Louis de Villepin
Was a perfectionist.
As flamboyant
As he was talented,
His remarkable nose
Could distinguish
Hundreds of fragrances,
Even after they had long vanished
From the air.
The elderly perfumer
Wore his long white hair
Loose upon his shoulders.
Brilliant blue eyes
Looked through
Small delicate rectangular spectacles
Resting upon
An elegant aquiline nose.
His pencil-thin moustache
Was impeccably groomed.
A deep violet suit
With vivid pink pinstripes,
Matching silk cravat,
Pocket square,
And polished shoes,
Completed an ensemble
As extravagant
As the man himself.
His warm smile
Seemed almost unnaturally bright.
Monsieur de Villepin
Had been absent from Nocturna
For three months.
Upon his return,
Bronzed by the Polynesian sun,
He happily informed Mr Brillows
That Bora Bora,
And the surrounding islands,
Had yielded extraordinary spices,
Rare blossoms,
And elusive fragrances,
Gathered upon the slopes
Of Mount Otemanu.
This evening
He sat in animated discussion
With Master Calligrapher
And manuscript restorer
Malcolm Coldbottom,
And eccentric photographer,
Adelaide Thorne.
“No, no…”
Louis sighed dramatically.
“The label simply must be pink.”
Gideon Rook
Arrived quietly,
Placing three crystal glasses
Upon the polished table.
Each contained a softly fizzing elixir,
Its pale rose surface
Threaded
With delicate ribbons
Of violet.
Before lifting his own,
Louis paused.
He inhaled deeply.
“Moon blossom…
White citrus…
Juniper…
And Edgar’s
House bitters.”
He smiled.
“Our dear Mr Brillows
Remains
Wonderfully predictable.”
Across the room,
The barman merely smiled,
Offering the slightest bow.
Master calligrapher
Malcolm Coldbottom
Adjusted his small round spectacles.
Unlike his elder brother Arthur,
Malcolm possessed
A gentler countenance.
His neatly combed silver hair
Parted precisely to one side.
His close-trimmed beard
Framed
A thoughtful smile,
While elegant ink stains
Forever decorated
The tips of his fingers.
He dressed impeccably.
Charcoal frock coat.
Ivory waistcoat.
Deep burgundy cravat.
Silver watch chain.
Every crease
As carefully arranged
As the illuminated manuscripts
He lovingly restored.
Across from him,
Photographer Adelaide Thorne
Leaned comfortably
Against her chair.
Long curly auburn hair
Fell softly beneath
A feathered black fascinator.
Her tailored bottle-green jacket
And flowing black skirt
Suggested effortless elegance.
Beside her rested
An antique brass camera,
Its polished fittings gleaming
Beneath candlelight,
Alongside
A weathered leather satchel
Filled with carefully labelled
Glass photographic plates.
Louis smiled warmly.
“My dear friends…
This fragrance
Has occupied
Every waking thought
For three months.”
He carefully withdrew
A slender crystal bottle.
Its contents glowed
A delicate blush pink.
Written
In flowing gold script
Upon the label
Were the words,
‘Le Jardin des Songes’
The Garden of Dreams.
Malcolm smiled.
“A beautiful name.”
It deserves
Beautiful lettering.”
Adelaide nodded.
“And beautiful photographs.”
Louis beamed.
“Exactly.”
He removed the crystal stopper
With the utmost care,
As though disturbing a sleeping memory.
Immediately,
The atmosphere changed.
The fragrance
Moved gently
Through the room.
First came
The freshness of sea air at sunrise.
Then,
Honey blossom.
Pink pepper.
Rain-soaked roses.
Vanilla orchid.
Finally,
Soft white sandalwood,
Settling quietly like dusk.
Nearby conversations
Gradually ceased.
Several patrons
Closed their eyes.
One elderly gentleman
Smiled faintly,
As though greeting
Someone long absent.
Louis noticed immediately.
“You see?”
He whispered.
“It is not merely perfume.
It is memory.”
He raised one elegant finger.
“Mr Rook…
May I trouble you
For an ornate silver basin
And warm water?”
“Of course,
Monsieur de Villepin.”
Within moments,
Gideon returned,
Bearing an engraved silver basin,
From which
Gentle ribbons of steam
Curled lazily.
Louis added only a single drop
Of perfume.
The water shimmered.
Tiny silver bubbles
Appeared.
Then,
To everyone’s astonishment,
The basin blossomed
Into a rich,
Silken lather.
Soft pink foam
Rose gracefully,
Perfuming the entire room.
Nearby booths fell silent.
Even Marcel Carreau,
Watching from afar,
Allowed himself
An approving smile.
Louis immersed
His hands.
“It cleanses gently,”
He explained.
“But more importantly…”
He lifted them from the basin.
The water
Slipped effortlessly
From his skin.
Every trace of ink,
Perfume oils,
And travel-worn fatigue
Had disappeared.
His hands appeared
Years younger.
Silken.
Rested.
“And,” Louis smiled,
“It leaves behind
Only the faintest whisper
Of forgotten gardens.”
One elderly lady
Pressed a hand to her heart.
“My goodness…”
She whispered.
“I remember…
My grandmother.”
Louis inclined his head.
“Precisely.”
Malcolm considered the bottle.
“No ordinary label will suffice.”
He smiled.
“I shall illuminate
Every title by hand.
No two bottles
Will ever be identical.”
Adelaide reached for her camera.
“I shall photograph it
By candlelight.”
She adjusted the lens.
“The bottle deserves
To glow
As beautifully
As its contents.”
Louis laughed warmly.
“My friends…
You honour me.”
He carefully replaced
The crystal stopper.
“For the next
Twelve club nights,
Le Jardin des Songes
Will be available
Exclusively to the members
Of Nocturna.”
Whispers spread
Far more quickly
Than the fragrance itself.
Names quietly appeared
Upon an ever-growing list.
Long after
The crystal bottle
Had been sealed,
Its perfume still lingered
within Nocturna.
Not upon the skin.
But within memory.
As though
The old club itself
Had quietly decided
To remember
The Garden of Dreams.
