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The secret ways of perfume / Cristina Caboni ; translated by Ruth Clarke.

By: Contributor(s): Material type: TextTextLanguage: English Original language: Italian Publisher: New York : Berkley Books, 2016Copyright date: ©2016Description: 392 p. ; 22 cmContent type:
  • text
Media type:
  • unmediated
Carrier type:
  • volume
ISBN:
  • 9781101989760
Uniform titles:
  • Sentiero dei profumi. English
Subject(s): Genre/Form: Summary: Remember Elena, perfume is the truth. The only thing that really counts. Perfume never lies, perfume is what we are, it's our true essence." Elena Rossini has a rare gift: she has the ability to decipher the ingredients of a perfume from its scent alone. Passed down through generations of her family, Elena's ability delights as easily as it overwhelms, especially when she catches a scent in the air that evokes painful memories of her mother. For so long, Elena has avoided the world that was her past. But when a betrayal destroys her dreams for the future, her best friend lures her from Florence to Paris. There, Elena finds that when she is wrapped in the essences of flowers, herbs, and spices, she doesn't feel quite so alone.
Holdings
Item type Current library Collection Call number Copy number Status Date due Barcode Item holds
Fiction Davis (Central) Library Fiction Collection Fiction Collection CABO 1 Available T00611398
Total holds: 0

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

Scents evoke the memories that linger in our minds and our hearts in this evocative, romantic, international bestselling novel.

"Remember Elena, perfume is the truth. The only thing that really counts. Perfume never lies, perfume is what we are, it's our true essence."

Elena Rossini has a rare gift: She has the ability to decipher the ingredients of a perfume from its scent alone. Passed down through generations of her family, Elena's ability delights as easily as it overwhelms, especially when she catches a scent in the air that evokes painful memories of her mother.

For so long, Elena has avoided the world that was her past. But when a betrayal destroys her dreams for the future, her best friend lures her from Florence to Paris. There, Elena finds that when she is wrapped in the essences of flowers, herbs, and spices, she doesn't feel quite so alone.

Once again immersed in the ancient craft of perfumery, Elena searches for a celebrated family recipe that no perfumer has been able to replicate. And as she opens herself up to secret scents and distant memories, Elena discovers the very essence of the woman she could become...

Remember Elena, perfume is the truth. The only thing that really counts. Perfume never lies, perfume is what we are, it's our true essence." Elena Rossini has a rare gift: she has the ability to decipher the ingredients of a perfume from its scent alone. Passed down through generations of her family, Elena's ability delights as easily as it overwhelms, especially when she catches a scent in the air that evokes painful memories of her mother. For so long, Elena has avoided the world that was her past. But when a betrayal destroys her dreams for the future, her best friend lures her from Florence to Paris. There, Elena finds that when she is wrapped in the essences of flowers, herbs, and spices, she doesn't feel quite so alone.

Translated from the Italian.

Kotui multi-version record.

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Excerpt provided by Syndetics

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2016 Cristina Caboni Prologue Rosewood: movement: Sweet and fruity with a hint of spice, obtained from tropical trees. The fragrance of trust and serenity. Evokes the sweet pain of longing and hope. Florence, twenty years ago 'Close your eyes, little one.' 'Like this, Grandma?' 'Yes, Elena, like that. Now do what I taught you.' With her hands resting on the table, in the semi-darkness of the room, the little girl closes her eyes tight. Her slender fingers sweep across the surface and catch hold of the smooth edge in front of her. But it's not the essences in the jars covering the walls that she can smell. It's her grandmother's impatience. It's the scent of her own fear. 'Well?' 'I'm trying.' The old lady purses her lips.   The smell of her anger is bitter, like the last puff of smoke a piece of wood exudes as it's about to turn to ash. In a minute Grandma will hit her, and then she'll storm out. Elena knows she just has to hold out a little longer; just a little . . . 'Come on, concentrate! And close your eyes like I told you!' The slap barely puts a hair out of place on Elena's head. It's not a ral slap, but fake, just like everything else. Like the lies her grandmother tells, and the lies Elena tells her in return. 'So - tell me what it is.'   Tired of waiting, Lucia Rossini waves a vial full of essences under the child's nose. But she's not looking for a simple answer from the girl. She wants something else - something Elena has no intention of giving her. 'Rosemary, thyme, verbena.'   Another slap. Tears sting her eyes. But she doesn't give in, and to steel herself she starts to hum a little tune. 'No, no. You won't find the Perfect Perfume like that. Don't stay outside it. Go in - look for it! It's part of you - you have to feel what it's saying to you, you have to understand it, you have to love it. Try again, and this time try harder!' But Elena doesn't love perfume any more. She doesn't want to see the meadows along the riverbank where her mother took her when she was little, just outside the village. She doesn't want to hear the sound of the tender grass as it grows, or the water as it trickles by. She doesn't want to feel the frogs' eyes staring out at her from the reeds. She squeezes her eyelids shut and grits her teeth, deter- mined to block everything out. But in that darkness, a spark suddenly ignites. 'The rosemary is white.' Her grandmother's eyes widen.'Yes,' she murmurs, her face lighting up with hope.      'Why? Tell me all about it.' Elena lets the feelings drift into her, filling her mind and her heart.   The rosemary is a colour now. She can feel it on the tip of her tongue, coursing under her skin, making her shiver. The bare white becomes red, then purple. The girl's eyes narrow in fright. 