The Perfume Collector Page 9

  ‘Really?’ His interest was peaked. ‘Do you still remember it?’

  ‘Uh… maybe.’

  Going over to the desk, he handed her a pen and a piece of paper. ‘Go on then.’

  Eva frowned, concentrating. Then she started to write, covering the entire page.

  Mr Lambert stared at it. ‘How is it that you can recall such a complicated equation? Are you trained in mathematics?’

  ‘I don’t need to recall the equation, sir. I see it. It’s like a picture in my brain. All I have to do is look at it in my head and then write down what I see.’

  He thought for a moment, taking this in. Then asked, ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Why aren’t you working for them now?’

  ‘They moved. Went back to Austria. But his wife, well, she didn’t like me much anyway.’

  ‘I should think not. Well,’ he took a deep drag, crossing his legs, ‘isn’t that a useful talent?’

  ‘Not for a girl, sir.’

  ‘And how did you do on the puzzles that he left on the blackboard?’

  She thought a moment. ‘I think I did well on them, sir. Sometimes I figured them out before he did.’

  Mr Lambert pointed to the cards on the table again. ‘So which one would you play over here?’

  Eva could feel her heart racing. She pointed to a club. ‘That one, sir.’

  ‘Well done. And after that?’

  ‘I’d move the nine over there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s the highest card left.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  It seemed obvious to her. ‘Well, because of what’s on the table. There are only fifty-two cards. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘How long were you here?’

  ‘Not long, sir.’

  ‘Did you touch anything?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘But you can tell how many cards have been played and how many are left even though you don’t know the game?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well now, let’s see…’ Crossing, he sat down and began turning the cards over. After he’d turned them all over, he looked up, smiling. ‘Looks like you were right. But you don’t play cards.’

  ‘No, sir. My uncle used to play cards until he lost an awful lot of money he didn’t have. After that cards weren’t allowed in the house.’

  ‘Well, that happens. But you don’t play?’

  ‘You keep asking me that.’

  ‘Yes, I keep asking.’ Leaning back against the table, he crossed his arms in front of his chest. ‘What an interesting ability you have.’

  A minute passed.

  He cocked his head to one side. It was hard to tell if he were smiling or not. His lips curved but there was nothing, no warmth in his eyes.

  ‘Are you a communist?’ she finally blurted out, unable to bear the silence any more.

  ‘Why? Are you?’

  ‘Me? I don’t believe in anything.’

  ‘Well, that makes two of us.’

  That wasn’t quite what she meant.

  ‘Are you… I mean,’ she was almost too embarrassed to ask, ‘is it true that you’re titled, sir?’

  He made a face. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘My friend told me. She says that in England you’re Lord Lambert but you don’t like to use it.’

  ‘She’s right. I prefer Mr Lambert. Besides, just between you and me, I haven’t got the means to back it up.’ He smiled. ‘Lately I’ve been thinking of changing it to Mr Mutton… what do you think?’

  Eva suppressed a giggle.

  ‘If you’re going to have an alias you might as well have fun.’

  ‘But why do you need an alias?’

  He shrugged. ‘As much as I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of me, I still want to keep the shame I bring on my family to a minimum. I’m not fond of many of them but the ones I do like, I like very much. Do you know what I am?’ He grinned. ‘I’m what’s known as a scoundrel, my dear. Or in more eloquent terms, a son of a bitch.’

  ‘Oh, sir! You shouldn’t say such things about your own mother.’

  He flicked a bit of ash in the ashtray. ‘If you only knew her. She’s the one who disinherited me. But that’s another story entirely.’ He pointed his cigarette at her. ‘I’m bad luck. I’ve been given every opportunity and squandered it. I lack self-control, moral-fibre, character – “The expense of spirit in a waste of shame!’’’ He looked over at her, staring at him, wide-eyed. ‘Shakespeare, my child. If you’re going to rant, do it in iambic pentameter. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Please, sir…’ It wasn’t her place, but she carried on regardless, ‘please don’t say those things about yourself.’

  Mr Lambert, frowned, his eyes softening. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Eva, sir.’

  He bowed his head a little. ‘Very nice to make your acquaintance, Eva.’ Opening a drawer, he took out a new pack of cards and handed it to her. ‘Here. I think you’d better have these.’

  She wasn’t meant to take gifts. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Eva left, walking in a daze, back out into the hallway. Her heart was thumping, her palms sweating. She was having trouble catching her breath, as though she’d been running.

  Sis came round the corner carrying a breakfast tray. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  Eva jammed the cards into her apron pocket. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your face is all red.’

  Eva pressed her hands to her cheeks. They felt hot. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Here.’ Sis took the glass of iced water from the tray. ‘Have some. You look sick.’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  ‘You better not throw up on the carpet.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Sis shrugged, continuing down the hall. ‘But you look like a beet.’

  Eva sat alone on the fire escape that wound round the back of the building, holding the pack of cards. They were beautiful, with bees on them.

