The Secret Ways of Perfume (2 page)

M
YRTLE:
forgiveness. Beautiful, magical, evergreen. Intense and deeply aromatic.

The fragrance of serenity, the very essence of the soul.

Soothes the spirit, relieves anger and resentment.

“P
erfume is emotion. It's a vision that you have to transform into a fragrance.”

“Yes, Grandma.”

“This is what we do. This is our job, my girl. It's our duty, and a privilege.”

Elena looks down. Lucia's words dart through the air like delicate notes of jasmine; first lightly, seemingly innocuous, then intense, hypnotic and compelling. She doesn't want to listen to them, she doesn't want to lose herself in the dreams they evoke, she doesn't want to follow them. Her heart starts to race, and colors run through her. Now they're scents, but they turn into a sky full of shining stars.

It's easy to lose herself in them; it's fun. They make her smile. They make her happy. There's no reality, no responsibilities. Nothing matters now; only the colors, only the perfume.

“Perfume is a language—it's how we speak. Remember, Elena,
perfume is the truth—the only thing that really counts. You can't lie to perfume. Perfume is what we are. It's our true essence.”

•   •   •

A loud buzz
interrupted Elena's dream and she sat up with a start, bewildered. As the last threads of sleep dissolved, she took in the familiar objects and realized where she was. The weight of her memories was heavy, and relentless. There had been one second of detachment from reality, a moment when time and space didn't exist. Then she heard her mobile vibrate again.

She jumped out of bed, tripping over the sheets tangled around her legs, and, kneeling on the polished floorboards, she fumbled in her handbag.

“Where are you, for God's sake? Where have you got to?” she wailed as the contents of her shoulder bag scattered across the floor, rolling in all directions. She finally got hold of her mobile and opened it. When she saw the name on the screen, she closed her eyes, pressing the device to her lips.

“Monie?” she said, still half-asleep.

“Elena, what are you doing? I've been here nearly an hour. I can't believe you forgot we were meeting this morning.”

“Sorry, you're right. It's just . . .” Elena paused and sighed. “Listen, do you mind if we cancel? I really don't feel like going out today.”

“If you're going to carry on like this, you might as well ring the priest and ask him to bury you now, Elena. I've got half a mind to call my mom and tell her what's going on.”

“No! You promised you wouldn't, remember?”

“No, I don't remember. It must be the Florence air, the same thing that made you forget we were meeting this morning.”

Elena felt guilty. “Look, I'll get over it, Monie. I just need some time.”

“Pff! I'm not leaving you to wallow in self-pity. That's not going to help. Anyway, going out might be just what you need.”

Silence, then Elena tried again. “Another time, maybe. OK?”

“No, we can't do it another time,” Monique replied. “My flight to Paris is tonight, as well you know. I need you, Elena. You promised you'd come with me. And,” she continued, “it can only do you good. At least it'll stop you dragging yourself around like a ghost hunting for its tomb. Where are you now?”

“At my grandmother's house.”

“
Parfait!
It'll take you less than twenty minutes to get to Leopolda station. I'll be waiting for you outside the gates.” And Monique hung up.

Elena looked at her mobile, then turned to the window where she could almost count the thousand different rays making up the stream of sunlight.

Maybe Monie was right; maybe it was time to start living again. Going out was as good an attempt as any, and besides, shutting herself away in the house wouldn't make this go away. Not that she wanted to go back to the relationship. Now that she could see clearly, she realized it had existed only because she had convinced herself it did. No, what was really devastating was suddenly finding herself with nothing. No plans, no ambition, no thoughts, no certainty.

Yes, she decided, going out with Monique wasn't such a bad idea after all.

“You've handled worse, Elena,” she muttered, standing up and heading to the bathroom.

Half an hour later, she was making her way through the courtyard of the old Florentine station that was home to Pitti Fragranze, the most important event in international artistic perfumery. It had been a long time since she'd visited this kingdom of essences.

Monique walked toward her, kissed her three times on the cheeks and dragged her inside. She was wearing a very simple black silk dress, which she had paired with red patent stilettos. Tall, slim and exotic,
Monique's quick, sinewy movements revealed her past as a model; but her beauty was all in her caramel skin and the mass of tight black curls spilling halfway down her back. To say she was beautiful was an understatement.

As they walked side by side, Elena looked down at her own flip-flops, denim skirt and pink floral shirt, and gave a glum shake of her head.

“I've already picked up the tickets. Put this on,” Monique said, handing her a badge.

“Narcissus?” Elena asked, staring at the name tag.

“
Oui.
Now you're my . . . what shall we call you? Assistant, that's it.”

Right, of course. To look at her, nobody would have thought she had anything to do with Narcissus, one of the most prestigious artistic perfume houses in Paris. Monique had worked there for almost a year now, and she loved the place. The most chic store in all of Paris, she said.

Chic, indeed. It wasn't somewhere Elena would ever have felt comfortable. Her style was simple, and not at all sophisticated. She was twenty-eight but still as slender as a teenager, with big green eyes shining out from her perfectly clear skin. Her long blond hair accentuated her naturally pale complexion. Her real strong point, though, was her mouth: it was too large, but when she decided to open it into a smile, it was beautiful.

