SMELLS AND ODOURS

Since childhood, smells have accompanied us like little invisible presences. They slip into our memory, settle in silently, and then sometimes resurface, intact, triggered by a gesture, a place, or a breath of air. Everyone keeps them inside like a secret herbarium, made of houses, faces, and moments long gone.

I can still recall the smell of my baby bottle, that warm and familiar Lacson’s milk, and especially that of my bib when the old stains, embedded in the fabric, took on that unique sharpness of oxidised milk when exposed to the air.

I also keep, with an almost touching clarity, the trail of 4711 cologne. My grandmother, my parents, my mother-in-law, and then my husband wore it in turn. That note of bergamot, fresh and bright, seems to have crossed generations to reach me again. It will probably never leave me; it will remain linked to them like a scented thread stretched between the living and the absent.

Other scents remain engraved deep within me: freshly cut grass, dry harvest under the sun, straw resting in the fields like blonde hair. Even the white nettles in the ditches, when they raise their almost virginally white flowers, exude a discreet, humble, and poignant presence.

Other scents remain etched deep within me: freshly cut grass, hay drying under the sun, straw lying in the fields like blonde hair. Even the white nettles along the ditches, when they raise their almost virginally white flowers, give off a discreet, humble, and poignant presence. 

Pharmacies and drugstores, on the other hand, had their own atmosphere: a mix of remedies, wax, old powders, and slightly stuffy air. You’d enter them like stepping into another world, sometimes poorly ventilated but immediately recognisable, with that serious smell of care, bottles, and secrets tucked away behind the counters.

In the garden, the marigolds, planted to keep slugs away, sometimes imposed their strong scent over the finer aromas of lilies of the valley, roses, or wisteria. And in churches, the incense from services and funerals rose in persistent spirals; its heavy, penetrating smoke made me sway, as if the very air were turning into prayer, mystery, and vertigo. 

And what about the smell of leather in a new car? That short-lived, almost luxurious scent always faded too quickly. There were also wardrobes, where lavender sachets perfumed the underwear with a gentle, comforting freshness. I can still remember my mother’s perfumes: Chanel No. 5, then other heavier fragrances, chosen to mask the lingering smell of moth repellents on her fur coats – Joy by Jean Patou, maybe a Guerlain whose name escapes me now, Chamade or Terracotta.

On the flip side of these warm memories, nicotine remains for me one of the most unpleasant smells: it would cling to the rooms, the clothes, and the bathrooms frequented by heavy smokers, like grey dust that’s impossible to get rid of. Luckily, awareness of the dangers of tobacco has gradually reduced its presence and, with it, that harsh trace that weighed so much on non-smokers. Even darker are the smells of rotting plants or decomposing bodies. I remember a warning I’d heard long ago: never buy a used car in which someone had died. That smell, they said, seeps everywhere, sticks to the fibres, the seats, and the tiniest folds, and no air freshener can really conquer it.

Even darker are the smells of rotting plants or decaying bodies. I remember that warning I once heard: never buy a used car in which someone has died. That smell, they said, seeps everywhere, clinging to the fibres, the seats, and every little crease, and no air freshener can really get rid of it. 

But what a joy, on the other hand, to open the door of a well-kept house, where a bouquet of fresh flowers greets you before any words are spoken: French lilacs, peonies, or simply that clear smell of cleanliness, laundry, calm, and peaceful living