The Memory of Scent, page 2
And of course, there’s young Joseph in his threadbare, old man’s coat. He is collecting horse dung. He balances his large basket on his hip and scoops up his ‘investment’ which he will later mix with straw and sell on to fertilise the finer gardens. He has been doing this since he was five years of age. The two prostitutes who have taken him in regularly take turns flinging buckets of cold water on him after his hard day’s work because of the stink. He can be heard cursing at them. He is a young man of twelve years of age now and is more precious about his nakedness than he used to be. I have tried to teach him to read, just a little, and he does, just a little.
‘Maman, I’m home.’
I go straight over to the small grate to poke the fire, trying to keep it spitting warmth, but its crackle is that of a winded old man. I feel overwhelmed with tenderness for my mother and I’m consumed by a ferocious urge to protect her. Our home is a jumble of rickety cast-off furnishings, shreds of matting on the bare floors, sagging mattresses and one large cracked mirror. Can lodgings ever really be considered home? My early days were spent in a place with climbing roses over a front door, with a parlour and proper bedrooms, a large kitchen and a laundry and a pantry. Here in this converted outbuilding, where our ceiling is somebody else’s floor and the chairs of upstairs lives can be heard scraping above us, I have two carefully placed, red velvet cushions. I plump them each morning and prop them against the frayed arms of the sofa. My pride is something sheathed and stitched in dimpled red velvet and delicately positioned for inspection. It is evident in few other places.
Though her fingers are pale and stiffening, my mother continues to sew with her sewing box resting on the blanket on her knees. She mends table linen for a few restaurants and hotels, making the threadbare look refined. It brings in a little money.
‘No word from Rue de la Paix yet then?’
‘None, Maman. I’m sure any day now, something will come up.’
When I picture Rue de la Paix in my mind I see one vast emporium of opulence. The very best milliners are concentrated on that one street. I have tried on many occasions to find my mother work there, but they prefer young girls, pretty girls, probably because the customers are free to wander about the shops, watching the girls at work. The idea seems to be that if you are trying to sell something well-crafted to a discerning customer, even the nimble-fingered hat maker has to be visually appealing. There are small and busy ateliers where the hats are crafted and assembled and there are vast parlours of indulgence where, when you step through the doors, you can feel the lush carpet through even the crudest of soles. The hats there are so exquisite that they are displayed on tall bronze stands so you can perambulate around them, admiring the elaborate confections of ostrich plumes and feathers, silk trims and ribbons, felt, velvet and lace.
I once dreamt that I was a lady in the mood for a purchase, and was led to a wide, marble table where I sat on a cushioned chair in front of an enormous gold-gilded mirror. The air was perfumed with freshly cut flowers, and an offertory of hats was presented to me, one by one, by slimly elegant young ladies. As I sipped Champagne from a sparkling, crystal flute, I waved them all away with one imperious white-gloved hand. I could never find work for my mother in a place like that and, much to her irritation, I don’t have my mother’s fine skills with a needle nor the required patience.
My mother, the once elegant Madame Delphy, knows that I had mentioned the possibility of her working with some master milliners. Her thoughts have become frail and loose and she seems to have no perception of time at all. Time has become a fluid and itinerant thing that her mind randomly plucks at. She harvests her memories as she would apples in an orchard, scooping up the healthy fruit, while discarding the bruised and damaged. She knows that her husband, my father, is dead, but has forgotten that he died leaving colossal debt. She knows that she had loved him, but forgets that he often disappeared down to Marseille under the guise of his engineering work where he would take up with prostitutes and find willing players for high-stake card games. She knows that she often doesn’t feel very well and that is the confusing thing for both of us as her mind and body seem in the interminable grip of a cloying melancholy. Sometimes she aimlessly picks at the wallpaper as she lies in her bed at night, creating a jagged gash that cruelly mocks me. ‘Your mother is ill,’ that wallpaper wound taunts me as the sun rises each day and blinks into darkness each night.
‘Yoo-hoo, ladies of the house?’
