The Perfumer's Secret (24 page)

He kissed my neck and I felt its effect like an arc of electricity shooting to points in my body that held memories of this morning.

‘Don’t distract me,’ I warned, pointing to a chair and desk with shelving stacked in a curved shape around it and containing dozens of vials of liquid of varying shades of amber through to near clear. ‘This is the Delacroix Perfume Organ.’

‘A hallowed place, I gather, from your reverential tone.’

I nodded, serious now. ‘This is where my father sat for years.’ I touched the cracked leather of the seat and instantly could smell his liniment. ‘I remember when I wasn’t as tall as this chair, stealing in here to see him but really to gaze at all these tiny vials.’

‘And now Felix has this seat.’

I smiled. ‘Yes.’ I didn’t mean to sound as wistful as I did.

‘Do you wish it were you?’

‘Not in his place, no; but alongside him? Oh, yes, I would love that. And that’s how it’s always been, to be honest, Sébastien. Felix and I have made beautiful music with this organ and its notes.’

‘Orchestrated by your father, though.’

‘Yes. Now it’s Felix’s turn to orchestrate and I will gladly follow his baton’s instructions.’

‘And presumably De Lasset replicates the organ?’

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘although I have not seen it.’

‘What?’

‘I haven’t been invited into the chamber, nor will I be. The main chemist and his assistant who weren’t called to the Front nearly blacked out the first time I strolled into the lab. Now they just look edgy should I visit so I’ve stopped calling by. Now they come to me and take coffee; it’s all very proper and they give me a progress report. There isn’t much to discuss right now, as you can imagine, but it provides me with something to write to Aimery about.’

‘And makes you feel connected to making perfume?’

‘You already know me too well.’ I looked away.

‘I hate how sad you sound. What about here?’

I shrugged. ‘Felix is gone, all the laboratory workers are in the trenches.’

‘Then we make your perfume here, where you belong, plus we can keep ourselves secret and it means I can kiss you often.’

I pushed him playfully but he’d brought back my smile.

‘So,’ I said, seating myself in my father’s chair, loving the way I slid comfortably into his position against the leather rubbed smooth. I straightened, took a deep breath and confronted the sweep of vials.

‘I’ll bet you know every oil in each of those bottles.’

‘To the last,’ I confirmed. I swept my hand across one section. ‘Base notes. Here you find a lot of the woody smells . . . cedarwood, sandalwood. It’s here,’ I said, reaching for a bottle, ‘that you’ll find patchouli; both bitter and sweet myrrh; amber, of course, and musks.’ I pointed to another range. ‘Heart notes. And over here, everything from grapefruit to bergamot, clary sage, berries . . . our top notes in the organ.’

‘I’m frankly dazzled by how many there are!’

‘And we’re discovering new aromas all the time. Those exotic places you’ve promised to take me – I’m sure we’ve hardly begun to discover the scents that they can deliver. We group them, so as I said: woody, fruity, marine, musks . . . there’s more, but increasingly Felix believes that one day we’ll be able to replicate the smells in the laboratory.’

‘Believe him,’ Sébastien assured.

‘I don’t wish to be part of that progress. If it’s not natural, it will lose the point.’

‘No, it won’t. Because tell me how much ambergris is?’

I shrugged. ‘Very costly. It takes decades for nature to make it . . . for the sea to gather it, for us to import it.’

‘Imagine that you could imitate it right here.’ He gestured to the walls around us.

I swung around on the revolving chair and challenged him. ‘I know it’s occurring, but why should I want to do that?’

‘Cost?’

‘Perfume
is
expensive,’ I said like a dismissal. I couldn’t see where he wanted me to follow him with this conversation.

‘Fleurette, right now only the wealthy can afford it. People like you.’

‘So?’

‘So, imagine a Europe where most women might have their own favourite bottle of perfume that they dab on for special occasions. Imagine Jeanne, for when she gets dressed up for her sweetheart.’

I stared at him, momentarily puzzled. ‘Making it for the masses, you mean?’

