The Memory of Scent (25 page)

‘Agnes, you have been doing this for a long time now, and maybe you should think about selling it.’

‘No. What I would appreciate though is some help. I need somebody to take it over and run it. It would allow me to be the gracious and elegant hostess that my reputation has rightly established me to be in the mindsets of my customers.’

I feel a small surge of excitement.

‘Fleur, I would be prepared to share the responsibilities with you, if you would consider helping out an old lady, without making it appear so.’

‘Agnes, I don’t know anything about being responsible for a café.’

‘How can you not? You have several years of experience at the Guerbois and I have been hearing all about your gastronomic tours through the city. Think about it. It won’t be for at least a month yet, as I will have to let one of the kitchen staff go, but I have already selected Margot as I know she is carrying the child of one of the delivery men. I just have not deduced which one, though I am sure her powers of deduction will be no more accurate than mine.’

She tightens a comb back into her hair, catching up some stray ends.

‘My little establishment is in need of a fresher touch I feel. Men like to be flattered by younger women. The younger and prettier, the more their virility is unfurled like a banner
from the rooftops for all to bear witness. You handle people with grace and that will always stand you well. Maria can cast her artistic eye over this little place and breathe life, energy and colour into it. This place needs the cantankerous debate of the painters. I do not want to lose their custom which I fear would happen if there is any depletion of my spirit.’

She fixes me with a stare and seems now most present. ‘Fleur, I am doing this for me, but I am hoping you will benefit as well. You need to stay strong and focused.’ She takes my hand. ‘We know we have to hold fast to things, and that this can take a great effort sometimes. Neither of us can be like bobbing corks. We cannot trust ourselves.’

My heart melts for Agnes, but I am concerned that her inclination is to immediately draw me into her parameters. I can be trusted. I know that she can trust me.

It is agreed. Together we can run this café. This vow is consecrated by the haze of the moon as it streams through the lace curtains, making patterns on the wall. It is as if we are in one of the new shadow theatres that are opening up everywhere, where puppets are cut into silhouettes and shown in relief to the audience. At this moment, Agnes looks as fragile as a paper silhouette. We hug each other firmly in an act of defiance to the shadowy tricks of light.

* * *

Maria comes for a walk with me up to the top of the Butte. We sit on the same wall that had been our favourite viewing place only a few years earlier, but a complete lifetime away.

‘I expect Maurice will soon be running about these very same streets.’

‘Yes, and probably only then will you realise what a hard time you gave your mother.’

‘Please God, I’m not finished yet. She’s a tough old bird. I’m sure Maurice will go easier on me.’

‘You can’t afford to be too unkind about her, otherwise she’ll hand him over to you and tell you to get on with it.’

‘True. Henri was telling me that he showed a couple of my drawings to Degas, who he said was very impressed. If I could get Degas to buy something from me then I could give my mother more money, which would please her no end. People listen to Degas. If he likes my works, then who knows? In fact, I don’t care if he buys anything, his approval would be valuable enough. Mistress of a café. You! Fleur! It’s so exciting.’

‘I don’t know if I can do it, Maria.’

‘Agnes believes in you completely and that is all you need to know.’

‘The Guerbois is not going to be very happy. Or maybe I’m overestimating my value!’

We sit on in silence, swinging our legs in an ankle lock with each other. She pulls her coat tight around her, wincing a little.

‘Maurice will be ready for a feed. I’m beginning to leak here.’ She slides off the wall and with a quick kiss to my cheek, walks briskly down the hill.

I watch her disappearing into the rough-hewn labyrinth. The dotted gas lamps below make it look as if a carpet of stars has rolled out before me. I can tip-toe through this halfway world, at ease within its margins.

I must tell Walrus. He will be so proud of his apprentice.

* * *

It has been over a week now and there has been no sign of Walrus. I had instructed young Joseph to try to track where
he could be found. Joseph had readily agreed, for a small price of course, so it’s with huge relief that, as I turn into my street, I can see Joseph sitting on my front step. He stands up with a broad grin.

