The Perfumist of Paris, page 8
After turning out the light in Shanti and Asha’s room, I make myself a cup of chai and remove my notebook from my satchel. With a sigh, I read the formulas I created today. Jiji would know exactly what to suggest for the ingredient I’m sure is missing but can’t put my finger on. I look at the clock. Long-distance calls are exorbitant. But it’s almost midnight, when the rates are lowest. It must be four-thirty in the morning in India. I know everyone in the house will be asleep except Jiji, who often wakes up early to read.
She picks up on the first ring. “Radha?”
I smile. She always seems to know when I’m going to call. “Namaste, Jiji.”
“Theek hai? Shanti and Asha are healthy? Pierre is fine?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Everyone is.” I don’t want to talk with Jiji about the tension between Pierre and me. “I have news. I’ve been given my first fragrance assignment!”
“Shabash, Radha!” Her enthusiastic reaction rivals Mathilde’s. The pride I feel is like a warm blanket. Having run a successful business as a henna artist on her own, Lakshmi understands the satisfaction a woman feels when she is recognized and appreciated for skills she has taken care to develop. I wish my husband could have reacted the same way. But I set aside my disappointment and focus on what I want to ask her about the missing ingredient in my formula.
Once I explain the Olympia project, she can barely contain her excitement. “The courtesans of Agra would know exactly how to help you!”
“Courtesans? As in...dancing girls?”
“Arré! They’re far more refined than that. They know how to create whatever mood you desire with scents. They’ve spent a lifetime perfecting that art. But they won’t talk to you on the phone. You’ll have to go to them.”
“In Agra?”
“Hahn. When can you come?”
I let out a sigh. “Jiji, I’m just a lab assistant who’s been awarded my first fragrance project. It would be too much to ask Delphine to spend that kind of money on me.”
I hear the smile in her voice—and a dare. “Pitaji used to say, He who does not climb will not fall either.”
I have never been able to resist a challenge. I’m not sure how Pierre will react, but it is worth a conversation. Besides, putting a little distance between myself and Pierre’s disapproval would be a welcome relief. And maybe my worries about possible sabotage at the lab mean I’m putting too much work pressure on myself. Getting away can only help.
* * *
Delphine is at her perfume organ when I approach her about my idea the next day. It takes her a moment to focus on my request. “You want to go to India?”
“Oui.” I push my hands in my pockets so I’m not tempted to wipe them against my lab coat. I try for a voice that sounds more confident than I feel. “I’ll be able to source ingredients that I don’t think exist here. There are so many scents I remember from India that aren’t used in French perfumery. And the Oriental fragrances that have become popular in the last few years have only scratched the surface of what I believe we can create. I’m convinced Olympia needs something wet, fluid. But I can’t find it in our scent library.”
Delphine’s mouth tries to hide a smile. Have I said something amusing?
“Do you know why I hired you, Radha?”
I blink. “Because Antoine recommended me?”
“Because you’ve been living with scents longer than I have. Remember I asked you what your earliest memories were? I still remember what you said. The smell of the mud hut where your mother gave birth, her wheaty breath, the sari she had lain in for a week and the incense the midwife lit. Radha, you were born of fragrance. It’s in your blood, bones, hair, breath. You eat fragrance in your food. You wear it from the inside out. You understand it in a way Michel, with his chemistry degree, and Ferdinand with his family’s wealth, never will. You are working on Olympia because you’re the only person who can create a wholly unique scent for her.” She turns around to her organ to reach for a bottle and resumes her work.
I’m too stunned by her words to move. Did she just say I will make a better perfumer than Michel or Ferdie, who have been here longer? Did she just approve my trip to India? Will the House of Yves pay for it or is she expecting me to? Hai Ram, if I’m to pay for it, will Pierre agree to let me go?
As if she has heard my questions, she says, focused on the pipette in her hand and the small bottle of alcohol in front of her, “Bon voyage. Celeste will take care of the details.”
I nod—even though she’s not looking my way—and walk out of her office.
* * *
I’m getting ready to go home when Celeste drops an envelope on my table. I look up at her. Her cheeks are pink and she’s bursting, as if she can barely contain a secret. She leans closer to my ear and whispers, “Your ticket to India.”
Michel looks up sharply from his station. Did he overhear the words or just the excitement in Celeste’s voice?
Celeste shoots me a radiant smile. “You leave next Tuesday and come back on Friday. Take pictures!”
Tuesday is four days from now.
* * *
Pierre’s train from Nice arrived in the afternoon. He called me at work and offered to bring the girls home from school so I wouldn’t have to. That gives me time to walk home instead of taking the Métro after work. I need to figure out how to approach Pierre and break the news to him.
How will I tell my husband that I’m leaving for India on a research trip in just four days? Who will take care of the girls? Oh, why haven’t I hired another nanny already? Because I haven’t had time to conduct a proper search! I can’t entrust the care of my daughters to just anybody. Maybe I can still interview a few candidates this weekend and find someone appropriate.
What if I asked Mathilde to take them? For almost a week? How can I even think of doing that? Mathilde has her hands full these days with her mother. She used to be able to jet off on a whim to London or Cyprus or wherever her most recent flame took her, but she’s been relatively homebound since her mother has required more and more of her time.
