The Memory of Scent (13 page)

Philippe has been kind and attentive throughout the performance, prompting me when a scene is about to become tragic as in the third act where Lakmé realises she has lost her love and, rather than live without him, kills herself by eating the poisonous datura leaf. I am aware of Philippe smiling
indulgently across at me as I’m sure the expression on my face is altering with the arc of the story until the rousing finale has left me quite drained.

After the opera there is a lively congregation at a small bistro. We join a group of people that Philippe seems to know well. A chair is pulled out for me and I drink whatever is offered to me. No one seems to take much notice of my presence nor is anyone inclined to comment on the very obvious age difference between Philippe and me. I do sense some hostility from another young woman at the far end of the table, who, up to that point, must have been the centre of attention with her corn blonde hair and fluttering eyes. Though I feel over-dressed, this must be all part of the theatre ritual: first to soak in the atmosphere of opulence then afterwards, to come to a place like this for banter and cognac. The owner sends more drinks over, while expressing his huge relief that he has customers who will settle with actual money at the end of the night and that he has an attic full of bad paintings as a testament to customers who don’t. Philippe points towards the bearded gentleman sitting up front by the window.

‘You will probably notice that man, Monsieur Degas, hanging about theatres we may go to. He likes to paint the dancers and seems to be quite revered among the other painters, from what I hear.’

I am caught between the pleasing acknowledgments that there will be more outings such as this and my observation of how very morose Monsieur Degas looks.

It is very late when I bustle back into Madame’s house. Glancing into the small parlour, I see Catherine sitting by the fire, reading a letter. I’m glad she is there because I am overflowing with excitement and eager to describe the
night, detail by very small detail. I flop on the fireside chair opposite Catherine, released of the duty of deportment.

‘Catherine, such a wonderful night. I think I shall love opera forever. Have you been to many? I was actually very nervous because I didn’t know how to act and I didn’t want to appear foolish.’

Catherine lets out an irritated sigh.

‘Catherine do you still have some sort of problem with me?’

She crashes her letter back down on to her lap in crumpled frustration.

‘Babette, for heaven’s sake. Everything does not have to be all about you, all of the time. You are like something hopping up and down, craving attention.’

‘Well I am very sorry, but this happens to be all very new to me.’ I straighten myself in the chair and am about to launch a further point of defence when I notice one slow tear tracing an outline down her cheek.

‘Catherine, is everything all right?’ She doesn’t speak, but smoothes the letter out on her thigh to re-read it. ‘Is it a love letter?’ She nods. I crouch down in front of her. ‘If I made you some hot chocolate, would that make you feel a little better?’ That cheers her up a little.

‘You know, Catherine, you reminded me a little there of your cousin, Cécilia.’

Right. To the kitchen. Is there anyone up who can make us some hot chocolate or will I have to do it myself? I quite like the way this dress swishes.

It does surprise me sometimes how women such as Maria, Agnes and I can distract ourselves for inordinate amounts of time in lovingly overturning mere trivia; how we can move from a forensic analysis of the best way to keep our cuticles neatly scraped back, to the mocking of the drunken gait of a passing gentleman and the likelihood his tumbling, how there is a very good selection of brocaded velvets and fancy velvets as well as marked-down lingerie for sale at Le Bon Marché, to the merits of drinking cold black coffee with seltzer water. When George arrives, his presence immediately draws our conversation away from these minutiae. I think it is simply his masculinity. He pulls up a chair and we instinctively turn towards him as if we were three sunflowers reaching for the light.

‘We’re here to find Babette.’ I say this in what amounts to a command, to distance ourselves from the disparate frivolity of our earlier chattering. In truth, the search has become part of a
ruse to be able to remain in George’s company. But it is a useful one, and I have convinced myself that the patchouli girl and Babette are one and the same. Agnes leaves us to attend to the kitchen. George flicks open his moleskin notebook and thumbs the pages back and forth, while Maria recalls the information she managed to tease out of the haughty young art student.