'No, I don't want to! I don't want to!' Frowning, her grandmother watches as she runs out of the room. Then, after a long sigh, she goes over to the window and opens the shutters. The tired evening light yawns its way into the laboratory that has belonged to the Rossini family for over three centuries. Lucia takes a key from her apron pocket, reaches up and locks the wooden cupboard that spans the entire wall. As she opens the door, the gentle aroma of wild herbs emerges, followed by a fresh citrus perfume, blending into the scent of vanilla in the room. Enveloped in this symphony of contrasting smells, the woman strokes the meticulously ordered volumes in front of her, then calmly selects one. She holds it against her chest for a moment, and, sitting at the polished wood table, she opens it with care, runnings her fingers over the time-yellowed pages, as she has done countless times before, in search of the Perfect Perfume. In that moment, it seems as if Lucia is looking for some- thing else, too. But there's nothing in the neat handwriting that can help her explain to her granddaughter that perfume is not something you choose. Perfume is the way. And following it means finding your own heart. 1 Oak moss: lightness of heart. Intense, penetrating, ancestral. The fragrance of perseverance and strength. Drives away thoughts of our own mistake. Lessens nostalgia or what might have been. The present day There was a dry smell rising up from the Arno river. The smell of mouldy flour, nauseating like the disappointment churning her stomach. Elena Rossini stood on the Ponte Vecchio and wrapped her arms around her ches. In front of her, the river trickled by, parched by a dry summer which had barely seen rain. 'There aren't even any stars,' she murmured to herself, staring up at the sky. Yet from time to time a shaft of light illuminated the warm September evening and sparkled on the metallic surfaces of the 'love locks'. - lovers' padlocks that were clustered together on the bridge railing, like the thoughts jostling for space in her mind. She stretched out her hand and touched one. For lovers, the objects represented promises of eternal commitment. Matteo had chosen a big, sturdy padlock; he had fastened it in front of her and then thrown the key into the river. Elena could still remember the taste of the kiss he gave her after- wards, right before he asked her to move in with him. She froze. Now he was her ex-boyfriend, ex-business partner, ex- so many things. She wrapped her arms around her chest more tightly, staving off a shiver, and started walking, heading for Piazzale Michelangelo. But just before she set off, Elena cast one last glance at the string of romantic hopes. Matteo would soon be placing a new padlock there, she was willing to bet. A shiny gold one, if she knew her ex-boyfriend. Matteo and Alessia - that was the name of the new chef, the woman who'd taken her place. The woman who, for a while, Elena had foolishly considered a friend. There was a time when they would giggle, huddled together, telling one another the things it seemed nobody else in the world could understand. It was her own stupid fault, Elena told herself. She should have guessed there was something wrong, but Matteo had given nothing away - he'd never acted differently around Alessia.The thought filled her with anger. It wasn't fair. He'd given her no choice. She picked up her pace, as though she wanted to leave the scene she'd witnessed that morning behind her. But it was no use; the images kept playing over and over in her mind, like a scene from a film on a loop. * * * Elena had gone into the little restaurant she ran with Matteo. Normally, at that time of day, he'd be in the kitchen, sorting out the day's menu. But when she opened the door she was greeted by a sight that stopped her in her tracks. She had to grab hold of the doorframe as her knees gave way with the shock. Alessia and Matteo sprang up, trying to cover themselves any way they could. The three of them looked at one another, stunned, the silence broken only by the laboured breathing of the two lovers. Elena stood speechless, immobile, trying to comprehend exactly what she'd just witnessed. Then, slowly, her thoughts managed to push their way through the confusion in her mind. 'What on earth are you doing?' Elena shouted. Later, she wished she'd said a lot more and done something completely different, regretting such a pointless question: the answer was glaringly obvious. If the blood hadn't drained entirely from her head, taking the last of her sense of humour with it, Elena would have laughed at the grotesque scene in front of her. Instead,she just stood there,with her fists clenched and her heart beating furiously against her ribs - insulted, indignant, waiting for Matteo to explain himself. But Matteo didn't even bother to deny it. There was no 'Ddarling, it's not what it looks like'. Instead, he went on the attack.. 'What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in Milan?' he snarled at her. This reaction bewildered her - as if she were the one who needed to justify herself. She hadn't been feeling well so she'd come back. She hadn't let him know, though, because she hadn't thought it was necessary. 'How could you do something like this to me?' The wrong phrase again. Silence, embarrassment, helplessness, and - finally - anger. Words had never been her forte, and in that moment they deserted her completely. So she turned her gaze from him to Alessia, as if she could explain the obvious. Elena wanted to hit her, stamp on her 'friend' with all her might. Didn't she realise what she'd just done? Elena had been going out with Matteo for over two years. They were supposed to get married one day. Not that he'd asked her in so many words - but weren't they living together? Hadn't Elena invested the best part of her savings in his damned restaurant? And now, her dreams, her plans . . . gone. It was all over. 'There's no point getting upset. These things happen,' Matteo said. These things happen? That was the point her indignation reached its peak and, rather than falling to her knees, broken by the betrayal, she felt a fierce anger flow through her - and suddenly explode. Seconds later, a pan was flying through the air straight towards the couple, who ran for cover behind the table. The clatter of metal hitting the floor marked the end of the whole affair. Then Elena turned around and walked away from every- thing that, until just a few moments earlier, she had believed represented her future. Nearby laughter tore her from her thoughts, making way for a bittersweet reflection, a thought that was barely even a memory but gave her a stab of satisfaction nonetheless. Her grandmother, Lucia, had never liked Matteo Ferrari. Elena, on the other hand, had adored him from the very beginning. She'd spoiled him and supported him. Yes, she'd helped him the way she thought a good partner should. She had never compromised their relationship by seeing other men - pointless dates and one-night stands simply didn't interest her. Matteo was what she needed. He wanted a family, he liked children. And that was essential for her. It was, in the end, the reason she'd chosen him and done everything she could to keep him happy and fulfil his needs. But he'd betrayed her anyway. That was what stung the most. Her reward for making a commitment, for putting herself out there, had been more than disappointing: