The Secret Ways of Perfume Read Online Free

identify the aromas was overwhelming, and she decided to indulge this sudden interest. She established the components in her mind, visualizing the olfactory pyramid before analyzing 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 colored 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 traveled 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: colors and perfumes were everywhere. Every scent had a different meaning, and each one was permanently ingrained on her memory.
    That was what centifolia roses symbolized 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.
    â€œThey’re amazing,” Monique said with a note of reverence in her voice.
    Once again, Elena felt herself catapulted into the past.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    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 Elena’s hand and walked off into the rose garden by herself. She stopped almost in the middle, her fingers among the petals, a distracted smile on her face. Then a man joined her, and after they’d looked at each other for a moment, he stroked her face. Susanna 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.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œThe sun?” Monique asked. “What does the sun smell like, Elena?”
    She closed her eyes for a moment, searching for the right words.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œI 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 something else. She had to keep that in mind; she had to be