“But I already am a happy woman, Daldry. Thanks to you I’ve been able to come on this incredible journey. You know I was having trouble with my work, and now, also thanks to you, my head is full of ideas. I don’t really care whether everything that woman told me actually comes true. To be honest, there was something rather hateful and vulgar about it all . . . making the sorts of assumptions she did, imagining me as a desperate and lonely woman chasing after the mirage of a man who would magically change my life. I’ve already met a man who has changed my life.”
“Oh really?”
“The perfume maker in Cihangir. His work has allowed me to imagine a different sort of project. I’ve been thinking about it since our visit. It’s not just interior fragrances, but the smells attached to places that mark our lives, the kinds of scents that call up lost or forgotten moments from our past. You know, our olfactory memories are the last ones to go. We may begin to forget the faces and voices of our loved ones, but never the smells. You love food so much—I’m sure that smelling a favorite food from your childhood must take you back to the past in vivid detail.
“Last year a man who particularly liked one of my perfumes got my address from a shopkeeper and came to see me. He brought along a little box that contained a bit of braided leather cord, a tin soldier whose painted uniform was chipped off, an agate marble, and a ragged little flag. It was the summary of his childhood all in a tiny metal box. He told me that when he first smelled my perfume, he was overcome by the strange and inexplicable desire to go home and go through his attic to find that box, one he’d completely forgotten about until then. He had me smell the interior of the box and asked if I could reproduce the mix of odors before it faded away. I rather stupidly told him that it was impossible, but after he left, I wrote down what I had smelled. The rust on the inside of the lid, the hemp of the cord, the tin, the old oil paint, the oak that had been used to sculpt the little toy, the dusty silk of the flag, the agate marble . . . I think I still have that list somewhere. I kept it, not knowing what to do with it. But today, with some more experience, by continuing to observe and study, like the way you made all those sketches this afternoon, I think I know what to do. I have an idea about how to make a perfume that could combine many different materials. You seem to be inspired by forms and colors, but for me, it’s odors.
“I’m going to go see the man in Cihangir again and ask to spend some time with him, to watch how he works. I could show him my techniques too . . . It could be a sort of exchange. I’d like to be able to recreate forgotten moments and places. I know it all sounds very mixed-up right now, but try to imagine if you were to stay on here, and you really started to miss London, what it would be like to suddenly smell the rain in the city you’d left behind. The streets back home have a particular odor, and it changes from morning to evening. Every important moment in our lives has a particular scent.”
Daldry thought about this. “It’s an odd idea, indeed,” he said, “but it’s true that I’d like to rediscover the smell of my father’s office. I think it was more complex than I realize. There was the smell of the fire in the fireplace, and his pipe tobacco, the leather of his chair and the blotter on the desk where he worked. I can’t describe them all, but I also remember the smell of the rug where I used to play with my tin soldiers. The red stripes marked the positions of Napoleon’s armies, and the green borders, our English troops. It had a very comforting scent of dust and wool. I don’t know if you’ll make much money with your idea. Who would buy a bottle of dusty rug or rainy street? But it’s very poetic.”
“Yes, perhaps not street smells, but childhood smells? Right now I’d cross all of Istanbul just for a little bottle of the smell of the first days of autumn in Hyde Park. It would probably take me months, even years, to create something worthwhile, something sufficiently universal. But for the first time in my life, I’m starting to feel comforted by my line of work. I’ve been doubting myself, even though perfume making is the only profession I’ve ever wanted. I’ll be eternally grateful to you and to that fortune-teller for having encouraged me to come here. Even though the things we discovered about my parents are disturbing, they also make me very happy—it’s a sort of gentle, nostalgic feeling, something between crying and laughing. Every time I went past the street where we used to live in London, I didn’t recognize a thing. Our house and even the shops nearby were all destroyed. But now I know that there’s still a place in the world where my parents and I lived together. The smells of Istiklal, the stone of the buildings, the rumbling tramways, and a thousand other things belong to me as well. Even if I don’t remember anything from those days, I know we had them together, and when I’m trying to fall asleep at night, I don’t think about how my parents are gone, but about what their lives must have been like here. It’s a wonderful change.”
“You’re not going to give up searching, are you?”
“No, I promise I won’t. But it’s not going to be the same without you.”
“I certainly hope not! Even though I’m sure you’ll find it is. You and Can get along so well. I know that sometimes I act as though it bothers me, but deep inside I’m glad the two of you have a bond, a certain understanding. He may speak a strange sort of English, but he’s an excellent guide.”
“You wanted to tell me something earlier. What was it?”
“It can’t have been very important. I’ve already forgotten.”
“You’re leaving soon.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I am.”
They continued their walk along the water. When they arrived at the dock, where the last ferry for the evening was setting off, Daldry’s hand brushed against Alice’s. She turned and took it in hers.
“Two friends can hold each other by the hand, can’t they?” she asked.
“I suppose they can.”
“Let’s walk a little farther together. Do you mind?”
“Yes. Let’s walk a little farther together.”
12
Dear Alice,
I hope you’ll excuse me for leaving so unexpectedly. I didn’t feel like making us both suffer through another goodbye. I thought about it every night this week as I said good night, and every time the idea of saying goodbye to you in the hotel lobby with my suitcase in hand seemed too awful for words. I wanted to tell you last night, but decided not to ruin those last few delightful moments of your company. I’d rather we remember our last walk together along the Bosporus. You seemed happy and I was too. What more could one ask for at the end of a long journey?
During the time we’ve spent together, I’ve got to know you better. I can say without hesitation that you’re a marvelous woman, and that I’m proud to have you as a friend—at least I hope I can consider you my friend. You are a friend to me. Our stay in Istanbul will certainly remain one of the happiest times of my life. I hope with all my heart that you’ll reach the end of your journey and meet a man who loves you and accepts you for who you are, for your virtues as well as your flaws. (A friend can say such things to another friend without getting in trouble, can’t he?) He’ll find a woman by his side whose laughter will chase the worries right out of his life.
I’m very happy to have had you as my neighbor, and I already know as I write you this letter that your presence in the house, noisy though it sometimes was, will be missed.
Godspeed to you, daughter of the generous pharmacist, keep chasing after the happiness that suits you so well.
Your devoted friend,
Daldry