The Secret Ways of Perfume (18 page)

It was very cold that night and everything was dark. A few beams of light were reflected in the dusting of snow on the ground. Nothing silenced a place quite like snow. Life itself seemed suspended: sounds, smells, even time. Everything was black and gray, soft and delicate.

With her arms wrapped around her chest, Elena thought again how much her life had changed, and in such a short space of time; how much she herself had changed. Her thoughts slid deeper inward, guided by a place in her soul that called to them.

She was about to become a mother. Maybe then she would be able to understand Susanna, to finally understand why she had abandoned her own daughter. But then her old resentment came to the fore, chasing that notion away. There was nothing
to
understand, she thought bitterly.
She
would never give up her baby. She hugged her belly instinctively, as if to protect the tiny being inside. The truth was: her mother had made a choice that did not include her.

Elena started walking, the snow crunching under her black leather boots—high heels, a present from Monique to celebrate the happy news. Cail had given her a rose plant—one of his first creations, he
told her. Its name was Baby, and Elena looked after it as best she could, afraid that her inexperience would have fatal consequences for this beautiful plant. At first, skeptical about keeping it in the house, she'd put it by the window, so that it could get as much light as possible. Outside, it would have lain dormant as it was already late autumn, but Elena hoped that, by keeping it sheltered, it might still flower for a little longer. She'd read in several places that roses continue to grow, even in the winter months—of course, probably not at that latitude, but she still wanted to try.

Her by no means green fingers had picked up every book they could find on rose cultivation. She didn't want to run the risk of killing Cail's creation, which he had entrusted to her in what she considered a moment of extreme recklessness; nor did she want to pester him with a thousand questions. Baby had a complex perfume: it was fruity, plantlike, but there were chypre notes in the mélange. In the afternoon, the heat helped the flowers to exude their fragrance, and the petals smelled different. Perfume was at the heart of these roses; the brightly colored petals, from the amber edges to the bright pink bases, seemed to diffuse the essence everywhere. From time to time Elena would talk to the plant. She'd read that establishing a dialogue was important for a plant's well-being. In general, she made sure she was alone before she started one of her monologues, but increasingly she'd stopped caring and, if she had something to say to the plant, she just came out with it. As much as she hated to admit it, her old fear of being alone had resurfaced and it kept her awake at night.

She carried on walking until she reached the hedge, her eyes fixed on its frozen branches pointing up toward the sky. The previous morning, she'd seen one of the roses planted nearby crystallized in a thin casing of ice. It was red and beautiful. It seemed to her that the frost, so unusual for the time of year, might have saved the rose from its fate of decay—but instead it had ripped out the flower's heart,
freezing its perfume. All that remained was a set of scarlet petals, which in the first rays of autumn sunlight would scatter onto the stone floor, helpless, devoid of their essence.

She was staring at the rose when she noticed him. She didn't hear him arrive as much as feel his presence.

“You'll get cold,” Cail said. A moment later he wrapped his jacket around her. The warmth enveloped her like a cocoon. Elena tilted her head and closed her eyes. Then she straightened up.

“What about you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I'm not cold.” He was never cold. Elena smiled and pulled the jacket tighter.

“I called Matteo,” she announced, out of the blue. She wanted Cail to understand, to know what it had taken.

“When is he coming?”

Elena turned to face him. “Never,” she said. “His new girlfriend is expecting a baby—they're getting married soon.”

“What the hell? Is he crazy?”

Elena looked away. She didn't want to see the pity in Cail's eyes. She wouldn't be able to endure it. Despite everything she'd said, everything she'd done, and the control she thought she had regained, her emotions were gathering in strength and threatening to overwhelm her. She wouldn't be able to keep it together much longer.

“It's funny, don't you think? I mean, all that time trying to have a baby and nothing ever happened. And then . . .” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and took a deep breath. “This child is mine, Cail. Just mine. I'm not asking for anyone's help. I will raise it, do you understand?”

She felt him come closer, ready to console her. She waited for him to touch her, but Cail didn't even brush against her. Elena looked down at her toes. He'd surprised her again. He was always surprising her.

“There are special nights, when it's almost completely dark, when if you're lucky, you can see stars that are usually invisible. Shall we go and find out whether this is one of those nights?”

She closed her eyes, taking in the sound of Cail's slightly anxious voice. He was on the way back from his evening run. He was the only man she knew who went running at night, in the dark. “Yes, I'd really like that,” she whispered.