it had been a complete disaster. There were so many people out that night. The pictureque, historic centre of Florence didn't go to sleep until dawn: the piazzas were full of artists, students and tourists, stopping to chat under the streetlamps, or in darker corners perfect for more intimate encounters. Elena walked on, letting her memories drift away, immers- ing herself in the familiar smells of the Santa Croce district. She knew every little crack in those streets, every cobblestone smoothed by centuries of footsteps. The outlines of houses soothed her tired eyes. Shop signs glimmered in the dark.The area never seemed to change; Elena was surprised by the strange pleasure she took from seeing these places again. A year, she thought. It was over a year since she'd been back to her grandmother's place. After Lucia's death, she hadn't set foot in the house again. Yet for so long it had been her world. She'd been to junior school and then high school with the nuns in via della Colonna, just a stone's throw from the Rossini family home. She used to watch the other children playing from those same windows. None of them had understood about perfume. They'd never even seen an alembic still, had no idea, for isntance, that fat absorbed smells. Essence, concrete, absolute and blend were just random words to them. But they all had a mother and father. At first, she'd ignored the other children. But then she found herself envying their cosy, conventional world, wanting to be part of it, wanting to be like them. Her classmates' parents were always very nice to her: there were presents, invitations . . . She was never not included. But their smiles never reached their eyes. Their glances would flicker over her, as if she were a duty that had to be taken care of, a chore to be performed and forgotten. And then she understood. The bitter taste of shame had distanced her from even those friends who seemed not to mind the strange house she lived in, nor the fact that it was her grandmother who went to school conerts and parents' evenings. There were other orphaned children, of course. The point was, though that Elena did actually have a mother. Angrily, she pushed down that memory., which had lain dormant for years. Feeling sorry for herself . . . that was all she needed! Swallowing back the bitterness, she picked up her pace again. She was almost there now.The high stone palazzo walls all around her felt welcoming and comforting. The air had turned cool, and the pavement gave off an acrid scent of humidity. Elena breathed it in, waiting for the moment it would meet the smell coming from the river.The smell of the past, the smell of loss. She stopped in front of a huge door, put an old key into the lock and turned it. Closing her eyes for just a moment, she immediately felt better. She was back. Even though returning to her grandmother's house was the only sensible thing to do, the young woman couldn't ignore the deep sense of defeat. She'd left determined to change her life, and instead she was back here, in the house she'd left behind when she was so full of dreams for the future. Elena almost ran up the stairs, trying not to look down the two dark corridors that led to what had once been the laboratory and Lucia Rossini's workshop. She went into the bathroom, took a quick shower, then changed the sheets and got into bed. Lavender, bergamot and sage. Their perfume drifted through the whole house: it was penetrating, like the loneliness crushing her heart. A moment before she surrendered to exhaustion, she thought she felt a soft hand stroking her hair. The following morning she woke up early, as usual. She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. She'd left the shutters open, that's why it was so bright. The floor and the bed were bathed in sunlight. But it was the perfume of the house that fought its way through her lethargy and wrapped itself around her. She got up, because she didn't know what else to do. Downstairs, she took a seat in the same place she'd always sat in since she was a little girl. After a moment she looked at the polished wood table and noticed just how big it was. She fidgeted awkwardly in her chair. There was a gloomy, oppressive silence. 'I could put the TV on,' she mumbled aloud. But her grandmother didn't have one; she'd always hated television. And Elena wasn't a huge fan either; she much preferred reading. But all her books were still at Matteo's place. An overwhelming pain stirred in the pit of her stomach. Her life had fallen apart . . . what on earth was she going to do? She looked around, bewildered. Every single thing in the house was familiar to her, and she loved all those strange, old objects: the plates hanging on the wall, the glazed terracotta pots her grandmother kept pasta in, the furniture she'd so often had to polish, no matter how much she complained. She should have felt less lonely surrounded by these things, but instead she felt empty, so empty and alone. She stood up, and with her head bowed, went straight back to her bedroom. She thought about calling her friend Monie and telling her everything. About that snake Matteo, and about Alessia. They made a fine couple. She bit back a swear word.   Then, realising she was alone and there was no one to shock, she rattled off a whole stream of profanities. She said them all, every single bad word she knew. She started quietly, then her voice grew stronger until she was shouting. She carried on yelling until she felt ridiculous, and only then did she stop. A moment later, sitting on the bed, she dialled Monie's number, wiping away her tears as she did so. She mustn't cry Monie would be able to tell. Her friend had no time for cry-babies, Elena reminded herself. She took a couple of deep breaths, counting the rings. How long was it since she'd spoken to Monique? A month, maybe two? She'd been so busy with managing the restaurant, and coping with all Matteo's demands. 'Oui?' 'Monie, is that you?' 'Elena? Chérie, how are you? Do you know, I was just thinking about you! How's it going?' Elena didn't answer - she couldn't. Cluching her mobile tight, she burst into tears.   2 Myrtle: foregiveness. Beautiful, magical, evergreen. Intense and deeply aromatic. The fragrance of serenity, the very essence of the soul. Soothes the spirit, relieves anger and resentment. 'Perfume is emotion, it's a vision that you have to transform into a fragrance.' 'Yes, Grandma.' 'This is what we do. This is our job, my girl. It's our duty, and a privilege.' Elena looks down. Lucia's words dart through the air like delicate notes of jasmine; first lightly, seemingly innocuous, then intense, hypnotic and compelling. She doesn't want to listen to them, she doesn't want to lose herself in the dreams they evoke, she doesn't want to follow them. Her heart starts to race, and colours run through her. Now they're scents, but they turn into a sky full of shining stars. It's easy to lose herself in them, it's fun. They make her smile, they make her happy. There's no reality, no responsibilities. Nothing matters now; only the colours, only the perfume. 