Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘Don’t you want to know where you came from?’

‘Is that how you justify it to yourself? That you’re helping me? Explaining to me how my entire life is a fraud?’

Madame Zed kept her eyes trained on the ground between her feet. Deep creases cut across her brow. ‘No. I can’t justify my actions. I suppose I did want you to hate her,’ she said quietly.

‘Well, you’ve succeeded. And all it’s done is tear me to pieces.’ Against her will, there were tears. ‘Made me think less of the entire human race.’

‘Well, now. We can’t have that.’

Madame Zed rose, the little terrier scurrying to his feet too. The afternoon was clouding over, the wind gathering strength. Gusts battered against her thin frame, threatening to topple her. ‘Come with me.’

‘Why?’ Grace looked up at her. ‘Why would I ever come with you again?’

Even when she was wrong, Madame managed a superior tone. ‘Because I have one last perfume to show you.’

Madame Zed picked up the simple chemist’s vial with the peeling label. But before she opened it, she said, ‘Let me tell you what happened.’

‘You’ve already lied to me once. Why should I believe what you say?’

‘Why don’t you hear what I have to say first?’ she countered, evenly.

‘Fine.’

Madame Zed sat down and Grace took a seat opposite her.

‘When Eva was just a young girl, working as a maid in New York, she became pregnant,’ Madame began. ‘Charles Lambert, or Lamb as he was known, brought her with him to England. But it was agreed between them that Eva would pay for her fare and Lamb’s protection by working with him, after the baby was born, in the large gambling casinos of Europe. That’s what he was relying on and why he agreed to help her. She had a rare, extremely rare, gift for numbers.’

Grace was unimpressed. ‘You’ve already told me that.’

Madame Zed took her rudeness in her stride.

‘Eva was fifteen, maybe sixteen when you were born,’ she went on, ‘without friends or family, in a strange country. Lambert convinced her that he should take the child to live with his sister, Catherine. That she would be able to look after you better than anyone else. Catherine was married to a man named Maudley, a soldier who’d been badly injured in France. They never thought they would have children. So when Lambert came to them one day with the baby of an unmarried young girl, it seemed like a godsend.’

Grace’s heart speeded up. ‘You’re talking about my parents.’

Madame Zed nodded.

A memory flashed into Grace’s mind; her mother’s lips pressed to her forehead as she tucked her into to bed at night. ‘Goodnight, my darling girl.’

Instinctively she touched her fingers to her brow.

‘Eva didn’t want to let you go,’ Madame continued. ‘But Lambert insisted. He promised her that when she’d repaid her debt, he would write to his sister and arrange a meeting; that Eva would be able to have you back. Time passed. Eva did everything Lambert asked of her. But it was never enough. He was a raging alcoholic. Even her skill couldn’t prevent him from digging them deeper and deeper into debt.’

‘What was meant to be a temporary solution became a permanent one. Lambert kept his sister’s name and address from Eva. He said she would only ruin things if she tried to contact her on her own, but in truth it gave him power over Eva. However, the night he took his life, Lambert wrote to her, finally giving her the details. He also confessed that his attempts at negotiating the child away from his sister had failed – Catherine had become too attached to the little girl. She wasn’t prepared to give her up without a battle. You see, Lambert had given his sister not just the child but the birth certificate too. Eva had no proof that you were hers.’ Madame looked across at her. ‘But Eva refused to give up.’

Grace felt her insides twist and knot. ‘Go on.’

‘Catherine and her husband didn’t live in the main household of her father’s estate. Instead, they chose one of the smaller private houses on the grounds. They didn’t have much in the way of help. Then one summer,’ Madame continued, ‘Catherine Maudley began writing a book. They decided to hire a nanny. In fact, the girl they employed was initially taken on as a housemaid and cook. She’d appeared quite out of the blue one spring, asking the village pastor if he would help her find a position. But her devotion to the little girl was so instant and touching, that in addition to cooking and cleaning for the Maudleys, she gradually assumed greater responsibilities, taking charge of the child’s entertainment and care while her mother worked. The girl Catherine Maudley hired was French. She was called Céline.’

Grace felt the bottom of her stomach disappear.

The name triggered something. Out of the dark shadows in her memory, a face emerged.

‘Lena,’ she murmured.

The crack opened wide, images tumbling to the fore-front of her consciousness.

Lena had been small, with dark brown hair and a soft, pleasing voice. And for a time, she’d been everywhere, in the kitchen baking, out on the lawn hanging up the washing, up on the landing calling her into her bath…

‘Lena! Lena!’ Grace could remember the feeling of her name in her mouth, on her tongue; running in through the back door of the house, calling out, ‘Lena!’ She wasn’t so much a nanny as a playmate, a constant conspirator in fun. ‘Lena!’

And she’d smelled of something familiar, something so natural, so elemental that for ever afterwards and for reasons she could never quite place, Grace would associate the sudden drop in temperature, the darkening of the sky and the low growl of thunder, with peace and comfort.

She’d smelled of rain.

It was an unusually warm afternoon in early March.

Grace had been playing in the back garden with the dog, Fry.

The back door to the kitchen was propped open. The smell of roasting chicken, rich and savoury, wafted out into the garden, making her mouth water, drawing her in.

Grace walked into the kitchen. Everything was clean, organized; pots boiled on the stove, the floor was freshly scrubbed; it felt good, right.

Lena was sitting at the kitchen table in her apron, with a pen and paper. Her head was bent down.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m writing a letter, darling,’ Lena answered, without looking up. But Grace knew that even ordinary things became special with Lena.

‘May I watch?’ Grace asked.

Lena looked up at her, smiled. ‘Watch me write a letter?’

Grace nodded.

Then she dared to ask something she would never have asked of her mother; had never asked of anyone before. ‘May I sit on your lap, please?’

Lena’s smile widened. ‘Of course!’

Pushing her chair back, Lena held out her arms and Grace climbed onto her lap. She leaned her head against Lena’s chest, could feel her heart beating softly underneath her dress. She smelled so different from anyone else in the world; it was a fresh, earthy smell, a smell that promised safety. ‘Who are you writing to?’

Lena smoothed Grace’s hair down, kissed her forehead. ‘A friend of mine. In Paris.’

‘Is he your husband?’

‘No. I don’t have a husband.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, sometimes that’s just the way things work out.’

‘Yes,’ Grace agreed solemnly, although she didn’t really understand. ‘I suppose so.’ She snuggled deeper. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘She’s not home yet. Now, you must be quiet or I shall not be able to write.’

‘But she will be home soon?’ (In truth, Grace didn’t care when her mother came back. She just wanted to stay on Lena’s lap. But she’d never done it before; didn’t know what was expected. So she talked about what she always talked about, which was her mother, so that Lena would let her stay.)