His eyes had a fresh, shiny quality despite the dimness of the organ room. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. And only being able to manufacture fragrances with man-made notes might enable that. I’m not talking about a perfume entirely made from chemicals, but I can certainly imagine one that stands apart because it is made with a man-made fragrance.’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t imagine it.’

‘That’s because you haven’t smelled it yet. It isn’t in your fabulous three-thousand-smell-strong repertoire yet. I believe, however, that if you can describe it, I can make it.’

I stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘How do you create something that isn’t there?’

‘It is there. It’s roses, for example, but synthesised in the laboratory. Grasse only has so many roses but imagine if you wanted to mass-produce a fragrance and sell it throughout Europe, throughout Britain, America, the world.’

I blinked at the notion.

‘Yes, you could import rose petals but imagine what is involved, how to prepare them, keep them from damage, or maybe you set up a plant somewhere and distil from them overseas. But think even bigger.’

‘I can’t imagine bigger than that. An overseas distillation factory sounds large enough.’

He smiled. ‘One day, and it’s not far away, a perfume will be made entirely with synthesised compounds.’

‘I will weep that day!’

‘You might also be pleasantly surprised. For now, let’s work on
Parfum Fleurette
. Are you ready?’ He stood behind me.

I swivelled back to face the organ. ‘Ready.’

Sébastien’s voice floated over my head and I closed my eyes to lock out everything but that voice and his description so that I could float in my memory of smells to find each element. ‘
Fleurette
’s foundation is one of good grace . . . and charm.’

‘Wait, what colour is she?’

‘Oh, she’s fiery deep down, a scarlet woman in private.’

I giggled. ‘Amber it is,’ I said, reaching for my first vial. ‘What else?’

‘Well, let’s see, she’s sensible, conservative and grounded – and yet there’s a giddy quality to her laugh, her humour, her lovemaking.’ I elbowed him for the last remark. He laughed, continuing. ‘She has shades of melancholy, though, probably because she is politically aware.’

‘Hmm.’ I set aside that he was describing me and worked with the description alone as unembodied. ‘I think that calls for some vetiver,’ I said, reaching for the vial of the oriental oil. ‘This is a bright scent but of a cool nature. It comes from riverbeds, did you know that?’

‘No, but it sounds appropriate. From Asia?’

I nodded. ‘India, Ceylon. Next?’

‘How many base notes?’

‘How long is a piece of string?’ I replied unhelpfully. ‘Four or five,’ I added, lifting a shoulder.

‘All right, let’s see now. She’s warm. She’s sensual without realising it, and —’

‘Musk,’ I interjected. ‘It fits the profile,’ I said without having to check my smell recollections. I inherently knew musk was necessary. ‘It is the perfect balance with the amber and vetiver.’

He bowed to my knowledge and then continued, following his train of thought. ‘Sweet but not sugary . . . um . . . what am I saying here?’ he said, beginning to pace. ‘I can see her laughing as she takes a puff on a man’s cigar simply to enjoy being scandalous and to thumb her nose at society and yet she knows how to behave, how not to let down those counting on her. And she’s kind; yes, there’s a generous sweetness that can’t be ignored.’

I breathed out audibly, trying to assemble these qualities into a single aroma. ‘Vanilla, perhaps?’ I reached for it and then changed my notion, reminded of the cigar imagery, and suddenly I could smell Dr Bertrand’s tobacco. ‘No, it has to be tonka bean.’

‘Does that work with the other notes?’

‘Oh, yes, it’s a beauty. It shares some of the traits of amber and it will work well with the floral element that I just know has to be in this perfume. You could now put in some moss to add a bitter note to complement the chypre quality of the bergamot that I really believe should be in the top notes.’ I looked up at him and smiled at his puzzled expression. ‘You’ll just have to trust me on that – plus something woody, perhaps, or earthy to add strength and a greener quality despite its milky soft aroma,’ I offered, warming to my role. I could smell those additions coming into delicious harmony with those already selected. I nodded. ‘This is a beautiful selection. It’s very different to anything either of our families have constructed previously.’

