The Perfume Collector. Kathleen Tessaro

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      ‘No, I’m quite serious. People take for granted what is in fact an art. To live well, to live comfortably by one’s own standards takes a certain maturity of spirit, exceptional character, truly refined taste, and—’

      ‘And money.’ She tore off another piece of bread.

      ‘It helps.’

      She looked at him sideways. Perhaps it was being in Paris or the bizarre situation but she felt free to ask, ‘Do you live by your own standards?’

      He thought a moment. ‘I believe it’s a privilege, madam. One that’s earned through a certain amount of courage and adversity.’

      She laughed, shook her head. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

      ‘Sometimes,’ he smiled. ‘Sometimes I do and other times I do what’s expected of me.’

      It was an oddly frank thing to say; one that, nevertheless, Grace understood. Only she’d never heard anyone say it out loud. He looked away, moving the subject back to safer territory. ‘And where would you live this life of comfort?’

      ‘I don’t know. Maybe by the sea. But wherever it is, they would make this bread.’

      ‘And your husband? What does he make of all this?’

      He caught her off guard. It was the first time in hours she’d even thought of Roger. And now, to her surprise, she wasn’t certain what to say. ‘My husband?’

      ‘Yes. What does he think?’

      Looking down, she brushed a few crumbs carefully off the tablecloth, ‘I don’t know. The truth is, I haven’t had the opportunity to discuss it with him.’

      ‘I see.’ He looked as if he didn’t entirely believe this. ‘Well, he’s bound to have some ideas of his own.’

      ‘Yes, that’s for certain.’

      There was a polite silence.

      ‘There are some magnificent coastlines in the South of France,’ Monsieur Tissot said after a while.

      ‘Yes,’ Grace agreed, grateful he wasn’t pursuing the subject of her husband. ‘I’ve never been but that’s what I’ve been told.’

      The chicken was served in a thick red clay pot with a lid, simmered with vegetables and small new potatoes. Warm and succulent, the meat fell from the bone. It was a simple dish yet filled with subtle layers of flavour. It struck her as lavish and exotic. When Monsieur Tissot explained that it was essentially peasant fare, she was amazed.

      ‘Chicken in a pot,’ he explained, with a little shrug. ‘You said you wanted something plain.’

      ‘It’s delicious.’

      Customers came and went, some for supper, some just for coffee. The small café was the centre of its own little universe, swirling with its own local population. Everyone seemed to know each other, and to have passionate views they never even considered keeping to themselves. They spoke freely, tossing unsolicited advice and opinions across tables. A family came in, several married couples, a pair of quite nicely dressed elderly women, a pile of young men on their way to a club, a single old man reading the paper, a couple of middle-aged women … They watched and ate and, to Grace’s delight, Monsieur Tissot would occasionally interpret for her.

      He nodded in the direction of the two women, now sitting tête-à-tête. ‘They’ve been to the cinema,’ his voice was low. ‘This one says she didn’t like the mother. And the leading man was too fat but had a nice face.’

      ‘What film was it?’

      ‘Humm,’ he strained to hear. ‘Marty? Apparently they both cried at the end. And now they’re having a drink to make themselves feel better.’

      ‘Oh, yes! I want to see that. I’ve heard it’s quite good.’

      ‘And over there.’ He pointed to an elderly couple involved in a heated discussion – he was shaking his head and she was folding her napkin, planting it firmly on the table, preparing to walk out. ‘He says he thinks the veal is fine. She knows it’s got too many capers and not enough lemon.’

      Grace couldn’t believe it. ‘They’re fighting like that about food?’

      He nodded.

      ‘That would never happen in England.’

      ‘I know,’ he smiled.

      Afterwards, since the rain had stopped, he walked her the short distance back to the Hotel.

      She stopped outside. ‘Monsieur Tissot, am I correct in assuming from what you’ve said that you have access to Madame d’Orsey’s apartment?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘And that it’s not been sold yet?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I see.’ Grace folded her arms across her chest. ‘Then I would like to see it, please.’

      He hesitated. ‘My instructions were to ensure you were in receipt of the proceeds from the sale. I don’t believe it was ever Madame d’Orsey’s intention that you should visit the property.’

      ‘Perhaps,’ Grace countered, ‘but without my signature on the power of attorney, there will be no sale. Am I right?’

      ‘Yeees …’ he said slowly. ‘That’s true.’

      ‘And this is a situation which requires a delicate legal approach.’

      His eyes narrowed ‘You’re quite tenacious, aren’t you?’

      ‘And I believe you’re stalling.’

      Rocking back on his heels, Monsieur Tissot pushed his hands deep into his pockets. She was more resourceful than he’d given her credit for. And she was also intelligent and amusing in a very particular English way. He could easily show her the apartment and still complete this business quickly. ‘Very well, Madame Munroe. What time tomorrow would you like me to collect you?’

       New York, 1927

      Almost every night there was some sort of party at the Hotel. Many started in the bar then worked their way up into the rooms. But often there were simply outbreaks of dancing and drunkenness which flared up, taking over whole floors without warning like a kind of impromptu orgy. Doors would be propped open, and guests who formerly hadn’t even been on nodding terms gathered in hallways, collecting in doorways, laughing and shouting, music and smoke filling the air. Illegal liquor appeared, bottles were passed; more ice and glasses were in constant demand. Within the hour, cars pulled up outside, from the opposite end of town or the suburbs, laden СКАЧАТЬ