The Memory of Scent (15 page)

‘I’ve decided I do want to keep it. My mother said she will look after it and that I should get back to modelling as soon as possible afterwards. It will be fine. I would prefer a spring baby to a winter baby but I’m afraid that kind of timing is out of my hands.’ She seems to have a sudden burst of energy.

‘Come on, you can help me because today is moving day. We’ve a new place near the bottom of the hill. Mind you, this is only going to take about two or three runs for all the things we have accumulated over the past few years, so trust me, I won’t be taking up too much of your time. My lifetime’s belongings don’t amount to much.’

We navigate our way back to Maria’s little home in Montmartre in idle gossip, the way we have done so many times over the years, our chatter sealing us in a bubble of oblivion. A knife-wielding lunatic could jump in front of us and then plunge his knife into the neck of a passing child, and we would barely notice. We place several small bundles into a
handcart with both of us then steering it down the hill until we reach the narrow Rue Poteau and Maria’s new lodgings: a small apartment on what is a dark and dingy street. Maria and her mother have moved so often that she hardly comments on it at all anymore. She registers my disapproval.

‘It will do for the moment. It is cheaper, and we don’t have that much money coming in with even less for the foreseeable future.’

‘If there’s ever anything I can do to help you, Maria.’

‘I know, but you have your own mother to worry about. You are going to have to make some decisions there.’

My mother has been suffering frequently with violent headaches, but sometimes I prefer them to her quiet moments where she appears to be nothing but an emptied hulk, her eyes devoid of light. Each time I sponge her at night, I study her frail body for lesions or swellings, terrified in case there is any evidence of the pox as there is a muted obsession with it around here. It is not something that is openly discussed, just darkly hinted at. Prostitutes are fearful of it and men are fearful of prostitutes giving it to them. But then if men like Manet can get syphilis, can they not just as easily pass it on? Did father’s Marseilles trips harm
Maman
in any way?

One evening at the café, I listened as the men spoke gravely of a fellow artist who had just undergone treatment for syphilis. They described some sort of mercury stew where their friend had to sit in a small steam-room covered head to toe in mercury ointment while wrapped in blankets for twenty or thirty days at a time. Most of his teeth fell out and his jaw swelled painfully. The secretions from his nose and mouth had a disgusting smell, and he had fainted several times. They said he hadn’t been right since and certainly
didn’t have the energy to do anything. To my shock, I heard them say that another friend had died of a heart attack during the treatment.

I have to be strong enough for both of us and I worry that I will find it too difficult. Agnes is the only one that knows, really. Agnes is a witness to something very different in me. She is like a beautiful mirror that I am drawn to yet don’t want to stare at for too long. Agnes reveals to me a truth that I would much rather keep tucked away. We both know that something at the core of me is fragile and unpredictable, something has been dislodged, and I can only blame my grief for that. This has been playing a lot on my mind lately. I try to over-ride it by focusing on living in the moment, but there are incidents, fleeting events, where I feel in a daze, as if displaced.

And there is something that has been bothering me. One of those partly dreamt images, in those half-waking moments when the night is at its blackest. I see the Spaniard, crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, a small crimson pool seeping into the floorboards by his head. It seemed so real to me one night, that I fumbled in the dark to find something to mop up the blood. I awoke in the morning clutching a single, white glove.

Philippe has promised to take me gambling. I have heard about this game called Roulette and it sounds fantastically reckless. I don’t think it’s legal, but Philippe has assured me that these gambling houses are very discreet. This seems to be the case when we arrive at a large house that is indistinguishable from the others along the street. A servant shows us up several flights of stairs to where a gracious woman in strings of pearls greets us warmly. Philippe shakes several of the gentlemen’s hands and bows before a couple of the ladies, while I take in the scene. I wander over to the long table which is the focus of the room. The table surface is covered in a soft green cloth, and there is a wheel in the middle of it. A circle of red leather chairs have been placed around the table with most of them occupied. Philippe remains standing with a cigarette in his hand by a fireplace with some of the other gentlemen.

