The Perfume Collector

New York, 1927

New York was engulfed in a heatwave. By the middle of July, the combination of blazing sun and torpid humidity had risen to such levels it became impossible to walk even a few blocks without dripping with sweat. All around the Hotel, guests holed up in darkened rooms, ordering ice packs for their headaches, extra fans; lying naked on top of their beds, too limp even to touch one another, or submerged in long cool baths drinking pitchers of iced tea and sugary lemonade, laced with illegal gin.

This left Eva and the rest of the housekeeping staff with the unenviable task of trying to service the rooms while the guests were still in them.

Mrs Ronald made no concession for the hot weather; the girls were expected to wear their full uniforms, including their thick black stockings. ‘We have standards, girls!’ she reminded them daily. ‘Neatness begins with your appearance.’

It might not have been so bad if they were able to clean the rooms in the early morning, but as no one in the hotel roused themselves until mid-afternoon, the girls found themselves wrestling with dirty linens and scrubbing floors at the hottest hours of the day.

‘If you feel you’re going to faint, then excuse yourself and do so in the privacy of the back hallway,’ Mrs Ronald reminded them. ‘It’s extremely awkward to have to deal with an unconscious girl. And be aware of your eyes – keep them low. Guests should never be forced to look at you directly, do you understand? You’re invisible, a pair of unseen hands.’

Unfortunately, this ideal was harder to live up to in real life.

Madame Zed was lounging one afternoon in one of her loose diaphanous creations, drinking cold black tea and smoking copiously. She appeared to be recovering from the rigorous exertions of the night before, and sat, very still, curled into the lap of an armchair, eyes closed, as if she could meditate the temperatures down by sheer force of will.

Eva went about changing the bed sheets as unobtrusively as she could, her uniform clinging to her damp underarms, her hair plastered with sweat to her forehead under her starched cap. She felt drowsy with lethargy, as if she were moving through water, fighting to finish the smallest task.

Finally, Madame opened her eyes. ‘What is your name?’

‘Eva, madam.’

‘Eva, will you please fetch Valmont for me? I cannot bring myself to move. I’m simply paralysed.’

‘Yes, madam.’

Eva trudged across to the interconnecting door, which was closed. She tried to open it. ‘It’s locked, madam.’

‘Then open it!’ Madame sighed, rolling her eyes to the gods in an exaggerated gesture of utter despair. ‘My head is splitting in two! I need him.’

Eva took out her pass key and unlocked the door. Then she knocked several times. There was no answer, so finally she gently pushed it open.

The room had only one window and, with the curtains drawn, was surprisingly dark. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Eva could just make out the outline of Valmont, curled on his side on the bed. He was sleeping naked, with just his top sheet wound around his waist. His torso was pale, thin.

Eva took a few tentative steps forward. In the hazy blackness, the air pressed in around her, sultry with sweat and sleep. Everything seemed unreal, suspended in a dream-like state.

Carefully, she leaned over him. ‘Pssstt! Sir! Wake up!’

He shifted, rolling over on to his back.

She tried again.

Bending closer, she gave his shoulder a shake. ‘Sir!’

His eyes opened, blinking to focus.

‘I’m sorry, it’s only Madame wants you,’ she explained in a whisper. ‘She says…’

Suddenly he grabbed her wrist. ‘Hush!’ And, still in a fog of sleep, he pulled her close.

Eva pitched forward, into his arms.

Valmont inhaled.

At first her natural scent seemed straightforward, simple; the slightly acrid, almost creamy aroma of a child’s damp skin. But underneath that, a rich, musky element seeped through, unfolding slowly; widening and expanding to a profound, primitive animalistic essence. The sheer range and complexity of her odour was astonishing. The effect, intensely arousing. It was the most compelling, deeply sensual thing Valmont had ever encountered.

Eva pushed him away, horrified. ‘What are you doing?’

‘You smell…’ he murmured.

‘Yes, thank you!’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘I hardly need you to tell me that!’ she hissed. ‘Madame wants to see you…’

‘No, you don’t understand.’ He reached for her again; short sharp intakes now, savouring the notes, rolling them round on his olfactory palette. ‘It’s unique. Completely unique.’

‘Get off!’ Eva swatted him.

Suddenly something shifted in the bed; a body. The person next to him stretched out and rolled over onto their stomach.

It was another man.

Eva recoiled. Stumbling backward, she blundered towards the interconnecting door.

‘Well?’ Madame opened her eyes. ‘You appear to be alone,’ she observed flatly.

Reeling, Eva focused at the floor. ‘He is asleep, madam.’

‘Well then, wake him!’ Madame gasped in exasperation, running her hand wearily across her eyes. ‘I need him!’

This was dreadful, truly dreadful.

Eva tried to stall her. ‘He’s not dressed, madam. I can help you. Would you like me to fetch you something from the drug store?’

With another heavy sigh, Madame forced herself up from her chair and marched into Valmont’s room. Eva hovered in the doorway, watching in shameful fascination.

Madame stopped; she stood in the darkness a moment. Then she turned back on her heel.

And with more moans and sighs, she dug through one of her handbags until she pulled out some loose coins. She shoved them into Eva’s hand. ‘I need aspirin. And some Woolcott’s, please. I have the most blinding headache known to mankind.’

Eva stared at her. Had Madame seen what she’d seen? Did she have any comprehension of what a mortal sin it was?

It was as if her thoughts could be heard aloud.

Madame turned to her. ‘You know,’ she began, ‘there are many stages in a man’s life. Young men especially are very easily excitable. They need more variety, more experiences than girls. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, madam,’ she lied.

‘These little dalliances are merely preludes to the real interludes. They fade over time. Of course,’ she added, returning back to her chair, ‘I do worry about Andre. Gossip is the plague of the idle and insecure. I’m relying upon your discretion.’

‘Yes, madam. Of course.’

‘Then we shall speak no more about. And do close that door.’ She pressed her eyes closed again. ‘I suppose we never should have opened it in the first place.’

Andre Valmont lay on his back, fully awake now, staring into the darkness. Beside him the boy he’d met in the club in Harlem snored softly.

He closed his eyes.

He could see her smell; it glowed against the backs of his eyelids, pure shimmering gold to deep undulating amber. And he could taste each note; savour the melting progression on his tongue, the shocking, perfect combination of contrasts, underpinned by a creamy, intensely carnal core of raw sexuality. He wanted to bury himself deep in her flesh; to consume each molecule of her, one breath at a time.

And that wasn’t the way he normally felt about girls.

He pulled the sheet back. He was stiff; erect to an almost painful degree. Spitting into the palm of his hand, he closed his eyes again.

He imagined peeling off her uniform, each layer of clothing saturated more densely with her warm sweat, until there was nothing between them but skin; emanating, covering them both with the shimmering dark dew of her incredible odour… he trembled, ecstasy surging, shuddering through him.

Here at last was a story he understood. A song of youth; of burgeoning, ripe sexuality; of frustration and longing… of a nymph and a femme fatal, both trapped in the body of an graceless young girl… a mythic parable that could only really be captured in perfume.

And above all, her natural odour radiated. As though it were issuing from the top of a high peak. In its velvet glow, the dim landscape of his creative gifts finally came into focus.

Valmont got up, washed himself; lit a cigarette. Then he woke up the boy from Harlem and sent him home.

He had work to do.