I’ll have to call Florence to help. She’ll probably want the girls to stay with her in Neuilly. Is that so very bad? Florence may have issues with me, but she does love the girls. She always makes herself available on short notice—even if she lets me know she had to cancel a board meeting for one of the arts organizations she supports. For the girls’ birthdays, she always plans a special trip. The Palace of Versailles for Shanti’s seventh birthday. Climbing the stairs of the Notre-Dame Cathedral to show a five-year-old Asha what the gargoyles see from their perch. For each of their sixth birthdays, Florence took them to the Musée Jacquemart-André, followed by chocolat chaud at the café in the mansion’s former dining room.
But every time I leave the girls in my mother-in-law’s care, I worry that she will take over my children and transform them, consume them and turn them into little French Catholic girls I won’t recognize. A voice in my head blares a warning: You’ve already lost one child! You can’t let that happen again! Florence has the money and the means and the time to spend on Shanti and Asha. But what if she turns them against me, against India? I can’t let that happen! I want my girls to know their heritage. I want them to know India. I want to take them to Shimla again to play with their cousins and get to know their aunt and uncle better. Florence would never take them to India. She thinks of my birth country as hot and dirty, disgusting even. How can I entrust my girls to such a person?
The walk home takes me more than an hour, but still I hover at the entrance of our apartment building, just out of view of the concierge. Even though I’m wearing a warm coat on this chilly November night, my underarms are soaked and my forehead feels hot. My heart feels like it’s bursting out of my rib cage. I take deep breaths and try to slow down my pulse. I’m not ready yet. I double back to the corner of Rue de Sèvres and Boulevard Saint-Germain. My mind races down another track. This will be the first business trip I’ve ever taken. When Pierre leaves on a trip for his work, as he did this week, I’m expected to understand and adapt. He makes an announcement, not a request for understanding or permission. While he’s away, I am to make sure the girls eat a healthy dinner, do their homework, get fresh air and exercise and tell me about their day. Of course, it’s what I want them to do, too. Nowadays, they’re even old enough to do many things for themselves; just last week, Shanti collected her clothes and asked me how the washing machine works. If only Pierre could do the same! But how could I ask him to take on tasks that he thinks are beneath a husband? I think about the working women I know: Lakshmi, Delphine, Celeste. How do they handle their job and the work at home? With a start, I realize none of them have children! So whom do I turn to?
Slowly, I retrace my steps back to our building.
I think about Pierre’s grandmother—Florence’s mother—the woman I never met but would love to have known. Her travels around the world are in evidence all over our apartment. The berimbau she picked up in Recife, Brazil, sits on the living room bookshelf; a photo of her in Kenya with her friend Beryl Markham, next to Markham’s single-engine monoplane, hangs in the hallway; a Rajasthani miniature court painting—a gift from the Maharani of Udaipur—graces the foyer. Pierre told me it was her lively stories of India that inspired him to go work in Chandigarh. His black-and-white drawing of the Punjab and Haryana High Court in Chandigarh was so impressive that I had it framed; it hangs in the living room. Given his grandmother’s wanderlust, maybe Pierre will be excited about the opportunity this trip to India will afford me. It would be wonderful if I could take the whole family with me, or at least the girls, but it’s such short notice and a quick trip at that, with a lot for me to accomplish. Besides, Pierre’s recent promotion makes it unlikely he can get away right now anyway.
I find myself standing in front of my apartment building again. I look up at the third floor. The lights are on. The girls will be doing their work for school and telling Pierre all about their day. They’ll be ready for their dinner.
I take a breath and enter.
* * *
The apartment glows with soft light. Nina Simone sings “Ne me quitte pas” on the record player. The pleasing odor of chicken steeped in rosemary and herbes de provence, one of Pierre’s specialties, makes my mouth water. At this hour, just before dinner, the girls will be in their room.
I hang up my coat in the foyer and take off my shoes. I pad in my stockinged feet to the kitchen and pause at the entrance. Pierre has his back to me. He’s sautéing the chicken. The sizzling fat bubbles as he turns over a thigh. His love of cooking is one of the things I adored about him from the start. He’s taught me how to make a French cheese soufflé, a Moroccan tagine and a Peruvian ceviche—recipes he picked up on travels with his grand-mère. I think about those cooking lessons in this very kitchen, Pierre pressed against my back, his arms reaching around my body as he mixed sauce in a bowl, stopping to nibble my ear, me laughing. I look at his slim back. He’s wearing the sky blue cashmere sweater I bought him for his birthday. All at once, I feel such a rush of love for him. Why was I so filled with dread about talking to the man who swept me off my feet thirteen years ago?
Gently, I wrap my arms around his chest and kiss the area between his shoulder blades. He tenses—I’ve surprised him—but he quickly relaxes into the hug. We stand like this without moving for a minute until Pierre says, “I have to turn the chicken.” But he cranes his neck so I can reach up and kiss him on the lips.
“I’ll say hello to the girls,” I tell him.