‘Are you going to play?’

A young, thin man is at my side.

‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t have a clue.’

‘It’s quite simple. Do you like red or black?’

‘I like the colour red. Black is so ominous.’

‘Then red it is.’ The young man places a coin on the red just before the man at the table’s top shouts, ‘No more bets.’

Everybody watches the wheel spin.

‘Black loses. Red wins.’

‘You see, there you go, nothing to it.’ The young man pushes several francs towards me. ‘Your first game. That’s all yours, you won it.’

‘But I couldn’t.’

‘Red or black? It’s not often in life where you get to make a choice so starkly limited with potentially so handsome a pay-off. The only other choice is when to stop, and that is the one that has caused so many downfalls.’ He nudges my attention towards an intense, haggard-faced man who is nervously twirling his moustache and looks as if he hasn’t slept in days.

‘His wife has taken his children away before he ruined them all, and yet he can’t stop. His furniture is being sold off piece by piece. He is convinced with one lucky spin, his life will turn around.’

‘Isn’t that possible?’

‘It’s all about luck, but there’s good luck and bad luck and they don’t come in equal measures. I am Vincent by the way.’

‘Bab–, Lily. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Well, Lily, do you want to hang on to your money or give it another flutter?’

‘Red is still calling me a little. I’m going to put it all on red, seeing as it hasn’t cost me anything.’

I push my stack of coins onto the red.

‘Place your bets. Your bets, gentlemen, please. That’s it. No more bets. Thank you.’

The wheel seems to spin longer this time until eventually it clatters to a halt.

‘Black loses. Red wins.’

I find myself jumping up and with an unrestrained yelp of delight. I give Vincent a quick hug. ‘I’ve won!’

‘Probably more than you thought, because you let it ride twice and red has just won again. You have to lift your money otherwise it will stay on the table all night.’

The pleasant young man helps me scoop up my winnings.

‘By my reckoning, that looks to me to be over a thousand francs. Maybe two.’

I can’t help but clap and give my new friend another embrace. And then my eyes fall on the moustache twirler at the other end of the table, and he looks in such a distressed state that I am tempted to go over and split my money with him. Some divine logic, however, tells me it would be upsetting the balance of nature. I am inclined to believe that I would be intervening in a way I’m not meant to and that Luck would have her revenge. Philippe joins me at the table, wedging himself firmly in the space between Vincent and me.

‘I see you either have had a strong case of beginner’s luck or you have a natural flair for this.’

I am flushed with excitement.

‘That, Philippe, would be my first mistake, to believe I have a flair for it. I was just lucky tonight. But what fun!’ I am glad, also, that the distressed husband and father with the well-twisted moustache is here on my first night of gambling just as a spectre of how things can go so badly wrong.

He speaks softly to me. ‘Be careful of that man you were
talking to. He is like a demon when he has had too much to drink.’

Perhaps, but he seems a perfect gentleman to me.

* * *

I decide to go and buy lots of cashmere first thing in the morning. I want to buy that very extravagant hat for Catherine that I remember her admiring in a shop window to see if that will cheer her up. I am concerned about Catherine; her mood is very low these days. I would also like to pay off Madame Del because I have learned by now that none of those lovely dresses in my room are free, and that I have been running up an account. Catherine has to stay at Madame’s because she cannot afford to pay off her bill. She confided that she felt responsible for me ending up at Madame’s house, because she made it out to be all so wonderful when she was talking to Cécilia. Cécilia had always lived such a tough life with her spells in and out of prison, that Catherine knew her young cousin just wanted to hear stories of another way of life. Catherine embellished her lifestyle to the extent that Cécilia longed to live it too. But since she knew she wasn’t blessed with the good looks and manners required, the next best thing was to encourage me, her prison friend, to consider it.

I softly rap on her Catherine’s bedroom door and sit on her bed while she twists her hair into little curls. ‘Catherine, if I can get enough money to pay off your account, would you be happier to find yourself a little apartment somewhere?’

