Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

Then he stopped one of the waiters and had a word with him, pulling a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dinner jacket.

The waiter wove his way through the crowded room towards Mademoiselle Dorsey.

She looked up at him as he delivered the handkerchief and indicated whom it had come from.

Valmont took a cigarette case from his pocket, lit one and leaned against the portico.

He watched as she rose, walking slowly towards him, slipping easily through the crowds.

‘Sir,’ she stopped in front of him; her eyes were a curious shade of grey-green, ‘you have given me a hanky.’

He nodded. ‘Did you by any chance smell it, mademoiselle?’

She frowned a little, lifting it to her nose. Her face changed. ‘Rain!’

He took another drag. ‘Actually, summer rain on a warm pavement. But who’s arguing?’

She inhaled again. ‘You made it rain,’ she said softly, delighted.

‘Everyone needs a respite from the sun.’

‘Yes.’

She stood, looking at him quite boldly, a half-smile on her face. ‘Where are the rest of my storm clouds, monsieur?’

‘In a bottle upstairs.’

‘And what is the ransom for this bottle?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. All terms are negotiable, Eva.’

She tilted her head. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘Am I so easy to forget?’

She took the cigarette gently from his fingers, inhaled, and gave it back to him. ‘I would like very much to see the bottle of rain, Monsieur Valmont.’

Valmont’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What about your companions?’

‘My friends can do very well without me.’

He held out his arm and she took it. And he felt his entire body flush with warmth at the proximity of her. Her delicious natural odour was intensified by the warm night; he could detect each layer, each nuance.

Valmont took her to his tiny room. The curtains had been left open; the blazing lights of Monte Carlo below illuminated the shadows, filling the room with a blue glow.

He reached for the light switch but she stopped him. ‘No, I prefer it this way.’ And without waiting for an invitation, she curled into a corner of the bed, propping the pillows around her.

He pulled over a straight-backed wooden chair and sat across from her, unsure of what to do next.

This wasn’t the same little girl he’d met in New York. And beautiful women didn’t frequent his bedroom in Paris. She possessed an ease and confidence he could only mimic.

Taking his cigarette case from the breast pocket of his evening jacket, he lit one with as much poise as he could muster. ‘I didn’t even recognize you at first. I thought, “I know that girl,” and yet for ages I couldn’t think how.’

She stretched out, smiling to herself. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. And what have you been doing with yourself, besides creating storm clouds for me?’

‘I am a perfumer, of course.’ He took another drag. ‘Easily the best in Paris.’

‘Of course!’ She laughed. ‘How could I doubt it? It’s just, I wonder that I haven’t heard of you?’

She struck a nerve. He straightened. ‘I have my own shop now, in Saint-Germain.’

‘Bravo! Is that Madame’s idea?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘How is she? She really was the most incredible creature! And, more importantly, how is business for the best perfumer in Paris?’

‘It’s been a great success, actually.’

She looked round the tiny room. ‘And yet you have such a refreshingly unostentatious style!’

He felt his cheeks flush and was glad of the darkness.

‘Have you brought me here to seduce me?’ Her voice was low and smooth.

‘Of course not!’

‘Really?’ She sounded disappointed, leaning her cheek on her palm. ‘Don’t I interest you?’

‘Oh, yes. I mean, I didn’t mean to imply…’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s just, I… I’m a man without much experience in these matters. I’ve had a business to attend to. A career to build.’

‘So why am I here?’

He pulled himself up, re-crossed his legs. ‘You… well, the truth is, I overheard your conversation a few days ago in the lobby and your request for rain inspired me.’

‘It’s not the first time you’ve made a perfume for me,’ she reminded him.

‘No, no, it isn’t.’

‘Are you hoping I’ll buy this from you?’

Her bluntness caught him off guard. He felt transparent, made of cellophane. ‘Well… that’s not quite what I meant…’

She cocked her head to one side. ‘Why not?’

She was so much more adept at this sort of thing than he was; so unabashed.

Instead, he reverted to what was familiar; he took the small vial of perfume from his travelling case of ingredients. ‘Would you like to know how I made it?’ He tried to assume an authoritative, professional tone.

‘Oh, Andre!’ She shook her head. ‘You’re not quite honest, are you? I understand that. You and I can’t afford to be, can we?’

‘I’m sorry?’ He stared at her, her face illuminated by the city lights like a ghostly apparition.

‘But you must tell me the truth. Look, I’ll make a deal with you – if you’re honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. And believe me, there aren’t many people in this world I would trust.’

He hesitated. But the temptation to confide in someone was too great.

‘My shop is failing,’ he blurted out. ‘I don’t know how to sell things – especially things that I haven’t even made yet.’ He sank back into his chair. ‘In truth, Eva, I loathe people. I always have.’

‘Go on.’

‘I loathe idle chit-chat. I despise idiots. I can’t bear to sit and talk to people.’

‘Imagine that!’

He smiled in spite of himself; she could always see right through him. Relaxing further, he took a deep drag. ‘To me the most irritating part of the business of making perfume is the client. The truth is, I can only really create my best work when I’m moved by someone, as I am by you. I own a shop but I hate customers. Isn’t that mad? And now I’m here, in Monte Carlo, to do little more than prostitute myself to the very people for whom I have the least respect. I am out of money. I am out of time. And now I loathe myself for coming here at all.’

‘Oh dear!’ She tipped her head back, laughing. ‘What a tragic tale!’

Her sarcasm popped his grandiosity like a bubble; he couldn’t help but laugh too.

She spread her arms wide. ‘Welcome to the brothel, my dear Andre! The difficulty is not that you must prostitute yourself but that you do it so badly. You need these people and whether they know it or not, they need you . But if you’re going to get paid to swallow, my dear, you’d better learn not to choke.’

Shocked, he coughed and spluttered on the smoke of his cigarette.

‘You need to learn the art of seduction,’ she continued. ‘After all, prostitutes aren’t paid for ambivalence. There is only one rule – you can sell me anything as long as you adore me.’

‘But I… I don’t know anything of these matters. I don’t even want to. I only know how to make perfume.’

‘Yes, but I do. And let me tell you something – your arrogance is justified – you are a genius. With the smallest effort and guidance you could easily be the best perfumer in Paris.’

‘Really?’ He’d doubted himself; her words were like a balm to his bruised and smarting ego.

‘I know all about these people. Their habits and secrets, how they think and feel, every single Achilles heel. And let me tell you, they’re not complicated. You must trust me, Andre.’

‘Why would you help me?’

‘Because,’ there was something both tender and melancholy in her tone, ‘you made it rain.’