Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

One day when it was too hot to sunbathe, Miss Waverley amused herself by making up Eva’s face and teaching her how to apply thick coats of black eyeliner and red lipstick.

‘Your face is like a blank canvas. First you smooth it out with powder, then you paint a dark frame around your eyes. There is no need to try to make it look natural. It’s better when you exaggerate. Timidity is deadly. In anything. Always be bold. Look at you!’ She stood back, admiring her handiwork. ‘See how you’re transformed?’

Eva stared at her reflection. It wasn’t her at all but some exotic intruder, using her body, her features. She couldn’t take her eyes off herself, she looked so different, so much older.

‘You just don’t know how to make the most of yourself, that’s all,’ Miss Waverley said. ‘A diamond in the rough. That’s what we call it.’ Then she frowned, holding up a mass of Eva’s hair. ‘But this is getting in the way. And it’s not very modern looking. You need to cut it.’

‘Cut it?’

‘Absolutely!’ Opening a drawer, she pulled out a pair of scissors. ‘Sit down.’

‘But…’

‘I’ll make it look like mine. Don’t you want to look like me?’

‘Yes.’ More than anything, Eva thought.

‘Well, then.’

Miss Waverley pulled up a chair and sat Eva in front of the mirror. ‘Be still,’ she commanded, pouring herself a drink. She downed it in one.

Eva watched nervously as she chopped off a huge section. ‘Do you cut your own hair?’

‘Are you mad?’ Miss Waverley snorted. Another pile of locks fell to the floor. ‘Look at that! You have a neck.’

Eva closed her eyes. It was probably best not to look.

Forty minutes later, she stood side by side with Miss Waverley in front of the mirror. Miss Waverley wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

‘What do you think?’

‘I guess it takes a while to get used to it.’

‘We look like sisters. I’ve never had a little sister before.’

And it was true. Eva was shorter, but they had the same delicate build, and now the same sleek dark bob.

Eva blinked, heart pounding. ‘Do you think?’

‘Sure. I know, let’s put a dress on you, shall we?’

She helped Eva out of her uniform, then stopped.

‘Good God, is this really your underwear?’ She cringed at Eva’s dingy pair of cotton shorts and threadbare camisole. Eva felt her face go hot from shame. ‘They’re dreadful! You need new ones.’

Miss Waverley tugged one of her dresses over Eva’s head. The smooth jersey fell over Eva’s figure, draping it in gentle curves. It felt cool and silky against her skin. Miss Waverley stood behind her, pulling in the waistline so that it appeared to fit perfectly in the reflection. ‘You look like a film star!’

Eva stared at herself, fascinated.

‘Do you know what this dress is for?’ Miss Waverly whispered.

Eva shook her head.

‘Seduction!’

The word disturbed Eva; it was laden with the murky enticements of sin, dangerous moral ambiguity and the certain promise of future remorse. But even worse than that was the implication of mysterious skills that remained beyond her comprehension. ‘I wouldn’t know how to seduce anyone,’ she murmured.

Miss Waverley raised an eyebrow. ‘If you’re old enough to want a man, then you’re old enough to seduce him. It’s easy. Seduction is nothing more than knowing that you want someone and then showing them, very gradually, very deliberately, that you do. It’s the way you do it – reveal, tease, ignore, take it back – that makes it seduction.’

‘But how do you know when to reveal, when to take away?’

‘Simple. You think about what you would like and then do it to them.’

She made it sound so obvious.

‘Do you know how much this dress cost?’ Miss Waverley continued. ‘More than you make in a year. But look,’ she gestured to the wardrobe, its doors open, over-flowing. ‘I have more than I know what to do with. Of course, a girl has to be smart. Did you know I used to work in a canning factory sticking labels on to tins of bromide?’

It didn’t seem possible. ‘What happened?’

‘I had a little conversation with my boss one evening. See, the truth is, most girls don’t understand men, don’t know what they want.’

‘What do they want?’

‘Well…’ Miss Waverley seemed about to say something for a moment but then changed her mind. ‘If you really want to know about it, I’ll tell you some day. But trust me, it’s not complicated. Now, hang that, will you? And be a good girl and clean this up,’ she pointed to the mess of hair on the floor. ‘I’ll buy you some new under-things in just your size. When I come back.’

‘You’re leaving?’

But Miss Waverly didn’t bother to answer.

Instead she poured herself another drink, went into the bathroom and shut the door.

‘What in the Lord’s name did you do to your hair?’ asked Sis in horror, down in the laundry room.

Eva pulled her cap further down on her head. ‘I didn’t do it. Miss Waverley did.’

‘Oh my goodness!’ Sis grabbed Eva by the shoulders and turned her round. ‘She cut it all off!’ She ran her fingers through the blunt edge at the back of Eva’s neck. ‘It’s gone!’

‘I know. But it will be easier to keep clean,’ she added, trying to sound reasonable. Suddenly Sis’s grip felt like cement on her shoulder. She moved away.

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Sis said grimly, handing her another pile of wet linen. ‘That woman’s trouble.’

‘No, she isn’t. She’s just being nice.’ Eva took the sheets, feeding them in between the heavy rollers of the laundry press. ‘Besides, you think everyone’s trouble.’

‘I know all I need to know. And I’m right. What do you do with her anyway?’

‘Nothing.’ Eva concentrated on forcing the sheets through rather than on Sis’s face. ‘I help her get dressed, iron clothes.’

‘Why did you let her cut your hair?’

‘I look older. That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘But why do you want to look older? That’s what I want to know.’

A taut silence stretched out between them. Sis yanked the pressed sheets out of the other end.

‘She lies about with no clothes on,’ Sis said after a while, unable to leave the subject alone. ‘Everyone knows she does it.’

Eva rolled her eyes. ‘She’s sunbathing. In the privacy of her own room.’

‘There’s nothing private about a balcony in the middle of New York City.’

‘It’s all the rage, among fashionable people.’

‘If you want to look like a farmhand. Fashionable my eye! She has a reputation, you know.’

‘She’s good to me.’

‘Who do you think pays her bills?’

Eva tried to take the high ground. ‘Not everything in this world is black or white, Sis.’

‘Sure it is.’ Sis eyed her harshly. ‘The sooner you figure that out, the easier life goes for you. Good, bad, right, wrong. You wanna live in the grey area, you’re gonna find out you don’t know your ass from your elbow.’ She lifted another pile of sheets. ‘And mark my words, grey turns to black pretty damn fast.’

Grace had luncheon on her own, sitting at an outdoor table in a café in the sun. Turning over in her mind what Monsieur Androski had told her, she thought about perfume and its connection to memory.

Monsieur Tissot had teased her about her sensitivity to taste and smell and he wasn’t the only one. Part of her seemed to have always known what Monsieur Androski had clarified; that certain smells were the custodians of memory. And once they were unleashed, their effect was instant aneous, like switching on a light – flooding the senses far too quickly and completely. They had the power to transport and overwhelm. For that reason, one needed to be wary of them.