To my surprise, she begins to cry.

‘If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it yourself?’

I nod. I can at least try.

‘You know my Léo, he came to collect me the first day
you arrived. Well, we are in love. His family doesn’t approve, of course, and have cut him off. He has enlisted to try to save up some money, but I promised him I’d try to have a little place of our own ready for when he gets back.’

Well that is it. I immediately decide to forgo my shopping trip and instead pay off Catherine’s account to Madame Del so she can be free to start up again. Another visit to the roulette table is necessary but I know that Philippe will indulge me.

* * *

Two nights later, I am again staring into the centre wheel in the grand house. This game of random spinning could help change Catherine’s life.

‘I shall be most cross if you start sprouting a moustache.’

I look up on hearing the familiar voice of my gambling guide, Vincent.

‘Do you know Monsieur, that red doesn’t win every time after all?’

He smiles and takes up a seat beside me. ‘Yes, funny that. And just as well for the sake of the house. Are you doing miserably?’

‘Not great. Now that you’re here, I’ll switch to black.’

‘Your bets gentlemen; your bets. That’s it. Thank you, no more bets.’

I watch, mesmerised.

‘Red loses. Black wins!’

‘Vincent, you are the devil. What dark powers must you possess? I shall let it ride again and again.’ Three times, red loses and black wins.

‘You have no idea what this money will mean. I could kiss you.’

‘Please do, I promise I shan’t object.’

‘Philippe may have a problem with that, don’t you think?’ Philippe is again smoking by the fireplace but keeping a watchful eye.

* * *

This morning, a huge bouquet of three dozen red roses arrived with a card.

Over breakfast, Madame Del commented on the wonderful scent.

‘Lily, you have to remember that to be a true courtesan you must be recognised as the mistress of only one man at a time. That is not to say that you must confine yourself completely to him, so long as you do not embarrass him. Discretion is the key to ensuring an income from several sources.’

‘I understand Madame.’

I smile to myself. Truth be told, I’m not attracted to either Philippe or Vincent, but both men are good company in their own ways. While I sat on Philippe’s lap the previous few nights in the small front room and he nuzzled my neck and traced the length of my back with his long bony fingers, he confessed he did not have the vigour to do anything else. He seemed content though to just be as close as possible to me, to breathe me in. I let him cup my breasts as if he were a fruit merchant weighing up some new and exotic fruit, fearful of bruising them.

My focus now is on finding Catherine a little apartment so that she and Léo can set up home together on his return. Léo is managing to send a little money Catherine’s
way, so between that and what Catherine has put aside herself, the little place that was recommended to them on Rue Saint-Georges seems to fit the bill. It is sparsely decorated but freshly wallpapered. Catherine has already planned to replace the curtains and has decided on how best to arrange her belongings.

‘We’ll go and pick up some small pieces of furniture on Saturday and have them delivered. Before you know it, you will be hosting grand
soirées
here.’

I am happy to be able to help my friend. There was nothing I could have done for Cécilia and I hope I am not betraying her memory by making the life of her much envied cousin a little easier.

* * *

The Café Anglais is boisterous tonight. Our rather large group has been eating and drinking for three hours, and are trying to outdo each other in song. I am glad to see that Catherine’s mood has lifted as I always felt that all she needed was some more attention. A quiet young blond man with a beautiful singing voice watches my every move adoringly. I have already passed a few very pleasant evenings in his company, but by this stage, it is becoming almost irritating. I have decided, therefore, that it would be much better if he started falling in love with Catherine instead, just to lift her spirits. Knowing that Catherine is a very good dancer, I suggest that we all head off to the Bal Mabille.

‘To the Bal Mabille!’

Philippe leads the charge on my suggestion of a change of venue. He has definitely become more energised this past month. I have long forgotten his rudeness on our first meeting and have thankfully discarded the awkward bustle that
he had initially favoured. He has also resisted taking out any of the other girls from Madame’s house. I, by extension, have accumulated a very nice selection of jewellery that Philippe has given me.