The Perfumer's Secret (34 page)

These were the only few days of the year when I felt reconnected with my old life; it was meant to be my favourite time of the year and I wore a smile as a façade for the workers, but May 1918 felt as though it was bringing unimaginable dread, especially as we were hearing about the fiercest fighting at the Front. Newspaper reports were signalling the most enormous peril for the Allied soldiers. I couldn’t do anything to help that so I had to steel myself and do what I could to assist here at home . . . to help to heal the broken and bring in the harvest. Those were my two jobs this May.

I organised us to work in teams, walking the rows. No one in that field today held the sentimentality that I did for this toil. For all of them, other than Graciela –who turned up with the largest straw bonnet I’d ever seen, large enough to make me enjoy a much-needed gale of laughter – this was about a means to an end.

‘ . . . and this year the Delacroix family will be providing a bonus of double pay for every woman who can pick twelve pounds of blooms per hour on this opening day of the spring harvest,’ I called out through cupped hands to help my voice carry to all.

They heard; the cheer was loud and appreciative.

‘Let’s do it, then, ladies,’ I added. ‘Good picking!’

‘Good picking!’ the words were echoed by all with a sense of triumph, and the women began to scatter.

Graciela sidled up, tying on her bonnet, and I began to laugh again. It made her appear even smaller.

‘That hat is ridiculous, you do know that?’

‘I care only for the impeccable quality of my skin, Fleurette,’ she admonished. ‘I had never picked roses in my life until you began dragging me out in the fields like a peasant.’

Her gripes only made me laugh more but then I thought that was her intention; I knew she was worried about me.

‘And holding men’s heads while they vomit, and cleaning up after they mess themselves, and washing floors!’ She sounded so horrified by her own claims that it was like a piece of comedy, as though I was in an audience watching an amusing play. Her eyes had become wide with affront.

‘We’re all pitching in,’ I said.

‘On my noble knees, scrubbing floors!’ she reinforced with great disgust.

‘We have to keep the wards sterile,’ I argued, enjoying the banter in spite of my hidden mood.

Graciela cut me a smirking look of loathing. ‘And those nurses look down on me.’

‘They do not! They tell me you’re one of the most beautiful women they’ve ever seen.’

‘I already know this! Tell me something I don’t know.’

We both dissolved into laughter now as the voices of the workers lifted as one in a song about the harvest of flowers. The itinerant workers didn’t join in but they smiled their appreciation.

We stared at each other, hands on hips. ‘Let’s get to work,’ I said.

‘Stay cheerful,’ she said, moving to her place a few rows along.

I nodded and walked back to my deliberately chosen lonely position at the end of one of the rows. But I had lied to my friend; remaining cheerful felt impossible. I sensed bleak news stalking me like prey, and the picking of the flowers, the repeated action, held no pleasure today although it did keep me occupied, preventing me from running down the valley and screaming my terror. All those months of schooling my composure – this was the moment when it must stand up to scrutiny, it must serve me . . . and save me. I had no choice but to open myself up to the pain of Felix not being in my life; the key I hoped I could forget would find me on rare occasions, whenever I felt unsure or threatened. Not hearing from Sébastien was deeply unnerving.

I let Felix out of my heart to roam free in my thoughts and I hoped we’d avoid talk of death, discussing roses and perfume instead. I enjoyed imagining him responding to my questions.

As I lost myself to the rhythmic plucking of my dewy pink blooms with their dozens of fat scented petals, almost drunk on the honeyed aroma, I told Felix about the perfume I had once again committed myself to. I had tried to find a fresh energy for it as a means of setting aside these new fears about Sébastien and his silence.

I want it to smell different.

In what way?
he queried.

Not in the old way.

You mean not of roses and jasmine, our most famous flowers of Grasse?
His tone was gently mocking.

Inwardly I smiled. He made me work for it.
I mean, definitely including them but using them in a way to make them less instantly familiar
.

More abstract?

Yes! That’s precisely how I want it interpreted. Thank you, Felix. I want an abstract version of what our perfumes are always about.

So they will be there but not there?

A private chuckle to myself as I placed another prized bloom into the hessian sack at my side without touching the precious petals.
Their notes will be indecipherable at first and when they come, they will confuse because they’ll smell fresh and new.

Because?

Because
, I began . . . wondering what I was reaching for.
Because I am making a scent for post-war. The woman who wears my fragrance will no longer be shackled to men. She will love men but she is newly independent in spirit. She has survived alone, tackled much that frightened and challenged her, but here she is – strong, decisive, she can rely on herself.

Does she smell like a man now?

I actually burst out laughing alone in the field and had to stop myself from drawing attention. It felt good to loosen a laugh, ease the tension and thankfully a quick glimpse around told me that I was sufficiently isolated in my row. No one could hear me, nor indeed was anyone anything but focused on their own job in the low light and chill of a spring Grasse morning.

Somewhere far away, artillery was dropping and our men were being killed and injured. I prayed this was the last rose harvest that would pay a debt of blood. It was 1918 and I cast a wish to the universe that 1919 be the harvest of peacetime and that Sébastien be at my side.

I returned to Felix’s question.
No, you fool, if anything she is more feminine than ever but she is not going to smell like her grandmother of straight roses and violets, of lavender and jasmine. She is the new woman, the modern woman, who is entering a new age of peace and prosperity. She wants recognition, she wants to achieve. She is complicated, diverse, at times contrary, sometimes whimsical, sometimes emotional, but always independent. She lives her life more on her terms.

You make us men sound redundant.

Oh, you’re good for some things
, I replied wryly.

I thought I could hear echoes of his laughter across the rose bushes and wistfully hoped he was indeed laughing somewhere.

I’m going to add a metallic note too
, I continued.