Shanti jumps up from the desk she shares with Asha. “Maman, regardes!” She holds up a drawing she has made for class. It’s a replica in her nine-year-old’s hand of the Rajasthani court painting that hangs in our foyer, the one belonging to Pierre’s grandmother.
I kiss her on both cheeks and walk around the desk to kiss Asha as well. “Genial, ma chou-chou! What was the assignment?”
“We had to bring in something that was important to us.” Shanti pulls her rubber band tighter over her ponytail.
That surprises me. “And why was that painting important to you?”
“Because—” she smacks her lips, a new habit she’s picked up “—you explained to Asha and me about India.”
My eyes well up. I hug Shanti so hard her feet lift off the ground. Sometimes, as a mother, I have no idea if what I teach the girls sinks in. I have an urge to tell them about my trip. “Come, I want to show you something.”
I lead them to the standing globe in the living room. “Guess where Maman is going next week?” I turn the globe until India is in the center and I’m pointing to Agra.
Asha’s amber eyes go huge. “Inde?”
I nod my head.
Shanti asks, “Are we going, too?”
“Not this time, chérie. This is for work.”
Asha asks, “Will you bring us back an elephant?”
“That’s silly!” Shanti says. “Whatever Maman brings back has to fit in a suitcase.”
My younger daughter twirls the globe. “Could it be a very small elephant?”
Shanti rolls her eyes. I hide a smile. My big girl—only nine years old and she thinks she knows the world. I hug them close. There’s so little there to hold on to, but their bodies are warm and soft and their hair smells like coconut oil. And they’re mine.
Asha wiggles out of my arms. “What will you do there?”
“I’m going to find some amazing scents.”
Asha pouts. “You don’t have to go that far to find them. The boys at school are smelly. And the metal slide on the playground smells weird.”
Shanti is thoughtful. “Asha’s right, Maman. Chalk has a smell, too. Did you ever notice?” She looks at Asha. “Madame LaCroix smells good, though, doesn’t she?”
Asha nods, “Like butterflies.”
“Your maman smells good, too.” It’s Pierre. I hadn’t heard him come into the room. He’s standing right behind me. He places his hands on my hips and kisses my neck. All the nerves in my body come alive. He hasn’t touched me like this in weeks. I want to reach behind and push his lips farther down my neck, across my shoulder, the front of my neck—
Still holding on to my hips, Pierre smiles at the girls. “Time to wash your hands for dinner.”
The girls hurry to the bathroom, Asha trying to reach the sink before Shanti. Pierre turns me to face him so he can kiss me properly. His tongue is warm and wet. I taste the herbes and the white wine. He’s hard. I feel the wetness between my legs.
“Is it my chicken or just that I am irresistible?” he asks.
“Oh, definitely the chicken,” I murmur.
Shanti calls from the bathroom, “Maman, there’s no more soap!”
I sigh. Pierre drops his arms. I leave to attend to my daughters.
* * *
The girls are in bed now. Pierre and I are in the living room, trying to keep our voices soft, a bottle of wine on the coffee table between us. A record revolves on the turntable—Dinah Washington singing “What a Difference a Day Makes.” The pleasing odor of our dinner lingers in the air.
During dinner, Asha blurted out that she wanted to go to India with me so she could pet baby elephants. Pierre, who’d been about to take a sip of his wine, looked at me with an uncertain smile. “We’re not going to India anytime soon.”
“We’re not. But Maman is,” my younger daughter explained patiently. “She showed us on the globe. She’s bringing back smells.”
When my husband frowned at me, my heart sped up. I took my time chewing my chicken while I willed my heart to slow down. Shanti, who seemed to sense her father’s disapproval, looked from one to the other of us, then pinched Asha on the forearm.
“It’s only for four days. For...Olympia. Research for my new project.” I’d been about to say for Delphine, which I knew would immediately incite his displeasure. “We can talk about it after dinner.” I looked at the girls, avoiding Pierre’s narrowed eyes, the way he set his fork on his plate, with finality. “I promise to bring back something for you both,” I said to Shanti and Asha. “Something much smaller than an elephant. What do you think I should bring back for Papa?”
The girls spent the rest of dinner coming up with suggestions, giving me a little reprieve before my conversation with Pierre.
Now, as we sit with the coffee table and the wine between us, Pierre says, “It just comes as such a surprise.”
We’re alone. It’s late. I’m tired. “A good surprise or a bad surprise?”
Pierre purses his lips. “A surprise that you would put your work before your family, the girls...and me, Radha.” He sips his wine.
My head feels like it’s on fire. “How can you say that, Pierre? I have been the major caretaker, housekeeper and chaperone for the majority of their lives. I take care of all their needs. I help them with their schoolwork when they need it. I help them understand what’s important and what’s not. Did you see the drawing Shanti made of Rajasthan? Did she tell you about anyone picking on her because she’s darker than they are?”
I know by the confusion on his face that he’s not aware of the drawing or the issue at school. “What about you?” I ask. “You’re busy working and traveling for your new position. You just came back after a two-day work trip. Don’t you put your job first?”
He rears his head, a look on his face of disbelief. “That’s different!”
“How?” My voice is louder now and my hands are shaking. I take a breath. “How is it different?”
