The Perfumist of Paris, page 2
I knew that as long as I stayed in Kanta’s house, I would keep Niki from loving the woman who wanted to nurture him and was capable of caring for him in the long run. Lakshmi saw it, too. But she left the decision to me. So I made the only choice I could. I left him. And I tried my best to pretend he never existed. If I could convince myself that the hours Ravi Singh and I spent rehearsing Shakespeare—coiling our bodies around each other as Othello and Desdemona, devouring each other into exhaustion—had been a dream, surely I could convince myself our baby had been a dream, too.
And it worked. On every day but the second of September.
Ever since I left Jaipur, Kanta has been sending envelopes so thick I know what they contain without opening them: photos of Niki the baby, the toddler, the boy. I return each one, unopened, safe in the knowledge that the past can’t touch me, can’t splice my heart, can’t leave me bleeding.
The last time I saw Jiji in Shimla, she showed me a similar envelope addressed to her. I recognized the blue paper, Kanta’s elegant handwriting—letters like g and y looping gracefully—and shook my head. “When you’re ready, we can look at the photos together,” Jiji said.
But I knew I never would.
Today, I’ll make it through Niki’s seventeenth birthday in a haze, as I always do. I know tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow, I’ll be able to do what I couldn’t today. I’ll seal that memory of my firstborn as tightly as if I were securing the lid of a steel tiffin for my lunch, making sure that not a drop of the masala dal can escape.
An ingredient found in almost every Western perfume, oil extracted from the roots of vetiver grass is woody, smoky, earthy—perfect for men’s fragrances.
Paris
October 1974
I wave the scent paper under my nose. I’ve blended the formula three times, but I know something’s not right. I scan the creative brief again. The client has requested a fragrance that’s earthy but cool and light, like the middle, leafy layer of a forest—not its damp undergrowth. In the sample I blended eight hours ago, the pungent smell of decaying wood lingers. Delphine will not be pleased.
I look at the wall clock on the far side of the fragrance lab. Ten minutes to two. Delphine will be here precisely at two o’clock. She’s always on time. She’s the only master perfumer at the House of Yves who insists on visiting her assistants in the fragrance lab to see what they’ve blended; the other two master perfumers ask their assistants to bring samples to their offices. In our tiny lab, over three thousand scents mingle to form a fragrance all their own, and I think that’s what she loves. Every time she enters the lab, I see her close her eyes briefly. I imagine she’s testing herself, trying to identify as many distinct scents as possible, before she approaches one of us. After working in the lab for five years, the deluge of scents is nothing more than background noise to me. I’m only ever focused on the formula I’m blending at the moment.
Directly across from me, Michel is organizing the tray of scents he’s mixed for another of Delphine’s projects. His workstation is spotless; it’s as if he’s always ready for inspection. He’s in his forties, a decade older than me, and the most senior lab assistant. Delphine will approach him first. Michel’s main job is to expand the fragrances that have been approved by clients into eau de parfum, eau de toilette, eau de cologne and eau fraiche.
Ferdie, whose proper name is Ferdinand, works to my right. His work area is cluttered and untidy, something I notice Delphine surveys but never comments on. Through the glass wall that separates our lab from the reception desk, I see him telling Delphine’s secretary a story; Ferdie is an excellent storyteller. Celeste begins laughing even before he’s finished. Her phone starts to ring, and she shoos him away, still giggling.
Each of our work areas resembles a church organ. In front of us are three tiers of scent vials in a semicircle—almost three hundred of them—leaving just enough space on the table for a tiny scale, a tray of pipettes, a jar of scent papers—each the width of a pencil—and a notebook on which to record our trials. I’ve organized my perfume organ according to families of scents. First, there are the powdery, narcotic florals—orange blossom, damask rose, lavender, lily of the valley. The next tier of bottles contains sweet, juicy fruit fragrances like lemon, bergamot, mango. There’s a cluster of rugged green bouquets—pine needles and rosemary among them—and of course the enduring, profound gourmand family of scents like chocolate, vanilla and clove. The earthy woods take up the top row: vetiver, sandalwood, rosewood, cedar among them.
