The Perfume Collector(45)

‘And are your predictions accurate?’

‘More often than not.’

‘And why do these matters concern you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘I like figuring things out. Not dull things, like where to seat so-and-so at a dinner party but larger, more abstract things. Only to me, they don’t seem abstract. They seem very practical and relevant.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ It wasn’t a subject she’d ever discussed with anyone before. ‘Well, for example, I often wonder about the bombs in the war. Why does a bomb fall out of the sky and land right here, on this house, and on no other? My mother died during the Blitz, so I suppose I have a morbid curiosity. But you see, if you knew the weight and density of the bomb, how fast the plane was flying, it’s elevation, the direction and strength of the wind – it wouldn’t be a mystery; you could figure it out. Nothing would be random or accidental any more.’

‘And you don’t believe in chance, do you?’ he reminded her.

‘No, no I don’t.’

‘But then tell me, where exactly does that leave God in your equation?’

‘Where God has always been; somewhere between the weight of the bomb and the house.’

He laughed. ‘You’re not a duck, you’re an owl – an intellectual!’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ she smiled shyly. And then, almost without thinking, she asked, ‘Do you believe in God?’

It had been drilled into her head since childhood that politics and religion were not suitable topics for polite conversation. But Grace found herself hungry to discuss real things; subjects that weighed on her in private but that she couldn’t speak about with Roger, Mallory or indeed, anyone else in her set.

He looked across at her, surprised. ‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘I believe in a God I don’t understand and don’t necessarily agree with. The force between the plane and the bomb,’ he added.

They carried on walking.

After a while, Monsieur Tissot spoke. ‘I like that shop.’

‘Yes. I do too.’

‘I like the name. Did you see it?’

‘Recherchez-moi?’

Yes, but under that. L’apothicaire des Sens.’

‘The apothecary of . . .’

‘The senses.’

‘I see. Yes, it’s evocative, isn’t it?’

‘You English have a saying. “Come to your senses.”’ ‘Yes.’

‘What do you think it means?’

‘It means to be reasonable, sensible.’ She looked across at him. ‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Maybe.’ His eyes caught the afternoon light; flickering amber, flecked with green.

‘What else could it mean?’

‘Perhaps it’s an invitation. Maybe we need to literally come to our senses, to return to our sense of taste, touch, sight, smell, hearing and find sustenance in them, inspiration. Life is, after all, a sensual experience. Our senses have the power to truly transport us but also to ground us. Make us human.’

She stared at him in amazement. ‘I’m afraid, Monsieur Tissot, that you’re something of a philosopher – and a sensualist.’

Looking down, he kicked the gravel with his feet. ‘I can assure you, nothing could be further from the truth.’

‘Well, you’re a mass of contradictions. One minute you’re an analytical lawyer, the next you’re climbing through windows and advocating the complete overthrow of reason.’

‘Reason is entirely over-rated, unless, of course I’m the one doing the reasoning. And may I remind you, we went in through the door.’ He indicated a bench behind them. ‘Shall we?’

They sat down, side by side, facing outward onto a narrow strip of parkland.

‘It seems we’ve reached a dead end in our enquiries, Monsieur Tissot,’ Grace said, resting her elbows on her knees.

‘Perhaps. But there’s still the appointment at Lancelot et Delp. I’ll be very interested to find out more about those stocks.’

‘Yes, but what shall we do now?’

He should have pointed out to her that there was nothing else to do; that there were papers waiting to be signed in the office. But this English girl was interesting; he found himself waiting for her to speak again, to hear the workings of her mind. His own wit was put to the test with her, like a dog being run off in a park. And it felt good, to be stretched.

‘I think we should wait,’ he decided.

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Leaning back, he stretched out his long legs; taking in the spring clouds racing across the sky and the sweet sharpness of the late afternoon air. ‘But if you don’t know what to do, then it’s best to do nothing.’