frankincense, bergamot, sweet orange, and others I couldnât begin to nameâall lining the kitchen counter in small glass vials with cork tops.
Voilà :
a perfumery. But we never called it that. The kitchen was simply my motherâs happy laboratory, where she worked with intense focus and a deep calm emotion that she didnât exhibit during the other months of the year. Looking back, I realize it was joy.
At some point during these summers of my childhood, LâAmour du Nord was born. A fragrance is difficult to describe. In colors, it would be deep blues and whites, with traces of magenta and neon green. In experience, it would be setting off across snow in a warm fur coat in a musty twilight, toward the bronze light of a distant cabin. In chemicals, it is B-selinene, trans-p-mentha-1(7), 8-dien-2-ol, and other substances whose spellings are as complicated as the molecular structures they represent. In dressing, itâs a womanâs lace slip and her red leather glove. In love, itâs
Mmmm
until it ceases to be.
Isa said LâAmour du Nord
was the smell of a place. Whenever Iâm lonely or upset, I put a drop of this perfume on the inside of my wrist and let it take me home.
Chapter 9
T he receptionistâs desk floats on gleaming white linoleum. The storied Florida sunshine pours through spotless floor-to-ceiling windows that have no doubt spelled ruin for countless birds. A woman in a pencil-thin skirt and fitted jacket greets me. Her shoulders are squared by epaulets; her pretty blond hair is folded into a smooth bun below the rim of her Navy cap. Her smile when I introduce myself reveals pearly, child-size teeth, with just a flashing hint of sharpness in the canines.
Iâm disconcerted by the awful, cool hush of the place, which convinces me, paradoxically, that thereâs a great deal going on, but that itâs all beneath the surface, behind the walls, on the other side of the closed doors we are now passing, our footfalls clicking noisily like two metronomes out of sync. By the time we enter Commander Stockwellâs office, my fight-or-flight response has duly considered the likely outcomes of
fight
and determinedly cast its lot with
flight
. But itâs too late to run; the comely receptionist recedes, leaving me in a spacious office, feeling trapped. If Iâm Commander Stockwellâs idea of a bionic woman, she ought to be more worried than she looks.
She gives a forthright smile, rising from her flag-flanked desk. Light brunette hair, sensibly cut, sturdy on her feet, midfifties. Short dry fingers that exert just the right amount of strong-but-warm pressure when they wrap around my hand. In civilian clothes, she could be your childhood friendâs mother, the one who had more fun with the Girl Scout troop than any of the girls did. Right now sheâs doing a fine hostess routine, lobbing inquiries about my trip, my accommodations, my postdisaster health. With pleasure she relates a few of her cityâs main attractions. I must visit Ripleyâs Believe It or Not Museum. The white sand beaches are unsurpassed, and the ocean has been described as
emerald
. There is no word but
gracious
to describe her demeanor, but still I canât relax. There are guarded gates at every egress of this compound (upon entering I was subjected to a thorough search), and the whole time sheâs talking, what Iâm hearing is:
Welcome to my war palace, where you will be well cared for, and carefully observed.
We sit down across from each other, smiling like girl chums, and she starts as all good persuaders do, by telling stories:
March 24, 1999
. Marine Corps Physical Fitness Academy, Maryland. Seven elite marines, all trained as water survival instructors, capsize while paddling a war canoe across the Potomac River. They have seat cushions but no life jackets. The water temperature is 37°F. Within minutes, all seven have drowned, approximately 90 yards from
Voilà :
a perfumery. But we never called it that. The kitchen was simply my motherâs happy laboratory, where she worked with intense focus and a deep calm emotion that she didnât exhibit during the other months of the year. Looking back, I realize it was joy.
At some point during these summers of my childhood, LâAmour du Nord was born. A fragrance is difficult to describe. In colors, it would be deep blues and whites, with traces of magenta and neon green. In experience, it would be setting off across snow in a warm fur coat in a musty twilight, toward the bronze light of a distant cabin. In chemicals, it is B-selinene, trans-p-mentha-1(7), 8-dien-2-ol, and other substances whose spellings are as complicated as the molecular structures they represent. In dressing, itâs a womanâs lace slip and her red leather glove. In love, itâs
Mmmm
until it ceases to be.
Isa said LâAmour du Nord
was the smell of a place. Whenever Iâm lonely or upset, I put a drop of this perfume on the inside of my wrist and let it take me home.
Chapter 9
T he receptionistâs desk floats on gleaming white linoleum. The storied Florida sunshine pours through spotless floor-to-ceiling windows that have no doubt spelled ruin for countless birds. A woman in a pencil-thin skirt and fitted jacket greets me. Her shoulders are squared by epaulets; her pretty blond hair is folded into a smooth bun below the rim of her Navy cap. Her smile when I introduce myself reveals pearly, child-size teeth, with just a flashing hint of sharpness in the canines.
Iâm disconcerted by the awful, cool hush of the place, which convinces me, paradoxically, that thereâs a great deal going on, but that itâs all beneath the surface, behind the walls, on the other side of the closed doors we are now passing, our footfalls clicking noisily like two metronomes out of sync. By the time we enter Commander Stockwellâs office, my fight-or-flight response has duly considered the likely outcomes of
fight
and determinedly cast its lot with
flight
. But itâs too late to run; the comely receptionist recedes, leaving me in a spacious office, feeling trapped. If Iâm Commander Stockwellâs idea of a bionic woman, she ought to be more worried than she looks.
She gives a forthright smile, rising from her flag-flanked desk. Light brunette hair, sensibly cut, sturdy on her feet, midfifties. Short dry fingers that exert just the right amount of strong-but-warm pressure when they wrap around my hand. In civilian clothes, she could be your childhood friendâs mother, the one who had more fun with the Girl Scout troop than any of the girls did. Right now sheâs doing a fine hostess routine, lobbing inquiries about my trip, my accommodations, my postdisaster health. With pleasure she relates a few of her cityâs main attractions. I must visit Ripleyâs Believe It or Not Museum. The white sand beaches are unsurpassed, and the ocean has been described as
emerald
. There is no word but
gracious
to describe her demeanor, but still I canât relax. There are guarded gates at every egress of this compound (upon entering I was subjected to a thorough search), and the whole time sheâs talking, what Iâm hearing is:
Welcome to my war palace, where you will be well cared for, and carefully observed.
We sit down across from each other, smiling like girl chums, and she starts as all good persuaders do, by telling stories:
March 24, 1999
. Marine Corps Physical Fitness Academy, Maryland. Seven elite marines, all trained as water survival instructors, capsize while paddling a war canoe across the Potomac River. They have seat cushions but no life jackets. The water temperature is 37°F. Within minutes, all seven have drowned, approximately 90 yards from
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