'Perfume is a language, - it's how we speak. Remember, Elena, perfume is the truth - the only thing that really counts. You can't lie to perfume. Perfume is what we are. It's our true essence.' A loud buzz interrupted Elena's dream and she sat up with a start, bewildered. As the last threads of sleep dissolved. she took in the familiar objects and realised where she was. The weight of her memories was heavy, and relentless. There had been one second of detachment from reality, a moment when time and space didn't exist. Then she heard her mobile vibrate again. She jumped out of bed, tripping over the sheets tangled around her legs, and kneeling on the polished floorboards, she fumbled in her handbag. 'Where are you, for God's sake? Where have you got to?' she wailed as the contents of her shoulder bag scattered across the floor, rolling in all directions. She finally got hold of her mobile and opened it. When she saw the name on the screen, she closed her eyes, pressing the device to her lips. 'Monie?' she said, still half-asleep. 'Elena, what are you doing? I've been here nearly an hour. I can't believe you forgot we were meeting this morning.' 'Sorry, you're right. It's just . . .' Elena paused and sighed. 'Listen, do you mind if we cancel? I really don't feel like going out today.' 'If you're going to carry on like this, you might as well ring the priest and ask him to bury you now, Elena. I've got half a mind to call my mum and tell her what's going on.'   'No! You promised you wouldn't, remember?' 'No, I don't remember. It must be the Florence air, the same thing that made you forget we were meeting this morning.' Elena felt guilty. 'Look, I'll get over it, Monie. I just need some time.' 'Pff! I'm not leaving you to wallow in self-pity. That's not going to help. Anyway, going out might be just what you need.' Silence, then Elena tried again. 'Another time, maybe. OK?' 'No, we can't do it another time,' Monique replied. 'My flight to Paris is tonight, as well you know. I need you, Elena. You promised you'd come with me. And,' she continued, 'it can only do you good.At least it'll stop you dragging yourself around like a ghost looking for its tomb. Where are you now?' 'At my grandmother's house.' 'Parfait! It'll take you less than twenty minutes to get to Leopolda station. I'll be waiting for you outside the gates.' And Monique hung up. Elena looked at her mobile, then turned to the window where she could almost count the thousand different rays making up the stream of sunlight. Maybe Monie was right, maybe it was time to start living again. Going out was as good an attempt as any, and besides, shutting herself away in the house wouldn't make this go away. Not that she wanted to go back to a relationship which, now she could see clearly, she realised had existed only because she had decided it did. No, what was really devastating was suddenly finding herself with nothing. No plans, no ambition, no thoughts, no certainty. Yes, she decided, going out with Monique wasn't such a bad idea after all. 'You've handled worse, Elena,' she muttered, standing up and heading to the bathroom. Half an hour later, she was making her way through the courtyard of the old Florentine station which was home to Pitti Fragranze, the most important event in international artistic perfumery. It was a long time since she'd visited this kingdom of essences. Monique walked towards her, kissed her three times on the cheeks and dragged her inside. She was wearing a very simple black silk dress, which she had paired with red patent stilettos. Tall, slim and exotic, her quick, sinewy movements revealed her past as a model; but her beauty was all in her caramel skin and the mass of tight black curls spilling halfway down her back.To say she was beautiful was an understatement. As they walked side by side, Elena looked down at her own flip-flops, denim skirt and pink floral shirt, and gave a glum shake of her head. 'I've already picked up the tickets. Put this on,' Monique said, handing her a badge. 'Narcissus?' Elena asked, staring at the name tag. 'Oui. Now you're my . . . what shall we call you? Assistant, that's it.' Right, of course. To look at her, nobody would have thought she had anything to do with Narcissus, one of the most prestigious artistic perfume houses in Paris. Monique had worked there for almost a year now, and she loved the place. The most chic store in chic Paris, she'd always said. Chic, indeed. It wasn't somewhere Elena would ever have felt comfortable. Her style was simple, and not at all sophisticated. She was twenty-eight, but still as slender as a teenager, with big green eyes shining out from her perfectly clear skin. Her long blonde hair accentuated her naturally pale complexion. Her real strong point, though was her mouth: it was too large, but when she decided to open it into a smile, it was beautiful. She'd never taken much care with her appearance; she was much more interested in practicality - and, generally, she thought she'd reached a good compromise between the two. At that moment, however, she felt deeply inadequate. Side by side, she and Monique were complete opposites in terms of class and elegance. Her friend, however, didn't seem to register these details as she walked alongside Elena, pointing out one stand then another, bombarding her with questions and listening carefully to her answers. Elena looked around again and was relieved to see that plenty of other people were casually dressed. Comforted, she pulled her shoulders back and held her head high. After all, posture is what really counts, she told herself. As soon as they walked into the main room, Monique suddenly stopped, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. 'That perfume has a soul, Elena,' she whispered. 