The Perfume Collector (31 page)

Eva pressed her lips to the top of Grace’s head, then went back downstairs to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Arranging a tea tray with milk and a slice of yellow cake, Eva carried it outside to the greenhouse.

She looked up at the sky. The air had suddenly gone still, the sky a flat shade of grey. Rain was coming.

Fry, the dog, wove between her legs, yapping excitedly. ‘What’s wrong?’ She rubbed his head. ‘Calm down! Do you want to play?’

She knocked on the door of the greenhouse.

There was no reply.

After a minute, she pushed the door open with her back. ‘Hello? Sir? Anyone here?’

It was so quiet.

Walking through to the office, she saw his back at the desk.

‘Just leave it, please,’ he said without turning round.

Eva left the tray on the corner of the laboratory table and left. Back in the kitchen, she began slicing vegetables for stew.

The dog was restless, barking at the window.

‘What can you see? A squirrel?’ Eva went over, looked out.

The gate at the bottom of the garden was ajar. The wind was rising; the gate banged against the latch again and again. It led out onto a field of high wild grass and then to some woods.

Eva thought she caught sight of something moving in among the trees, a fleeting shape. But it was gone now.

‘Rest easy boy, there’s nothing there.’

She went back to peeling carrots.

Just after three, she went upstairs to wake Grace.

Pushing open the door, she moved quietly to the side of the bed. ‘Darling?
Mon ange
?’

Eva pushed back the mound of covers.

The bed was empty.

‘Grace? Grace! This isn’t funny!’ she called, looking under the beds, inside the laundry hamper, behind the settee.

Eva searched the house, the garden. She even went back through to the greenhouse. The door was unlocked. The tea had been poured, the cup on the desk still warm.

But no one was there.

The clouds darkened. The air was still.

The birds had stopped singing.

Fry was standing by the gate at the end of the garden, barking wildly. He turned to look at her, tail down, ears flat.

Eva followed him into the field and broke into a run.

The sky was a vast rolling sea of navy and black; the temperature had dropped and everything looked unreal, as if it were pasted on a flat grey background and lit from within.

Eva ran through the high grass, lurching and stumbling across the uneven ground. Only the distance seemed to expand rather than contract, as if she were wading through water. Finally, she reached the woods.

It was darker here; light gave way to flickering shadows. She forced her way through the undergrowth, the thick green leaves and low-reaching branches pulling at her hair, thorns scraping her legs, hidden roots pitching her forward. The dry forest floor crunched beneath her feet.

‘Grace!’ she shouted. ‘Grace!’

Her voice seemed to be swallowed up by the thick, heavy air like a vacuum. Every second she couldn’t see her little girl seemed like an hour; her heart pounded so loudly she thought her head would explode.

High above, the wind blew. A flock of ravens, huge and black, swooped down, screeching loudly, before cutting back up across the sky.

Then suddenly she spotted a fluttering bit of white in the distance – thin, filmy cotton.

She ran faster, staggering into a clearing; the clearing of paperwhites.

Grace was in her nightdress, crouched on the ground. She was holding something small, golden. Coming closer, Eva saw that it was a lighter, with a mother-of-pearl inlay. ‘Where have you been?’ She reached out to her. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere!’

Grace stared at Eva blankly, turning the object round and round in her little hands. Then she pointed to something, a few yards away. ‘I can’t wake him up.’

Jonathan Maudley was lying on his back in a ditch. Eyes wide open, motionless; staring unblinkingly at the dark rolling sky.

His lips were tinged a dark, almost navy-blue grey; from the sickly, sweet berries of the belladonna plant.

‘You asked to see me, sir?’ Eva stood in the doorway of the drawing room.

The man by the window turned. He was in his seventies, with very straight military bearing, a meticulously trimmed silver moustache and fierce blue eyes. His features were familiar, the stern template of both his children.

He took a few steps forward, indicating a spot on the settee. ‘Please sit down.’

Eva did as she was told, folding her hands on her lap.

It hadn’t taken long for Catherine’s father, Lord Royce, to take over after Jonathan Maudley’s death. He’d arrived the day afterwards from London, where he’d been convening with the House of Lords; making arrangements, overseeing his son-in-law’s funeral, dictating word for word the obituary that appeared in
The Times
; the terrible accidental death of a war hero and promising scientist.

