The Secret Ways of Perfume by Cristina Caboni

herself in a tub of hot water, she began to revive. For a second Matteo popped into her mind, but she was quick to push him back out. She had too much to do, too much to organize. She was busy planning her new life. There was no time to keep going over the past.
    â€œToo busy for love, no time for hate,” she whispered, recalling a phrase she often spotted on Facebook. It wasn’t strictly true. (There had been moments when she felt like gouging out Alessia’s eyes and stabbing Matteo.) Still, it was a nice idea and she decided to stick to it as much as possible: she would fill her days with only good things. Thoughts raced around her mind, lingering briefly before taking off again in new directions.
    Relaxed but hungry, Elena got out of the bath. Once she’d eaten the treats Monique had left her, she lay down on the bed and realized that she almost felt happy.
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    Cail looked at the rose he’d sheltered from the rain a few days earlier. Its petals were open now. At their edges tiny droplets sparkled, waiting to join the others and roll to the ground like tears. A delicate scent of apple tea was all the flower emitted—but it was too slight, too commonplace, barely acceptable. It was a beautiful rose, of course—and he hadn’t anticipated that, when it matured, the rose would be shaped like a chalice, since it had shown no signs of this before it bloomed. The color was baby pink with an apricot center.
    So in the end, he decided, his work hadn’t been totally wasted. His German clients would include it in their catalog, no problem. They’d pay well and he’d get to keep the royalties.
    As he went back inside his apartment, he thought about the girl he’d met at the entrance earlier. From her accent, she seemed Italian. She had told him he smelled like the rain. He thought back to her words, turning them over in his mind, carefully weighing each one, until John came over and rubbed against his legs. The animal was nice and warm; Cail bent and stroked his fur.
    â€œHow many times have I told you you’re a dog, not a cat?” In response, John licked his hand and Cail smiled. “Are you hungry? Come on, let’s go inside.”
    The apartment Cail rented was in the part of the premises that had once been used by the stable boys from the former grand mansion. It was reached by a staircase that ended at a terrace. He’d had to pay a premium for sole use of the terrace, but it was worth it. He’d surrounded it with a wooden trellis and planted a
Banksiae lutea
rambling rose. In just two years the plant’s long thornless branches had covered every inch of the fence, creating a screen for the rest of the terrace. Itflowered once a year—tiny perfumed posies that lasted just a few weeks. In the sheltered area, Cail grew special roses: the mothers, the plants he would go on to use in his work. A little nylon greenhouse, in the middle of the terrace, contained the young hybrids he was counting on to find new varieties of roses. Around it, everything was arranged and kept in perfect order: equipment, soil, fertilizer. Next to the door to the apartment was John’s kennel.
    With the dog at his heels, Cail went inside, turned on the lights and headed for the kitchen. He chopped some vegetables, put them in a pan with a little olive oil, then added a clove of garlic and a couple of basil leaves.
    He picked out a CD, carefully removed it from its case and put it into the machine.
    Curled up on the rug in the lounge, John dozed lazily, constantly keeping one eye on Cail. After tidying the kitchen and loading the dishwasher, Cail went out onto the terrace. The dog followed him to the doorway and stopped.
    The air was cold, crisp. The clouds had dissipated, allowing for a handful of stars to shine through. Cail carried on looking at them for a while, and let Ludovico Einaudi’s piano lift his thoughts. He then went