  She never showed anyone what she could do with numbers. It was secret; something private that she did, to calm herself, to take her mind away from anything that made her anxious, or to ease her boredom. And the puzzles were her own guilty pleasure; the only form of entertainment she’d had in that sombre, silent house. In fact, she couldn’t recall a time when numbers hadn’t appeared like vivid colourful shapes, carving through the chaos in her mind, bringing order.

  It felt strange to think that now Mr Lambert knew, of all people. But he hadn’t ridiculed her or teased her. Instead he’d given her a gift.

  It was wrong to keep them. Against the rules. What would Sis say if she knew?

  That she was being corrupted; that it was the beginning of a rapid descent into depravity.

  Eva thought of the family she’d worked for in Brooklyn. The way the Professor’s wife used to follow her around, checking her work. How ferocious she was about every little detail and the way she used to stare at Eva, when she didn’t think anyone was looking, as if she hated her. Frau Brohemer had lost her baby son shortly after they arrived in America, from pneumonia, presumably contracted on the journey. It had made her bitter and mean.

  The Hotel was much better than that. She should be grateful for what she had and leave well enough alone.

  But Mr Lambert was only being kind to her. What was wrong with kindness? She just wanted to see the cards, to look at them for a few minutes.

  Eva broke the seal on the box and fanned them out.

  Already the numbers and suits were arranging themselves in intricate patterns in her head and she felt a warm, familiar surge of contentment in her chest.

  After a few minutes, she knew she was never going to give them back.

  Eva didn’t see Mr Lambert for the next few days but she carried the pack of cards with her at all times, in the pocket of her uniform a
pron. She was afraid to leave them in the room she shared with Sis but she also wanted them close. He had given them to her.

  When she finally did see him again, he was escorting a laughing blonde to his room, whispering in her ear.

  Eva froze at the other end of the corridor, standing rigid in the hallway with her bucket and mop.

  They swayed and reeled, clutching one another and giggling; sharing a private joke.

  Mr Lambert unlocked his door, arm round the blonde’s waist, and pushed it open.

  She in turn threw her arms round his neck, tilting her face towards his as they fell inside.

  The door shut.

  The Laughing Blonde was wearing the same un fortunate shade of lipstick that Eva had found on the glasses.

  Wrapping her fingers round the cards in her pocket, Eva stared at the closed door.

  Men were like that, she told herself. They liked cheap-looking girls that laughed too easily, too loud.

  He probably didn’t even notice her hideous rouged lips.

  But then again, he probably hadn’t given her anything either.

  The next morning the blonde was gone. Mr Lambert was having coffee and reading the paper, lingering over his breakfast tray when Eva knocked.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said brightly.

  He turned over another page. ‘Good morning.’

  Silence stretched out before them.

  ‘I… I wanted to thank you for the playing cards, sir.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  She hovered behind his chair.

  ‘It was very nice of you,’ she added.

  Mr Lambert took a sip of his coffee. ‘I’m a nice man, the nicest you’ll ever meet. Also, I need more lavatory paper.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She stood stupidly, unsure of what to do next. She wanted him to talk to her more, the way he had the other day, but she didn’t know how to start the conversation.

  ‘Besides,’ he folded his paper, put it down, ‘I thought you said cards were a bad idea. Root of all evil. I’m surprised you kept them.’

  ‘Well, I…’ She was suddenly wrong-footed. ‘Why did you give them to me if you didn’t think I should have them?’

  He shrugged, lit a cigarette. ‘Innocence, like virginity, is more fun to lose than to keep.’

  ‘Both are quite expensive, sir.’

  ‘Well!’ he laughed. ‘Aren’t you full of clever observations? Have you played at all?’

  ‘Only by myself.’

  He exhaled, forcing a stream of smoke through his nose like a bull. ‘That’s not going to get you anywhere. Sit down.’

  Tucking his cigarette into the corner of his mouth, he took a deck of cards from his jacket pocket and began to shuffle. ‘I’m going to teach you a game called Twenty-one.’

  She watched in fascination as the cards flashed between his fingers. She’d never met anyone who carried a deck of cards with them everywhere.

  Except herself, she realized, with a flush of excitement.

  ‘Is it a good game?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, is it a gambling game?’

  ‘Now there’s a question. Let’s see – you can place a bet on whether it’s going to rain tomorrow or not. If you’re inclined to gamble, everything’s a gambling game. But the definition of gambling means taking a chance. Now, if I’m right about you, your talent for numbers means that chance, or risk, is considerably reduced. So in fact, you’re not gambling at all. You’re simply proceeding with what you believe to be true, which is like faith, really – the spiritual dimension of this exercise is one we’ll touch on another time.’

  ‘Will we?’

  ‘Don’t interrupt. So you see, you can play the same game I do. However, I can be gambling because I know very little and therefore am taking a huge risk – this is hypothetical, of course. I want to stress to you that I’m extremely proficient in what I do…’

  ‘And what is that, sir?’

  ‘I am a connoisseur of chance, a pioneer of probability, little girl. And, as I was saying, I can be gambling because I know only a little. You, on the other hand, with your unique gift, can be simply playing out a rather complicated equation whose conclusion only you can see. So, “no” and “yes” and “sometimes” are the answers to your question.’ He had done dealing. ‘Here are the rules. We’re playing with one deck for the purpose of this demonstration but normally it’s six. I want to break you in slowly.’