Catherine was naturally distraught. Unable to sleep or eat, she’d barely managed to say two words to Eva since her husband’s body was recovered. During the day, she slept. But Eva could hear her moving about at night, pacing, back and forth in her room, until dawn. The house was cloaked in silence; even the dog was sombre. But Eva had heard the hushed tones of urgent conversations behind closed doors; there were private phone calls and telegrams delivered at odd hours.

And now Lord Royce wished to speak to her.

Looking out the window, Eva watched Grace, playing outside in the front garden. She had two dolls her grandfather had brought her; expensive china dolls with real human hair. She was making beds for them in the leaves underneath the chestnut tree, burying them in dirt. Her face was so intent; so serious. Eva could tell from the way her mouth was moving that she was making up different voices for each of them.

Settling behind the writing desk, Lord Royce took a deep breath. ‘Let me begin by saying, how grateful my daughter is for everything you’ve done to help her through this terrible time. As you know, she is very distressed and unable to manage these affairs. However, she wished me to convey her gratitude.’

‘Thank you, your lordship.’

‘Naturally, this event has meant that changes have to be made. Now is a time when my daughter needs the support of her family. This little experiment,’ he looked around at the modest drawing room, ‘in independence is over. She will be moving back to the main house with all possible speed.’

Eva swallowed. ‘I should be pleased to continue to serve them and you, sir, wherever they go.’

‘How accommodating. However, all my kitchen and cleaning staff requirements are already met. I’m sure you understand.’

He slid an envelope out from behind the blotter on the desk. ‘I think you will find my daughter has been extremely generous in both her severance and her letter of recommendation.’

He held the envelope out.

Eva stared at it.

‘I would be happy to work in any capacity. For example, I have looked after little Grace for some months now. I would be so . . . so very pleased to continue . . .’

The look on his face was a mixture of both irritation and disdain.

‘My granddaughter will, of course, have a proper nanny,’ he clarified pointedly. ‘A professional qualified to educate a young lady of her class.’ Rising, he held the envelope out again. ‘Arrangements have already been made. Your services are no longer required.’

Eva took the envelope. She could neither see nor hear clearly.

‘I can do anything, your lordship,’ her voice was just above a whisper, ‘anything, at all . . . I will work in the kitchens or laundry . . .’

‘Why?’ His expression changed. He came closer.

Eva looked up. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘You have money, references. Oxford has many opportunities. Why do want to stay here so badly?’

‘You . . . you misunderstand me, sir.’

‘Do I?’ His voice was icy. ‘Your eyes are a very unusual colour.

‘Sir?’

‘I’ve only seen eyes like that once before. They are almost exactly the same colour as Grace’s.’

Eva felt her body go rigid. She tried to say something but her mouth just opened, gaping soundlessly.

‘You’re not who you pretend to be, are you?’ His face hardened. ‘I always knew that some day there’d be trouble. I expected blackmail. But I didn’t expect anything like this.’

Again, Eva tried to swallow, her throat tightening like a fist, but made no reply.

‘If I were to ring the Home Office, I believe I should have no difficulty in verifying your true identity. What is it you call yourself? Celine? Do you realize the seriousness of traveling on forged papers? You could be arrested as a spy, or simply deported.’

‘I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,’ she managed.

‘Don’t you? Would you care to bring your papers to me for examination?’

Tears stung the backs of her eyes; Eva bit her lower lip hard, to hold them back, and shook her head ‘no’.

‘I didn’t think so. You have two days to leave this country. After that, I shall notify the authorities. And please don’t misunderstand me, there are no lengths I won’t go to remove you if you defy me.’

He moved towards the window again, his back to her, watching Grace playing on the front lawn.

There was a movement just outside the drawing room door. Then the faint sound of footfall on the stairs.

‘I had a son once.’ He spat the words out, edged with bitterness and hatred. ‘He died too. Of drunkenness, debauchery and disease. The only decent thing he ever did was for his sister. Do you really think that I’m going to allow some cheap French tart to destroy my daughter’s last remaining happiness?’

Paris, Spring, 1955

‘Madame Munroe? Madame Munroe?’

Grace blinked, looking up into Madame Zed’s face.

Madame Zed got up, went into the kitchen and poured her a glass of water. Then she set it on the table next to her.

Grace stared at the glass. She could see it, but it was as if she couldn’t place its purpose.

‘What happened to her?’ she asked after a while. ‘She was dismissed. Do you remember that?’

Grace shook her head. ‘I remember vaguely being at my grandparents’ home. That we seemed to stay there forever. A woman named Mrs Press looked after me. She was older, with thick white hands. I used to think they were made of lard. My mother always told me my father died of a heart attack.’

