Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘Yes. I do too.’

‘I like the name. Did you see it?’

‘ Recherchez-moi ?’

Yes, but under that. L’apothicaire des Sens .’

‘The apothecary of…’

‘The senses.’

‘I see. Yes, it’s evocative, isn’t it?’

‘You English have a saying. “Come to your senses.”’ ‘Yes.’

‘What do you think it means?’

‘It means to be reasonable, sensible.’ She looked across at him. ‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Maybe.’ His eyes caught the afternoon light; flickering amber, flecked with green.

‘What else could it mean?’

‘Perhaps it’s an invitation. Maybe we need to literally come to our senses, to return to our sense of taste, touch, sight, smell, hearing and find sustenance in them, inspiration. Life is, after all, a sensual experience. Our senses have the power to truly transport us but also to ground us. Make us human.’

She stared at him in amazement. ‘I’m afraid, Monsieur Tissot, that you’re something of a philosopher – and a sensualist.’

Looking down, he kicked the gravel with his feet. ‘I can assure you, nothing could be further from the truth.’

‘Well, you’re a mass of contradictions. One minute you’re an analytical lawyer, the next you’re climbing through windows and advocating the complete overthrow of reason.’

‘Reason is entirely over-rated, unless, of course I’m the one doing the reasoning. And may I remind you, we went in through the door.’ He indicated a bench behind them. ‘Shall we?’

They sat down, side by side, facing outward onto a narrow strip of parkland.

‘It seems we’ve reached a dead end in our enquiries, Monsieur Tissot,’ Grace said, resting her elbows on her knees.

‘Perhaps. But there’s still the appointment at Lancelot et Delp. I’ll be very interested to find out more about those stocks.’

‘Yes, but what shall we do now?’

He should have pointed out to her that there was nothing else to do; that there were papers waiting to be signed in the office. But this English girl was interesting; he found himself waiting for her to speak again, to hear the workings of her mind. His own wit was put to the test with her, like a dog being run off in a park. And it felt good, to be stretched.

‘I think we should wait,’ he decided.

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Leaning back, he stretched out his long legs; taking in the spring clouds racing across the sky and the sweet sharpness of the late afternoon air. ‘But if you don’t know what to do, then it’s best to do nothing.’

‘Is that your professional advice?’

Turning his face towards the sun, he closed his eyes. ‘Absolutely.’

Easing back in her seat, Grace watched the children in the playground opposite, coats off, faces flushed, laughing hysterically with pleasure. They were so vividly alive, completely immersed in the game. She tried to recall a time when she’d been that way and realized she couldn’t remember when that had been. She’d lost the knack of forgetting herself. Instead she seemed to look down on herself throughout the day, scrutinizing, judging; finding herself wanting.

‘Madame Munroe…’

Grace glanced across at Monsieur Tissot; at his profile with the aquiline nose and full lips, at the dark fringe of his lashes. ‘Yes?’

Without opening his eyes, he said. ‘You do know what matters.’

‘Do I?’

‘One cannot underestimate the importance of a train being on time. Or leave to chance the space between the plane and the bomb.’

Grace smiled to herself. Closing her eyes, she turned her face to the sun too. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’

New York was engulfed in a heatwave. By the middle of July, the combination of blazing sun and torpid humidity had risen to such levels it became impossible to walk even a few blocks without dripping with sweat. All around the Hotel, guests holed up in darkened rooms, ordering ice packs for their headaches, extra fans; lying naked on top of their beds, too limp even to touch one another, or submerged in long cool baths drinking pitchers of iced tea and sugary lemonade, laced with illegal gin.

This left Eva and the rest of the housekeeping staff with the unenviable task of trying to service the rooms while the guests were still in them.

Mrs Ronald made no concession for the hot weather; the girls were expected to wear their full uniforms, including their thick black stockings. ‘We have standards, girls!’ she reminded them daily. ‘Neatness begins with your appearance.’

It might not have been so bad if they were able to clean the rooms in the early morning, but as no one in the hotel roused themselves until mid-afternoon, the girls found themselves wrestling with dirty linens and scrubbing floors at the hottest hours of the day.

‘If you feel you’re going to faint, then excuse yourself and do so in the privacy of the back hallway,’ Mrs Ronald reminded them. ‘It’s extremely awkward to have to deal with an unconscious girl. And be aware of your eyes – keep them low. Guests should never be forced to look at you directly, do you understand? You’re invisible, a pair of unseen hands.’

Unfortunately, this ideal was harder to live up to in real life.

Madame Zed was lounging one afternoon in one of her loose diaphanous creations, drinking cold black tea and smoking copiously. She appeared to be recovering from the rigorous exertions of the night before, and sat, very still, curled into the lap of an armchair, eyes closed, as if she could meditate the temperatures down by sheer force of will.

Eva went about changing the bed sheets as unobtrusively as she could, her uniform clinging to her damp underarms, her hair plastered with sweat to her forehead under her starched cap. She felt drowsy with lethargy, as if she were moving through water, fighting to finish the smallest task.

Finally, Madame opened her eyes. ‘What is your name?’

‘Eva, madam.’

‘Eva, will you please fetch Valmont for me? I cannot bring myself to move. I’m simply paralysed.’

‘Yes, madam.’

Eva trudged across to the interconnecting door, which was closed. She tried to open it. ‘It’s locked, madam.’

‘Then open it!’ Madame sighed, rolling her eyes to the gods in an exaggerated gesture of utter despair. ‘My head is splitting in two! I need him.’

Eva took out her pass key and unlocked the door. Then she knocked several times. There was no answer, so finally she gently pushed it open.

The room had only one window and, with the curtains drawn, was surprisingly dark. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Eva could just make out the outline of Valmont, curled on his side on the bed. He was sleeping naked, with just his top sheet wound around his waist. His torso was pale, thin.

Eva took a few tentative steps forward. In the hazy blackness, the air pressed in around her, sultry with sweat and sleep. Everything seemed unreal, suspended in a dream-like state.

Carefully, she leaned over him. ‘Pssstt! Sir! Wake up!’

He shifted, rolling over on to his back.

She tried again.

Bending closer, she gave his shoulder a shake. ‘Sir!’

His eyes opened, blinking to focus.

‘I’m sorry, it’s only Madame wants you,’ she explained in a whisper. ‘She says…’

Suddenly he grabbed her wrist. ‘Hush!’ And, still in a fog of sleep, he pulled her close.

Eva pitched forward, into his arms.

Valmont inhaled.

At first her natural scent seemed straightforward, simple; the slightly acrid, almost creamy aroma of a child’s damp skin. But underneath that, a rich, musky element seeped through, unfolding slowly; widening and expanding to a profound, primitive animalistic essence. The sheer range and complexity of her odour was astonishing. The effect, intensely arousing. It was the most compelling, deeply sensual thing Valmont had ever encountered.