In the lab, each of us is assigned project briefs. The brief describes what the client—be they a major perfume brand, fashion designer or a beauty products company—wants to create. For each project, Delphine, the master perfumer of our lab, designs several potential formulas based on her knowledge of thousands of scents. She may use anywhere from ten to fifty ingredients in her creations. It’s our job as lab assistants to blend her formulas, using a pipette to accurately measure each ingredient on the scale and mix it with a small quantity of alcohol. If the ingredient is a solid, like musky, waxy ambergris (which, surprisingly, is a digestive by-product of sperm whales!) or a dark and spicy resin, like frankincense or myrrh, we must first grind or press it to a fine powder before adding it to the mixture. If an essential oil like rose or fennel is stored in the refrigerator to lengthen its shelf life, we must warm it to room temperature before using it. Once we’ve blended Delphine’s formula, we dip the pencil-sized scent papers in our sample and sniff them to make sure we’ve created what she specified. That takes experience and time and an innate ability to discern aromas. It’s taken me five years, and I’m still learning.
For the tenth time, I read the formula I’ve been working on to see if I’ve missed something. Could it be that my boss’s preference for woody scents have led her to prescribe a higher density of vetiver than the fragrance needs? I check my scale one more time to make sure it’s calibrated correctly. Even the tiniest difference in measuring a raw ingredient could change the fragrance. I chew my lower lip. Should I deliver the formula Delphine designed? Or should I experiment with a slightly different formula that might meet the client’s expectations? I’ve never questioned Delphine’s formulas before, and as the lab assistant with the least experience, I don’t have a right to do so now.
I glance at Michel, the manager of our lab. When Yves du Bois lured Delphine from another fragrance house in Paris, he promised her a dedicated lab with her own assistants: Michel, whom she brought with her from her former workplace, and Ferdie, who happened to be Yves’s nephew.
Michel has a degree in chemistry. He’s worked with Delphine for nine years. In the five years I’ve worked here, he’s kept his distance, only speaking to me when necessary. He barely looks me in the eye when addressing me. I’ve often wondered if he’s resentful. I had only completed one year of chemistry before Delphine hired me and began training me as a junior lab assistant. I’m a thirty-two-year-old Indian woman—not French—like all the other employees of the company. Most have never been to India or expressed any desire to go. To them, I’m an anomaly, an oddity, and not necessarily a favorable one.
Ferdie is a few years younger than me. He also has a chemistry degree, but I doubt that becoming a master perfumer is his life’s passion. He only works the hours assigned to him, taking off as many sick days as he is allowed, but he’s a welcome contrast to Michel’s gravitas. Ferdie is always in a good mood. He seemed happy to have me join their lab. Michel doesn’t laugh at Ferdie’s jokes. I do. Ferdie loves to sing and whistle and dance. When he gets nervous (which happens every time Delphine is scheduled to visit the lab), he whistles one of the disco tunes he’s so fond of. Today, he’s whistling “Lady Marmalade.” To the scents he’s mixing, he asks, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”
Michel clears his throat, reminding Ferdie that the lab is no place for frivolity. With a guilty look at Michel, Ferdie whispers, “Désolé,” but then catches my eye across the room. He smiles and winks. I return his smile. He’s harmless. Sometimes, when we lunch together, he shows me his latest dance moves and tells me about his newest crush. Last week, it was Sergio. A week before, it was Miguel.
“Radha?”
I startle, almost knocking over the open bottle of vetiver oil, which costs more than what I make in a week. I turn to see Celeste hovering just above my right shoulder, her hands clasped together. She has limp, light brown hair just past her shoulders. Today, she’s wearing a long-sleeved brown knit dress that does little for her bony frame.
“Zut alors, Celeste! How many times must I ask you not to sneak up behind me when I’m mixing?”
The young woman flushes a deep pink to the roots of her hair. “But it’s the second time he’s called. It’s Pierre.” She leans closer to my ear and whispers, “It’s about Shanti.”
