The Memory of Scent (24 page)

They say that beauty is a trap, but I was entrapped. I was much too young to have to learn its lessons. They say that beauty is captivating, but I was its captive. It terrorised me for
years. My uncle warned me that boys and men would want to touch me and that I must be very, very careful. He instilled in me the rampant beastliness of men as he unbuttoned his trousers, because he loved me, he told me, and did not want me to be curious about a man’s body. It was confusing, as if I was petting an old turkey’s neck that bobbed lightly to my childish touch. But it was to be our secret, of course.

‘If you would pass me the sugar please?’

My sister primly lifts the silver tongs and places two cubes into my cup. I haven’t taken two cubes for many years now, but she does not pause to verify if there have been any changes in my life, in my preferences, in my world view, in my taste in tea.

And
le bébé
scrambles about my ankles like a demented simian. His cheeks enflamed, his tiny nostrils trying to flare through crusted mucus. She seems no more enchanted by him than I, and nods ferociously to her maid to bundle him up and remove him. She puckers into a pretend kiss as her son looks pleadingly at her over the milk-stained shoulder of the maid. The mouth drops open just a little, then wider than I imagined possible. The head is thrown back in howling anguish. His bouncing wails can be heard disappearing down the hall.

‘When are we likely to meet him, this George of yours?’

‘Very soon, hopefully.’

‘Will you not stay longer with mother and father? I do my very best, and they often say they would be lost without me, because they do value my company, but my time is very filled up with the baby and the house.’

Even if I did want to stay longer at home, doing so would appear to be of benefit to my sister, which makes me want to leave immediately. What is it that has annoyed me so much
about her over the passing of the years, to have me at the stage where I would like to slap her, mid-sentence? We used to have proper conversations, but now the inane drivel is nothing but an irritant. We even got drunk once together when she spirited a bottle of something or other away from the confines of a cabinet. Neither of us knew what it was, but as we sat under the apple tree swigging vile mouthfuls it was truly us against the world.

I think it was her defeat. Her feeble surrender to expectation and conformity that so appalled me. She yielded to notions of acceptable female behaviour with total compliance, in what seemed like a heartbeat. But worse than that, she became judgemental. And when she snared a weak-chinned man of impressive earning power, she became insufferable.

I am beginning to become weighed down in the minutiae of curtain patterns as I think, at least from what I can make out, that the windows are soon to be seasonally dressed. I am fearful that my opinion will be sought for I have not been paying sufficient attention. Perhaps part of my acute discomfort is that in many ways, I dread I am not that far removed from my sister. I have been known to become excited by the trivial, and it is something I must fight against It would be a horror to drive George into the same eye-rolling irritation that her husband exhibits. She doesn’t even notice. She seems oblivious to the knee bounce that tells me he could snap the head of the nearest ornament through sheer frustration. In fact he absented himself at the earliest possible convenience to attend to some frightfully important papers in his office.

More than anything, amid the twittering on the relative merits of gold tassels or fringes, I am trying to think about George, and what I am to do. It could be so perfect, if
we were to stay locked away in an apartment on a Parisian boulevard. If we could repel the sharp blade of George’s circumstances before it slices our dreams to shreds. I feel its jab and doubt my armour. He believes he can steed charge its reality away.

He trusts his exuberance will save the day, which is clearly why his mother had to initiate me into the conspiracy of his salvation. It was an unfair thing to do. Whose advice can I seek? Whose soundings can I trust? My heart tells me that all but George should just be damned to hell and to chance.

I am leaning towards the idea of asking Fleur and for her opinion. But she was just a random girl who I foolishly sought out in my weakened state. George told me that she had been very keen to find me, but that could be just fanciful talk on his part. I am sure she would have little recollection of me. He has promised that we will all meet up, and I would find that very interesting. I shall bring her a gift.

‘… and that’s why the brocade must be replaced.’

Dear Lord, are we still talking about curtains? My brain has atrophied.

The carriage ride to the Maison de Santé is almost unbearable.
Maman
is excited by all the pretty fields and wild flowers and is not thinking about her destination. It is very well run, from what I have been assured, and the patients – or inmates – can exercise in plenty of large open spaces within its walls. Her hand is as soft as buttery pastry that could melt any second. The lane up to the main entrance is wide and tree lined. We are greeted by the doctor in charge who looks to be a kindly man with a huge white bushy beard.

‘You can settle her in her room, Fleur. But be patient and explain to her where she is and why she is here. You do not want your mother to feel deceived in any way, because she will remember and could hold a grudge against you and it could interfere with her care here.’

I do my best to reassure her that though she is ill, the doctors will be able to help make her mentally stronger and will relieve her stress. I cannot determine if she has grasped what I am trying to tell her in any way.

Her room is white and smells of starch but there is a vase of fresh flowers on the windowsill and a lovely view of the rolling hills. The fresh air catches her grey wisps. I want to believe that she approves and understands. She sits on her bed, her feet flat and firm on the polished floor, her hands clasped on her lap. She looks docile. She looks trusting and resigned.

* * *

Back in Montmartre, I am feeling much stronger. The apartment needs airing out as there is a stale neglected smell about it. I fold away
Maman
’s things and scrub the windows and scoop out the corners and generally try to put some order on the place. It has the squalor that is often associated with a disquiet mind. Some women obsessively clean when they are feeling out of sorts or disturbed and I feel it a pity that this particular affliction has managed to pass me by, for at least my home would have benefited from my discord.

A soft rapping draws me to the window and peering out through its newly buffed glean, I can see the ruddy cheeks of young Joseph.

‘A fat gentleman told me to keep him informed about when you got back and to give you this when you did.’

‘Joseph, how did you know I moved here?’

‘That’s my job, mademoiselle. Everybody’s business is mine.’

