The Perfume Collector(40)
Eva turned away. She hated being ordered about by a boy only a few years older than herself. ‘Je peux dire ce que je veux,’ she grumbled, head down.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, no one else in the hotel complains.’
‘No one else in the hotel is a master perfumer! And I don’t know who taught you to parler français but you have the accent of a peasant.’
He had nerve.
‘I am French!’ she retorted. ‘My family is from the South.’
‘Of what? New Jersey? You cannot come in here with that revolting-smelling liquid.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
Valmont folded his arms across his chest. ‘What do you suggest, sir?’
Eva gritted her teeth. ‘What do you suggest, sir?’
‘I suggest that you solve the problem.’
‘Trade with me,’ Eva begged Sis that night in bed. ‘I’ll do anything for you if you just take over that one room for me.’
‘Are you crazy?’ Sis snorted. ‘I have enough trouble on my floor as it is. I’ve got some batty old duchess who keeps wanting me to tuck her into bed each night. Must be ninety-three if she’s a day. Calls me Nanny and asks me to sing her to sleep. Do I look like a nanny?’
‘I’ll take her. Please, Sis!’
‘No. And don’t ask again. Face it, you can’t give that one away, honey. You’re just going to have to make do until they check out. Everyone’s got at least a few a year. And I’ll tell you something for nothing, it could be worse.’ She rolled over onto her side, her back to Eva. ‘It could always be much worse.’
Eva was so desperate she even searched out her uncle in the kitchens for advice. It was between services and most of the staff were eating an early supper; the kitchens were empty with the exception of one of the pastry chefs, who was crushing lemon halves, squeezing out the juice, for tarte au citron. The entire kitchen was filled with the bright, refreshing aroma of lemons.
Eva watched as he tossed the used halves into a bucket at his feet.
‘Pardon me,’ she asked after a while, pointing to the lemon rinds, ‘are you using those?’
He looked up, surprised. ‘I’m sorry?’
She looked around the kitchen. ‘What do you think goes with lemon juice?’
‘Lemon juice? Sugar,’ he laughed. ‘Lots of it!’
‘No, not to eat.’ She picked up a bunch of fresh mint from a crate of produce, held it to her nose. ‘To smell.’
In the end, she concocted a solution of lemon juice, a few judicious drops of pressed rosemary oil and large quantities of baking soda mixed into a thick, abrasive paste. When she returned later that afternoon to scrub the bathroom, even she had to admit that the bracing, herbal aroma imparted an invigorating satisfaction to her efforts.
‘Not bad.’
Eva turned around to see Valmont standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets. ‘Though a little lavender would have been a nice touch.’
She got up from her hands and knees. ‘You’re wrong.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
She held her ground. ‘Lavender wouldn’t be an improvement.’
‘You’re arguing with me?’ He laughed, incredulously. ‘What qualifies you to correct me?’
She picked up her bucket. ‘Nothing. I’m just right.’
‘I’ll have you know that Madame Zed is a world renowned perfumer and I am her only apprentice!’
Eva took a deep breath. ‘Yes, but we all have noses.’
Suddenly they were interrupted by a deep, throaty laugh.
‘Bravo!’ Madame Zed walked forward from the half-light of the bedroom behind them, clapping her hands. ‘This little maid has seen through you, Valmont! She knows your downfall – you always add another note, complicate things. She’s right, you see. Simple is cleaner, more elegant.’
Valmont scowled at his feet. ‘Yes, madame,’ he muttered.
‘There is nothing more difficult than simplicity,’ Madame added, turning her back on them. ‘And therefore, nothing more refined.’
Valmont ceased to harangue Eva after that and the next morning, Eva noticed that Madame had placed a small white rose in a water glass near the sink.
She took it as a sign of approval.
As time went on, Eva grew to respect and even admire the eccentricities of Madame Zed. For example, rather than adapt to her surroundings, she transformed them. Madame Zed’s rooms were layered in personal history, as if its occupants had lived there for years rather than weeks; she created a mysterious and exotic atmosphere out of a few select additions. Embroidered silk shawls were thrown across armchairs, brocade and velvet cushions tossed in soft, inviting piles on the floor, like an oriental harem. White orchids with waxy petals gave off a hypnotic scent and collections of pastel, sugary French confections were dotted about the room on silver dishes. Steamer trunks, papered with tags from all over the world, were lined up against the far wall, bursting with long flowing gowns in rich colours and strangely asymmetrical tunics. The thick curtains let in only the dimmest fraction of light so that even during the day, her quarters had a smoky decadence about them, like a world suspended in a permanent night.