My heart plunges to my stomach. My palms start to sweat. What now? Of my two girls, Shanti is the one who never quite accepts my authority as her mother, always questioning why must I and who says and why do you get to tell me what to do? When she was little and I would pick out a yellow dress, she would insist on wearing a blue one that wasn’t in her wardrobe. She’d say no to kheer—something all Indian children are fed because the sweet rice pudding is soft on developing gums—and insist on Nutella, always Nutella. Just yesterday, I was going over her English vocabulary test (she’s in an international school). Despite my repeated corrections, she kept spelling friend as f-r-e-n-d. I know she knows how to spell it—she’s a smart girl. I’m convinced she likes being a contrarian to exasperate me. Is this how I was with my sister? A fleeting memory floats across my consciousness: resisting Lakshmi’s attempts to enlighten me about the ways of the world, Jiji’s brows furrowed, her lips drawn tight.
I turn away from Celeste and murmur, “Merci. J’arrive.”
At times like these, I find myself reaching for the necklace in the pocket of my lab coat. On it is a pendant, a small vial, filled with a private scent—something I created just for me. Unscrewing the top, I inhale deeply. Within seconds, my heartbeat slows. I take another breath and let the tranquility bathe me. I screw the cap back on and drop it in the pocket of my coat. The necklace is always with me; I never know when I might need it. But I dare not wear it around my neck; Pierre might ask me what’s in it.
I push my chair away from the desk and wipe my damp palms on my lab coat. Michel glances at me, then at the wall clock. I nod to let him know I’ll be back. He returns to his work.
Celeste is at her desk again, typing a letter. She’s the receptionist for Delphine’s department, handling Delphine’s phone calls, correspondence, calendar, and welcoming clients to the studio. Celeste is good at her job, dependable, and sweet. I feel bad for snapping at her earlier. She’s my age, but far more timid than she should be, which irritates me. In my crankier moments—especially after I’ve been dealing with Shanti, I have the urge to yell boo and watch Celeste jump out of her skin. Because of her nervous nature, she’s the perfect foil for Delphine; Celeste needs an authoritative hand to direct her, and Delphine obliges.
I approach Celeste’s desk, pick up the receiver and push the blinking button on her gray phone, which sits on one edge of her desk. If any of us has a personal call, this is the phone we must use. As a result, Celeste knows everything that’s going on in our lives. But what choice does she have? And as far as I know, she keeps our personal business to herself. I’ve never asked her, but she may wish she didn’t have to listen to me talking to Pierre or overhear Ferdie laughing with friends who call him for a drink after work.
I turn sideways to give myself some privacy. “Chérie?” I keep my voice low and calm.
Pierre’s panicked voice is in my ear: “Did you not get my first message?”
My eyes flick to Celeste gratefully. I’ll ask her to lunch tomorrow to make up for my testiness earlier. I ask Pierre, “Qu’est qu’il ya?”
“Shanti’s school called. She pushed a girl—actually pushed her!—and ran from the classroom. They found her by the Trocadero fountains again. She’s only nine, for God’s sake! What is Shanti thinking going off by herself like that?”
Hai Ram! I wish I knew. For the past year, Shanti has been lashing out at other children, refusing to answer the teacher’s questions and even skipping class to play with the boats in the Jardin du Luxembourg. She never offers any explanations. Just frowns, purses her mouth and disappears into the bedroom she shares with her sister. If only there were someone to tell me how to be a perfect mother. If only I could ask my closest friend, Mathilde, or my sister, Lakshmi, but neither of them have children. I tell myself not to panic; at least Shanti’s safe—this time.
I massage the two frown lines that have deepened on my forehead in the last few years. “What would you like me to do?” I ask Pierre.
“The school wants to send her home. Can you go get her?”
I start to ask why Yasmin can’t go. Then I remember Pierre fired her. Were I still living in India, I, too, might have slapped Shanti for misbehaving, as Yasmin did, as Maa did so freely whenever I burned the rice or took too long at the farmer’s well to draw water. I’ve tried to be a kinder, more loving mother to my girls. Still, I’ve failed with Shanti.