‘Well, what else could she say?’

‘Yes,’ Grace agreed numbly.

Madame Zed passed her the final vial.
Choses Perdus
, she said. ‘It means “Lost things”. This is the accord Eva was obsessed with – the heart of the fragrance Hiver can’t reproduce.’

Grace took it, held it up.

Suddenly the gap in her senses closed. The air became tighter, more compressed. Her eyes filled with tears.

‘I have never been able to smell it.’ Madame sat forward. ‘Please, will you describe it to me?’

Grace nodded. ‘It’s the smell of wool, paperwhites, wood . . . and hair . . . my hair.’

Paris, September 1942, during the Nazi occupation

The letter was delivered by Jacques Hiver’s driver, in the early afternoon.

It had been a quiet day. Eva had been dusting the shelves for the second time that week, taking the bottles down, carefully wiping each one with a damp cloth, when she saw the black Daimler crawling slowly up the street. It was surrounded by a crowd of neighbourhood children, running after it, shouting and banging against the windows. With strict petrol rationing, non-military vehicles were increasingly rare. Only the very rich or important could afford such a luxury. Eva watched as the driver shooed them away, before he came into the shop.

The note was a typically brief communication, just a location and a time scribbled in Jacques’s spidery, perpendicular handwriting. The only thing that set it apart from the other notes he regularly sent was that this time the location was a private address rather than a hotel.

Eva folded it back up, put it into the pocket of her skirt.

‘Who was that?’ Andre called from the back room. ‘A customer?’

‘No.’ Customers had been far and few between. ‘Nothing important.’

‘Oh. One of your admirers,’ he said.

They both knew the term ‘admirer’ wasn’t quite accurate. And they both refrained from saying so.

Ever since Eva had returned to Paris seven years ago, she and Andre had reached a kind of unspoken agreement. After her abrupt departure, he had struggled on without her, at first angry and hurt, then torn between regret and self-loathing. When, months later, he arrived one morning to find her standing, waiting on the front doorstep of the shop, he was overwhelmed with gratitude and relief.

But as he unlocked the door, he said only, ‘Are you back?’

‘Yes,’ she answered.

She walked in and, without another word, set about re-arranging the counter display.

He never asked her to explain and she never did.

Things were different now, expectations gone. Neither of them had the reserves for strong emotional gales. A respectful distance protected both of them. Kindnesses were rendered, trespasses ignored, narrow spaces negotiated in a state of amicable reserve.

Pushing back the thick velvet curtain that separated the shop from the storeroom, Eva leaned against the door frame. Andre was balanced on top of ladder, reaching for a sealed jar of ambergris tucked away on one of the high shelves. He was thin, very thin. Everyone in Paris had lost weight with the strict rations but often Andre was too distracted to eat even his modest share. He subsisted on a diet mostly of cigarettes, white bean stew and weak ‘coffee’ made from chicory and barley. With the decline in commissions, he channelled his considerable energies into the reorganization of his entire collection. Already he’d managed to categorize and cross-categorize his existing perfumes to a remarkable, almost pathological degree, creating occasionally bizarre, whimsical classifications, which he labelled underneath each vial. Eva knew he was simply trying to steady himself, to keep his mind from the looming shadow of the future.

‘Why don’t we take a break?’ she said. ‘Let’s lock up the shop for half an hour and step out for a breath of fresh air?’

Climbing down, he put the jar on the counter. ‘There’s nothing fresh about the air in Paris anymore. Besides,’ he scratched at an angry red patch of eczema that had developed, spreading across the back of his right hand, ‘I’m in the middle of something.’

Eva didn’t press the point. She knew he hated to be seen in public, wearing the barbaric yellow star stitched onto his lapel. He only really felt comfortable now in the shop. The beautifully tailored suits he once wore hung untouched and undefiled in his wardrobe. He’d capitulated only once, stitching the badge on to his least favourite suit jacket, which he wore every day. He no longer frequented cafés or bothered to meet with friends.

In fact, he was becoming a recluse, hardly leaving the workroom, working away in the basement, after curfew, well into the night. And the fruits of his obsessive labours could be found on the now-crowded shop shelves, vials upon vials of new formulations, sometimes two or three in a single night. It was beyond prolific; it was like a kind of brilliant possession. Andre was at the height of his powers, creating subtle, daring, elegant compositions. Frequently he spent hours showing her his notebooks, taking her through each detail of the process, as if he both doubted himself and wanted a witness to carry on his legacy. Some afternoons, he would make her test twenty different variations of the same formula, only to discount them all. Other times, he was emphatic, dictatorial, chain-smoking heavily, proclaiming amidst a fog of thick smoke that he was the only real nose left in Paris.