‘Well that ties in, because judging by the date that you say the girl was arrested, she must have been linked to the death of the Spaniard. From what I remember hearing, he owed a lot of people money.’

‘He had that reputation, but he always paid me, probably not wanting to be beholden to a model, although scruples tended not to be too high up on his agenda from the stories that are being told about him.’

‘Yes but what artist doesn’t owe somebody somewhere money?’ George is very familiar with their habits.

Maria looks at both of us.

‘What, so are we just presuming she didn’t do it?’

‘Well I won’t know for sure until I talk to her, until I can ask her.’

George again flips through a couple of pages.

‘You know there are a few prisons here, don’t you? But women are generally sent to the Saint Lazare Prison. Or, and you have to think about this: if she did go mad and kill someone, then maybe she ended up in Charenton, the asylum.’

This wouldn’t bear thinking about. Maria pours some more wine.

‘Listen Fleur, you have absolutely no idea what you are getting into here. She is not your responsibility at all. I really think you should let things be. You have enough on your plate with your mother getting worse and you trying to make ends meet.’

‘Maria could be right.’

‘If I could just talk to her once, I’m sure then I’d know.’

‘Well, if you are going to go trawling through prisons, Fleur, you’re on your own.’

I am taken aback by Maria’s cold tone.

‘What? You think I’m being cruel? I never told you this before …’ Maria glances quickly at George and then drops her eyes. ‘Never mind.’

‘Maria, you can trust George. Can’t she George?’

George gives a little shrug, as if he doesn’t care one way or the other, his empty glass being his only concern. He pours himself more wine.

‘Well, my mother was married once, and I have a half-sister.
Maman
’s husband was a blacksmith, a perfectly respectable job, but it wasn’t enough for him, so he began to develop skills as a forger. He can’t have been very good because he was arrested and then sentenced to a life of hard labour in French Guiana. He died in prison two years later. My older sister was around six when my mother fell pregnant with me. I have no idea who my father was, but he can’t have been very decent if he abandoned a widow woman with two small girls. I don’t care who he is either.’

‘You have a sister?’

‘Half of one. She’s a respectable married lady somewhere. Anyway, why are you so focused on this? You saw this girl only a handful of times. She could have any number of people in her life.’

Why indeed? It is not merely an excuse to make myself more interesting to George, there is much more to it than that. I still have those memories, as sharp as a whip lash, of being alone in this city. Everybody needs someone. Maria herself had her uncle at the circus. Sometimes it’s just the
resounding echo of another person bouncing off you to remind you that you are alive. Something in my gut, my very innards, is telling me to find Babette, to make sure she is all right. Maria takes the ensuing pause as somehow an agreement and so continues.

‘I just think you could be spending your time more wisely than getting acquainted with a prison.’

‘Maria, if Fleur wants to do this, it’s her choice. It might seem a little obsessive, but that’s fine. I won’t hold that against her.’

‘No, I suspect there are other things you would rather hold against her.’

I bang the table. ‘Enough. You think this is some whimsy of mine? A game? Are you forgetting how tough it is out there? You George, well you can be forgiven, but Maria … is your memory so short?’

George’s neck reddens slightly as points his finger at me.

‘Now that’s not fair.’

I rock a little in my chair, saying nothing. I do this sometimes as I find it comforting. I know that there is something I must reveal to them. Finishing my wine in one gulp, I draw myself up and speak in as clear and direct voice as I can muster.

‘Will you both come with me?’

George and Maria look at each other and nod in perplexed agreement. They say goodbye to Agnes who’s been hovering nearby. The streets are getting busy with the early evening pedestrians. We jump on board an omnibus until we reach the market at Les Halles and from there, we walk to the corner of Rue Saint Denis. I creak open the iron gate in the shadow of the neatly walled-off cemetery. Gravel crunches underfoot as George and Maria follow me to a small mound with a posy of fresh flowers placed on top.

‘This is my daughter Isobel.’

Maria steps forward and hooks on to my arm saying nothing. We both stare down at the mound of earth. George remains slightly back.

‘It was a long time ago.’