Now he was right behind her. Cail wrapped his arms around her, and they stayed like that for a moment, the desire flowing between them, each a prisoner to their own fears, the words they hadn't had the courage to say . . . but still unable to let go and give up what little they had.

When Cail kissed her hair, Elena closed her eyes, abandoning herself completely. Her half-closed lips let out a muffled groan, almost a prayer. He turned her to face him and Elena stood on the tips of her toes, lacing her arms around his neck. Cail leaned down toward her, slowly, giving her all the time she needed. He could have held back. He could have.

First Elena felt his warm breath and then a gentle touch on her face. He continued to stroke her skin delicately, but when Elena grabbed his sweater, pulling him toward her, he embraced her, lifting her up. Elena buried her fingers in his hair and Cail kissed her the way he'd wanted to, the way he'd been imagining for days.

•   •   •

They went up
to Cail's apartment and, while he took a shower, she decided to wait for him in the greenhouse. She hardly knew anything about him, about his work, about how he lived his life. She realized then that she was at the center of their story. Cail always kept himself on the sidelines.

“One-year-old seedlings,” he said shortly afterward, when he joined her.

Elena was leaning over a pot sprouting tiny pale green leaves with jagged edges. They were adorable, so small and pretty.

“They're beautiful,” she whispered.

“Every one of those is a hope. If they survive, they could become a special rose—perfect, even.”

Elena raised her eyebrows. “The Perfect Rose . . . that's quite a title.”

Cail slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. “Imagine a red rose: extraordinary, bright colors, strong petals, resistant to disease, with an intense perfume of fruit and spices.” He looked at her. “That's every rose-breeder's dream.”

“But you've created so many roses like that,” Elena replied.

Cail shook his head. “Not really. Lots of them are barely passable—and there are no red ones. But I've got a couple of two-year-old plants. I might get lucky.”

“Is this where you work?” she asked, curious, casting a look around.

“Yes.” He leaned over a pot and tore out a few blades of grass. “The real laboratory is near Avignon, down in Provence. Here I have the plants I'm working on for the competition.”

“For roses?”

He nodded. “It's more than a competition, really. It's a show open to people in the trade: breeders, sellers. There are some keen gardeners, too. During the gala evening, the last night of the fair, there's a prize for the rose that best meets the criteria for quality, beauty and perfume. The international competition for new roses, the Concours de Bagatelle, is held at the beginning of June.”

Her baby would be born around that time, Elena thought.

“Will you enter?”

Cail looked at her. “Yes, it's a very important event.”

She started to wonder. “How come you decided to live in Paris if your business is in Provence?”

“Because Paris is where most of our clients live, or have their offices. And I like the city. Come on, let's go inside, it's freezing,” he said, walking over to take her hand. It was true; it was really cold, but Elena had the feeling that Cail didn't like talking about himself—and that filled her with questions.

•   •   •

Jacques knocked at
Monique's door and waited. He could have got in anyway. Despite what he'd let her believe, he still had a copy of the keys, and he used them regularly. He did it when she wasn't at home. He never touched anything; he just looked at her belongings, breathed in the perfume she left on the sheets, like a love-struck fool.

One minute, two, three, five. Jacques smiled, then murmured, “I know you're in there,
mon amour
. Open the door, I'm not going anywhere.”

A sharp click, then the lock turned three times and Monique appeared.

“Close it,” she snapped, heading back into the lounge.

How did she manage to look so beautiful in a baggy old sweater and a pair of knee-high socks? Legs, Jacques decided. It was all due to those legs that went on forever.

“Isn't it a bit late for house calls?” she asked coldly.

Jacques ignored her hostility. “How are you? I haven't heard from you for a while.”

Monique just gave him an icy glare, picked up her book and opened it where she'd left off.

“You don't answer my calls, or my messages. Are you too busy, or maybe it's something else?” he said, getting closer. “Is Le Notre taking up all your time? Tell me,
chérie
, can he satisfy you like I used to?”

He watched her tense up, take the blow and let it wash over her. With his heart in his mouth he waited for a smile; watched the anger disappear under her fierce self-control, the very thing that was keeping
her away from him. Yes, this woman was a fighter. And he wanted every bit of her, every breath, every thought.