Whatever for?
He sounded affronted in my mind and I smiled to myself.

It reminds me of you, Felix. Of kissing you farewell
.

He waited, letting me go on.
There will be warmth and bitterness, there will be citrus and sorrow, there will be the brightness of hope, and the darkness of memory.

Tell me about its formula
, he urged.

I sighed inwardly. It had changed from the early structure but not so much I didn’t recognise the fragrance I had built with Sébastien’s descriptions.
Floral, of course, for Grasse. Tonka bean and vanilla that speak to each other of warmth and sweetness. And some musk – soft and subtle of the woodlands I love. These are what I’m calling my fond notes rather than base.

I could feel him smiling within me, around me. He approved.
And the heart, Ettie?

Peony, so it remains pretty and feminine.

And enveloping
, he said.

I want pomegranate too.

Truly? For blood, I suppose?

You know me well. Yes, indeed, its fruit’s colour symbolic of the blood shed for France, but we have both agreed, have we not, that our private notion of this fruit’s distillation is akin to a freshly washed baby.

Floaty and fluffy, yes
, he said, but with a query in his tone.

It’s about rebirth, Felix. The blood of death, the blood of rebirth.

I like it. And I know the musk will work well against the pomegranate – that’s an inspiration, Ettie. What else?
he asked with enthusiasm.
Wait, something spicy, perhaps?

I felt relief that Felix could already smell it coming together and could guess at the elements to boost and balance.

Yes
, I said with glee.
Ginger!

The perfect balance of heat and citrus. It will give it an Eastern flavour.

It’s what I want. The Orient is going to be more important than we can imagine for new aromas and for our business. I hope I’ll travel one day to discover them.

You will. You and Sébastien.

I swallowed back the emotion that rose at the mention of his name.
And for the top notes, Felix, I want to use grapefruit.

He laughed.
Only you would think like that. Gently sparkling citrus.
I could almost see his dark head nodding somewhere.
And it plays back to the citrus of the ginger . . . very good, Ettie.

Now, I need you to trust me on these others
, I warned.

Go on, then
, he encouraged,
although I suspect you’ve already picked four pounds of roses. Do you need to rest?

No, not until I have twelve. I must set the standard for everyone to follow.

That’s my girl. Come on, then, surprise me with your top notes.

English tea to add a hay note . . .

And to give a nod to your English lover, I suppose.

I wanted to blow Felix a kiss for understanding.
And to our English heritage. I’m going to balance that out with
 . . . 
with green tea.
I knew I was right, I could smell it now.

Truly?

Yes! You know I love gunpowder tea, with its tiny rolled pellets of leaves. It speaks of the cannons of war and the explosions that have rocked Europe and hurt our lands, our men. Plus, it has again that Eastern note I want but also echoes the mint teas of Morocco, where Sébastien has been and has promised to take me one day. But most of all because tea, like snow, smells untarnished, unadulterated.
I was reminded of my grief in the snow.

He didn’t say anything and I leapt into the pause.
Do you not agree?

I love it, Ettie; so much symbolism in this perfume of yours. And you surprise me but you’re right, the green tea will add that freshness and, while the citrus will sparkle at the top of your perfume, the two teas will give the clean notes like pure air.

Exactly! Like the air we all want to breathe again that is clear of smoke and gunfire and bloodshed.

And the fact that no one but us understands its complex story behind it, I think overall you are making a freshly floral perfume with a hint of oriental warmth. It sounds like no perfume I have never smelled.

It will be like nothing that’s gone before, Felix.

What shall you call it?

I hadn’t thought of a name until this moment because, having cast aside the notion of crafting a post-war fragrance that spoke of triumph and similar victorious sentiments, I hadn’t considered what to name this sparkling and daring new perfume that I hoped women all over the world might want to wear once they’d smelled it or heard about it. In that moment of private enquiry I paused to consider and a soft breeze moved over the rows, gently tugging my hair and wafting our most famous fragrance around me in a richly pink splendour as though the smell itself had become a colour. Whichever way I crafted it, this perfume would always be about Grasse, its people, its life.

I shall call it Cachette, Felix.

He jumped to the obvious conclusion.
Why would you want to talk about our secrets?

No, my darling, this is not about lies but truths.

Either way our family is damned even if you don’t explain it. You’ll know. I’ll know.

I don’t see it that way.

Tell me how you see it, Ettie.

I see Cachette about the fulfilment of love. Love
is
a secret, Felix. It creeps up on you. It doesn’t announce itself. It can’t be forced. It can’t be helped, either
. I mentally shrugged.
I fell in love with Sébastien without warning or desire. Our father fell in love with Marguerite and I’m sure if they could face us, they’d explain that they were as helpless as the butterfly that their son destroyed before us both.

So love is cruel too.

Yes. In all of its guises love can be cruel because of how it weakens the lovers, takes away their control, removes their inhibitions. In our father’s case, loving someone so much can have repercussions that damage for many years to come. Love can be bitter, filled with heartache. Heaven knows, there are days that I wish I didn’t love Sébastien because it requires me to live with pain, and days that I wish I didn’t love you so much and could let you go.

I wouldn’t like that.

No, which is why love is also beautiful, uplifting, emotionally inspiring and can last forever if we nourish it.
I lifted a shoulder.
I’m reaching for all of that truth about love through this perfume, and everything that binds our family is about us.

It’s about you, darling Ettie.

I suppose it is, as I’m all who is left.

Then forget our family and our dirty secrets. Make it clean and pure and call it . . . Fleurette! You will be the first woman perfumer of Grasse. Let
your
name be attached to this original scent that will spawn an industry of beautiful fragrances inspired by you.

His suggestion took my breath away because Sébastien had urged me to call my perfume after myself also.