Eva found this frenzied outpouring both moving and painful to witness. He was racing, running himself out. Part of her sensed that he wasn’t afraid for himself, so much as for his own talent; terrified that something uniquely beautiful might not be realized unless he coaxed it into being.

She came, stood beside him. ‘What are you working on?’

‘I want to do a Greek series.’ Glancing up, he gave her an awkward smile. ‘I long for archetypes.’

‘Well, I may step out for a while. That is, if you don’t mind.’

She knew the chance of anyone coming in was slim, but knew also that Andre shrank from dealing with customers.

Today he just shrugged. ‘Do what you like. But turn the sign around, will you? I don’t want any uninvited guests.’

He was talking about the Germans. The only people left in Paris with the money for luxury goods.

Eva set out walking down the thronging Boulevard St Germain. Since the invasion, it seemed that more people spent time milling in the streets, rubbing up against one another, looking to each other for clues as to what was happening. During the day, the streets teamed with people standing in line for rations, bartering with makeshift stall-holders selling black market goods, spilling out from the cafés to smoke, argue and talk. At night, the same streets were eerily silent.

She crossed the river at the Pont de Sully. The banks of the Seine were lined with fisherman, both men and women, waiting patiently, hoping to supplement their rations by any means possible. As she headed into the 4th arrondissement, the atmosphere changed. Here the wide boulevards were quieter, the streets devoid of the many teaming bicycles and rickshaws that crowed St Germain. Suspended from the roofs of government buildings, enormous Swastika flags fluttered soundlessly in the breeze. Suddenly, Eva caught sight of a flock of birds, circling above. There were almost no pigeons left in Paris, most had been caught and cooked.

Finally arriving through the narrow cobbled entrance, Eva stepped into the wide expanse of Les Places Des Vogues, with its stately central square. The trees were all but bare now, a few golden leaves clinging in defiance. Some children were huddled in a circle, shooting marbles in the dirt. An older man was sweeping the rest of the fallen leaves into high piles, aided by his wife, a small, stocky woman, wrapped in a knitted shawl. The four large fountains were dry; the playground equipment dismantled long ago. They all seemed to be moving like nurses around the bed of a sleeping patient, cautious and quiet.

Checking the address again, Eva made her way to the far end. A group of German soldiers were sitting on bench, smoking. They laughed, shouting and whistling as she passed.

The concierge, a rather frightened, dour young woman, was waiting for her outside of one of the buildings. She led Eva up a set of marble stairs to an apartment on the first floor. She unlocked the door and disappeared back downstairs before Eva could ask her anything.

‘Hello?’ Eva stepped inside.

It was empty, unfurnished.

‘Hello, is anyone here?’ she called again.

Her voice echoed off the bare walls and floor. Was this some sort of joke? What was he playing at?

She was drawn to the wall of windows, overlooking the city. It was a remarkable vantage point, a sprawling panorama stretching in all directions for miles.

‘Do you like it?’

Eva turned.

A striking woman was standing in the doorway. She was only a few years older than herself, with an elegant, lithe figure and strong features. She was wearing a simple day dress and flat shoes, as if she’d been out shopping or running errands; two activities it was impossible to believe. She looked Eva up and down, regarding her as if she were a cut of meat dangling in a butcher’s window.

‘I’m sorry?’ Eva scoured her memory. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

‘No,’ the woman answered. She untied the silk headscarf she was wearing, revealing a mass of dark curls, re-arranging it so it draped loosely around her neck. ‘And we never will. Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked, taking a gold cigarette case out of her handbag.

She lit one, not bothering to wait for Eva’s reply.

‘So, do you like it?’ the woman asked again, shooting a stream of smoke at the ceiling. ‘It has an exceptional view, don’t you agree?’

Coming over, she stopped in front of the window. ‘I think it will do nicely. Don’t worry about furnishings. I’ll send over some pieces later on in the week. I mean,’ she laughed a little, smoke streaming from her nose, ‘I’m sure your taste is more than adequate. But you’ll appreciate that these additions are special.’

Now Eva knew who she was.

She slid her hands into her coat pockets. ‘I’m not sure that will be necessary, Madame Hiver.’

Something flickered in Yvonne Hiver’s dark eyes. ‘Well, it’s up to you of course,’ she said lightly. ‘You work in the little perfume shop, don’t you? What’s the name of that place?’