Turning on his heels and with hands plunged deep in his pockets, he meanders off into a side street. Job done. I recognise Walrus’s hand.

My light blue dress with the contrasting underskirt and matching basque makes me appear almost presentable. If there wasn’t a colour clash, I would wear the green velvet hat with now only the merest hint of patchouli still crushed in its folds. I have been treating it almost as an object of worship, as if it possessed enchanted powers. It is a hat, belonging to a girl who, in the blink of an eye, has whipped my foolish imaginings into submission. No, I shall wear it. It fits me perfectly, as if it always belonged to me. I also found the matching white glove to the one that I clutched in my sleepwalking, dream-fevered state. A pair of white gloves. I can only think that Babette must have left them here also, along with her hat. I pull them on and they too fit perfectly. My mother’s emerald broach will marry the colours together. It is of course not emerald, but coloured glass.

I stride purposefully to the Palais Royal, convincing myself that onlookers are admiring my coordinated style. I resolve to remain immune to the reflexive scrutiny of those who, at a glance, know coloured glass from precious stone.

Walrus tips his hat and leads me into the first restaurant where we sit down to a bowl of mock turtle soup.

If I thought I was settling in for the evening, I was mistaken; for no sooner is the soup finished than he indicates that we are setting off for the next course at another restaurant. He does not encourage me to remember the names of
the restaurants and cafés, just the way their food is served. One of the venues is so elegant with its dark, charred beams; another is elaborate with stucco walls and Grecian statues, while a third has long mirrors and crimson upholstery. Next we enter one which has a private room upstairs where courtesans can be entertained with discretion.

I am whisked from a noisy café which serves a delicious garlic
ragoût
, to the reverential silence of another where we slowly and delicately cut our way through a dish of quail stuffed with thrush stuffed with lark, layer by sumptuous layer.

I mirror Walrus in the languid appreciation with which he cuts into each morsel, identifying single flavours then luxuriating in the juices of the meat. We lift our forks to our mouths in studied unison and it comes as a revelation to me: food is enjoyed all the more as a shared experience. It ceases to be merely functional and is instead a communion. Walrus closes his eyes and emits a small moan of sheer pleasure with each raise of his fork. He tells me about a truly great meal which is made by placing a quail inside a partridge which is placed inside a duck and this then would be cooked inside a pheasant which itself would have been used to stuff a goose. Such abundance could spiral me into an over-wrought state.

At the next establishment, I just about manage the individual potted pastry desserts made with the meringue topping, before we move on to a small café where we have coffee and a selection of almond and cinnamon biscuits. Finally we visit a little place which Walrus declares sells the best ice cream in the world. I decline the visit to a lively café where, he implores, we would drink sweet wine and finish with a sampling of cheeses. The trip to the master chocolatier will also have to be put back to another day as I try to settle my
stomach with a small liqueur. Walrus beams in contentment and laughs at my surrender.

Easing my way home, I nod to the young streetwalkers as I do on most occasions. I like to make a comment or two about the cool night air or the dampness of the morning by way of conversation, just to make them feel engaged and not merely objects for display.

‘It could snow again before spring is out.’

The young girl paces the same small stretch of pavement several times a week.

‘Oh, I hope not. We’re not allowed to wear warm undergarments … not good for the customer’s convenience, don’t you know.’ She laughs giddily as she tosses some stray hair off her shoulders. I step closer to her.

‘I know you from somewhere.’

The young girl shrugs her shoulders. ‘Well, my boot leather is being worn thin along this path for the past few weeks now.’

That’s not it. I study her more closely. She has filled out slightly and looks older but this young prostitute is the little girl I had stumbled across at Molière’s circus.

‘I saw you once, with your grandmother.’

The young girl’s cockiness slips, and she drops her head slightly. ‘My poor
grand-mère
. She died of tuberculosis. Did you know her?’

Oh God, another sullied soul. Another mind corrupted and defiled. Another path diverted into the tangled undergrowth. I should have tried harder with her. I should have stood up to them all.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Listen, I have work to be doing, and if you keep me dawdling here any longer. Just go.’

‘I’m sorry. Of course, I don’t want to get you into any trouble. But do you remember someone bursting in on you when you were with your grandmother at the circus in the Bois de Boulogne? Your grandmother was very angry with me, but I was looking for someone else, and I’m sorry, it was none of my business.’

‘You? What, are you determined to shadow me or something?’ The young girl’s eyes narrow in anger. I remember that same look in the eyes of her grandmother.

‘No, you don’t understand.’

‘Leave me alone, or I’m going to end up with my face slashed.’

I can’t help myself. I take her by the shoulders and shake her. ‘Get out of this life. Don’t let them destroy you.’

Her slap against my cheek is forceful. She pulls away from me and continues walking with the same indolent pace of all the other prostitutes on the darkened lane, as if she did not have a care in the world.

* * *

I wait while Agnes patiently fusses the last of her customers out of her café door, returning hats to them, retrieving forgotten umbrellas for them, until finally she can close the shutters to signal that delicious moment of pause when a busy working day has ended. She seems tired as I pour two glasses of beer and pull back a chair for her. She touches my cheek with her hand. I feel its calluses scrape against me ever so slightly. I have come to realise that her high vivacious moods are often swiftly followed by a crashing melancholy, almost as visible and cloying as the rolling mists over the Place du Tertre. She has been too fond of laudanum in the past and I suspect that it has begun to rob her of her reason again.

‘Fleur, I need to know that you are all right.’ She seems detached and worried, as if she is caught up in some dilemma in her mind.

‘Of course, Agnes. It’s you I’m concerned about.’

‘I ask because I am finding it much more challenging now to run my café than I used to. Lately, neither my energy nor enthusiasm has been the constant and reliable companions of old.’