The weeds are untamed and I kneel down to pluck at them

‘My early days in Paris are a blur. A blur of working like a dog in the house of a distant relative; of brandy-reeking breath and bed-covers being pulled from me; of chairs up against the knob of my bedroom door; of packing up my few things and running away. Not yet fifteen and in the middle of Paris with nowhere to go. I begged a little and stole from vegetable stalls and slept in doorways. I was then given shelter by a man who claimed his entitlements. The day I realised I must be pregnant, I sat on some church steps and rocked and cried and thought I should just throw myself down the steep stairs and be done with it.’

I am aware of George scuffing at the gravel with his boot, as if unsure as to what he should be doing. I sit back on my heels.

‘And then this amazing thing, I heard a kind voice, a woman asking me if I was all right. I must have thought she was an angel or something. She was wearing this beautiful cream velvet coat and matching hat, and she smelt of damask roses.’

Maria crouches down beside me and begins to finger for weeds as well.

‘She asked about my mother. When she realised I was alone, she told me to follow her because I could be arrested for vagrancy.’

Each time I pull the weeds from this little grave I find my mind drifting to that door beside a bakeshop, to the upstairs parlour room which was so warm with a gloriously blazing
fire, to the sensation of water being poured from a jug and my back being gently sponged, my hair being washed and the smell of crisp fresh linen against my tired skin, and of sleeping as if I had a whole life of sleep to catch up on. I reposition the small posy.

‘Delphine cared for me over the next seven months or so. I loved that place.’ I have a clear vision of her neat little home. ‘She had a dresser stacked with fine china and there were delicate, lace tablecloths on all the small tables. She even had a piano. She would barely let me out of her sight, and I always had to walk apart from her if we were out in public. Do you know what the vile book is George?’

George shakes his head as I rise to my feet again.

‘Delphine, at great personal risk, made sure I would never end up in it. She was registered as a prostitute. She knew that as an unaccompanied minor in this world, I could be arrested and dumped in the House of Correction, and she could get into trouble for corrupting a minor, just by keeping me with her. It became her personal mission to stop me from ever getting registered, which she feared would be my fate. You know, for that brief time, I could actually imagine living forever with my baby and Delphine, all together in her little home, Delphine like a kindly aunt. I had no fear when I was there.’ I feel the need to rock again.

‘Isobel was born too early. She only lived for an hour, but oh, she was beautiful. I dressed her in a little lace gown that I had carefully sewn and a little bonnet that was far too big for her, and I wrapped her in a soft woollen blanket. When I had her dressed, Delphine and I brought her here to be buried. I wanted to bury her over there, where respectable people are with their big tombs and all that prayerful respect. Instead, this scrubby field is as near as I could get.’

This field is filled with odd-shaped mounds, formed by desperate hands and dirty fingernails many under the cover of darkness.

‘Isobel would have been four on her next birthday.’ Right this minute, I can imagine my four-year-old girl dancing around, giggling, and maybe twirling her hair. ‘I come here often. I have to. There are stray goats, look, there’s one over there now, and they would trample her. At least I can try to protect her from that.’ I fill my lungs with one deep breath. ‘It’s just that I still have this … this ache in my heart. I can still feel that day, still feel the cloth that I folded over her little face before I put her in the ground. There are many things that seem to have fled my mind, many spaces that have been created, but this …’

The memory of that day is whipping me into submission. Poor Maria and George, I have bonded them to my distress. This is what is most difficult when you cast out something heartfelt, you entangle others.

‘So there you have it. My baby in a pauper’s grave.’

I feel George’s hand on my shoulder and it stills me. I remember the torturous decision I made to leave Delphine. It was as foreign and unwelcome as if I was being asked to plunge my hand into boiling water. Every inch of my being recoiled from it, but I knew I had to leave as it wouldn’t have been fair on her. She had been so good to me. She started me working with the
patron
at the café. She told me I was always welcome back to her if I ever got into difficulties again, but hoped she would never have to see me. My mother came to Paris shortly after that, totally oblivious, and with her own distress as carefully packed as the small suitcases she carried.