Eva didn’t answer.

Yvonne titled her chin down, watching Eva’s face carefully. ‘You’re not the only one, you know. There are others.’

‘I presume you’re referring to other women.’

‘Naturally,’ Yvonne took another drag. ‘My husband’s quite sentimental. Some girls he’s held on to since we were engaged. Sweet, I suppose.’

‘Or lazy.’

Yvonne exhaled slowly. ‘How did you meet him, anyway?’

Eva nodded to the cigarette she was smoking. ‘Do you have another one?’

Yvonne frowned, irritated. Nevertheless, she took out the gold case again. ‘I suppose rationing has made beggars of us all.’

Eva took one and, leaning forward, lit it from Yvonne’s. ‘I have plenty, thank you. I simply prefer yours.’

Yvonne stared at her then smiled. ‘You were about to tell me how you met.’

‘At the Casino de Paris. He followed me out one night. I’d left my winnings behind. He was under the impression it was a mistake and wanted to return them to me.’

Yvonne eyed her carefully. ‘But it wasn’t a mistake?’

‘I didn’t care about the money. I only go to play cards.’

‘So he gave you your money and bought you a drink, no doubt.’

Eva exhaled. ‘Actually I told him to fuck off. But he took the money back to casino, and had the cashier hold it for me in chips for the next night. When I came back, he was there, waiting.’

Yvonne took a moment to register this information. Clearly, it didn’t fit her imaginings. ‘Do often you go to casinos on your own?’ she asked, as if she were make conversation at a party.

‘Yes,’ Eva answered truthfully. ‘I find it soothing.’ She gestured to the empty apartment. ‘Is this your idea?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Instead of answering, Yvonne opened the French doors, stepping out on to the terrace. ‘You know, no one is going to have any money to buy perfume any more. Not while there’s a war on. But then I’m sure you already know that. I’m amazed that little shop hasn’t shut down already.’

Eva followed.

Below them, the garden square was like most of the city, relatively untouched by the Germans. It was easy, seductive even, to make believe that nothing was happening. Of all the disturbing aspects of the occupation, Eva found the veil of normalcy the most sinister. Was any wound more painful than the one no one else could see?

‘I’ve done a little research on you, Mademoiselle d’Orsey,’ Yvonne confessed. ‘I know that you have a running tab at the Café Flore that you never quite manage to pay off. I also know that they like to seat you in the back because you drink too much. I’m already aware that you enjoy spending your evenings gambling, in dubious company. And that your business partner, Andre Valmont is a Jew. I also know that my husband is fond of rescuing things – frightened kittens, wounded sparrows, women who’ve misplaced their morals.’

Eva took a long drag. ‘And that’s why you’re offering me an apartment?’

Yvonne leaned forward, resting her elbows on the railing. ‘It occurs to me that you have very little to lose and a great deal to gain. All I want you to do is continue to entertain Jacques and a few of his new friends. Only naturally, I’d like you to be able to do it in fitting style.’

‘And would these new friends by any chance be wearing grey uniforms and jackboots?’

Yvonne stubbed out the half-finished cigarette, tossing the butt over the side of the balcony. ‘None of us has anything to gain by watching Hiver Cosmetics go under. We must cooperate.’

‘Or rather,
I
must cooperate,’ Eva corrected her. ‘You will keep your distance.’

‘We have never met, mademoiselle. And we never will.’

‘Why are you making these arrangements? Why not Jacques?’

‘I don’t trust him.’ Yvonne seemed to find this amusing. ‘Imagine that?’ she laughed. ‘But some matters are too important, too delicate to leave to his judgment.’

Eva’s head hurt, hunger gnawed at her stomach. She turned, gazing out over the landscape of Paris. She was unused to seeing it from this height, of viewing it spread out in its entirety. Suddenly she felt angry, betrayed. Paris was as beautiful as ever. There was something duplicitous, deeply wrong with this beauty.

She looked down. The soldiers were still there.

The whole of Paris was crawling with them; theatres and galleries, restaurants and nightclubs – wall-to-wall with Nazi uniforms, the air punctuated with guttural German sounds. They strolled in the parks, ordered beer in cafés, stood frowning in front Matisse’s paintings with art catalogues in their hands. There were women, French women, who laughed at their stories, hung on their arms, allowed them to buy them drinks. Eva found them pathetic and desperate, avoided looking them in the eye. She knew what she would find there – fear and despair dressed up in childish bravado and defiance.