Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

Yvonne eyed her carefully. ‘But it wasn’t a mistake?’

‘I didn’t care about the money. I only go to play cards.’

‘So he gave you your money and bought you a drink, no doubt.’

Eva exhaled. ‘Actually I told him to fuck off. But he took the money back to casino, and had the cashier hold it for me in chips for the next night. When I came back, he was there, waiting.’

Yvonne took a moment to register this information. Clearly, it didn’t fit her imaginings. ‘Do often you go to casinos on your own?’ she asked, as if she were make conversation at a party.

‘Yes,’ Eva answered truthfully. ‘I find it soothing.’ She gestured to the empty apartment. ‘Is this your idea?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Instead of answering, Yvonne opened the French doors, stepping out on to the terrace. ‘You know, no one is going to have any money to buy perfume any more. Not while there’s a war on. But then I’m sure you already know that. I’m amazed that little shop hasn’t shut down already.’

Eva followed.

Below them, the garden square was like most of the city, relatively untouched by the Germans. It was easy, seductive even, to make believe that nothing was happening. Of all the disturbing aspects of the occupation, Eva found the veil of normalcy the most sinister. Was any wound more painful than the one no one else could see?

‘I’ve done a little research on you, Mademoiselle d’Orsey,’ Yvonne confessed. ‘I know that you have a running tab at the Café Flore that you never quite manage to pay off. I also know that they like to seat you in the back because you drink too much. I’m already aware that you enjoy spending your evenings gambling, in dubious company. And that your business partner, Andre Valmont is a Jew. I also know that my husband is fond of rescuing things – frightened kittens, wounded sparrows, women who’ve misplaced their morals.’

Eva took a long drag. ‘And that’s why you’re offering me an apartment?’

Yvonne leaned forward, resting her elbows on the railing. ‘It occurs to me that you have very little to lose and a great deal to gain. All I want you to do is continue to entertain Jacques and a few of his new friends. Only naturally, I’d like you to be able to do it in fitting style.’

‘And would these new friends by any chance be wearing grey uniforms and jackboots?’

Yvonne stubbed out the half-finished cigarette, tossing the butt over the side of the balcony. ‘None of us has anything to gain by watching Hiver Cosmetics go under. We must cooperate.’

‘Or rather, I must cooperate,’ Eva corrected her. ‘You will keep your distance.’

‘We have never met, mademoiselle. And we never will.’

‘Why are you making these arrangements? Why not Jacques?’

‘I don’t trust him.’ Yvonne seemed to find this amusing. ‘Imagine that?’ she laughed. ‘But some matters are too important, too delicate to leave to his judgment.’

Eva’s head hurt, hunger gnawed at her stomach. She turned, gazing out over the landscape of Paris. She was unused to seeing it from this height, of viewing it spread out in its entirety. Suddenly she felt angry, betrayed. Paris was as beautiful as ever. There was something duplicitous, deeply wrong with this beauty.

She looked down. The soldiers were still there.

The whole of Paris was crawling with them; theatres and galleries, restaurants and nightclubs – wall-to-wall with Nazi uniforms, the air punctuated with guttural German sounds. They strolled in the parks, ordered beer in cafés, stood frowning in front Matisse’s paintings with art catalogues in their hands. There were women, French women, who laughed at their stories, hung on their arms, allowed them to buy them drinks. Eva found them pathetic and desperate, avoided looking them in the eye. She knew what she would find there – fear and despair dressed up in childish bravado and defiance.

‘I’m not that fond of your husband,’ she said after a while.

Yvonne shifted, sighed, like someone forced to wait for a bus when they wanted a cab. ‘What you will get in return is this apartment, and a generous, regular stipend.’

‘I prefer stocks.’

Frowning, she pursed her lips. ‘As you wish. Do we understand each other?’

Eva turned to face her. ‘So you want me to do you a favour?’

‘A favour?’ Yvonne’s eyes flared.

‘What price is your husband’s company or your reputation, Madame Hiver?’ She smiled softly. ‘I’ll consider it, on one condition. I want you to do something for me.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Andre Valmont. I want Hiver to hire him. I want you to ensure he’s protected and classified as essential wartime personnel to the company.’

Yvonne’s eyes narrowed. She folded her arms across her chest. ‘We’re not hiring anyone. Especially not Jews.’

‘He’s a world-class perfumer. A genius. Just the kind of visionary Hiver needs.’

‘I don’t know what you expect me to do.’

‘What if he created a perfume for Hiver?’ Eva persisted. ‘One that was sold exclusively under the Hiver name. Then it would prove he was essential to the future of the company.’

‘The Nazis have taken over our factories,’ Yvonne explained, exasperated. ‘We’re not producing cosmetics right now. We’re making nylon for parachutes and God knows what else!’

‘We could make it, Andre and I – in the shop. We still have supplies. We could produce the formulation in small batches. Your products are still being sold.’

‘It’s old stock. And it’s running out fast. The longer this war lasts the more precarious our position becomes.’

‘Yes, but what if, during France’s darkest hour, Hiver delivers, against all odds, a new perfume. Can you imagine what it would mean to an ordinary woman, at a time like this? Just that something beautiful is being created, that it exists – something uniquely French. What’s more quintessentially French than perfume? Do you think that hope has a fragrance? Allegiance? Loyalty? And the very fact that you were producing it without factories, in spite of the Germans, would spark the imagination. It would seem like an exquisite act of patriotism.’

Yvonne pursed her lips again, said nothing.

Thinking aloud, Eva continued. ‘The bottle should have a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it.’

‘And what will you call it?’

‘ Mon Coeur. Now, always, forever.’

Yvonne snorted, shaking her head. ‘It’s ridiculous! And dangerous.’

‘Acts of courage require daring – that’s why they’re admired. It’s perfume, not politics.’

‘Everything is politics. We can’t afford scandal.’

‘Scandal is the best form of advertising.’

‘You don’t bite the hand that feeds you.’

‘And you don’t lick the one that rubs your nose in the dirt and beats you!’ Eva snapped back.

‘We’re aiming not to beaten, mademoiselle,’ Yvonne pointed out smoothly. ‘We’re striving to survive intact. Though now I can see why Jacques finds you so fascinating.’

‘Don’t be fooled,’ Eva looked at her sideways ‘He doesn’t. He finds himself fascinating. But only when there’s an audience.’

‘That’s not very flattering to you.’

‘I’m nothing more than a shiny little shard of glass, madam. He looks to see his own face, not mine.’

Some shadow of recognition moved across her features. ‘I wonder that you’re satisfied with so little,’ she said, quietly.

‘The important thing,’ Eva changed the subject, ‘is that the perfume have the Hiver name and that its creator, Andre Valmont, be identified as essential personnel to Hiver Cosmetics.’

‘There are no guarantees.’

‘But you will try,’ Eva pressed.