From the corner of my eye, I see Delphine walking toward the laboratory door. My mind drifts back to the scent I was mixing. What if I substituted one of the milder accords containing vetiver instead of the intense essential oil itself? Would that solve the problem with Delphine’s formula?
“Pierre, I can’t leave work right now. Delphine—”
His words are a hot hiss. “Always Delphine! Do you think my work is less important? You play with fragrances, for heaven’s sake. I design buildings people need!”
I close my eyes and shake my head. “Mais...” When I open them, I see Delphine looking at me pointedly from the glass doors of the lab. I’ve kept her waiting.
“Écoute, chérie. Please take care of it just this once! I’ll explain tonight.” I hang up but I leave my hand on the receiver as if to apologize to my husband.
Celeste offers me a sympathetic smile, which makes me want to confide how awful it’s been at home for the past year. My long hours in the lab. Shanti’s behavior. The revolving door of nannies. I walk away from Celeste’s desk and open the door to the lab.
* * *
Delphine likes for all three of us to be present during her lab visits and to participate in the evaluation of each project. We sniff the scent papers on Michel’s desk and discuss which of his samples are working, which are not and why. Delphine suggests modifications to the formulas to bring them closer to the client brief. I hang on her every word, in awe of her knowledge, her absolute belief in her assessment.
Next, she concludes that Ferdie’s project, which is late (it’s been in development for six months), is ready for a second presentation to the fashion designer who commissioned it. Delphine tells Ferdie, “On se vend comme des pains!” These days, more and more renowned designers are requesting custom scents to enhance their clothing brand. Fragrances are big business; even if the season’s fashion offerings are a bust, the brand’s scent will keep the business afloat. I would love to be present at the client meeting to see the designer’s reaction and Delphine’s handling of it. So far, I have not been invited to client meetings.
Now Delphine turns to me and raises her eyebrows. I make no move to return to my work area. My palms are damp again, and I slide them down the sides of my lab coat.
“Désolé, madame. I’m not yet finished.” I pray my voice isn’t trembling.
Delphine Silberman cocks her head to the side and raises her pencil-thin brows. As always, she’s well-groomed. Her dark curly hair, shot through with lighter brown, is cropped close to her scalp, unlike the longer hair favored by French women. If I were to guess, I would assume her hairdresser must excel at balayage à coton to give her hair that sun-kissed look in winter. Her makeup is barely noticeable, save for the pink lipstick that always lines her thin lips. Today, she’s wearing a Chanel tweed suit in red, white and maroon. She told me once how grateful she was to Coco Chanel for making it easy for women to get dressed in the morning with minimal fuss. Her Gucci pumps match her suit.
Delphine is still gazing at me, waiting for an explanation.
To tell her I suspect there’s something wrong with her formula in front of Michel and Ferdie would be imprudent. I fight to keep my hands from sliding down my coat again. I say nothing.
She nods. “See me before you go home.” She offers a pleasant smile to Michel and Ferdie. “Bien fait.” Ferdie’s face flushes with relief; Delphine doesn’t usually compliment him.
Her smile has disappeared by the time she glances at me. I’ve disappointed her.
* * *
At my station, I select the bottles I need to tone down the intensity of the vetiver, a scent as familiar to me as my own skin. Back in India, Jiji and I used to cool ourselves with dampened fans made out of khus, the Hindi word for vetiver grass, during the sizzling heat of Jaipuri summers. The society ladies whose hands Jiji decorated with henna hired servants to continually sprinkle water on large khus screens over the doors and windows, which released vetiver’s cool, woody fragrance into the rooms. I remember when Antoine, my first boss in Paris, told me that the first women’s fragrance to use vetiver was Chanel No. 5 in 1921, and here Indians had been using it and exporting the scented grass to the world for thousands of years!
I’ve never known Michel to challenge one of Delphine’s formulas (maybe he only does so in private), but I sense that if an assistant is going to question the work of her master perfumer, she must be able to back up her claim. I mix the formula again, this time decreasing the vetiver and adding a smidgen of vanilla. I record my measurements. I follow the same process with a few other scent combinations that simulate the woody scent. I try oak moss. Then lichen. I avoid vetiver oil altogether.
