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Elusive Fragrance
By Hailey T.
“I suppose you want to know what I want to see you about…why I really came to Paris…” The dark haired woman paused, breathing quickly in a way that suggested she had a placed a great deal of importance in this meeting. She looked around the bright, baroque room, her heavily lidded eyes flitted to everything but the old man who was perched in an ornate chair, behind the heavy bois de rose desk – and finally came to rest on the hundreds of glass bottles on the window sill. Soft, pastel-toned liquid glowed within the bottles. She extended her hand, and gently brushed the glass stopper of a tall bottle, and then quickly withdrew her finger. The man smoothed a fine wisp of hair from his furrowed brow and stared intently at the strange woman. She shook her head, causing her hair to tumble from its pinned-up curls.
“It’s the perfume,” She almost whispered, “I need to know. I need to know how it is done.” The woman looked pleadingly at the old man. He massaged his temples with wrinkled hands:
“You want to learn to create this?” he sighed, “Do you know how many people have come to me, and my predecessors in the attempt to capture a scent? Over the years, thousands. And only once, did we ever accept them, and only at a great cost.” His icy blue eyes swept over her dress – a red satin thing, which must have been lovely once, but now looked slightly threadbare. “You don’t seem to fit the contours we generally look for in a great perfumer.” For a long moment, the woman looked at him, before she turned abruptly from him, and rushed out onto Rue de Rivoli.
Across the heavily trafficked narrow street, in a small Parisian café, a small girl waited next to her father. Their shabby clothing looked out of place, surrounded by waiters in starched linen aprons. Suddenly, the man rose from his seat and shouted abruptly. The woman looked up, and crossed the street.
“It was him, Medhi,” she said quietly to her husband, “Aimé Guerlain was there…he’s terribly old now, but he still has the knowledge.”
“Will he help you?” Medhi asked.
“No,” she said simply. “I believe I will have to find someone else.”
“Cosette, we may not have the means to stay this long,” he said, a tinge of regret coloring his voice, “I can only stay away from the fields for so long. If I’m to make this Lavender profit, I need to get back.”
The woman collapsed heavily into a chair. She lifted her chin up to Medhi and murmured,
“Il n’est pas possible?” He shook his head sadly.
After sipping their pungent café au lattes, they slowly began wandering down the Rue towards the small boarding house where their few possessions were packed in one small, worn carpet bag.
Cosette looked around the room, seeming defeated.
“Let’s get to the train station, mama,” intoned her daughter. Cosette smiling sadly at her daughter, picked up the carpet bag, and started out of the room, Medhi by her side.
A long train ride ensued, rattling about on hard wooden benches, crammed next to other traveling families of little means. Medhi leaned towards the window, staring at the hundreds of passing wheat and hay fields, while Cosette stared at her hands, as if wishing them to be forming the most perfect perfume…occasionally, she would gaze down at her sleeping daughter on her red satin lap.
After two and a half days, the rusted out locomotive screeched to a halt just outside of Lyon. Cosette, Medhi, and their sleepy daughter began walking down a stone path, in the direction opposite of town. Eventually, they came to a small, antebellum cottage. Although it was old, it was obviously well loved. Lavender patches, thanks to Medhi, sprouted in the yard, and extended into the surrounding fields, all the way down to the shore of the nearby Rhone River. Cosette tucked her daughter into her small trundle bed, while Medhi unpacked the small luggage. Then, silently, Medhi and Cosette wandered out. The sun was setting, and they languorously made their way down to the river.
“I’m so sorry, Medhi…it was foolish. Perfume is just a dream,” Cosette sighed.
“Nothing is ever a dream,” Medhi smiled, and from his pocket, he handed her a delicate glass bottle, perfume glowing delicately from within, and a sprig of lavender.
By Hailey T.
“I suppose you want to know what I want to see you about…why I really came to Paris…” The dark haired woman paused, breathing quickly in a way that suggested she had a placed a great deal of importance in this meeting. She looked around the bright, baroque room, her heavily lidded eyes flitted to everything but the old man who was perched in an ornate chair, behind the heavy bois de rose desk – and finally came to rest on the hundreds of glass bottles on the window sill. Soft, pastel-toned liquid glowed within the bottles. She extended her hand, and gently brushed the glass stopper of a tall bottle, and then quickly withdrew her finger. The man smoothed a fine wisp of hair from his furrowed brow and stared intently at the strange woman. She shook her head, causing her hair to tumble from its pinned-up curls.
“It’s the perfume,” She almost whispered, “I need to know. I need to know how it is done.” The woman looked pleadingly at the old man. He massaged his temples with wrinkled hands:
“You want to learn to create this?” he sighed, “Do you know how many people have come to me, and my predecessors in the attempt to capture a scent? Over the years, thousands. And only once, did we ever accept them, and only at a great cost.” His icy blue eyes swept over her dress – a red satin thing, which must have been lovely once, but now looked slightly threadbare. “You don’t seem to fit the contours we generally look for in a great perfumer.” For a long moment, the woman looked at him, before she turned abruptly from him, and rushed out onto Rue de Rivoli.
Across the heavily trafficked narrow street, in a small Parisian café, a small girl waited next to her father. Their shabby clothing looked out of place, surrounded by waiters in starched linen aprons. Suddenly, the man rose from his seat and shouted abruptly. The woman looked up, and crossed the street.
“It was him, Medhi,” she said quietly to her husband, “Aimé Guerlain was there…he’s terribly old now, but he still has the knowledge.”
“Will he help you?” Medhi asked.
“No,” she said simply. “I believe I will have to find someone else.”
“Cosette, we may not have the means to stay this long,” he said, a tinge of regret coloring his voice, “I can only stay away from the fields for so long. If I’m to make this Lavender profit, I need to get back.”
The woman collapsed heavily into a chair. She lifted her chin up to Medhi and murmured,
“Il n’est pas possible?” He shook his head sadly.
After sipping their pungent café au lattes, they slowly began wandering down the Rue towards the small boarding house where their few possessions were packed in one small, worn carpet bag.
Cosette looked around the room, seeming defeated.
“Let’s get to the train station, mama,” intoned her daughter. Cosette smiling sadly at her daughter, picked up the carpet bag, and started out of the room, Medhi by her side.
A long train ride ensued, rattling about on hard wooden benches, crammed next to other traveling families of little means. Medhi leaned towards the window, staring at the hundreds of passing wheat and hay fields, while Cosette stared at her hands, as if wishing them to be forming the most perfect perfume…occasionally, she would gaze down at her sleeping daughter on her red satin lap.
After two and a half days, the rusted out locomotive screeched to a halt just outside of Lyon. Cosette, Medhi, and their sleepy daughter began walking down a stone path, in the direction opposite of town. Eventually, they came to a small, antebellum cottage. Although it was old, it was obviously well loved. Lavender patches, thanks to Medhi, sprouted in the yard, and extended into the surrounding fields, all the way down to the shore of the nearby Rhone River. Cosette tucked her daughter into her small trundle bed, while Medhi unpacked the small luggage. Then, silently, Medhi and Cosette wandered out. The sun was setting, and they languorously made their way down to the river.
“I’m so sorry, Medhi…it was foolish. Perfume is just a dream,” Cosette sighed.
“Nothing is ever a dream,” Medhi smiled, and from his pocket, he handed her a delicate glass bottle, perfume glowing delicately from within, and a sprig of lavender.