'And I want it. Can you smell that?' Of course she could smell it. Everyone could smell it. Each person was immersed in one specific scent - the one that, more than any other, stimulated something ancestral in their memory, evoking the past in a vivid and immediate way that transcended - almost - the relentless passage of time. As the two friends moved between the various stands, separated by transparent walls, Elena was surrounded by intense, penetrating fragrances. In spite of herself she was soon swept up by them, analysing them one by one, trying to guess which and how many elements they were composed of. It was a while since she'd tried; in fact, for a long time, she'd deliberately avoided anything from the world that made up her past. Now, however, the temptation to identify the aromas was overwhelming, and she decided to indulge this sudden interest. She established the components in her mind, visualising the olfactory pyramid before analysing it then putting it to one side so she could move straight on to the next. Suddenly she found herself smiling. When Monique stopped in front of a bouquet of roses, Elena walked over to join her, unable to take her eyes off the uniquely coloured petals. She'd found the source of her torment and her joy: centifolia roses from Grasse in France. When she was a little girl, her mother, Susanna, had travelled around the world for work, taking her daughter with her, but the French city had always been an essential stopping-point in their nomadic existence. They went back there again and again. Grasse was the very symbol of the perfume tradition. Elena had grown up there, moving between laboratories where natural essences were distilled - tiny artisan workshops set up centuries ago, and large, ultra-modern establishments where Susanna Rossini often worked. Whatever their size, each place had a lingering mixture of smells, delicate or intense depending on what was being made at the time. In spring, the town was transformed: colours and perfumes were everywhere. Every scent had a different meaning and each one was permanently ingrained on her memory. That was what centifolia roses symbolised to her. She held out her hand to brush the petals. They were exactly as she remembered: silky to the touch, with a delicate, captivating perfume. 'They're amazing,' Monique said with a note of reverence in her voice. Once again, Elena felt herself catapulted into the past. * * * She was a small child and the huge fields of centifolia roses surrounding Grasse stretched out in front of her. Everything was green, and then little buds appeared - ivory, pale pink, dark pink, almost cyclamen.The fragrance exuding from these flowers was so intense it enveloped her completely. Her mother had let go of her hand and walked off into the rose garden by herself. She stopped almost in the middle, her fingers amongst the petals, a distracted smile on her face.Then a man joined her, and after they'd looked at one another for a moment, he stroked her face. Susanna then wrapped her arms around his neck and they sank into a passionate kiss. When she finally turned back to the child, beckoning her over to them, the man's smile had vanished, replaced by a sneer. Frightened, Elena ran away. That was the first time she saw Maurice Vidal, the man who would become her stepfather. 'The roses have a different perfume in September,' Elena said now.'It's more concentrated, it brings the smell of the sun and the sea with it.' 'The sun?' Monique asked. 'What does the sun smell like, Elena?' She closed her eyes for a moment, searching for the right words. 'It's immense, hot, soft . . . it's like a nest, a comforting cradle. It seeps in, but at the same time sets you completely free. The sun accompanies the perfumes. Take jasmine: its fragrance is most intense at dawn, different from the light midday scent, but after sunset, when the sun is just a memory, that's when the flower reveals its true soul.You can't mistake it, it's impossible.' Monique frowned, watching her intently. 'I haven't heard you talk about perfume like that for a very long time.' A jolt of panic ran through Elena and she felt suddenly vulnerable. Her imagination had got the better of her rational side. She'd let herself get carried away by memories and emotions. Like back when she was a child, when perfume ran through her and she thought of it as a friend. Playing around with perfume was one thing; letting it take over was some- thing else. She had to keep that in mind, she had to be careful. 'Let's get out of here, Monie, come on,' she said, quickly heading towards the open glass doors.Then, a wave of dizzi- ness stopped her in her tracks.What was happening? Could it be the perfumes? She'd always managed to keep them at bay. She had learned early on to ignore them, pushing them to the sidelines. From the age of twelve, she'd always been the one to decide when and how much they mattered. She'd loved them, feared them, and then learned to control them. But that morning, she realised, the perfumes were getting the better of her, dragging her back, making her remember, making her look at things she'd rather not see. 'Are you all right, Elena? You look awful.You're not think- ing about that idiot Matteo again, are you?' Monique took her by the arm and got her to stand still. Struggling to compose herself, Elena looked at the high stone walls, followed their outline to focus on the steel beams. Ancient and modern. A match that might seem jarring, but which was actually charming and full of character. 'And stop staring at the walls. I won't leave you alone until you tell me what's wrong.' Elena looked at Monique, then laughed, putting her face in her hands. 'Has anyone ever told you you're like a bulldog?' The other girl shrugged 'Oui.' She tapped her finger on her bottom lip. 'It's called character, chérie. So, tell me what's got into you today, you're even weirder than usual.' A sigh swept away the tension between the two women. 'It's the perfumes. I can't stand them today.' Monique burst out laughing.'You're joking, right?' But Elena wasn't smiling any more, and her eyes were watery and tired. 'Listen,' Monique said, wagging her finger, 'I need your skills. I need a nose, or the nearest thing I can get. If I go back to Paris without a truly original creation, Jacques . . . Things aren't how they used to be between us, Elena. I want to surprise him, I want him to respect me.' 'I'm not a nose, Monique,' Elena objected, trying to control the wave of nausea rising from her stomach. Her friend pursed her lips. 'No, you're much more than that.You don't just smell an essence, you see beyond it. Perfume holds no secrets for you.' 'And you think that's an advantage, do you?' Elena asked bitterly. The words left her lips before she could stop them, before she could suppress them and hide them. Nose or not, Elena didn't want her sense of smell to run her life. It had already taken her childhood, and she'd decided that that was all she was prepared to give it. Rationality, that's what she needed. She had to think, she had to react. There was a mixture of exasperation and patience in Monique's voice as she replied, 'Yes, it probably would be an advantage, even if you looked after sheep for a living.You'd be able to sniff out foxes. But as it happens, you're a perfumier, and a damn good one.And you know enough about perfume to be able to find something unique for me, a composition that will really give my boss something to think about, set a new trend. Something to add to the Narcissus line. I'm not kidding, I really do need you. Will you help me?' Elena looked around. A light breeze brought the scent of Florence in over her shoulder; it smelled of sun-baked tiles, dreams and traditions, whispered love and hope. She blinked, took a deep breath and gave in. She'd never been able to stand up to Monique. Her friend had been bossing her around ever since they were little, when they had had their first race, running through streams in the Provence countryside, and ended up tumbling in a heap. That's how they met, in the middle of the wild mint bushes, not far from the workers collecting the flowers. They'd been friends from that moment. Monique had taken her home, and Jasmine, her Egyptian mother, had scolded them, dried them off, and then, over a cup of ginger tea and a plate of biscuits, warned them of all the dangers lurking in the streams.At Monique's house, Elena discovered what it meant to have a real family. Her new friend had introduced her to the maternal warmth and serenity that Jasmine had in abundance. Monique made her feel like one of the family, like a sister. 