‘Good,’ he assured. ‘On to heart notes, then?’

‘Violet,’ I said, without hesitation, thinking of the ink, which was the first part of Sébastien I fell in love with. ‘Maybe geranium to travel alongside the floral notes because while they can be confused, it adds a herb-like green with an almost minty undertone. I can’t explain it better than that. Hmm. I must think further on this,’ I mused, frowning.

He laughed. ‘All of those, then. Should we have any more?’

‘I think we should. Give me your thoughts once again. This is your perfume as much as mine.’

He kissed the top of my head. ‘What am I smelling in your hair? I’ve been meaning to ask. It’s mesmerising.’

‘Oil of Macassar. I use it to smooth my hair and it keeps it in shiny condition. It was a gift from my father from his travels to the East. He was told it is famed for its uses in the Levant.’

‘That’s what it is. Of course, I’ve smelled this before. It was triggering memories of my childhood but I couldn’t place it.’

‘You see how important smells are? They hold memories . . . they travel our lives with us. We can use some ylang-ylang, if you wish. It’s a main ingredient in the oil I use in my hair.’

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Then it’s not only reminiscent of you but smells of you too.’

I was having fun but a glance at the clock told me I was neglecting my duties. ‘Oh, no, look at the time, Sébastien. Most of the day is gone.’

‘Do you regret that?’ he wondered, sounding injured.

I stood. ‘Not a moment of it, but I have duties and responsibilities to others. Our priest likes to discuss his sermon with me. We have coffee together Thursday, early evening.’ I was already putting back vials and gathering up my notes.

‘What about the perfume? It’s unfinished.’

‘It will wait for us. And don’t tell me I have to write it down because it’s already in its early stages of construction in my memory now.’ I leaned in and kissed him, lingering in the taste of him, and as I pulled away I had to reassure him. ‘I love you. And I love what we’re doing together here. But you must help me by being patient. We have a long journey ahead before we can be free of our families’ secret and unburdened of the sin our parents have forced their children to commit.’

He nodded and we both knew as we left the perfume room that we had to return to our platonic relationship for the benefit of others. At the door to the lab I let go of his hand and stepped out into light snowfall.

I squealed. ‘Look, Sébastien – the snows have arrived!’

Snow had never lost its fairytale quality for me, especially light and harmless as this soft drift would be. It wouldn’t settle long enough to be of any threat but it was beautiful to behold and I tipped back my head and opened my mouth as I had as a child to catch some of its icy flakes. He didn’t join my mirth.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Suddenly everything,’ he said, allowing a gloom to fall around us. ‘I hate pretending, even though I understand your concerns. And now I’m thinking of the trenches. If it’s snowing in the south, imagine how the north is faring.’

My mood dampened but I refused to turn maudlin because I knew it didn’t help anyone’s situation. ‘Let’s do our best not to be sad,’ I said, giving him a sympathetic smile as we stepped out into the late afternoon. I pulled the hood of my coat up. No one was nearby to hear me. ‘You should know that not in all of my years, and despite the challenges ahead for Europe, for us, I have never felt happier. And that’s only because of you. Until today I thought my life was going to be bleak, certainly unfulfilled and loveless. I can’t predict the future, Sébastien, but it’s because of you that I am looking forward to tomorrow . . . and the next day.’

He sighed and I realised that life outside of my bedroom’s alcove or the security of the perfume room was painful to him.

And life, it seemed, didn’t consider it appropriate that while the rest of Europe grieved I should be allowed to forget for a single day that we were at war. And as I walked back up the hill, with Sébastien limping beside me at a polite distance, me still capable of feeling the sizzle of our passion invisibly dancing between us, life was going to make sure it reminded me that my joy of today was not to be tolerated.

We dragged the cold air in with us as we arrived, shivering and stamping away the more stubborn crystals of snow that clung to us with glittering determination.

‘Hello, Jeanne,’ I gusted as she hurried to help me off with my overcoat. ‘Brr, I love the snowfall but I could use a hot cup of something right now.’

