Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘My goodness!’ Grace gasped.

Even in its state of extreme neglect, the room dazzled; walls of glass and mirrors reflecting light so that Grace was blinded for a moment. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that the space had been designed as a series of bold contrasts. The dark wood counter was a rich warm mahogany. The floor was covered in black and white marble tiles. A tiered crystal chandelier, thick with dust and filmy cobwebs, hung from a heavy black silk cord in the centre of the ceiling. And the shelves were filled with rows and rows of slim glass flacons, cloudy grey with dirt.

In the curve of the bay window a pair of salon chairs stood, covered in black velvet, faded and rotting, and an ottoman in leopard skin. Grace reached down to touch the smooth fur. It was real.

Silvery white silk taffeta lined the walls, now badly water damaged and falling away in strips. The ceiling was fitted with an enormous mirror, cut from a single piece of glass, now shattered in one corner, long cracks reaching out like fingers from the central wound. Somewhere in the back recesses, water dripped; leaking, into a bucket long overfilled.

On the counter were a number of shapely glass bottles, in various sizes, with crystal stoppers.

‘This isn’t like any shop I’ve ever seen,’ Grace said. ‘It’s more like a nightclub. But it’s in a dreadful state – like it’s been ransacked.’

‘It clearly hasn’t been open in years but it may have been plundered by the Nazis. They weren’t known for their manners. Also, we’ve been having strikes lately. There has been some violence.’

Grace pushed aside a curtain, peering into the back room. ‘What do you think it was? Some kind of chemist?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Monsieur Tissot reached up and took down one of the bottles. She watched as he removed the stopper; a rich floral fragrance escaped.

Raising an eyebrow, he looked across at her. ‘I think we’re in a perfumery.’

Grace stared in amazement at the walls crowded with hundreds, even thousands of tiny bottles. ‘You mean, these are all filled with scent?’

The sheer number was astonishing.

‘I have to admit, this isn’t like any perfumery I’ve ever seen.’ Monsieur Tissot reached up, fitting the flacon back on the shelf. ‘A traditional perfumery has just a few categories, like florals, orientals, greens and citrus… maybe a dozen bottles for each…’

Grace looked across at him. ‘How do you know so much about perfume?’

‘It’s common knowledge. I know what everyone knows,’ he insisted. ‘Every man alive has bought perfume at one time or another.’

‘My husband has never bought me perfume.’

‘Your husband isn’t French. Besides, all women love perfume.’

‘All women except me.’

‘Madame Munroe,’ he sighed, shaking his head, ‘you are an exercise in perversity!’

‘That’s not quite a compliment, is it?’ she pointed out.

‘What have you got against perfume?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I never found anything that didn’t seem too… too loud.’

‘You mean strong,’ he corrected her.

‘No, loud. And I hate to be contradicted, monsieur.’

‘As do I.’

‘I wanted something that whispered, not shouted. I gave up a long time ago.’

‘Well, if you were interested in perfume, this would have been the place to come, I can guarantee you that. Look, you probably cannot read these headings, with your appalling French, but allow me to translate.’ He pointed to a section. ‘There are entire scent collections listed under sun, sea, air, earth – they’re referenced and cross– referenced… some under ages.’ He indicated another shelf. ‘This row is devoted to women between the ages of thirty to thirty-five and then over here, for forty-seven to forty-nine.’

Grace moved closer, fascinated. Each vial had handwritten notations on a small card underneath. She pointed to one. ‘What does this say?’

‘“Diminishes”,’ he read, moving on to the next one. ‘“Wears well”. Look at this one! “Caution! Overstays its welcome”.’ He snorted. ‘I’ve sat next to women in the theatre wearing that one. And there’s more.’ He gestured to other clusters of vials. ‘“Romantic”, “Realist”, “Vain”, “Sophisticate”, “Sensualist”, “Timid”. “Extreme”, “Calm”, “Nervous”, “Talkative”, “Bright”, “Soft”… and here are the names of gods and goddesses – “Aphrodite”, “Artemis”, “Narcissus”, “Hera”.’

‘How could anyone come up with all of this?’ she wondered. ‘It’s more like a laboratory or a wizard’s workshop.’

She took down one of the vials from the self. Jasmin de la Mer , the label said. Opening it, she sniffed the cork. Its contents had long since evaporated, leaving a slightly grainy amber residue at the bottom of the bottle. But there was a ghost of the intensely white bloom, undercut by a coolness, an almost metallic airiness, slicing through the depth and lushness that lingered still.

It was disturbing how quickly the scent transported her; she felt a fleeting sense of euphoria and vastness completely unrelated to her surroundings. It was as though someone was playing a trick on her. It was a long way from the staid, single-note fragrances she was used to – Penhaligon’s talcum powder and spray, with a dainty little drawing of a bluebell on the label.

Monsieur Tissot leaned over and smelled it too. ‘Remarkable!’

She put the lid back on. ‘Is this a collection? I don’t recognize any of the names. Not that I’m an expert, but there are no familiar perfume brands here. But… but,’ she turned, gazing at the thousands of bottles, ‘that’s impossible, isn’t it? A person would have to be completely obsessed to create such a comprehensive library of scent!’

They continued to pick their way through the derelict surroundings.

There was a slender black lacquer oriental cabinet to one side. With some difficulty, Grace managed to open its doors. Inside was shelf upon shelf filled with easily several hundred much more elaborate perfume bottles. Each had a specific name on it: commissions. Underneath each bottle was a card and notation. Others were clearly works in progress, distinguished only by numbers. Grace reached up to the top shelf. There were stacks of ledgers, leather-bound journals filled, when she opened them, with clients’ details, dates and long lists of ingredients, presumably formulations for scent.

‘Look at this!’ she called excitedly.

Monsieur Tissot came, leaning over her shoulder to read what was written.

Certain pages were devoted each to a single client. For example, in 1932 Mademoiselle Dallois commissioned a perfume. There was a list next to her name. Grace tried to make out the words. ‘“Pink roses”, “clean hair”…’ She pointed to the next line. ‘What’s that?’

‘“Papa’s pipe. And cake”!’ he read. ‘My God, this sounds like a child!’

Grace scanned the hundreds of bottles. ‘Do you think it’s here?’

‘What?’

‘Mademoiselle Dallois’s perfume.’

She stood on her tiptoes, reaching further on the shelf to the bottles at the back.

Had someone managed to create a fragrance equivalent to cake and pink roses?

‘Here, let me,’ Monsieur Tissot offered.

Something fell to the floor – a faded, yellowed note card.

Grace bent to pick it up when suddenly there was a sharp crack on the counter behind them.

They both whirled round.

‘ Dehors ! Sortez !’ It was an elderly woman, tall and very thin, dressed in a rather old-fashioned black wool dress that hung from her gaunt frame, a walking stick poised like a weapon in the air between them. ‘ Sortez !’