'So, will you help me?' 'Seriously, I don't know what use I can be to you. You know every step in creating a perfume and you've produced some extraordinary things.' Monique made a face. 'Come on, Elena, we both know my perfumes are simple, convenient and popular. Even the best one was hardly subtle. But you, you're like an artist who paints a picture with words. I don't know anyone with your skills or your genius.' 'Yeah, right! A genius who couldn't even cover her costs.' 'Don't give me that old chestnut about your grandmother's business,' Monique cut in. 'You closed the perfumery because you're the most stubborn person I know. As far as the business goes, if you'd followed your instincts instead of sticking to Lucia's antiquated rules, things would have gone quite differently, and you know it. We've already talked about this. I just don't understand how you could take Matteo's ravings into account. The most he had to teach you was how to lay a table,' she snorted. 'You never made any decisions about running the shop,' she went on, 'you just let things happen. I'm sorry, but you know I like to tell it how it is, Elena.You're a nose, that's all there is to it. And the perfumes you made for me and my mother were truly unique. They still are. And that's what people want: a special perfume.' 'You know as much as I do,' Elena insisted. 'We did the same studies, we've got the same training.' She moved over to a metal shelf where a series of different-sized vials were lined up.The glass seemed to come to life as the cold light skimmed over their sharp edges. 'Maybe, but I wasn't brought up in an apothecary's work- shop.Nor am I descended from generations of perfume-makers. That makes all the difference in the world.' Yes, that was the difference between them. Monique had had a normal childhood: parents, a brother, two sisters, school, home, university, boyfriends, and in the end a job she liked. She'd been able to choose. So had Elena, in a way. And she'd chosen the easy route: obedience. She'd done everything her grandmother had asked of her, or as much as she could bear. She'd studied perfumery and applied herself conscientiously. Silently, however, she'd begun to harbour resentment towards perfume. And she'd ended up cultivating her resentment until she blamed it for all her problems. 'Do you know what my grandmother's last words were?' Elena asked. She waited a moment, then, spurred on by her friend's silence, she quoted: '"Follow the way, do not abandon the perfume".' 'Lucia wasn't well at the end,' Monique replied. Elena's lips curled into a gentle smile. 'Her body might have given up, but her mind was there until the end. Don't think for a minute that she did or said anything that wasn't part of her plans. It was an obsession for her. - the same as it was for all the women before her, even my mother. They always put perfume before anything else.' She reached for her friend's hand and squeezed it. 'I closed the shop because I wanted a normal life, regular hours, a man to love, who loved me back, and children.' 'Those things aren't mutually exclusive. You could have been a perfumier and had all that. It's up to you, n'est-ce-pas?' No! The answer exploded inside her. Perfume wasn't like that why couldn't Monique understand? It was all or nothing. And she hated it. She hated it because she couldn't help but love it. And so she'd decided: perfume wasn't compatible with the life she'd chosen to lead with Matteo.That was why she closed the shop.The perfume would have bewitched her in the end, like it had all the other Rossini women, jeopardising her plans for the future. It was that fear which had pushed her to distance herself from it for ever. 'I didn't want to risk it,' she murmured aloud. No, she didn't want to risk it. She didn't want to give in. She didn't even want to talk about it. 'I'm not sure giving up everything you are has made you happy.' Elena went pale.'Everything I am?' she repeated. 'Think about it, Elena: since you closed the shop and went to live with Matteo, have you ever really been happy? You gave up everything you know, everything that makes you who you are, to chase after an idea, something you thought would satisfy you. But you went from one extreme to the other. Was that the life you wanted?' No, it wasn't, but it was still better than standing by and watching, wasn't it? 'I tried. I believed in it and I tried!' she said hotly. Monique stared at her, then smiled.'That's not what I asked you. But it doesn't matter. Let's stop this depressing talk and focus on what we need to do, because you're going to help me find the perfume for Narcissus, aren't you?' 'Yeah, sure.' Elena nodded mechanically. But Monique's words were still ringing in her ears. Had she really given up who she was? 3 Benzoin: composure. A dark resin with thick and intense balsamic essence. The fragrance relieves anxiety and stress. It enables spiritual energy to grow in strength and is the ideal preparation for meditation. Elena's first memory was the dazzling sun on the French Riviera; her second was a vast expanse of lavender. Green and blue and pink and lilac and white, stretching on and on. Then there was the darkness of the studio, where her mother Susanna worked, leaning over tables covered with tiny glass and aluminium bottles. Her mother worked in Provence for most of the year.That was where they had a house.And that was where Susanna had met a man, her first and only love: Maurice Vidal. It was in the flower fields there that Elena had learned the basics of perfumery: which herbs to pick, which to use in distillation, which to transform into concrètes, which to use to extract absolutes. Petals of all colours and sizes swirled around, carried by the Mistral winds, or fell like little pink waterfalls from the ledges where they were kept.The petal-pickers filled huge silos with hundreds of kilos of flowers, squashing them down before the real business of production began: with lavage, as it was