The Perfume Collector(90)

Eva rested her head on his shoulder. ‘And what are we meant to do with them, professor?’

‘Observe them. Appreciate them. They have a profound energy, a rich, sexual, animal vibration all their own.’

‘You make it sound like music.’

‘It is like music. An orchestration. And sweat is like silence; the reason why the composer reaches for his pen in the first place.’

When they got out, they walked behind a mule cart down a country road that cut through two fields. ‘The smell of the shit is so pure – so absolute! That animal eats nothing but rainwater, grass and hay. If it were a note, it would be played on a cello.’

Near the end of the road, the mule turned one way, they the other. ‘Here we are.’ Valmont took her hand. They were visiting Philippe Mul whose family had owned jasmine fields for centuries, pressing and distilling the precious flowers into the world’s costliest and rarest jasmine absolute. Monsieur Mul had known Madame Zed for years. He took them on a tour of his factory, and demonstrated how the plants were gathered in specially designed baskets, crafted from chestnut splits, that easily fitted around the harvester’s waist while allowing the blossoms to breathe without bruising. And then he showed them the fields.

The plants were just beginning to flower; soft, indescribably delicate white blooms, tinged with palest pink. It would be September before they would be ready to harvest but already the air was sweetly scented each time the wind rustled through them.

That day Eva and Valmont sat, for hours, with barely a word between them.

Philippe let them picnic in the groves. Afterwards, they rolled their jackets up under their heads and dozed, the sun warming their faces. The air was luxuriant with the combined fragrance of fresh sea-salt breezes, sun-baked earth and translucent, milky flowers.

‘There is nothing like it,’ Valmont said, turning over to look at Eva. ‘You see, don’t you? The world is defined by smells – not words or shapes or sounds. This is the language that makes sense, that everyone understands.’

She nodded, reluctant to fill the air with words or shapes or sounds.

In the silence of fragrance, Eva saw how ambiguous, complex stories could be told. Shifting and mutating, they blossomed, bloomed and faded; their very impermanence was incredibly moving to her. You could be laughing in public yet wear, right on the surface of your skin, a perfume ripe with longing, dripping with regret, shining with hope, all at the same time. It would fade as the day faded, vanishing into gossamer on your skin. And still it had the power to catch you unaware, piercing right through you, when you hung your dress up that night.

‘This is my religion,’ Valmont sighed, closing his eyes again, completely at ease for the first time in weeks.

And here is my salvation, Eva thought to herself. I will not go mad as long as there is beauty in the world and I can be near it.

They stayed until the light dimmed, and, as they stood in the shadows of the spreading twilight, the blooms exuded their richest, silkiest perfume.



Soon, whenever Valmont appeared, heads turned; people began to talk. A telltale hush followed in his wake. He fell into the role that Eva had assigned him with ease; chin in the air, a book tucked under his arm, he ignored everyone. And it was working. The concierge began to greet him enthusiastically each morning, the maître d’ to save a special table for him, off to one side but with an excellent view of the whole dining room; fresh flowers even appeared on his dressing table. Shortly afterwards, he was moved to a room with a sea view courtesy of the management and he extended his stay.

Then the invitations began to arrive.

‘“Madame Legrand requests the pleasure of your company at afternoon tea”!’ Eva read the invitation aloud, laughing as she tossed the card into the waste-paper basket.

‘What are you doing?’ Valmont scrambled to get it out again. ‘Legrand is rich.’

‘What are you doing? You cannot go. You must turn them down.’

‘But this could be a client!’

‘Are you willing to throw it all away? And when we’re so close? Think, Andre. The wrong clients will kill you before you’ve begun. It’s up to you to set the tone. Tea? With Madame Legrand and her lady friends? Are you mad?’ She stood up, pacing the room. ‘Your perfume should be the magic potion that allows the average person to transform into a god or goddess. The people you create for should be these Olympians!’ She turned on him. ‘Have you seen Madame Legrand?’

‘No, not exactly,’ he admitted.

‘Well,’ she folded her arms across her chest, ‘Madame Legrand looks very much like Monsieur Legrand in a dress. Is that worthy of your art?’