‘
Bonjour
, Madame,
bonjour
, Monsieur,’ she acknowledged brightly, offering to take Sébastien’s coat as well. ‘Shall I bring some coffee into the salon?’

‘Make that tea, please,’ I said, imagining Sébastien might like some of his national brew. ‘I went down to the Delacroix villa,’ I added in a breezy tone, making sure that I skimmed as close to the truth as possible. Felix always told me if I was ever going to lie, to keep the lie as honest as I could. His play on words had made me scoff but I knew what he meant now. ‘It’s so lonely down there. But it was most agreeable to see it’s coping without its family, waiting patiently and calmly for my brothers to return.’

‘It is sleeping, Madame,’ Jeanne offered and smiled.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, returning the gesture, and dared not look at Sébastien for fear of blushing at my own disingenuousness. ‘I think I must consider opening it up to help the war effort, perhaps as a hostel or even a hospital. We’ll finish December and next year I will look into this.’

‘France will thank you, Madame.’ She curtsied. ‘Oh, Madame!’ she said, forcing me to spin back on my heels.

‘What is it?’ I felt immediate guilt. We’d been discovered and she was about to ask me why I’d felt it necessary to take my husband’s brother to my bedroom and —

‘There is a letter for you! It is from Monsieur Felix.’

‘Felix! Again?’ I gusted with delight. ‘He must have sent them barely a day apart.’ I skipped to the hall cabinet and the silver tray and picked up the letter and kissed it. Then I did blush, turning back to a smiling Jeanne and a bemused Sébastien. ‘Sorry, I get very excited to hear from Felix.’

‘So it would seem,’ Sébastien noted. I heard a tug of jealousy swimming beneath his dry remark but Sébastien would have to get used to sharing me with family, especially Felix.

Jeanne had departed and I gave him a softly admonishing glance. ‘Care to join me for some tea, Sébastien?’

‘What about the priest?’

‘Oh, he doesn’t come until about six and I need something to warm my bones.’

‘I could make some suggestions,’ he offered innocently as we moved towards the drawing room and won a glare from me for his trouble.

I closed the door behind us and gave him another look – of admonishment this time.

‘What?’ he asked, limping over to one of the armchairs. ‘May I?’

I nodded and he lowered himself. ‘You can’t keep up the innuendo. People aren’t stupid, especially Jeanne, and what’s more, if I laugh only once at your remarks, I’ll give myself away.’

‘I promise I shall behave,’ he said, waving a hand in submission.

‘Thank you.’ I walked over to where a fire spat and crackled. It was small but effective – the De Lasset chimneys drew beautifully, allowing maximum heat to be pushed into the room. I shivered this time with pleasure at the warmth easing past the chill.

‘Why don’t you read Felix’s letter while I wait? I am happy to sit here quietly and reflect on my interesting day.’

I slanted him a look of exasperation from where I stood in front of the mantelpiece.

‘I promise I can be silent and not interrupt you.’

‘Can you, though? I’ll admit I’m desperate to read it. It ends a perfect day.’

He nodded and I could see the sincerity. ‘Enjoy the letter. Actually, let me leave you alone with it. I may head upstairs and change, I’m a bit damp, and you know how long it will take me to limp up and down.’

I grinned. ‘Take your time.’

Sébastien left quietly and I was already pulling up a chair close to the fire, filled with anticipation. Felix rarely gave news but he was always able to amuse with his observations. I couldn’t have cared less, to be truthful, whether he just talked about plants, scents, our childhood, his hopes . . . anything. Just to hear his voice in my mind would be enough. Just to hold this letter meant he was still alive.

