Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘Why don’t we take a break?’ she said. ‘Let’s lock up the shop for half an hour and step out for a breath of fresh air?’

Climbing down, he put the jar on the counter. ‘There’s nothing fresh about the air in Paris anymore. Besides,’ he scratched at an angry red patch of eczema that had developed, spreading across the back of his right hand, ‘I’m in the middle of something.’

Eva didn’t press the point. She knew he hated to be seen in public, wearing the barbaric yellow star stitched onto his lapel. He only really felt comfortable now in the shop. The beautifully tailored suits he once wore hung untouched and undefiled in his wardrobe. He’d capitulated only once, stitching the badge on to his least favourite suit jacket, which he wore every day. He no longer frequented cafés or bothered to meet with friends.

In fact, he was becoming a recluse, hardly leaving the workroom, working away in the basement, after curfew, well into the night. And the fruits of his obsessive labours could be found on the now-crowded shop shelves, vials upon vials of new formulations, sometimes two or three in a single night. It was beyond prolific; it was like a kind of brilliant possession. Andre was at the height of his powers, creating subtle, daring, elegant compositions. Frequently he spent hours showing her his notebooks, taking her through each detail of the process, as if he both doubted himself and wanted a witness to carry on his legacy. Some afternoons, he would make her test twenty different variations of the same formula, only to discount them all. Other times, he was emphatic, dictatorial, chain-smoking heavily, proclaiming amidst a fog of thick smoke that he was the only real nose left in Paris.

Eva found this frenzied outpouring both moving and painful to witness. He was racing, running himself out. Part of her sensed that he wasn’t afraid for himself, so much as for his own talent; terrified that something uniquely beautiful might not be realized unless he coaxed it into being.

She came, stood beside him. ‘What are you working on?’

‘I want to do a Greek series.’ Glancing up, he gave her an awkward smile. ‘I long for archetypes.’

‘Well, I may step out for a while. That is, if you don’t mind.’

She knew the chance of anyone coming in was slim, but knew also that Andre shrank from dealing with customers.

Today he just shrugged. ‘Do what you like. But turn the sign around, will you? I don’t want any uninvited guests.’

He was talking about the Germans. The only people left in Paris with the money for luxury goods.

Eva set out walking down the thronging Boulevard St Germain. Since the invasion, it seemed that more people spent time milling in the streets, rubbing up against one another, looking to each other for clues as to what was happening. During the day, the streets teamed with people standing in line for rations, bartering with makeshift stall-holders selling black market goods, spilling out from the cafés to smoke, argue and talk. At night, the same streets were eerily silent.

She crossed the river at the Pont de Sully. The banks of the Seine were lined with fisherman, both men and women, waiting patiently, hoping to supplement their rations by any means possible. As she headed into the 4th arrondissement, the atmosphere changed. Here the wide boulevards were quieter, the streets devoid of the many teaming bicycles and rickshaws that crowed St Germain. Suspended from the roofs of government buildings, enormous Swastika flags fluttered soundlessly in the breeze. Suddenly, Eva caught sight of a flock of birds, circling above. There were almost no pigeons left in Paris, most had been caught and cooked.

Finally arriving through the narrow cobbled entrance, Eva stepped into the wide expanse of Les Places Des Vogues, with its stately central square. The trees were all but bare now, a few golden leaves clinging in defiance. Some children were huddled in a circle, shooting marbles in the dirt. An older man was sweeping the rest of the fallen leaves into high piles, aided by his wife, a small, stocky woman, wrapped in a knitted shawl. The four large fountains were dry; the playground equipment dismantled long ago. They all seemed to be moving like nurses around the bed of a sleeping patient, cautious and quiet.

Checking the address again, Eva made her way to the far end. A group of German soldiers were sitting on bench, smoking. They laughed, shouting and whistling as she passed.

The concierge, a rather frightened, dour young woman, was waiting for her outside of one of the buildings. She led Eva up a set of marble stairs to an apartment on the first floor. She unlocked the door and disappeared back downstairs before Eva could ask her anything.

‘Hello?’ Eva stepped inside.

It was empty, unfurnished.

‘Hello, is anyone here?’ she called again.

Her voice echoed off the bare walls and floor. Was this some sort of joke? What was he playing at?

She was drawn to the wall of windows, overlooking the city. It was a remarkable vantage point, a sprawling panorama stretching in all directions for miles.

‘Do you like it?’

Eva turned.

A striking woman was standing in the doorway. She was only a few years older than herself, with an elegant, lithe figure and strong features. She was wearing a simple day dress and flat shoes, as if she’d been out shopping or running errands; two activities it was impossible to believe. She looked Eva up and down, regarding her as if she were a cut of meat dangling in a butcher’s window.

‘I’m sorry?’ Eva scoured her memory. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

‘No,’ the woman answered. She untied the silk headscarf she was wearing, revealing a mass of dark curls, re-arranging it so it draped loosely around her neck. ‘And we never will. Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked, taking a gold cigarette case out of her handbag.

She lit one, not bothering to wait for Eva’s reply.

‘So, do you like it?’ the woman asked again, shooting a stream of smoke at the ceiling. ‘It has an exceptional view, don’t you agree?’

Coming over, she stopped in front of the window. ‘I think it will do nicely. Don’t worry about furnishings. I’ll send over some pieces later on in the week. I mean,’ she laughed a little, smoke streaming from her nose, ‘I’m sure your taste is more than adequate. But you’ll appreciate that these additions are special.’

Now Eva knew who she was.

She slid her hands into her coat pockets. ‘I’m not sure that will be necessary, Madame Hiver.’

Something flickered in Yvonne Hiver’s dark eyes. ‘Well, it’s up to you of course,’ she said lightly. ‘You work in the little perfume shop, don’t you? What’s the name of that place?’

Eva didn’t answer.

Yvonne titled her chin down, watching Eva’s face carefully. ‘You’re not the only one, you know. There are others.’

‘I presume you’re referring to other women.’

‘Naturally,’ Yvonne took another drag. ‘My husband’s quite sentimental. Some girls he’s held on to since we were engaged. Sweet, I suppose.’

‘Or lazy.’

Yvonne exhaled slowly. ‘How did you meet him, anyway?’

Eva nodded to the cigarette she was smoking. ‘Do you have another one?’

Yvonne frowned, irritated. Nevertheless, she took out the gold case again. ‘I suppose rationing has made beggars of us all.’

Eva took one and, leaning forward, lit it from Yvonne’s. ‘I have plenty, thank you. I simply prefer yours.’

Yvonne stared at her then smiled. ‘You were about to tell me how you met.’

‘At the Casino de Paris. He followed me out one night. I’d left my winnings behind. He was under the impression it was a mistake and wanted to return them to me.’