called in perfume jargon.This process produced the concrète: a concentrated, intensely perfumed, waxy substance. Lastly, a final washing in alcohol transformed it into an absolute, separating off any impurities. Each step was a clear image etched into her childhood memory. In her solitary existence, perfume had become the only language she could use to communicate with her mother, a woman of few words, who took her daughter everywhere but rarely spoke to her. Elena enjoyed looking at the liquid perfume, she loved its colour. Some containers were as small as her hand, others so large she had to ask for Maurice's help to lift them. Maurice was tall and strong. He owned the laboratory and the fields, and he adored Susanna Rossini. He loved her at least as much as he loathed her daughter. Elena knew why he never looked at her. She was someone else's child. She didn't know what that meant exactly, but it was definitely something bad. It made her mum cry. One day, she'd come home for a snack and heard her mother arguing with Maurice. It happened a lot and, that day at first she took no notice. She picked up a biscuit and was about to go back outside to play, when she thought to take another one for Monique. 'She's the image of her father, isn't she? Admit it. She doesn't look anything like you. I can't even bear to see her. How can you ask me to keep her with me? With us?' Elena stood still, then.A vice clamped around her stomach. It was the tone of the man's voice that stopped her in her tracks. Maurice was talking quietly, the way people tell secrets. But she had heard him perfectly. She turned around.The bedroom door was open. Maurice was sitting on a chair, his head bowed, his fingers buried in his hair. 'I made a mistake,' her mother was saying, 'and there's nothing I can do about it now. And anyway, when I came back, you said the past didn't matter; you wanted us to make a new start - together.Try to understand. She's my daughter, too.' Yes, she was her daughter. The way Susanna pronounced the word was strange. And why was her mother crying? She didn't like those words, Elena thought.They stung her throat and her eyes. Maurice jumped up. 'Your daughter! Yes - yours and who else's? Who is her father?' 'No one - I've told you a thousand times. He doesn't even know there was a baby.' The man shook his head. 'I can't stand it, Susanna. I know I promised you, I know, but I just can't do it.' That was when he noticed her.'What are you doing here?' he yelled. Speechless, Elena stepped back, then ran away. She only shed a few tears on the way back to Monique's house, because Monie hated cry-babies. Crying didn't get you anywhere. Her friend had often told her that, and it was true. The pain was still there, like a chasm in her throat. But she told her friend everything, because she listened and she understood her. As she was talking to Monique she realised that Maurice was wrong. She'd never had a dad. Maybe she should tell him, and that would make things better. But however hard she tried over the next few days, the man's stern glare frightened her. The words refused to come out, they got trapped in her mouth, caught on her tongue. So she came up with the idea of a drawing. She had to use the whole page because Maurice was very tall, but she managed to fit him in. She drew the three of them together: Susanna holding her hand, and there, at their side, was Maurice, not another dad. Before she gave him the drawing, she showed it to her mother. 'It's beautiful, darling,' she told her. Susanna really liked her drawings, even though she never had time to look at them properly. But this one was special, as Elena had insisted when she showed her mother all the details. Details were important: her teacher told her that all the time. She'd drawn Susanna's long black hair that came down to her shoulders, Maurice, and herself in the middle, holding them both by the hand. She was wearing a pink dress - she really liked that colour. She didn't have a dad, so Maurice could be hers, if he wanted.And as for who she looked like, he was most certainly wrong. Jasmine had assured her that when she grew up, she'd look just like her mother. And Jasmine knew what she was talking about, she had loads of children. One day, when Maurice was in a terrible mood, Elena decided to give him the drawing to cheer him up. Ignoring the sombre expression that frightened her, she mustered her courage,and handed him the piece of paper. He took it with- out saying anything, and after giving it a quick glance, she saw his face twist with rage. Elena instinctively shrank back, her palms sweating and her fingers gripping the fabric of her dress. Maurice turned to Susanna, who was preparing dinner, brandishing the piece of paper. 'Do you think this will fix things between us?' he asked in a hushed voice, almost whispering. 'One big happy family? You, me, and . . . his child? Now you're using the girl to convince me?' Susanna turned pale. 'It's just a drawing,' she told him in a tiny voice. 'You know full well what I think,' he shouted, scrunching up the paper in his huge fist and throwing it into a corner. 'What will it take to make you understand?' A tense silence fell over them, broken by a single sob from Elena. As though he suddenly realised what he had done, Maurice looked at the little girl, then slowly picked the paper up from the floor, smoothing it out in his fingers. 'Here,' he said, holding it out to her. But she shook her head. Maurice put it on the table, gave a shrug and, out of nowhere, he started to laugh. If she tried hard, even after all these years, Elena could still remember that harsh, forced sound. Susanna sent her to play at Monique's house. As she was leaving, Elena heard them begin to argue and then she started to run. Jasmine dried her tears, assuring her that Maurice just hadn't understood what she'd drawn. 'Grown-ups often do things like that,' she said.'They don't understand and they get scared. 'Then she took the child by the hand and walked her home. Maurice wasn't there any more. Susanna's eyes were red and puffy. Jasmine made tea and stayed with them late into the night. The next morning, Susanna packed their bags and she and Elena left.They were away for the whole spring. But then they went back. They always went back, and Maurice was always there.And that was where Elena had first encountered the smell of hatred. Cold, like the smell of a starless night after the rain has stopped but the wind continues to howl.The smell of hatred is frightening. A few months later, Elena turned eight. In the autumn they left again, and this time she stayed in Florence with her grandmother. 'I like these,' Elena said, breaking the thread of her memory and returning to Florence and the Pitts Fragranze event. The crystal bottles she'd been looking at sparkled under the spotlights; they were unique, all angles and character. 