Maria waves from outside the window before she bursts through the door carrying a small posy of flowers and some bread. ‘These are for your mother.’
‘Ah how sweet. Let me put them in water. She is a little tired so is having a rest. I’ll make us some coffee.’
Maria pulls the chair that isn’t broken, towards me and whispers so that we are not heard. ‘How has she been?’
‘Very confused. Sometimes she wakes me at night with her moaning and I find she’s covered with sweat.’
The fact that we were both fatherless forged an immediate bond between Maria and I when we first met as young girls. However, while I have fond memories of a tall man tapping up the path with his silver-topped cane and then tossing his hat on to a bench, scooping me up, all in a tobacco-scented whirl, there was nothing for Maria. She would joke that she was, ‘Marie-Clémentine Valadon, Father-Unknown’, because that’s what is written on her birth certificate. Maria is fingering the wide blue ribbon of her bonnet.
‘Another new hat, Maria?’
‘It’s Henri. He spends far too much time going in and out of the milliners picking up hats for me. I tell him that it’s much cheaper to paint me in the nude, instead of in these creations. But what can I do?’ Her smile tells me that she wouldn’t be protesting too much about this.
‘Yesterday we went to that lovely wild garden behind the Boulevard de Clichy with the lemon trees and the lilac bushes. It was a slow day’s work, some painting, a little wine and pâté, and then more painting in that very crisp, sharp light. You didn’t make the party last night?’
‘I hadn’t the energy, so I just stayed home after work. How was it?’
‘The usual: noisy and lots of fun. It was in one of the dilapidated streets near the Louvre. Somebody painted three large banners with the words, ‘obligation’, ‘order’ and ‘responsibility’ in big dark letters. They were hung on the wall and the men had a spitting competition to find out how many of the banners they could hit. Heads flung back, and then ‘phwat’. There was one poor soul, a small timid writer who didn’t manage to reach any of them, so he was tumbled out onto the street where he was pelted with tomatoes and everyone shouted ‘traitor’ after him. Henri and I stayed far too late, of course.’
Henri is a bit of a night owl. I like him. I think his insecurities make him comfortable to be around and he is instantly recognisable, a little bearded man with the bulbous nose and checked trousers. He adores Maria, which is probably why he paints her so much. ‘Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’. His name has the ring of the nobility which he does indeed spring from, but I would say he is more at home among the girls of Montmartre. They all love him because he is the first with the gossip.
‘Did he hear anything about the girl in the alley, the one that was found dead? Walrus was talking about her earlier.’
‘Well, he didn’t know her. Very few did. She was often with that Spanish painter. I heard that she had pawned her coat so he went to the pawn shop to get it back after she was found, and then he and a few friends went to the Jardin des Tuileries to hold a farewell ceremony for the girl. They placed her coat on the ground, sprinkled petals on it, and set it on fire. They called it a ceremony of release and drank until dawn.’
‘They probably didn’t even remember her name by then.’ I can, in a way, see how he would easily show such a callous disregard for a young girl. But actual cruelty? That I can’t imagine. And yet, why couldn’t he have retrieved her coat for her while she was still alive? No doubt he would have if she had only asked. I’ll hold that thought.
‘Maria, I sat for him, the Spaniard, and he was absolutely fine. In fact I have another sitting next week.’ Or was he fine? When I think about it, there were moments where I felt a little frightened, but only because I was so anxious to please him and felt as though I was falling short. Being so talented must be a very consuming business and from such talented people we can’t expect the social niceties beloved of the terminally boring and vacuous. And then there was the cat. It innocently strolled in one afternoon, back arched in anticipation of exploring a new environment. Any distraction can be welcome when you are holding the same position for hours on end. He caught the side glance that was really just a reflex, and swung around to see the source of my brief flickering of focus. The cat purred its entitlement to be there and padded towards one of the jars of brushes sitting on the floor. With the palette firmly wedded to his left hand, he reached for the cat with his right hand and closed his fist around its neck, carrying it swinging and spitting to the top of the stairs. He must have flung it down because I could hear a few thuds and pitiful mewing. It actually didn’t take anything out of him as he just slowly closed the door and resumed painting. I was almost afraid to breathe. How safe was I really? What about the patchouli girl … is she safe?