“Go to hell, Jacques,” Monique replied. She smiled at him and he felt a pang of lust. The game had begun, and this time he had no intention of losing. He joined her on the sofa, where she was curled up. He took off his jacket, then his tie. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed the solid gold cuff links, letting them fall onto the rug, without ever taking his eyes off her.

Monique was mesmerized; she wanted him desperately—but that didn't mean she was going to give in. She stood up, because she'd never resist Jacques if he got any closer. And he had exactly what he wanted written all over his face.

He grabbed her arm, stopping her from moving away.

“I've had enough of your games. I've done what you wanted. I even hired your friend; now I want what I'm owed.”

“You're the one who should be paying me, Jacques. Elena is an incredible perfumier. Tell me, are you still keeping her out of the laboratory? Are you really so scared of having your mediocrity exposed by a woman?”

She said it to hurt him, yet when she saw the flash of pain in his eyes, she wanted to take back every word. But it was too late. Jacques stretched his lips into a kind of fierce smile. He pulled her to him, pressing her against his chest, then he ran his fingers through her hair, coiling it in his hand, his lips a breath away from hers.

“She's not that good, according to what Philippe tells me. She hasn't even made a decent sale. I think
you
should give
me
compensation.”

“That's not true,” Monique protested. “Elena told me everything was going well.”

But Jacques pressed his lips to hers, preventing her from saying any more.

“I don't give a damn about that woman. I want you, do you understand?”

“Get lost, Jacques. Go back to your wife-to-be. How long till the wedding now?”

He ignored the provocation. He wasn't going to waste the time they had, talking about another woman. “It's a business arrangement. You're different,” he replied.

“Yes, I'm the one you want to screw.”

“Precisely.”

She slapped him across the face, but Jacques blocked her other hand, twisting it behind her back.

“Let go of me,” she snarled.

“Only if you calm down.”

Monique struggled and he released one of her arms, holding her tightly by the other.

“Why are you resisting me?” he whispered.

Monique said bitterly, “Let go of me, Jacques. Let go and get out of here. Go back to that girl and stay there. It's her turn. You've made your choice, now go away.”

“No, you'll never be free of me. We're the same, Monique. We were made for each other,” he breathed.

She closed her eyes, feeling that familiar sense of shame and pity. But then he started to caress her again. His lips were soft on her skin, and warm. And she'd needed him more than anything in these long, lonely days. When Jacques picked her up and carried her toward the bed, Monique buried her face in his chest.

A
NGELICA:
self-knowledge. Angels' grass, a captivatingly sweet, honeyed perfume.

The fragrance awakens the hidden essence of everything.

Promotes self-awareness. A remedy for all ills.

“Y
ou're wearing a different perfume,” Cail noted. “Is it new?”

Elena reached over to take another pastry from the tray in the middle of the coffee table.

“No, I made it a couple of years ago. But I need to adjust it—it's not right for me anymore.” She made herself comfortable on the sofa next to Cail, pulled the warm coverlet across and went back to reading Beatrice's diary. Despite being almost four hundred years old, the little book was in surprisingly good condition. After reading it, every Rossini had always kept it wrapped in a cinnamon-scented silk cloth. For a while now, Elena had been wanting to go over a few passages in the diary, and tonight was perfect: it was freezing cold outside, and they were staying in.

“Have you changed that much?” asked Cail, setting down the botany journal he had in his hand.

“You're the most perceptive man I know. Yes, I've changed a lot.”

“What were you like before?”

She gave it some thought and then smiled. “Stupid.”

The word came out so spontaneously, so sincerely, that Cail couldn't help but laugh. That throaty sound, so instinctive and unexpected, soared above the silence in the room. Elena looked at him, enthralled. Cail very rarely smiled, but when he did it seemed as though he'd never had a care in the world.

Elena felt the urge to run her fingers through his hair, to caress the scar that ran down his cheek, to kiss it, to hold him close and smell his perfume.

Then she remembered the baby, and her plans for the future. And the spell was broken. However much she liked Cail, she didn't want to complicate what was already a delicate situation; she'd decided that on the night of their first kiss.

“I'm serious,” she said. She closed the book, stood up and put it on the table.

The Marais apartment had changed drastically since her arrival in Paris. Cail had decided that a place with such history and character should be restored to its original glory. Monique had pointed out that even in its finest days the ground-floor room had never been more than a basic shelter for horses and carriages. But he wouldn't listen, and so, once he had permission from the Duval family and moral support from Elena—seeing as he wouldn't let her lift so much as a paintbrush—he refurbished and redecorated the whole place, from the juniper ceiling beams to the door and leaded-glass window facing the street.

