The Secret Ways of Perfume by Cristina Caboni Read Free Book Online

herself could predict the result of combining two or more essences. But her talents were limited and would not have been enough to identify the Perfect Perfume, as the formula surely had to be highly complex.
    Instead, she focused her hopes on her daughter, Susanna; but the girl had no intention of following that path. She was fascinated by the many possibilities offered by synthetic substances, rejecting tradition and her mother’s teachings.
    And then Elena was born.
    At a certain point in her life, when time had stiffened her fingers so much that she could no longer uncork the essence containers, Luciadecided to pass on her knowledge to the one person she was sure had the passion, depth of heart and intuition required to bring the Perfume back to life: her granddaughter. And so she left everything to her.
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    The palazzo walls, made of stone and bricks that had been fired in the old city’s kilns, reared up strong and dark, three stories high. On the ground floor there had always been the workshop, the laboratory and the courtyard, which was overlooked by the upstairs rooms. On the first floor were the kitchen and living room; on the second floor the bedrooms. The property hadn’t changed much over the centuries; even the herbs in the corner of the garden had stayed the same.
    The house had also always had a secret study, because the Rossinis had been making perfume since the days when alchemy was the natural extension of their profession. It was in the basement and no one had been down there for decades.
    The building was in excellent condition, thanks to the precious materials with which it was built: timber from ships toughened by storms and sea winds, stone straight from the rockface, bricks fired at infernal temperatures. They were silent witnesses to births and deaths, extraordinary discoveries, joy, blood, sweat and tears. The building had kept all its charm, character and a hint of mystery.
    Lucia Rossini lived for perfume; everything else was superfluous. One day she’d let a man into her bed, and that was the strongest link she’d ever had with the outside world. When Giuseppe Rinaldi died, she had raised their daughter, Susanna, teaching her everything she knew and, according to tradition, she gave her the Rossini name. For Lucia, like all the women before her, it was a symbol, a link to her ancestors; it was her identity and her duty.
    Susanna, however, couldn’t have cared less about her illustrious surname or about the Perfect Perfume. She didn’t share her mother’sambitions. She was interested in perfume, but she wanted to learn state-of-the-art techniques; she’d had enough of the old-fashioned nonsense Lucia insisted on drumming into her, enough of all those dusty papers. She wasn’t interested in the past: all that mattered to her was the future. So she left. She sent postcards from Alexandria, Athens, Bombay . . . and when she stopped roaming, she settled in Grasse, in France.
    One day, many years later, she turned up on her mother’s doorstep with a little girl.
    â€œI can’t keep her with me anymore,” was all she said. The two women exchanged a long look, then Lucia threw open the door and smiled at her granddaughter for the first time.
    â€œCome along, Elena, let’s go inside. This is going to be your house now.” But the girl grabbed hold of Susanna’s skirt, tugging it hard. She closed her eyes and hung her head. It was raining hard that day, at the end of November. Susanna was wearing an almond, violet and iris perfume Maurice had made for her. A wedding present.
    From that moment on, Elena had always hated rain.
    Starting then, Lucia Rossini had passed on all her knowledge to her shy, quiet granddaughter. Even though the girl was only eight years old, she immediately proved to be incredibly receptive. She had an extraordinary relationship with perfumes. She handled them with