  She stared at his handsome face. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

  He looked up at her as if it were obvious. ‘Some day it will be useful to you. And remember what I said, it’s only a gamble if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

  So Mr Lambert taught her how to play Twenty-one. The next day he schooled her in the rudiments of poker. And she was frighteningly, thrillingly quick to learn. There was a disarming calm about her; she simply proceeded, first to learn the games, then to beat him. Hand after hand, with no sign of nerves.

  It was easy for her; she knew what was going to happen.

  Eva had never been clever at anything. And she wanted to please Mr Lambert.

  She focused on the cards he discarded, the number of cards played; holding the facts to one side in her brain. She seemed to see in her mind’s eye all the various possibilities and combinations of scenarios at once. Then another card was played and they narrowed. Before long she could see pretty much the whole game in her head and then it was only a matter of what order cards were being played rather than what they would be. And when this happened, Mr Lambert became excited. His eyes lit up and he regarded her as if she were delightful and amazing.

  Eva had never actually seen the expression directed at her before, but from all she’d read and been told, Mr Lambert looked at her as if he loved her.

  And then the Laughing Blonde came back.

  Only she wasn’t laughing any more.

  She was hungover, smoking a cigarette, picking the crusts off a slice of cold toast.

  She appeared one morning, without any warning, when Eva knocked on the door to service Mr Lambert’s room.

  Worse, her suitcase was in the corner.

  Eva stared at that suitcase in silent desperation. The woman was one thing. The case was another.

  The Blonde blinked at her through puffy, red eyes. ‘Yeah?’ She had lines across her forehead, hollows in her cheeks. She wasn’t nearly as pretty in the daylight.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ Eva spoke stiffly, trying her best not to betray her feelings. ‘I’m here to service the room. Would you like me to come back?’

  The Blonde shrugged, took another bite of toast, tossed it back on the plate. ‘Sure. Though I guess I’d better get dressed,’ she sighed, ‘if we’re going to make the noon train.’

  ‘Train?’ The word slipped out before Eva could stop it.

  The Blonde stood up, pulling the robe sash tighter around her waist. She was so thin, it looked like it would cut her in two. ‘Yeah. Niagara Falls.’ She smiled to herself, flicking ash into her coffee cup, where it fizzled in the remains. ‘Very romantic, wouldn’t you say?’

  Eva felt all hope drain away. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’ll come back later, ma’am.’

  As she pulled the door shut behind her, Eva could hear the Blonde singing softly to herself… ‘It Had to be You’.

  Halfway down the hall, she realized she was crying.

  Paris, Spring, 1955

  The shop on Rue Saint-Claude was, like most second-hand shops, stacked indiscriminately from floor to ceiling with all manner of furniture and objects: lamps, appliances, cushions, curtains, vases, pictures, books. Wooden chairs dangled from hooks on the ceiling along with chandeliers and drying racks; every available space had not just one but at least five unrelated objects crowded on to its surface. A small bell jangled when they opened the front door. It smelled of mildew, damp fabric and dust.

  Grace squeezed past the entrance, and Monsieur Tissot trailed in after her. This wa
s not going according to his plan. They should be back in the office now, not foraging among garbage. ‘Explain to me again why we’re here, madame?’

  ‘The concierge’s daughter said this man cleared Eva d’Orsey’s apartment.’

  ‘Yes, but what does that have to do with us?’ He sidestepped a wooden crate, filled with nothing but old doorknobs. ‘Are you looking for something? What do you hope to find?’

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever I can. An address book and a complete set of personal diaries would be useful.’

  ‘An address book?’ He looked at her incredulously.

  ‘I’m teasing. What I mean is, there may be something here, some clue about who Madame d’Orsey was – something personal.’

  He cast round at the chaos. ‘Here?’

  ‘You never know.’ Grace continued to push her way through. She picked up a small metal object that looked like a sugar sifter but turned out to be some early eighteenth-century magnifying glass. It was badly rusted and the glass was broken. ‘Besides, Monsieur Tissot, you didn’t need to come with me. I’m sure you have more pressing business to attend to.’

  ‘You are my business, Madame Munroe.’ He brushed a patch of dust from the elbow of his suit jacket; a gift from a set of moth-eaten velvet curtains. ‘I’m your lawyer.’

  ‘My lawyer?’ Grace put down the glass. ‘I’m sorry but I thought you were Madame d’Orsey’s lawyer.’

  ‘Yes, but her interests are now your interests. Until the sale of the property is complete, my obligations remain unfulfilled. Unless of course,’ he added, ‘you would prefer that I no longer represented you.’

  ‘I see.’ Grace hadn’t anticipated this. ‘Doesn’t this go somewhat beyond your brief?’

  ‘I’ve never had a client in your situation before. Especially one that requires additional proof in order to proceed.’ He folded his arms across his chest, looking at her squarely. ‘So we are both beyond our brief, don’t you think?’