* * *
The air always seems fresher here in the Bois de Boulogne than in most other parts of Paris, apart, of course, from the clean air of the Butte at the height of Montmartre. I have been promising Maria that I would come with her out here to the circus where once she spent time as an acrobat. She has left many old friends behind and the odd time I take a day trip out here, there seems to be a certain grace, a casual respectability where ladies with parasols and impeccable men with their walking sticks mingle and casually appraise the red-coated riders as they canter their horses through complicated routines. We pick our way behind the tiered stands, trying to avoid the still steaming clumps of horse manure. Maria looks sublimely happy, as if caught up in a mystical thrall.
‘Is that not the most wonderful smell in the entire world?’ I smile meekly because my only concern is to swat away the flies and to try and ignore the discomfort I am feeling as sullen groups of men work in industrious hives, some pulling ropes, others painting large planks of wood, while all around, calloused hands savagely groom glossy horse flesh with coarse bristled brushes.
‘Uncle.’ I turn in time to see Maria clasping her hat to her head and running towards a large man perched on a very small wooden stool and tending to a horse’s hoof. I watch, charmed, as a broad grin creases his weather-worn face the minute he realises it is Maria. He releases the horse’s hoof from between his knees and stands up, his bulky, scarred forearms gripping Maria in the briefest of hugs. This man, whom one second ago I looked on with misgivings and suspicion, tentatively stepping around him as if proximity would bring me harm, is now bathed in benevolence and awkward charm.
‘My little Marie-Clémentine, look at you. You don’t look like a girl who has come to do some tumbling.’
‘This is my good friend Fleur, and this is my uncle.’
I know he is not really her uncle, but she always speaks so fondly of him because he took care of her. Everyone should have at least one person to look out for them.
‘This little creature was the most fearless acrobat ever to climb up on a horse’s back. There were plenty bigger, but none bolder. And your trapeze work …’
‘Yes, well, my boldness cost me months in bed and my future in the circus.’
‘Oh that was a nasty fall you took, but look at you now, haven’t you grown into the proper young lady.’
I am intruding on this affectionate reunion so I decide to take a look around. I don’t even like circuses. They always seem pompous and artificial and I hate being condescended to, all that manipulation of the audiences’ reactions. All that, ‘Oooooh, he almost fell to his death there.’ ‘Ahhhhh, that elephant nearly crushed his body there.’ Leave me in peace to look at a painting, or walk in a beautiful garden, or eat an exquisitely cooked meal. I much prefer to be a passive observer, than a sawdust-caked participant.
Maria was very happy here so I am happy for her. As I stroll around, I can see how a very strong bond would form between all those involved in this little capsule of existence. They must have to truly trust each other. They must learn to read each others rhythms when their very life could depend on something as tenuous as another’s wrist clasp as they fly through the air. They must know what ropes to haul, what animals to soothe, what smiles to flash, what has to be hammered here and fastened there. It must all come as second nature, as intricate and tuned as the workings of a clock. There is a large trapeze net and a man springing up and down with a rope tied to his waist as two men each hold one end of it. I pull back a canvas flap as I can hear voices inside. It is a huge space with one long bar area where three young women dry glasses while others flatten out sand heaps underfoot. They barely look up at me, even though they must know, must sense, that I am not of this place. Back outside again, a strong man holds two women aloft, one in each arm. His muscles are slathered in something; his vanity is clearly outstripping the women’s safety for I feel sure they will slide off the glistening and sinewy bulges. His manhood is tucked into folds of cloth, resembling something you would swaddle a baby in, his chest broad and bare.