'No, too bold. Jacques wants something more harmonious.' After a moment, Elena said thoughtfully. 'Harmony is a subjective concept and it's definitely not a trendsetter. If it's something new you're looking for, Monie, you have to go further.You have to be daring.' Her friend stared at her for a moment. 'What would you choose, Elena?' 'Me?' 'Yes, you. How about we split up to find the right perfume? Then Jacques would have two choices. He loves that kind of thing. Oui, it's decided. We'll meet here in an hour and then I'll take you to lunch. Today there's Sunday brunch at the Four Seasons - it's quite an experience. I've got Jacques' credit card, we'll splash out, and you can do me the favour of wiping that miserable look off your face. Come on, so you lost a lover, it's no big deal. Do you have any idea how many men would go crazy for you if you let them?' asked Monique, wagging a finger.'Loads, chérie. Guys would be queuing up.' 'Yeah, course they would.' Elena didn't even have the energy to lose her temper with Monie, and why should she? Tact had never been her friend's strong point, she knew that well enough. Even as a child, Monique had spoken her mind without worrying about the consequences. Suddenly, she needed to be alone. Monique was the person she loved most in the world, but at that moment Elena felt too vulnerable and exposed. All it would take was a look, one word, to tip the balance she was trying so hard to re-establish. 'Shall we split up, then?' Now that she was no longer afraid of immersing herself in the perfumes, that kind of respite seemed too good to be true. Monique pulled a face.'I'll pretend I didn't hear that hope- ful tone,' she grinned.'Go on then, go! Gather your thoughts and try to calm down. But remember - I want that perfume. I really need it. Vite, vite! I'll see you back here in an hour.' Elena gave a hint of a smile, then moved away. She'd taken just a few steps when she realised she didn't have the slightest idea what Jacques wanted.All she knew was that he owned Narcissus, the company where Monique worked, that he belonged to a well-established and illustrious family of perfume-makers, and that her friend had been in a brief and intense relationship with him. The 'best sex of her life', was how Monique had summed up Jacques Montier. She turned back to look for Monique in the crowd. The stands were full of people intently breathing in the atmos- phere saturated with smells. Elena eventually spotted her friend standing next to a huge orchid, a white Phalaenopsis, in front of a table covered in crystal bottles. As she walked over to join her, Elena studied the liquids in the luxurious glass bottles. The different shades ranged from pale pink, through various tones of opalescent grey, to the clearest amber yellow. 'Monie, you haven't told me what Jacques actually wants,' she said, once she was standing next to her.The other woman immediately spun round, her fingers clutching a smooth, square bottle with neat corners. 'Non, c'est vrai. But it doesn't matter,' she replied, turning her attention back to the little crystal masterpiece. 'The perfume isn't for him. Jacques wants a new, energetic fragrance he can include in his catalogue and sell at Narcissus. He's hoping to start a trend that will satisfy high-flying Parisian women. Nothing too predictable, but something that's still feminine and harmonious.' 'Right . . . as easy as that,' Elena joked. Monique gave her a smile. 'You're going to surprise him. Or rather, I am. I'll take all the credit, seeing as you don't know what to do with it.' 'If this is your way of getting me to consider the idea of working with perfume again, it's not going to happen,' Elena told her firmly. Yet as she walked around the stands, running her fingers over the packaging and feeling the energy the different aromas gave off, Elena realised that the uneasiness that had always accompanied her while she worked on a new essence seemed to have vanished - along with the irksome sense of obligation and duty.There was just the shadow of a concern in the back of her mind - but she couldn't feel it any more, like an old scar. Now, something different was stirring in her, a need that drove her to inhale deeply, to fill her lungs with one ingredient after another.The nausea had gone, too.All that remained was a sense of urgency. She was suddenly curious - she was desperate to smell, as though it were the first time she'd smelled an essence, as though this world hadn't always been a part of her life. This restlessness was almost ridiculous. Ridiculous and out of place - but there it was. Everything she was once sure of had crumbled, like her carefully devised plans. She decided to go with her instincts. Just then, Elena found herself in front of a stand run by a young Indian perfumier. She stood to one side, listening to her. The woman had very clear ideas. Elena liked the description she gave of her perfumes: there was technical information, demonstrating a perfect understanding of her work, and simple language that could tap into the imagin- ation of anyone who stopped to listen. Amongst these exotic perfumes, she found what she was looking for.When she opened it, there was a floral explosion: patchouli, gardenia, jasmine, and then a spicy heart, with mysterious notes of cloves and coriander. Lastly, the wood: it didn't just harmonise the blend, it made it creamy. She imagined it on her own skin - the way it would dissolve, emanating elegance and refinement. She knew intuitively that this was the right perfume. Whether Jacques would like it, she didn't know, but it was perfect for any woman who loved femininity and who didn't want to relinquish every last hint of frivolity.To Elena, it was as if this perfume was speaking to her: telling her about itself, the places it came from, the women in red and gold saris for whom it had been invented, the modern city, the metropolis that Delhi had become. Paris would love it. She decided to listen to the perfume, and she bought it. She carried on walking around the Leopolda station with the perfume in her bag, and when she met up with Monique one hour later, Elena realised that she hadn't felt so calm in a long long time. Of course, Natteo's betrayal still hurt, but as they were getting into the taxi that would take them to the Four Seasons, she felt something flilcker inside her, a sense of expectation and excitement. Plus, she was absolutely ravenous. Much later, when night had fallen over the city, Elena's gaze followed the lights of the plane taking her friend back to Paris. Before Monique left, they'd promised to speak to one another soon. And this time Elena had every intention of keeping her word. Excerpted from The Secret Ways of Perfume by Cristina Caboni All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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