Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

Eva left, walking in a daze, back out into the hallway. Her heart was thumping, her palms sweating. She was having trouble catching her breath, as though she’d been running.

Sis came round the corner carrying a breakfast tray. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

Eva jammed the cards into her apron pocket. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your face is all red.’

Eva pressed her hands to her cheeks. They felt hot. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Here.’ Sis took the glass of iced water from the tray. ‘Have some. You look sick.’

‘No. I’m fine.’

‘You better not throw up on the carpet.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Sis shrugged, continuing down the hall. ‘But you look like a beet.’

Eva sat alone on the fire escape that wound round the back of the building, holding the pack of cards. They were beautiful, with bees on them.

She never showed anyone what she could do with numbers. It was secret; something private that she did, to calm herself, to take her mind away from anything that made her anxious, or to ease her boredom. And the puzzles were her own guilty pleasure; the only form of entertainment she’d had in that sombre, silent house. In fact, she couldn’t recall a time when numbers hadn’t appeared like vivid colourful shapes, carving through the chaos in her mind, bringing order.

It felt strange to think that now Mr Lambert knew, of all people. But he hadn’t ridiculed her or teased her. Instead he’d given her a gift.

It was wrong to keep them. Against the rules. What would Sis say if she knew?

That she was being corrupted; that it was the beginning of a rapid descent into depravity.

Eva thought of the family she’d worked for in Brooklyn. The way the Professor’s wife used to follow her around, checking her work. How ferocious she was about every little detail and the way she used to stare at Eva, when she didn’t think anyone was looking, as if she hated her. Frau Brohemer had lost her baby son shortly after they arrived in America, from pneumonia, presumably contracted on the journey. It had made her bitter and mean.

The Hotel was much better than that. She should be grateful for what she had and leave well enough alone.

But Mr Lambert was only being kind to her. What was wrong with kindness? She just wanted to see the cards, to look at them for a few minutes.

Eva broke the seal on the box and fanned them out.

Already the numbers and suits were arranging themselves in intricate patterns in her head and she felt a warm, familiar surge of contentment in her chest.

After a few minutes, she knew she was never going to give them back.

Eva didn’t see Mr Lambert for the next few days but she carried the pack of cards with her at all times, in the pocket of her uniform apron. She was afraid to leave them in the room she shared with Sis but she also wanted them close. He had given them to her.

When she finally did see him again, he was escorting a laughing blonde to his room, whispering in her ear.

Eva froze at the other end of the corridor, standing rigid in the hallway with her bucket and mop.

They swayed and reeled, clutching one another and giggling; sharing a private joke.

Mr Lambert unlocked his door, arm round the blonde’s waist, and pushed it open.

She in turn threw her arms round his neck, tilting her face towards his as they fell inside.

The door shut.

The Laughing Blonde was wearing the same un fortunate shade of lipstick that Eva had found on the glasses.

Wrapping her fingers round the cards in her pocket, Eva stared at the closed door.

Men were like that, she told herself. They liked cheap-looking girls that laughed too easily, too loud.

He probably didn’t even notice her hideous rouged lips.

But then again, he probably hadn’t given her anything either.

The next morning the blonde was gone. Mr Lambert was having coffee and reading the paper, lingering over his breakfast tray when Eva knocked.

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said brightly.

He turned over another page. ‘Good morning.’

Silence stretched out before them.

‘I… I wanted to thank you for the playing cards, sir.’

‘You’re welcome.’

She hovered behind his chair.

‘It was very nice of you,’ she added.

Mr Lambert took a sip of his coffee. ‘I’m a nice man, the nicest you’ll ever meet. Also, I need more lavatory paper.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She stood stupidly, unsure of what to do next. She wanted him to talk to her more, the way he had the other day, but she didn’t know how to start the conversation.

‘Besides,’ he folded his paper, put it down, ‘I thought you said cards were a bad idea. Root of all evil. I’m surprised you kept them.’

‘Well, I…’ She was suddenly wrong-footed. ‘Why did you give them to me if you didn’t think I should have them?’

He shrugged, lit a cigarette. ‘Innocence, like virginity, is more fun to lose than to keep.’

‘Both are quite expensive, sir.’

‘Well!’ he laughed. ‘Aren’t you full of clever observations? Have you played at all?’

‘Only by myself.’

He exhaled, forcing a stream of smoke through his nose like a bull. ‘That’s not going to get you anywhere. Sit down.’

Tucking his cigarette into the corner of his mouth, he took a deck of cards from his jacket pocket and began to shuffle. ‘I’m going to teach you a game called Twenty-one.’

She watched in fascination as the cards flashed between his fingers. She’d never met anyone who carried a deck of cards with them everywhere.

Except herself, she realized, with a flush of excitement.

‘Is it a good game?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, is it a gambling game?’

‘Now there’s a question. Let’s see – you can place a bet on whether it’s going to rain tomorrow or not. If you’re inclined to gamble, everything’s a gambling game. But the definition of gambling means taking a chance. Now, if I’m right about you, your talent for numbers means that chance, or risk, is considerably reduced. So in fact, you’re not gambling at all. You’re simply proceeding with what you believe to be true, which is like faith, really – the spiritual dimension of this exercise is one we’ll touch on another time.’

‘Will we?’

‘Don’t interrupt. So you see, you can play the same game I do. However, I can be gambling because I know very little and therefore am taking a huge risk – this is hypothetical, of course. I want to stress to you that I’m extremely proficient in what I do…’

‘And what is that, sir?’

‘I am a connoisseur of chance, a pioneer of probability, little girl. And, as I was saying, I can be gambling because I know only a little. You, on the other hand, with your unique gift, can be simply playing out a rather complicated equation whose conclusion only you can see. So, “no” and “yes” and “sometimes” are the answers to your question.’ He had done dealing. ‘Here are the rules. We’re playing with one deck for the purpose of this demonstration but normally it’s six. I want to break you in slowly.’

She stared at his handsome face. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

He looked up at her as if it were obvious. ‘Some day it will be useful to you. And remember what I said, it’s only a gamble if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

So Mr Lambert taught her how to play Twenty-one. The next day he schooled her in the rudiments of poker. And she was frighteningly, thrillingly quick to learn. There was a disarming calm about her; she simply proceeded, first to learn the games, then to beat him. Hand after hand, with no sign of nerves.

It was easy for her; she knew what was going to happen.