I withdrew the thin pages. There were only two but that was his way. He was concise, always left me wanting. I was smiling to myself as I began to read, distantly revelling in the smell of the wood burning; someone had thrown in some pine cones left over from our subdued Christmas festivity that began with midnight mass and the inevitable
réveillon
, although our feast was modest this year and I ate with the servants in the parlour. I picked out the smell of the terpene compound immediately emanating from the pine. It made me momentarily look into the flames as the idea of trying to recreate this cosy scene came to mind. Could I craft a sweetly scented aroma that hinted of a lovers’ campfire in a coniferous forest? Perhaps I’d add cinnamon bark, something autumnal like apples, even herbs of sage and rosemary . . . Yes, that last one would echo pine. It would be a masculine cologne for a pomade. Tobacco and musk now leapt to the front of my thoughts. My mind was wandering but it felt safe and comfortable here near the fire, with images of Sébastien making love to me just hours earlier skirting my consciousness, plus I was in no rush now to consume Felix’s letter. It would be finished all too soon and then the wait would begin again. I’d sent them warm socks, new underwear – all practical things for their Christmas gifts, observing the army’s requests not to send anything knitted in bright colours, and I hoped they’d had some peace. Oddly enough, even though my brothers were far away, fighting a war, the fact was in this moment I was convinced that this was the most secure I’d felt since my father died. I was in love with a man who had arrived so unexpectedly into my life to change it dramatically and for the better; I had a letter in my hands from the other man I loved most in my life and I couldn’t wait for the two of them to know each other. To add to my pleasure, I had hopes of making perfume in my own right as a perfumer. And it was snowing and we were about to turn the corner of a new year. Life was good and might be great. Let’s hope 1915 brings peace and sanity to Europe with my brothers safe and sound and home . . .

I hunched my shoulders, letting them drop in a sense of happy anticipation, and I opened up the sheets of Felix’s letter to devour the contents.

Darling Fleurette,

We have been involved in some fearsome fighting and I am reminded of Cyrano de Bergerac; you may recall that in 1640 he took part in a siege. It feels like that, as though we are constantly with our backs to the wall.

Felix was telling me he was in the Arras region with that opening statement. I knew he was not permitted to disclose the location of his unit so he buried it in an apparent mindless sentence. I had never visited Arras but I had heard it spoken of as undulating fields of the richest soil; it was an ancient town, as I understood it, that grew wealthy as a trading centre with banking as important. Wool and cloth merchandising was its main trade and my recollection of school history now reminded me it was renowned through Europe for its tapestries. And, ah, that’s right, Joan of Arc was imprisoned in Arras during the Middle Ages. It tended to be one of those regions that moved back and forth in ownership between the French and Austrians as well as the Spanish Hapsburgs. My memory now reminded me of the most marvellous belfry in this town that took a century to build. Hmm, so they were in the far north-east of France – could we have been further apart? I wondered with slight irritation.

I read on.

I am also not one for theatrics, as you know, but if you are wondering at the crinkled patches on these pages, they are not raindrops from the weeping skies but the result of my helpless tears. Tears for our dear brother, Henri, who took his final breath today, in my arms, symbolically in yours too, because he demanded to hold your most recent letter close to his heart as he gave up his spirit.

I had to read that paragraph twice again to make sense of what Felix was telling me, and by the close of the second read I could hear only ringing in my ears. My lips felt suddenly numb and the pages in my hands were shaking like the helpless fluttering of a trapped bird’s wings.

Henri was dead.

I refused to believe it for the next few dark moments but how could I deny the man I trusted most in the world? He would not lie. This was not Felix jesting. I touched the splotch on the faded paper, and in my mind I tasted a salty tear just as my tears began to drip down my cheeks, run into and past those numb lips so that I tasted the salt of grief for real.

I wanted to fling the pages into the fire so I no longer had to read about reality. Instead I moved like someone in a trance to the window seat so the afternoon light would help me to see through the blur of my weeping and I felt the cold touch of winter through the glass. Winter was my companion now and reminded me that the sun of today was being chased across the sky of my dreams, behind the clouds of a blizzard of sorrow.

I refused to send a telegram, darling sister. I could not bear for you to read those harsh and halting words that could convey no love or warmth, only the naked truth. Our dear, bombastic, often ridiculous but beloved brother is gone.