‘It wasn’t easy, but that’s why I’m the best. He lives near the corner of Rue Laffitte. There’s a small butcher’s shop, and he lives above it.’

‘Above a butcher’s shop? That can’t be right. Are you sure?’

‘Doubt me if you insist, but go see if you can prove me wrong.’

‘I didn’t mean to … thank you for your help.’

It is still early evening and I know I won’t sleep tonight if I do not speak with him and satisfy myself that all is well. I set off. I need his endorsement. I know that he will be truthful with me. I am familiar with Rue Laffitte. Maria has spoken about it many times, crammed as it is with small galleries, dealers and art-supply shops. Unknown painters nudge up against more established artists. Many dealers slip in the work of talented unknowns when mounting an exhibition. She has told me all of this in hushed tones.

It is a narrow street, slightly muddy underfoot, framed at one end by the columns and the dome of the Notre-Dame de Lorrette church looming imposingly, as if in judgment. I find the butcher shop a few doors below a funny little shop that makes and sells candles.

The door is slightly ajar so when I push on it, it easily opens into a small dark hallway. I get a strong smell of what seems to be animal intestines. The staircase has narrow scuffed wooden steps. I pad my way tentatively upwards in a symphony of creaks until I reach the only door on the dusty second-floor landing. I knock, at first gingerly and then loudly and hear the slight shuffling of furniture being pushed aside and the cumbersome sound of someone moving slowly
across the floor. Walrus’s cheeks flush slightly on seeing me at his door.

‘Mademoiselle, what are you doing here?’

Without being prompted to, I cross into the apartment. Walrus slowly closes the door behind me. I am standing immediately in a tiny kitchen area with a short counter and a small stove lined to one side. To my right, an open doorway which leads straight into another slightly bigger room. There is a mattress on a wooden platform placed just under the sloped ceiling, a fireplace with a large mirror resting on it with a few picture postcards tucked into its frame and a cluttered desk to the right of it. Apart from that, there are a couple of hooks for clothes, dozens of books piled high to the ceiling at the foot of the bed, a battered divan and one plump well-used arm chair. Walrus pulls out the chair that is tucked under the desk.

‘I’m not used to visitors.’

‘I have to say, I’m surprised Monsieur Mitoire. It is not how I expected you to be living.’

He shrugs.

‘I became a little worried for your well-being when you didn’t show up at the Guerbois for over a week.’

‘I’ve been in a bit of discomfort and unable to walk any great distance. My toe is throbbing and most painful to put pressure on.’

‘Let me make you something. Are you hungry? Have you been eating?’

‘There is a bottle of Crème de Menthe on the shelf under the basin. Just pull back the curtain and you’ll find a couple of glasses too.’

The shelves are pitifully empty. I pour two generous glasses and hand Walrus one as I take my seat again. We clink glasses in some ridiculous nod to civility and take the first
two sips in silence. Walrus smoothes his moustache between his thumb and forefinger.

‘You are clearly grasping for some kind of explanation.’

I laugh a little. ‘Let’s just say I would have pictured your household to be a little, eh, grander. You Sir, are clearly a well-bred man with distinguished tastes. I would have expected servants and fine crystal and a heaving larder. I would have imagined your ceiling to be buckling with the weight of a glistening chandelier. You don’t even have enough food to rustle up a proper supper.’

‘That is the very decent thing about Paris. If you know enough people, you will never be without a meal.’

‘Did you lose your fortune somewhere along the way?’

‘My dear Mademoiselle, I was never possessed of one. I shall let you into the secret of my true background. From a young boy, I served as a valet at many fine tables, as did my Papa before me. He served the greatest of them all, the father of gastronomy as an art, the passionate Grimod de La Reynière, author of several almanacs. Everything I know about food, dining and etiquette, I pilfered with the surreptitiousness audacity and dexterity of a pick-pocket and believe me, it has served me well.’

We sip again.

‘The Revolution caused a scattering. The traditions that were once locked away like trinkets in a cabinet, only available to certain elite, became accessible to all and sundry. Other people’s skills, talent and knowledge are like curios and vanities, all there to be purloined.’