She'd never taken much care with her appearance; she was much more interested in practicality—and, generally, she thought she'd reached a good compromise between the two. At that moment, however, she felt deeply inadequate. Side by side, she and Monique were complete opposites in terms of class and elegance. Her friend, however, didn't seem to register these details as she walked alongside Elena, pointing out one stand after another, bombarding her with questions and listening carefully to her answers.

Elena looked around again and was relieved to see that plenty of
other people were casually dressed. Comforted, she pulled her shoulders back and held her head high. After all, she told herself, posture is what really counts.

As soon as they walked into the main room, Monique suddenly stopped, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

“That perfume has a soul, Elena,” she whispered. “And I want it. Can you smell that?”

Of course she could smell it. Everyone could smell it. Each person was immersed in one specific scent—the one that, more than any other, stimulated something ancestral in their memory, evoking the past in a vivid and immediate way that almost transcended the relentless passage of time.

As the two friends moved between the various stands, separated by transparent walls, Elena was surrounded by intense, penetrating fragrances. In spite of herself she was soon swept up by them, analyzing them one by one, trying to guess which and how many elements they were composed of. It was a while since she'd tried; in fact, for a long time, she'd deliberately avoided anything from the world that made up her past. Now, however, the temptation to identify the aromas was overwhelming, and she decided to indulge this sudden interest. She established the components in her mind, visualizing the olfactory pyramid before analyzing it, then putting it to one side so she could move straight on to the next. Suddenly she found herself smiling.

When Monique stopped in front of a bouquet of roses, Elena walked over to join her, unable to take her eyes off the uniquely colored petals. She'd found the source of her torment and her joy: centifolia roses from Grasse in France. When she was a little girl, her mother, Susanna, had traveled around the world for work, taking her daughter with her, but the French city had always been an essential stopping-point in their nomadic existence. They went back there again and again. Grasse was the very symbol of the perfume tradition.

Elena had grown up there, moving between laboratories where natural essences were distilled—tiny artisan workshops set up centuries ago and large, ultra-modern establishments where Susanna Rossini often worked. Whatever their size, each place had a lingering mixture of smells, delicate or intense depending on what was being made at the time. In spring, the town was transformed: colors and perfumes were everywhere. Every scent had a different meaning, and each one was permanently ingrained on her memory.

That was what centifolia roses symbolized to her.

She held out her hand to brush the petals. They were exactly as she remembered: silky to the touch, with a delicate, captivating perfume.

“They're amazing,” Monique said with a note of reverence in her voice.

Once again, Elena felt herself catapulted into the past.

•   •   •

She was a
small child and the huge fields of centifolia roses surrounding Grasse stretched out in front of her. Everything was green, and then little buds appeared—ivory, pale pink, dark pink, almost cyclamen. The fragrance exuding from these flowers was so intense it enveloped her completely.

Her mother had let go of Elena's hand and walked off into the rose garden by herself. She stopped almost in the middle, her fingers among the petals, a distracted smile on her face. Then a man joined her, and after they'd looked at each other for a moment, he stroked her face. Susanna wrapped her arms around his neck and they sank into a passionate kiss. When she finally turned back to the child, beckoning her over to them, the man's smile had vanished, replaced by a sneer. Frightened, Elena ran away.

That was the first time she saw Maurice Vidal, the man who would become her stepfather.

•   •   •

“The roses have
a different perfume in September,” Elena said now. “It's more concentrated; it brings the smell of the sun and the sea with it.”

“The sun?” Monique asked. “What does the sun smell like, Elena?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, searching for the right words.

“It's immense, hot, soft . . . it's like a nest, a comforting cradle. It seeps in but at the same time sets you completely free. The sun accompanies the perfumes. Take jasmine: its fragrance is most intense at dawn, different from the light midday scent, but after sunset, when the sun is just a memory, that's when the flower reveals its true soul. You can't mistake it; it's impossible.”

Monique frowned, watching her intently.

“I haven't heard you talk about perfume like that for a very long time.”

A jolt of panic ran through Elena and she felt suddenly vulnerable. Her imagination had got the better of her rational side. She'd let herself get carried away by memories and emotions. Like back when she was a child, when perfume ran through her and she thought of it as a friend. Playing around with perfume was one thing; letting it take over was something else. She had to keep that in mind; she had to be careful.

“Let's get out of here, Monie, come on,” she said, quickly heading toward the open glass doors. Then a wave of dizziness stopped her in her tracks. What was happening? Could it be the perfumes?

She'd always managed to keep them at bay. She had learned early on to ignore them, pushing them to the sidelines. From the age of twelve, she'd always been the one to decide when and how much they mattered. She'd loved them, feared them and then learned to control them.

But that morning, she realized, the perfumes were getting the better of her, dragging her back, making her remember, making her look at things she'd rather not see.

“Are you all right, Elena? You look awful. You're not thinking about that idiot Matteo again, are you?” Monique took her by the arm and got her to stand still.

Struggling to compose herself, Elena looked at the high stone walls, followed their outline to focus on the steel beams. Ancient and modern. A match that might seem jarring, but which was actually charming and full of character.

“And stop staring at the walls. I won't leave you alone until you tell me what's wrong.”

Elena looked at Monique, then laughed, putting her face in her hands. “Has anyone ever told you you're like a bulldog?”

The other girl shrugged “
Oui
.” She tapped her finger on her bottom lip. “It's called character,
chérie
. So, tell me what's got into you today. You're even weirder than usual.”