The Perfume Collector(63)

Then, to Grace’s surprise, the old woman got up and left the room.

When she returned, she was holding three very different bottles of perfume, which she put down on the table between them. Two were in fine hand-blown glass flacons with crystal stoppers. The first was elegant, a slim, simple rectangular shape; the second was a multifaceted crystal creation that threw rainbows of light around the room. Each had a gold-embossed printed labels. One read La Première and the other said Auréole Noire.

The last one was nothing more than a plain, generic chemist’s vial, sealed with a cork stopper. A yellowed, peeling label read Choses Perdus.

Grace looked up. ‘What’s this?’

Madame sat down again in the chair opposite. ‘Once upon a time, I was a perfumer, Mrs Munroe. Now I’m reduced to a custodian, a collector of the past. I can’t write or paint or compose . . . my language is scent – the vocabulary of feeling and memory. So forgive me if the story I’m about to tell is illustrated in a slightly unconventional way.’ She gestured, indicating the perfumes. ‘Here is a history. A love letter, in fact.’

Grace stared at the three bottles again. ‘In perfume?’

She nodded. ‘Only these perfumes weren’t created by me. They were the work of my only apprentice, Andre Valmont, an extraordinarily talented young man.’

‘The shop below was his, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right. His, mine . . . and to a certain extent, Eva’s. You see, Eva d’Orsey was his muse, his greatest source of inspiration. She gave him vision. And he gave her clarity, focus.’

Grace sat forward, eager to hear more. ‘A muse? So, was she beautiful?’

‘Not when I first met her. Then she was just a girl – awkward, unformed.’

‘Really?’

Madame smiled indulgently. ‘Most people assume that a muse is a creature of perfect beauty, poise and grace. Like the creatures from Greek mythology. They’re wrong. In fact, there should be a marked absence of perfection in a muse – a gaping hole between what she is and what she might be. The ideal muse is a woman whose rough edges and contradictions drive you to fill in the blanks of her character. She is the irritant to your creativity. A remarkable possibility, waiting to be formed.’

Madame picked up the bottle marked La Première. Very gently she eased the stopper off and held her nose above the bottle. Eyes closed, she inhaled.

She passed the bottle to Grace.

Gingerly, Grace smelled it too.

It was a heady, overwhelming veil of scent. At first it developed almost hypnotically into a floral, fruit bouquet; languid and sensual with a musky, almost dusty depth. But then a sharpness emerged, beautiful, icy, unexpected. There was something almost overwhelming about the lush complexity of the formulation, the sheer unbridled eroticism which came across in wave after wave of contrasting notes.

‘This is floral, earthy, and there’s the clean overlay of aldehydic waxiness and soft flowers,’ Madame explained. ‘And then, underneath, a whiff of more feral, impolite essences. Under the clean, innocent exterior there’s a carnal presence. It’s not without ulterior motive.’

Grace stared hopelessly. Here was a language she definitely didn’t understand. ‘I’m sorry?’

Madame Zed looked across at her. ‘This, Mrs Munroe, is the scent of intoxication and desire. The perfume of seduction.’





New York, 1927

It was nearing the end of August when Eva saw Miss Waverley again. She was strolling down the hallway on the arm of a dark-haired man with a very thin moustache as Eva was coming out of the linen closet on the third floor.

‘Oh, hello!’ Miss Waverley smiled gaily, as if Eva were an old friend.

‘You’re back!’ Eva beamed in turn, ridiculously thrilled at the sight of her.

Miss Waverley laughed and pulled the long chinchilla wrap she was wearing up on her shoulders. ‘I told you I would be.’

The gentleman tipped his hat at her.

Miss Waverley squeezed his arm. ‘This is Mr Wiener. And this, my dear,’ she said, turning to him, ‘is the little maid I told you about.’

Miss Waverley had been talking about her; had remembered her. Eva’s whole chest swelled with pride.

‘Charmed,’ he nodded. He had a German accent and intent, almost entirely black eyes.

‘So, you’re still here,’ Miss Waverley said.

‘Yes.’

Mr Wiener lit a cigarette. ‘Does it suit you?’

‘Pardon me, sir?’

‘This type of work?’

They were both looking at her very seriously, waiting for a response.

‘It suits me very well, sir.’

‘You have no ambition?’