The Perfume Collector(41)

Eva had almost finished in Madame Zed’s room one afternoon, when she noticed a circular black flacon with a gold stopper on her dressing table. It had a solid, pleasing roundness that made her want to pick it up, feel the weight of it in her hands.

Eva knew it was wrong to disturb a guest’s belongings but the black bottle was too intriguing.

She lifted it up.

My Sin, the label read, in gold lettering.

Very carefully she opened it, holding the gold stopper to her nose. Up wafted the intense floral top notes of narcissus and freesia, warming to a dark, almost animal muskiness. It was intoxicatingly beautiful and, at the same time, dangerous, with jarring hidden depths.

It was a smell she recognized, aspired to; the hypnotic veil of sensuality that clung to the skin, the clothes, even permeated the sheets of every chorus girl, socialite and movie star that graced the lobby of the Hotel.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled again.

‘I suppose that means you like it.’ Standing in the doorway was Madame Zed, wrapped in a dark lace shawl, her face half hidden in shadow. She was smoking a cigarette, in a long mother-of-pearl holder.

Eva put the bottle down. ‘I apologize, madam. I’m so sorry.’

‘Careful! That’s the only one I have. Otherwise, I shall have to buy it. Can you imagine, buying your own creation?’ And she chuckled a little, crossing the room to put the stopper back on.

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

Madame Zed gave only the ghost of a shrug. ‘It’s no matter. I myself cannot resist smelling other people’s perfumes. In five minutes, I can dissect their entire palate. But this,’ she pointed to the black bottle, ‘this you like?’

Eva felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. ‘I’ve never smelled anything like it. It’s so . . . so,’ she struggled to find the words, ‘so full of different things.’

Madame Zed inhaled, looking at her closely through those heavily lidded black eyes. ‘Complex,’ she said at last. ‘It’s a complex perfume.’

‘Yes. One minute it’s pretty and floral and the next, it’s full of spice and heat and . . . I don’t know how to put it . . .’

‘Sex.’ Madame interjected. ‘It was always about sex, right from the start.’

‘Oh.’ Eva’s eyes widened.

‘Why not? Everyone wants it.’ Madame Zed settled into an armchair. ‘I suppose that’s why it’s so popular. Of course, I had to make it stronger than I would’ve liked.’

‘You made it?’

She nodded. ‘That is my profession. I am a “nose”, as they say. I’ve been mixing perfumes since I was your age. Though now, I’ve finished.’

‘But why?’

‘To be honest,’ she flicked a bit of ash off her long cigarette, ‘I cannot bear that everyone smells alike. It’s vulgar. And that,’ she nodded to the bottle of My Sin on the dressing table, ‘already all of Paris smells like it and most of New York. There is something wrong, deeply wrong, about an entire room of women who all smell the same.’

‘But to be able to create something like this is like . . . like being an artist or a magician!’

Madame Zed laughed. ‘You’re very young.’

‘I wouldn’t mind smelling like that.’

‘Oh now, really!’ Madame protested. ‘Think of a man, dancing with a beautiful young girl, in a crowded ballroom. He presses his nose into her soft hair and inhales. Then, two minutes later, he’s dancing with another girl who smells exactly the same. What’s the point? Perfume should tell a story – the story of who you are, who you might be, perhaps even of who you fear becoming . . . all of these things are possible. It’s a very intimate element of a woman, just like her signature or the sound of her voice. And it conveys feelings and states of being that have no name, no language. Its very ambiguity makes it truer than words because, unlike words, it can’t be manipulated or misunderstood. You see, it’s not the perfume itself that isn’t worthy – it’s an original, one of the finest of the decade. But I’m tired of making off-the-peg dreams. I want a challenge worthy of my art.’

‘The name, madam . . .’ Eva could hardly say it out loud without blushing.

‘My Sin.’ Madame Zed said the words slowly, her black eyes unblinking. ‘What about it?’

Eva hesitated. ‘It’s just . . . well . . . what does it mean? What sin?’

Madame was silent for a moment, looking past Eva, or rather through her, as if she were transparent. Finally she spoke. ‘Do you know what sin means?’

‘To do something wrong?’