‘I came to tell you that I have been given the opportunity to help Agnes run her café.’

I look expectantly towards him over the rim of my glass as I sip again.

‘That is wonderful. And you are more than ready, thanks to my tutelage.’

That is all I needed to hear. I stand up.

‘I plan on doing a little decorating and opening it up in three weeks and I very much hope you will be there.’

‘I shall do my very best. That will be the first day of May, an excellent beginning. It brings with it the promise of flavour when herbs are at their best. I look forward to your adventure.’

It would not be the same without the approval of Walrus. I’m glad I found him, but I also hate being responsible for embarrassing him and making him feel in any way ill at ease. I reach for the door latch and hope he doesn’t feel judged.

I arrange to have a nice piece of pork sent up from the butcher’s shop below him.

My little apartment is infused with the scent of freshly picked flowers that I brought back from home. There are very good reasons why I do not go home more often. I was anxious in the days leading up to my visit and in a state of tension during my whole time there. But the telling thing was the relief that washed through me as the train pulled away to bring me back to Paris. The band that had been tightening around my head each day that I stayed there had already loosened as I took my seat in the carriage.

I felt cheery with my basket of fresh blooms at my feet, especially the jasmine that I picked at night. It seems to keep its sweetness longer that way. My little perfume experiments are paying off. I have been thinking about Fleur and feel she would appreciate a nice gift of scent.

Decanting the scented water through the muslin cloth into a little bottle, I know that I will probably have to give it to George to pass on to Fleur. I am unsure why, but he seems
not to be in any hurry to facilitate a meeting between us. I trust that his time spent in her company is because she has been very distressed of late and he is such a good person that this is something he would be unable to ignore. He has been away a lot, but I have been keeping busy with my perfumes. The maid, I can tell, is becoming irritated with the bundles of flowers she is being asked to fetch from the market. Each day, I pummel and grind the petals, then soak them in large bowls overnight, then boil them up, then decant them into bottles. I must surely be scenting up our whole street.

I have had an odd exchange with Philippe. He came to visit, as I am apparently being missed. He thought I looked a little pale. Perhaps I am disinclined to venture out, but he should be pleased that I have been occupying my time so productively. Yes, perhaps I have no need for so many bottles of perfume as I have produced, but I thought him a little over-excitable as he kept opening up doors of cupboards and wardrobes and trunks and finding my bottles. Where else can I store them? Every shelf space is also needed. And I need to keep the flowers soaked until I can use them, so naturally there will be buckets of blooms everywhere too. I would rather not spend my money on nonsensical things such as gloves and hats anymore. George is being punished and ostracised by his family because of me so I am determined not to spend my days in shops. His mother’s words blow through my mind like a witch’s whistle and I know that I am not good for him, for his future, but if I remain strong and fence everybody else out then our little pasture will be safe.

Philippe accepted a gift of lavender from me and also said that he would give the jasmine to Fleur as he is apparently in some type of communication with her over her mother. He assures me that George is particularly busy at the moment,
something he witnessed himself when he went to visit with his nephew, Gaston. There must be a lot on his mind as he tries to somehow secure a future for us. It is probably just as well that he has not visited me lately, as there are several plants that I have tried to hide from him, which I brought back from his mother’s garden, not that he would recognise them. Poor George. He is under so much pressure because of me. I do sense that he has become distant from me. My greatest fear is that he will regret the risk he took for me – that one day he will look at me and will be filled with resentment. If it comes to that, he will have lost everything and I will have lost him. Now that I am two bottles down, I must crush some more petals. I must chop up some plants. In my head, his mother’s witch’s whistle. In my hand, his mother’s witches weed.

I have my board out and I am chopping to the voices of Lakmé and her servant, Mallika, singing the ‘Flower Duet’. Singing as clearly as if they were standing over my shoulder. But I am simply remembering; ‘
Sous le dôme épais ou le blanc jasmine. Ah! Descendons, ensembles!
’ The datura slices easily under my blade.