I feel more inclined now to brazenly lift the various canvas flaps as if peeping through a picture book. There is a whimpering sound coming from somewhere. I slowly step my way towards the source of it, which appears to be behind a wooden screen. There, standing naked with little skinny arms crossed in front of her, is a young girl of about fourteen or fifteen, head bowed with her dark hair falling forward. A man is walking around her as if he is inspecting merchandise. I remember hearing recently that the circus owner likes to stage side-show cabarets for select bands of gentlemen where they are entertained by nude girls. I hear myself shouting.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
The man’s eyes meet mine with a steely gaze. ‘And who, might I ask, are you?’
I am emboldened and move to grab the wrist of the young girl but an unkempt elderly woman sitting on a small stool in the shadows startles me as she presses down hard on her haunches and rears up like an angry beast.
‘Leave my granddaughter alone. Don’t you go near her.’
The woman has a walking stick, and she raises it to hit me but I step back. I feel contempt for this woman rising biliously from deep in my stomach. The man throws a blanket at the young girl.
‘Look, the customers here are high class. This is not some brawling absinthe-soaked hovel. Anyway, I would never hire her: she is far too young and far too skinny. All of you just get out of here immediately and good riddance.’ Then, with a swipe of his forearm, he bursts out through the flap and into the afternoon air. The young girl starts to cry.
‘I am sorry, grand-mère.’ She begins to dress herself with the weariness of an eighty-year-old. The woman turns to me with flinty eyes and hisses at me.
‘Why would you do this? Who do you think you are?’
The woman suddenly slumps back on to her stool as if broken. She wipes her eyes, then stands up and limps over to the girl to help her dress. She tenderly smoothes out the girl’s long hair.
‘Don’t worry sweetheart. Your grand-mère will find something.’
I slowly back away, knowing that neither the woman nor the girl would even notice. I ease my way out to look for Maria. I want to leave immediately.
* * *
Maria and I drag ourselves slowly up the steep incline of the Rue Lepic where she has arranged to meet Henri in the Bonne Franquette bar. It is painted in a dark green, and the shutters have faded to an anaemic grey. There is little about it that is warm and inviting but still, many trawl up the hill to slay their demons here and it somehow fits my mood at this moment.
‘Ladies, here, try some of this. It will test you.’ Henri pushes his glass across the table towards me and I take a quick sip, nearly spitting it out again.
‘What is this devil’s brew?’
‘A wonderful mixture of absinthe, red wine and cognac,’ he winks.
‘I don’t have your constitution. I’ll have a cherry brandy please.’
Maria requests a small beer. Henri clicks for the attention of the server.
‘Have you heard about the splattering?’ Henri is now poised on the edge of his chair with his eyes glistening. ‘Well, they are calling it that, which I think is most clever.’
I take a sip of this much more familiar drink and wait until he has exhausted his dramatic pause.
‘A painter was found dead at his easel yesterday morning. One of his models found him slumped there and alerted the police. She came rushing out and bumped into a young laundry girl who also modelled for him and the laundry girl kept shouting, “but he owes me ten francs!”’
That seems bizarre, but also teasingly alluring as a topic of conversation over a warm cherry brandy. Henri is in his element.
‘And who was the painter? The very same Spaniard that the dead girl was last seen with. So, poetic justice I would have to class that.’
My breathing is sucked into an involuntary spasm.
‘The police have cordoned off the area and are already asking his associates about his movements and who he spent time with? They are also trying to find the model who discovered him because she seems to have disappeared, and you know what they say about the last person to have seen a murder victim?’
A shiver slithers down my spine. There are some very unsavoury drifters and all manner of low-lifes wandering about: thieves, addicts, pimps and often the most sordid among them gravitate towards each other. Instinctively they seek each other out, like lambs to a teat. Could it have been poetic justice? Did he get what was coming to him? I am aware that the fingernails of my right hand have drifted towards my teeth, and I am beginning to nip at them. It is a throwback to my childhood, a self-comforting reflex and I have to make a very big effort to force my hands back on to my lap. Who was the model? I am worried about the patchouli girl. I assume an air of casual intrigue so as not to sounds ridiculous.
