The Perfume Thief
Timothy Schaffert
Clementine is seventy, a semi reformed con artist clad in chic tailored suits with a keen ‘nose’ for perfume. She has conned her way through the new moneyed flunkies & junkies of belle époque Manhattan, sniffed scented butterflies in Costa Rica, breathed deeply of the spice markets of Marrakech. We come across her in 1930’s Paris tending her olfactory emporium bottling her favourite extracts for her female lovers from the cabarets. So far so good, in this novel from Schaffert, the scene is expertly set, we’re given just the right amount of back story to interest, a sub plot or two is deftly folded into the mix and then war happens, Paris is occupied.
The book takes a chilling turn and examines what it means to really resist oppression, not just to fight back, but to fight for space to love, for Queerdom! The book is delicious, lush, fluid and the narrative thumps along, the plot whirling and swirling like a moist silk scarf dipped in an intoxicating fragrance teasing and whipping by, leaving lingering sillages of experience that you feel, rather than see.
I’m keen on a good scent novel, and the top notes of The Perfume Thief lead us into a dark, leathery mid tone, hinting at damp, cloying smells, all stupendously supported by the base notes of engaging characters with a sharp tang of wit.
At its heart it’s a love story, a passionate scream for intimacy in the face of barbaric hate and a rather thrilling romp thought the demimonde world of the Parisian underground Queer resistance . Fabulous escapism in more ways than one.
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