, another year ended, another milestone against which you must measure accomplishments, aspirations and disappointments. December is a month to look beyond, because in January resolutions and hopes are invigorated and people dare to dream again. And to have the misfortune to be born so close to Christmas! I cannot imagine how that would frame your mindset. Your special day is tagged on as an extra nuisance to be served up with the Christmas left-overs. Me, I was born at the end of January, which has an oddly delusional bearing on me. I can always convince myself that this year will be different.

What can I say about Christmas? I brought my mother for a long walk. The snow has a way of blanketing even the most
blackened cobbles in sparkles. Like crunching diamonds underfoot, you blink against the shattering brightness while the crispness of the air pin-pricks your face.

But since then, there has been a deep wound inside me, as if I have been clawed by some sort of trapped wild animal at the core of my being, severing my organs, my heart, with its sharp nails and teeth. A sense of rupturing making me feel as if I could bleed to death. She has been sent away. I couldn’t bear to watch as, I’m sure, she pressed her face against the grill of the partially blocked window of the hospital car meekly, seeking me out. I wouldn’t have been able to pretend. I remember when I was taken by the hand of a governess for the first time, and wondering as I turned to look pleadingly at my mother, why she was standing there calmly waving. I recognise now the pretence that was masking her face.

The doctor’s advice was that she would be better monitored at the Petites Maisons Hospital, and I loudly reassured us both, as I packed her favourite nightgown, that soon she would be much stronger and that we would go on long picnics after I had collected her.

Without that small bit of extra income that my mother’s needlework brought in, I very quickly realised that I would have to find a cheaper place to rent. I managed to do so a couple of streets away. One room, where a family of four used to live. What did I need really: a bed, a chamber pot and somewhere to light a fire.

‘You will find redemption in a meringue.’

I have been absentmindedly wiping down the bar counter in wide heavy circles, and clearly Walrus has had enough. He is leaning out from where he is tucked into his panelled booth, as though his head has been disembodied in a magic trick.

‘For all your knowledge, you really are a simple man. Aren’t you?’

‘I am a man of simple faith you could say. My stomach is my deity and I am a worthy and prodigious worshiper. Are you nearly complete here?’

‘Another fifteen minutes or so. Why?’

‘We shall go seek redemption. My sojourn here has been sullied by your less than convivial visage.’

And it’s true; my mind is swamped with dark thoughts of my mother’s incarceration and the horrors that she must be enduring and this shows in my face. The Petites Maisons Hospital, is not the place of rest and recuperation that a disengaged and disinterested doctor led me to believe, but a hell on earth where women are warehoused like shanks of meat piled upon one another and where sick women mingle with women who are completely insane. This has been gleefully narrated to me by busybodies, whose metier is gossip, dripping in horror and mortification. They get a kind of ghoulish pleasure in the misfortune of others. No, more than that, it is their life blood and they suck deeply for sustenance. It will poison them one day.