It was incredible to see those wonderful exposed brick walls and think that just a couple of weeks earlier they were buried under several layers of moldy plaster. Cail had also taken up the tiles, revealing the original gray stone floor. He'd treated it with special oils until it
shone like pewter. The first time she saw it after the restoration, Elena was lost for words.

They'd bought the sofas at the Porte de Vanves market, one of the city's oldest and most authentic antiques markets (or flea markets, as Monique put it). Cail had bought two prints and a Tiffany lamp, Monique a weeping fig that, according to her, was in desperate need of someone to talk to.

“Why stupid?” Cail asked. He'd stood up, too, now and was watching her closely.

“Because that's how I acted: stupidly.” Elena smiled, then her expression turned serious. “I don't know how to explain it to you. Look . . . it's something I only realized a while ago. Now I take each day as it comes; everything I do is new—it's as if I'm doing it for the first time. It must be because of the baby . . .” she said, pensive. “Maybe Jasmine's right when she says a mother takes on her children's personalities and their tastes. Do you know, when she was pregnant with Monique she couldn't stand strawberries? She only started eating them again after she was born. And Monie never liked them, even as a child. Yep, I bet it's the little one interfering with my choices.” She thought about it then she looked over at Cail. “Stop laughing.”

“I'm not laughing at you.”

“But you are laughing,” she said, standing with her hands on her hips.

“Because I like what I see.”

Elena stopped. “There! You see? You say things like that to me and I . . . I ask myself why I ever wasted my time with Matteo when I could have spent it with you. And I don't even know why I was like that for so long. I hate it and I can't stop thinking about it.”

Cail walked over to her and took her hand. “Come and sit back down. We can talk about it, if you want to.”

Elena let herself be convinced, because she knew that talking to
Cail always did her good. He listened properly and he helped her overcome her obstacles. Once they were sitting together on the sofa, under the coverlet, they looked at each other. Then he started to kiss her, his lips brushing hers, gentle but determined, and increasingly so, as though every time they shared a kiss the bond between them got stronger. But despite that, he never went any further.

Elena, though, drew him to her chest. When he kissed her neck she melted into his caresses; they were more confident now, more possessive.

Suddenly, Cail pulled away from her. Every time it was harder to stop. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anyone. He knew that she wanted him, too. Cail could feel it in every bit of his body. But once they had been together, when their relationship changed, what would happen then? The baby would arrive, and a whole stack of problems along with it. Sure, Elena said she would never go back to her ex, but what if she changed her mind after the birth? That thought drove Cail crazy. He didn't want to let go of her, but he couldn't cross the boundary they'd set.

Damn it, he cursed in his head. Cail held her again, tenderly this time, resting his forehead on hers, his heart pounding beneath the palm of her hand. Elena looked and saw that his expression had hardened, as though he regretted losing control. He probably did. Instinctively, she wriggled free. Cail immediately let her go and she took the chance to stand up.

She kept forgetting she was a pregnant woman; pregnant by somebody else, she reminded herself with a hint of bitterness. And she knew from experience how unsettling that could be for a man. Oh, she knew! An image of Maurice flashed through her mind, but she dispelled it. Cail was nothing like Maurice. There was no chance he would behave like her stepfather. He was there, wasn't he? With her.
He could have left whenever he wanted; there was nothing between them, no promises, no obligations. Yet there he was. He was always there. Besides, he acted completely differently. Cail had never forced or persuaded her to do anything she didn't want to do. He talked to her openly . . . when he did actually talk.

She sighed. Then she realized that however sure she was about Cail, there was always a doubt—a subtle, intangible doubt. After all, Elena didn't know how charming Maurice had been with her mother. She'd only seen the worst side of their relationship. Even if Cail was interested in her, what if he didn't want the baby?

She brushed her hair back with her fingers, feeling a sudden urgent need to talk to her mother. As strange as it sounded, Susanna was the only person who would understand. They were both in love with a man who wasn't the father of their child. But was it love that she felt for Cail? Elena had no idea. After Matteo, she was being very careful when it came to putting her feelings on the line. And then there was the baby to think about.

“Come back over here,” Cail said, patting the sofa beside him.

She was tempted to refuse, or much worse, maybe even ask him to leave. But that wasn't what she really wanted.

