Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘Lemon juice? Sugar,’ he laughed. ‘Lots of it!’

‘No, not to eat.’ She picked up a bunch of fresh mint from a crate of produce, held it to her nose. ‘To smell.’

In the end, she concocted a solution of lemon juice, a few judicious drops of pressed rosemary oil and large quantities of baking soda mixed into a thick, abrasive paste. When she returned later that afternoon to scrub the bathroom, even she had to admit that the bracing, herbal aroma imparted an invigorating satisfaction to her efforts.

‘Not bad.’

Eva turned around to see Valmont standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets. ‘Though a little lavender would have been a nice touch.’

She got up from her hands and knees. ‘You’re wrong.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

She held her ground. ‘Lavender wouldn’t be an improvement.’

‘You’re arguing with me?’ He laughed, incredulously. ‘What qualifies you to correct me?’

She picked up her bucket. ‘Nothing. I’m just right.’

‘I’ll have you know that Madame Zed is a world renowned perfumer and I am her only apprentice!’

Eva took a deep breath. ‘Yes, but we all have noses.’

Suddenly they were interrupted by a deep, throaty laugh.

‘Bravo!’ Madame Zed walked forward from the half-light of the bedroom behind them, clapping her hands. ‘This little maid has seen through you, Valmont! She knows your downfall – you always add another note, complicate things. She’s right, you see. Simple is cleaner, more elegant.’

Valmont scowled at his feet. ‘Yes, madame,’ he muttered.

‘There is nothing more difficult than simplicity,’ Madame added, turning her back on them. ‘And therefore, nothing more refined.’

Valmont ceased to harangue Eva after that and the next morning, Eva noticed that Madame had placed a small white rose in a water glass near the sink.

She took it as a sign of approval.

As time went on, Eva grew to respect and even admire the eccentricities of Madame Zed. For example, rather than adapt to her surroundings, she transformed them. Madame Zed’s rooms were layered in personal history, as if its occupants had lived there for years rather than weeks; she created a mysterious and exotic atmosphere out of a few select additions. Embroidered silk shawls were thrown across armchairs, brocade and velvet cushions tossed in soft, inviting piles on the floor, like an oriental harem. White orchids with waxy petals gave off a hypnotic scent and collections of pastel, sugary French confections were dotted about the room on silver dishes. Steamer trunks, papered with tags from all over the world, were lined up against the far wall, bursting with long flowing gowns in rich colours and strangely asymmetrical tunics. The thick curtains let in only the dimmest fraction of light so that even during the day, her quarters had a smoky decadence about them, like a world suspended in a permanent night.

Eva had almost finished in Madame Zed’s room one afternoon, when she noticed a circular black flacon with a gold stopper on her dressing table. It had a solid, pleasing roundness that made her want to pick it up, feel the weight of it in her hands.

Eva knew it was wrong to disturb a guest’s belongings but the black bottle was too intriguing.

She lifted it up.

My Sin , the label read, in gold lettering.

Very carefully she opened it, holding the gold stopper to her nose. Up wafted the intense floral top notes of narcissus and freesia, warming to a dark, almost animal muskiness. It was intoxicatingly beautiful and, at the same time, dangerous, with jarring hidden depths.

It was a smell she recognized, aspired to; the hypnotic veil of sensuality that clung to the skin, the clothes, even permeated the sheets of every chorus girl, socialite and movie star that graced the lobby of the Hotel.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled again.

‘I suppose that means you like it.’ Standing in the doorway was Madame Zed, wrapped in a dark lace shawl, her face half hidden in shadow. She was smoking a cigarette, in a long mother-of-pearl holder.

Eva put the bottle down. ‘I apologize, madam. I’m so sorry.’

‘Careful! That’s the only one I have. Otherwise, I shall have to buy it. Can you imagine, buying your own creation?’ And she chuckled a little, crossing the room to put the stopper back on.

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

Madame Zed gave only the ghost of a shrug. ‘It’s no matter. I myself cannot resist smelling other people’s perfumes. In five minutes, I can dissect their entire palate. But this,’ she pointed to the black bottle, ‘this you like?’

Eva felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. ‘I’ve never smelled anything like it. It’s so… so,’ she struggled to find the words, ‘so full of different things.’

Madame Zed inhaled, looking at her closely through those heavily lidded black eyes. ‘Complex,’ she said at last. ‘It’s a complex perfume.’

‘Yes. One minute it’s pretty and floral and the next, it’s full of spice and heat and… I don’t know how to put it…’

‘Sex.’ Madame interjected. ‘It was always about sex, right from the start.’

‘Oh.’ Eva’s eyes widened.

‘Why not? Everyone wants it.’ Madame Zed settled into an armchair. ‘I suppose that’s why it’s so popular. Of course, I had to make it stronger than I would’ve liked.’

‘You made it?’

She nodded. ‘That is my profession. I am a “nose”, as they say. I’ve been mixing perfumes since I was your age. Though now, I’ve finished.’

‘But why?’

‘To be honest,’ she flicked a bit of ash off her long cigarette, ‘I cannot bear that everyone smells alike. It’s vulgar. And that,’ she nodded to the bottle of My Sin on the dressing table, ‘already all of Paris smells like it and most of New York. There is something wrong, deeply wrong, about an entire room of women who all smell the same.’

‘But to be able to create something like this is like… like being an artist or a magician!’

Madame Zed laughed. ‘You’re very young.’

‘I wouldn’t mind smelling like that.’

‘Oh now, really!’ Madame protested. ‘Think of a man, dancing with a beautiful young girl, in a crowded ballroom. He presses his nose into her soft hair and inhales. Then, two minutes later, he’s dancing with another girl who smells exactly the same. What’s the point? Perfume should tell a story – the story of who you are, who you might be, perhaps even of who you fear becoming… all of these things are possible. It’s a very intimate element of a woman, just like her signature or the sound of her voice. And it conveys feelings and states of being that have no name, no language. Its very ambiguity makes it truer than words because, unlike words, it can’t be manipulated or misunderstood. You see, it’s not the perfume itself that isn’t worthy – it’s an original, one of the finest of the decade. But I’m tired of making off-the-peg dreams. I want a challenge worthy of my art.’

‘The name, madam…’ Eva could hardly say it out loud without blushing.

‘ My Sin .’ Madame Zed said the words slowly, her black eyes unblinking. ‘What about it?’

Eva hesitated. ‘It’s just… well… what does it mean? What sin?’

Madame was silent for a moment, looking past Eva, or rather through her, as if she were transparent. Finally she spoke. ‘Do you know what sin means?’

‘To do something wrong?’

Madame shook her head. ‘That’s one meaning. But there’s another, from the Greek, hamartia , which translates, “to miss the mark”. That’s the meaning I prefer.’

‘To miss the mark,’ Eva repeated, committing it to memory.