And despite all of his faults that we would laugh at, you must know that as a soldier he had none. Henri was courageous from the day we arrived at the Front. He has saved many a man’s life, including mine, at risk of his own. He took that risk for the last time two days ago when even against my best judgement he refused to leave an injured man behind. A German bullet from a sniper rifle felled him. Still he crawled to the trench to bid me farewell. I had him only a few minutes more and in that time he expressed only his love for the two of us and for our future. He wished he had said farewell to you on happier terms and curiously his dying words were about regret at forcing you to marry against your will.

A deep animalistic roar rose from my body and escaped my throat as a sob of anguish. Like Felix, I wasn’t theatrical. I wasn’t prone to screams or overt displays of emotion, but in this I had no control . . . and even now the sob sounded muted, not nearly enough volume to convey my despair. It brought people running, though. Sébastien was first through the door, ignoring his pain, hobbling fast on an injured leg, his damaged arm hanging out of the sling.

‘Fleurette!’

Behind him came others. Predictably Jeanne, looking anxious with a tray in her hands and clearly feeling helpless. Madame Mouflard pushed past her in a no-nonsense way.

‘Madame, Madame. . .’ she twittered.

I looked up at them. Sébastien knew. I could see it in his unguarded expression. He’d had too much experience already of war to not be able to surmise what I’d just read. I stared at them all, weeping silently. No more sound would come. My voice was lost to those clouds of winter. My expression must have been so ugly in its crumpled grief but I didn’t care. I shook my head at Sébastien and he understood that he mustn’t rush to my aid as a lover but as a member of the family.

‘My dear Fleurette,’ he said, arriving to painfully lower himself to one knee before me. He tentatively touched my hand, the one that was squeezing the letter, the one he’d kissed so many times today, and now he had to act like a relative stranger. I still couldn’t speak. I was looking at him through a river of tears. ‘Felix?’ he whispered.

And I let it out. I realised as I found my voice that I was releasing my relief, hating every inch of myself in the process because I was privately grateful that it was Henri and not Felix. I shook my head, racked with grief. I knew Jeanne was weeping too, and I couldn’t imagine Madame Mouflard could be hanging on to her composure easily.

‘A cognac, please,’ Sébastien requested in a gritty voice, full of anguish for me.

I smelled the fumes of the liquor before I focused on the small balloon of golden liquid that he pressed into my hand. First came a fruity floral fragrance, reminding me of the vineyards of Provence, that danced above pear and apricot nuances and then, like the top and middle notes of a perfume drying off, I smelled the complex base that anchored the world’s most expensive tipple. The aroma was similar to what I smelled when my father’s cigar box lid was opened. He hadn’t smoked those fat cigars from Havana but he loved to own them, offer them to guests, smell their tobacco. A bouquet of toasted spice with a hint towards old leather, withered plums and roasted nuts. I welcomed the distraction but I knew I could never now think again on making a man’s cologne. It would always remind me of the smell of smoke I had been pondering together with the fumes of cognac in my nose bound forever with the misery of Felix’s letter in my mind.

‘Sip it, Fleurette,’ Sébastien urged, snapping me back from the land of smells, which is where from my earliest years I had always escaped to when problems visited.

There was a terrible silence in the room. Only the fire snapped and popped. I sipped and felt the rich burn of Aimery’s prized Bache-Gabrielsen, tasting intense apples but then feeling only the fiery passage into my gut.

‘Again,’ he insisted, tipping the balloon for me until I spluttered. ‘May I?’ he asked, pointing at the letter.

I nodded like a helpless invalid. Silence held us again as he read the first page swiftly. And then there was movement. The women were trying to move me into an armchair; I could hear Madame Mouflard barking orders at Jeanne about fetching my shawl and making a milky posset to help me calm and rest. I swam out from the mist of shock to shake off their helping hands.

‘Madame? You have had a terrible shock. We must —’

‘Leave me,’ I commanded in a voice that was firmer than I thought possible at present. ‘Leave me!’ I repeated louder and the two women flinched, casting a worried glance at each other and then to Sébastien, who nodded. They departed in stunned silence and he followed, turning once to look at me. ‘The priest,’ I murmured.

‘I’ll take care of it,’ he said softly.