The Perfume Collector

The waiter came up and Monsieur Tissot ordered for both of them – salade mixte, poule au pot, and a bottle of vin rouge.

He poured her a glass, passing the bread. And she realized that she was very hungry. Lunch had passed and she’d forgotten about it. She tore off a piece of baguette; it was both crusty and soft, still warm in the centre. It was amazing how something so simple, so basic could be this delicious. And so completely different from its counterpart in England.

‘Who is this woman?’ Grace wondered aloud, devouring the bread. ‘That’s the question. And why on earth is she giving me this money?’

‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘But what I’d like to know is – what do you propose to do with it?’

She hadn’t considered that, perhaps because she didn’t really believe the money belonged to her.

‘I’m not sure.’ She took a sip of wine.

‘You could buy a new house, travel, collect art, invest …’

‘Perhaps.’ She wasn’t familiar with making financial decisions. ‘I suppose the best thing would be to discuss it with a professional lawyer.’

He folded his hands in front of him. ‘I’m lawyer.’

‘Well, yes, but I need one versed in English law.’

‘Yes but they can only advise you. What would you like to do with it?’ he pressed.

Grace thought a moment. ‘Live, Monsieur Tissot. I’d like to live in great comfort. And peace.’ And then she added, quite to her surprise, ‘With no one to tell me what to do or how to do it.’

He raised his glass. ‘An admirable aspiration!’

‘Are you making fun of me?’

‘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.’