Knopf Doubleday, Belletristik, The Perfume Thief (Englisch, Timothy Schaffert, 2022)

Schaffert / THE PERFUME THIEF 1 If you&rsquo re picturing me in some ladylike frock printed with posies, lace at the collar, don&rsquo t. I&rsquo m not done up that way. I began wearing trousers long before we ladies were allowed. You&rsquo ll find me in tweed and neckties, shirtsleeves and cuff links, fedoras and porkpies. People sometimes say, She&rsquo s still somewhat handsome, and I think they mean it as a compliment. &ldquo Are you whoever you are when you&rsquo re dressed,&rdquo a fellow asked me many, many years ago&mdash decades, probably&mdash a bourbon in one hand, his other hand toying with the button of my suspenders, &ldquo or are you whoever you are when you&rsquo re naked?&rdquo I&rsquo ve had aliases. Sometimes I committed my crimes as a man, sometimes as a woman, sometimes as a woman in a man&rsquo s clothes. I don&rsquo t think of myself as dishonest, though. Never did. I&rsquo ve told lies, yes, but you can&rsquo t call me a liar just for being different. I&rsquo m an actor, if anything. I&rsquo m none of those people I pretended to be. Or, better yet, I&rsquo m all of them. And I have a good heart, and I&rsquo m a damn sight kinder than most of the saps I&rsquo ve snookered. When I was famous for a time, I&rsquo d be doing you a favor to filch your fine goods. People practically begged me to fleece them so they could boast of it. They&rsquo d pay me double the worth of whatever I took, just for the bragging rights. I haven&rsquo t dragged my tuxedo out in years, and though I&rsquo ve never much minded the scent of mothballs, I&rsquo ve doused myself, lapel to sock, in a perfume I&rsquo ve bottled new for the occasion&mdash the pretty, powdery stink of fresh- plucked mimosa smuggled up from the farms south of here, from the unoccupied zones, snuck right past the border by my underground spice merchant. This illegal perfume is my little slap on the nose to any Nazi who comes sniffing around my throat. Now we&rsquo ve been invited back, we Parisians, to some of the clubs, some of the parties, some of the playgrounds we got kicked out of when our invaders invaded. They need us drunk and happy and batting our lashes at the enemy. They need Paris to be Paris. They need the city they stole to be something worth stealing after all. It&rsquo s all pretend, but that&rsquo s fine, because I was always my most charming when I lied.