Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

She said nothing.

‘Let me do this. This baby doesn’t belong with us. Not now. Let my sister help us. The child will be safe, well looked after.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the nursery. ‘That poor child deserves better than this, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

His voice softened. ‘But one thing’s for certain – of all the people I could drag around Europe with me, I’m glad I chose you.’

Another tear worked its way down. ‘Why?’

‘You’re smarter than anyone I’ve ever known. Truth is, I’m in awe of you. Not that I believe in God, but if I did, you’d be on the list of things that proves his existence.’

It was as close to a compliment as he’d ever come.

Her head throbbed; the room was shifting, the edges around things smudging. She closed her eyes, trying to make it stop. ‘It wouldn’t be for long, would it?’

‘No. The faster we get on with it, the shorter it will be.’

‘And your sister, she’d give her back to me, wouldn’t she? You’d explain it all to her?’

‘I’ll arrange everything.’ He stood up.

She tried to sit up again but her arms felt shaky and weak. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Eva, trust me.’ He pressed his hand to her cheek, then frowned. ‘You’re hot. Too hot. I’m going to speak to the doctor. I’ll be back.’

She sank down once more, drifting in and out of sleep. After a while, she couldn’t tell how long, the nurse came back and took her temperature; her face lined with concern. ‘You have a fever, Mrs Lamb.’

‘Where did… where did he go?’

‘Your husband? He’s gone, dear.’

‘Gone?’

The nurse adjusted her pillows. ‘I’m going to give you an injection. It will prick a bit.’ She took out a needle.

‘It’s cold,’ Eva shivered. ‘I feel so cold.’

‘Be still now. Don’t move.’ Eva winced as she injected the morphine into her arm.

‘When can I see my baby?’ she murmured. ‘I haven’t seen her yet. I want to look at her.’

‘Well, just as soon as you go home, dear. She’ll be there waiting for you. Here,’ the nurse laid an extra blanket over her. ‘You have an infection, you need to rest.’

Eva took her hand. ‘But I want to see her now.’

‘My dear, your husband took her. It’s for the best. You don’t want her to be ill too now, do you?’ She gently but firmly extracted Eva’s hand. ‘Besides, you cannot look after the baby when you’re ill. She’s in good hands. Sleep now. She’ll be back in your arms in no time.’

Madame Zed looked across at Grace, ‘You do understand, don’t you?’

Grace opened her mouth to speak but stopped. The knot tightened in her stomach, as if someone were pulling, playing tug-of-war with her insides. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked numbly.

Instead of answering, Madame reached over, pulled open the drawer of a small end table next to her and took out a photograph.

‘Have you ever seen a picture of Eva?’

Grace shook her head.

She passed it to Grace. ‘That was taken many years ago.’

It was an old black-and-white photograph, taken in a studio. The girl in the picture was very young; she had a heart-shaped face, radiant clear eyes. Her hair was a shining black helmet, her skin pale. The Cupid’s bow lips were curved into a knowing half-smile. The eyes, lined in thick charcoal, looked challengingly into the very centre of the camera lens, daring it to blink before she did. A kind of sexual heat radiated from her, a sultry, defiant sophistication.

Madame Zed had taken out a silver cigarette case. ‘She’s beautiful, don’t you think?’

Grace nodded, unable to stop staring.

This wasn’t the woman she’d expected. Nothing like her at all. She tried to match the picture with Monsieur Tissot’s description of a woman whose face was changed by pain; with the sharp, sophisticated perfume that lingered in the apartment.

But the girl in the photograph was so surprising in her immediacy, and so terribly young.

Madame Zed opened the silver cigarette case, took the last one. ‘Here.’ She passed Grace the empty case.

Grace didn’t understand. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Go on,’ she nodded to it. ‘Look.’

Slowly, Grace lifted it up. Her face reflected back at her in its smooth surface.

‘Do you know why you are here, Mrs Munroe? In Paris?’

Grace struggled to see what was before her eyes. Here was the same heart-shaped face, the same clear, grey-green eyes.

‘My mother… my mother was Lady Catherine Maudley,’ she heard herself say.

‘Of course.’ Madame struck a match, the flame flared to life as she lit her cigarette. ‘Only, whom do people usually bequeath their property to?’

Grace swallowed hard, tears pricking at the backs of her eyes.

‘My mother died in the Blitz,’ she said, stupidly. Madame Zed didn’t bother to respond. Instead she got up, went to the sideboard, poured a glass of cognac, and handed it to her. ‘Go on. Drink.’

The sweet amber liquid burned down the back of Grace’s throat; the alcohol seeped slowly into her limbs. She took another drink, draining the glass.

Madame sat down. ‘You can’t have come all this way and not at least have had the thought cross your mind.’

Grace put the glass down. ‘You don’t absolutely know for certain… do you?’

She looked at Grace, not unkindly, then got up and filled the glass again.

Grace drank it, staring at the photograph yet unable to see it clearly any more. ‘How do you know?’ she asked, after a while.

‘You were born when Eva was just a teenager.’

Grace pressed her eyes close. ‘But how do you know?’

‘Because, drinkers talk too much.’

The dog twitched in his sleep, whimpering a little.

A shaft of sunlight shifted, moving almost imperceptibly across the floor.

‘I think I’d better go.’ Grace stood up, her legs oddly shaky underneath her.

‘Where?’

She stared at the old woman blankly. ‘I don’t know.’

Madame Zed looked up at her with those large black eyes. ‘You have nowhere else to go.’

She was right.

Grace sat down again, her body leaden and numb. ‘Why didn’t she try to contact me?’

Madame shook her head.

‘She knew where I lived and how to get in touch with me after her death!’ Grace heard her voice rising, like the panic inside her. ‘Why didn’t she bother to do it while she was alive?’

‘You’re angry.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be angry? What is the appropriate response when you discover your entire life has been built upon a lie?’

Madame Zed looked at her but said nothing.

Grace reached for another drink of cognac. ‘Why did she include me in her will?’

‘Because she was connected to you. Because even despite her absence, she existed and you existed. You are a fact in each other’s lives in the same way that the sea exists even if you never go to the seaside.’

Grace pushed her glass across the table. ‘I’d like some more.’

‘I think you’ve had enough.’

‘You’re wrong.’

Madame Zed got up and poured her a third.

Throwing her head back, she downed it in one.

‘Who is my father? Lambert?’ She spat the name out.

Taking a deep drag, Madame shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Then who?’

‘I don’t know his name. She never told me. Besides, I don’t think it’s important.’

‘Oh really?’ Grace laughed bitterly. ‘Apparently I’m not something important!’

‘Your mother—’

‘My mother? Don’t you dare call her that!’ Grace snapped angrily, surprised by her own strength of feeling. ‘You have no right to call her that! A mother is someone who is there – who stays.’ The words felt strangled in her throat. ‘Not someone who simply abandons you!’