completely overcome by smoke. So Maurice took his wife in his arms and jumped out of the window. He saved her, but the accident left him with burns to his face and serious spinal injuries.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
Elena sighed and dried her eyes. How was it that all she could do lately was think about the past? Her worries about the future were starting to weigh on her mind.
That morning, her thoughts were trapped in a circle, and she always ended up facing the same question: what on earth was she going to do now? She wasnât looking for a profound philosophical answer, like the meaning of life. No, her concern was more practical, immediate.
She stood up and looked around. The workshop walls were high and plain, in stark contrast to the fresco-covered ceiling. Flowers, an abundance of painted flowers, covered the entire vault, like a meadow hanging upside down. The colors of the fresco were faded: the red poppies were just a pale cherry color; the warm, powdery tones of damascene roses were almost imperceptible; little cracks decorated the edges of the petals; the blue of the irises and the still-bright violet of the anemones were also testimony to the relentless passage of time. Her grandmother had never let the arts heritage authorities get their hands on them.
âIt would change the smell. How can you not understand that?â she once yelled, exasperated by the insistence of the official who wanted to include the palazzo in plans for restoration.
It was true; the balance of perfumes that gave life to that room would be lost forever. Modern paints would have brought the picture back to its original brilliance, a real joy to behold. But what would have become of the perfume of the place, once it was contaminated? The cedarwood table with its sturdy feet, the delicate inlaid cupboards that contained all the essences, the display cabinet lined with leather-bound books, and the Venetian wardrobe where all the utensils were kept had always been part of the place. Every single object had its own specific smell and none of it should change.
There was something else in that vast, marble-floored room. Elena looked around for it, and sure enough, there it was. It was still in the farthest corner of the room. She walked over and ran her fingers across it.
The screenâs frame was flaking and the silk covering had faded a little. But it was still in good condition, if a bit dusty. The height of a door, it opened out to create a sheltered corner. It was old, very old. They said it was as old as the house and had belonged to Beatrice Rossini herself. But there were too many legends surrounding her ancestor for Elena to believe them all. She didnât care where the screen came from; she liked the feeling of warmth and privacy she had when she was behind it, and the smell that came off the silk. In the past it had been used as a partition to protect clients who didnât want to reveal their identity. And from time to time, when things got too much, or she was up to mischief, Elena had made it her hiding place.
Elena stopped to smell it more carefullyâand with a hint of surprise she realized that this was where the subtle scent of a real perfume was coming from, as though the screen had once been soaked in it. And it probably had. There were other antique objects in the house that her ancestors had subjected to experiments in an attempt to preserve fragrances for longer. Her grandmotherâs mahogany chest, in her bedroom, contained several pairs of vaguely scented Spanish leather gloves. Her grandmotherâs slippers, too, gave off an essence of Bulgarian roses. Plus several reams of paper, each with a specific scent and every one of them stamped.
But of all these bizarre objects, the old screen was still her favorite.
There were other things, too, things that actually took her by surprise, like the comfortable sense of well-being. She felt as if sheâd come home. And she
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
Elena sighed and dried her eyes. How was it that all she could do lately was think about the past? Her worries about the future were starting to weigh on her mind.
That morning, her thoughts were trapped in a circle, and she always ended up facing the same question: what on earth was she going to do now? She wasnât looking for a profound philosophical answer, like the meaning of life. No, her concern was more practical, immediate.
She stood up and looked around. The workshop walls were high and plain, in stark contrast to the fresco-covered ceiling. Flowers, an abundance of painted flowers, covered the entire vault, like a meadow hanging upside down. The colors of the fresco were faded: the red poppies were just a pale cherry color; the warm, powdery tones of damascene roses were almost imperceptible; little cracks decorated the edges of the petals; the blue of the irises and the still-bright violet of the anemones were also testimony to the relentless passage of time. Her grandmother had never let the arts heritage authorities get their hands on them.
âIt would change the smell. How can you not understand that?â she once yelled, exasperated by the insistence of the official who wanted to include the palazzo in plans for restoration.
It was true; the balance of perfumes that gave life to that room would be lost forever. Modern paints would have brought the picture back to its original brilliance, a real joy to behold. But what would have become of the perfume of the place, once it was contaminated? The cedarwood table with its sturdy feet, the delicate inlaid cupboards that contained all the essences, the display cabinet lined with leather-bound books, and the Venetian wardrobe where all the utensils were kept had always been part of the place. Every single object had its own specific smell and none of it should change.
There was something else in that vast, marble-floored room. Elena looked around for it, and sure enough, there it was. It was still in the farthest corner of the room. She walked over and ran her fingers across it.
The screenâs frame was flaking and the silk covering had faded a little. But it was still in good condition, if a bit dusty. The height of a door, it opened out to create a sheltered corner. It was old, very old. They said it was as old as the house and had belonged to Beatrice Rossini herself. But there were too many legends surrounding her ancestor for Elena to believe them all. She didnât care where the screen came from; she liked the feeling of warmth and privacy she had when she was behind it, and the smell that came off the silk. In the past it had been used as a partition to protect clients who didnât want to reveal their identity. And from time to time, when things got too much, or she was up to mischief, Elena had made it her hiding place.
Elena stopped to smell it more carefullyâand with a hint of surprise she realized that this was where the subtle scent of a real perfume was coming from, as though the screen had once been soaked in it. And it probably had. There were other antique objects in the house that her ancestors had subjected to experiments in an attempt to preserve fragrances for longer. Her grandmotherâs mahogany chest, in her bedroom, contained several pairs of vaguely scented Spanish leather gloves. Her grandmotherâs slippers, too, gave off an essence of Bulgarian roses. Plus several reams of paper, each with a specific scent and every one of them stamped.
But of all these bizarre objects, the old screen was still her favorite.
There were other things, too, things that actually took her by surprise, like the comfortable sense of well-being. She felt as if sheâd come home. And she
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