“Let's talk for a bit, OK?” he suggested again. “Or do you want me to leave?” Cail's question broke the tense silence that had settled over them like a heavy cloak.

“No.”

“So, come over here, let's sit down and talk.”

“I don't think so. I don't want to talk about . . .”

“About us?” Cail asked.

Elena nodded, her eyes glued to the floor. She wasn't ready to define this thing between them—not yet, and not right then, not when she was so close to bursting into tears.

“OK. We don't have to. Let's not argue.” Cail's voice was more relaxed now, more amenable. He took a lilac
macaron
from the tray, Elena's favorite, and held it out to her.

“Peace offering?”

She fought back the tears and an involuntary smile. “You're terrible,” she told him. But she took it and bit into it, savoring the delicious black currant cream. “I'm not doing this for you,” she continued, wagging a finger at him. “We're making up because of the cakes. Seeing as you brought them, I wouldn't want you to take them away again.”

He didn't reply, but as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his touch was warm, gentle.

“One question each?” she suggested.

Cail thought for a moment. “All right, but I go first.” He paused. “You once told me you had two wishes: one was the baby . . . what's the other?”

Elena licked her lips. “Is there an alternative question?”

“No, but you don't have to answer if you don't want to.” His voice was low and serious.

With a deep sigh, Elena tried to explain herself better. “It's not that simple. And it's not that I don't want to answer, but it involves you. I can't reveal my plan. I have to play my cards right, don't you think? Come on, ask me another question,” she said, waving her hand at him again.

Cail seemed surprised. He held her to him again and kissed her, his hands in her hair. Then he pulled away, as though he'd been overcome by an irrepressible urge and then regretted it. He cleared his throat and a moment later he picked up the conversation. “OK, another question. Let's see . . . Do you miss Italy? Do you want to go back?”

Still thrown by the kiss, Elena shook her head, as though it would order her thoughts.

“I like Paris,” she said. “I think it's one of the most beautiful cities in the world—I feel I can say that, even if I haven't visited them all. You know, when I was little, my mother moved around all the time, before she settled in Grasse. I saw Bombay, Cairo, Tokyo, New York . . . She went anywhere they needed her skills as a perfumier. And I went with her. I've visited more playgrounds and zoos than you can imagine. When I went out with the nannies, I took it all in. There were places I liked, where I felt at home, and others that frightened me, even though they were beautiful. A place is like a perfume, like a dress; you have to try it on to understand whether it suits you.” She paused. “Paris, the Marais, the Île de la Cité, they're all places I like.”

“So you won't go back to Florence?”

“For a visit, every now and again, yes. To see the house. You know, that's another thing I can't understand. Before, I hated the place; now there are moments, especially at night, when I wish I was there. Maybe it's because of what it represents, because of its past. Everything my grandmother taught me is there, everything that was created and left by the women in my family. You should see the laboratory: there are glazed porcelain jars taller than me. They're amazing. Every room has antique furniture, and an old oil lamp.”

“Like that one?” Cail asked, pointing to a glass vase with a candle burning under a little plate that was giving off a light, aromatic perfume.

“Yes. My grandmother always used the same oils: orange for happiness, sage to combat confusion and doubt, mint to stimulate the imagination, lavender for purification. The perfumes are all over the furniture now—it all smells as if it has herbs, flowers and fruit stuck to it. When I came from Florence, I slipped that one into my suitcase, along with a few essences.”

“I really like this perfume.”

“Jasmine and two drops of helichrysum,” she explained.

“It's very stimulating,” Cail went on, half-smiling.

Elena blushed. When she had measured out the jasmine, she'd had an intimate atmosphere in mind. Taking a deep breath, she tried to pick up where she'd left off. “On the ground floor, there's the old perfume store. There's a fresco on the ceiling. When you look up, it's as if you're looking at a meadow full of flowers and angels, and in one corner, a little out of the way, there's a man and a woman. They're holding hands and walking toward an arch of roses. It's really striking. There's also a huge screen in the corner of the room: if you open it up, it turns into a little house—the perfect hiding place.”

“Is that where you used to go when you were up to something?”

She nodded. “I was a terrible disappointment to my grandmother. I used to make her really angry. Some days we got on and everything seemed to be going well. And she was happy. But there were times when I hated her. So then I mixed up perfumes, ruined compositions, refused to study, refused to speak to her.”