The scent of a family

By Alessandra Cortese

When you’re thirty, love is everything, while treachery inevitably opens a door into the void. Doll – the nickname she has chosen because she hates her name – spends her time daydreaming, and spying on the life of her neighbours across the road, to fill the void in her own. The girl is fragile and lacks self-esteem. Her relationship with her mother has always been complicated.

But after an unexpected trip to Copenhagen, everything changes in the space of a few weeks, and Doll witnesses the total upheaval of her own life and that of many other people. She discovers a past that will unravel knots in her current life, badly in need of a change. Why Copenhagen? Who is the man she meets there? Emotions, passions, and revelations will finally lead her to a safe harbour, dispelling all her doubts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alessandra Cortese
• Release date: Dec 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9788822874276

Book preview

Alessandra Cortese

THE SCENT OF A FAMILY

THE SCENT

OF A FAMILY

novel

Translated from the Italian by Sarah Jane Webb

UUID: 2ca02d68-b8bb-11e6-b4f5-0f7870795abd

This ebook was created with StreetLib Write (http://write.streetlib.com).

Table of contents

Biography

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Credits

Biography

Alessandra Cortese was born in Milan, specialised in classical studies, and has been living in Venice for a number of years. Rather than talk about herself, she prefers to listen: over time, she has come to realise that we learn something from everyone. The scent of a family is her first novel.

Alessandra Cortese recognises herself in many quotes of philosopher Albert Einstein. One in particular: I know quite certainly that I myself have no special talent: curiosity, obsession and dogged endurance, combined with self-criticism, have brought me to my ideas.

1

Life is full of surprises…

We spend so much time planning our future, dreaming up complex schemes, playing with the craziest thoughts – all of which seem perfectly feasible, inside our heads. But events far surpassing our wildest imagination can get in the way. Life hands us a whole new screenplay, at odds with our character and the role we’ve been used to. And all our intentions and thoughts, our hustling and bustling, are suddenly wiped out.

I see a man, predicted a gipsy one day, reading my hand. He comes from far away and he’ll change your life. Sure… men always do, one way or another. Not much of a prophecy. Beating around the bush, the way horoscopes do. After all, I might easily share my birth sign with some old biddy on oxygen therapy. What would be her chances of a life-changing encounter – unless it be with God?

That was the first time I’d had my hand read: the woman had ensnared me with her magnetic gaze. These things happen, when your heart is broken. You’re more vulnerable: easy prey for anyone who throws an illusionary glimmer of light onto your future.

A man from afar… Despite my innate scepticism, I liked the idea. Some time later the prophecy came true. I discovered an unknown event concerning my past – the only period I’d been entirely sure about – and was catapulted into an unfamiliar dimension. The experience of a lifetime instantly obliterated: even the coffee I’d just drunk had left an alien taste in my mouth. From that moment on, nothing was the same again.

I’m thirty years old, I live and work in Milan, and I’m dissatisfied with my life. I belong to that obscure percentage of people who dream their time away and who, every once in a while, would almost be prepared to sign a deal with the Devil to turn their life around.

I’ve often pictured Him: a charming thirty-something with a briefcase full of money; and with a magic mirror in which my reflection is transformed. All he wants is my soul. I’m not even sure I have one. Supposing I had one, could I agree to give up a fraction of it?

Without bothering the Prince of Darkness, I’d settle for being slightly less in the red, so as to indulge in the things I like. Right now I fancy liposuction. It’s because of the chocolates, sweets, crisps and fizzy drinks I guzzle in the evening, in front of TV: surrogates for the good things in life. I’ve been trapped in a dark hole ever since Marcello, my boyfriend, suggested the classic, hypocritical pause for reflection, freezing me out like a fish-finger.

I feel down in the dumps whenever I look at my favourite jeans, the ones that fitted only three months ago. Any attempts to try them on end in misery: when the zipper doesn’t jam, and when – by holding my breath like a freediving champion – I manage to yank the zipper all the way up, the fat on my belly overflows, forming a second spare tyre around my waist.

I should go to the gym; I should empty the larder of the zillion temptations stocked up in there; but I procrastinate day after day, obviously lacking motivation. I’d rather seethe with envy and loathing at the sex goddesses advertising perfumes, deodorants, bras and slimming-creams: look at them, lathering their wasp waists and pert unripe-apple bottoms, their gaze unmistakably declaring, "You’ll never be like me: I was born this way!" I swear I’d like to blast that cream down their throat or other cavity with an air gun. Am I mean? Fact is, they make me feel a failure, as well as a fool. Am I shallow? Probably, but I think looks are important.

Actually I’m not that bad: bright eyes, a full mouth, an almost-perfect nose. Pretty. But not enough to resurrect my self-esteem.

Now I’m a size fourteen I can’t find anything even remotely sexy to wear. When I go shopping for clothes I end up feeling I’d look better clad in the changing-room curtains. Particularly these days: have you noticed how sizes get smaller and smaller? What used to be a size twelve is now a ten, and size fourteen is furtively sneaking towards the plus-size department.

As well as wishing I could treat myself to a few touch-ups, I’ve always dreamed of having my legs lengthened by four or five inches, so I wouldn’t have to tilt my chin so far up to make eye contact with people. I hate being looked-down on.

As a young girl I used to moan about being short, and blame my mother for not making enough of an effort. She always retorted: Darling, you have a great advantage: because you have to look up, you see the sky more often, while others have to make do with the ground.

Cool, I thought at the time. Now I consider my 5’3" the worst of my defects.

Actually, not quite the worst: there’s more to come. The set of vowels and consonants that mark you for life: those whose sequence can result in a sound that’s sweet, or harsh, or exotic, or important, or insignificant, or dramatic; a sound pronounced through pursed, or parted, or heart-shaped lips. Take Letitia, Margaret or Angela, for example: they express sweetness. Lucretia, though beautiful, is a little harsh. Amber, exotic. Alexandra, Matilda and Victoria sound important, seemingly heralding success. Bridget is pronounced through pursed lips. Anna, through parted lips. Judith, with a heart-shaped mouth. There are also dramatic, difficult, emblematic names – like mine: Dolores. You need to be divinely beautiful, or of Latin-American origin, to get away with a name like that. Besides, what with recent circumstances, it’s been months since I managed to introduce myself with a smile.

I’ve always wondered what came over my mother, back then: forty-eight hours of labour, maybe? That might be it, as my name derives from the feast day of the Seven Dolors of Mary. If only she’d taken her cue from a hit of her times! The cool Eighties were full of songs dedicated by authors to their loved ones, which accounts for all the Roxannes, Valeries and Billy-Jeans among the girls my age.

As if being called Dolores weren’t bad enough, I’m single (has the edge on spinster), of the lonely-as-an-abandoned-dog type. Picture a small mongrel – of the many that get dumped at the first motorway exit on a sweltering August day – standing petrified on the tarmac, and watching uncomprehendingly as the car drives off. He’d loved his owner. His devotion had shone through large, besotted eyes, and the wagging of his tail when welcoming his human at the door. What you’ve just imagined happened to me three months ago. Admittedly, I wasn’t turned out of a car at a motorway exit on a stifling day in August. Yet when I think back to that moment, I feel exactly like that poor little tail-wagger. Lost. Abandoned by my beloved owner. No longer having dinners, week-ends, holidays, or a future to look forward to. In short, all out of reasons to wag my tail.

I realise I’m not the only unhappy soul in this world. In places where bombs are raining down – places without food, medicines or water – people are certainly worse off than me. But the thought of other people’s misfortunes doesn’t make me feel any better. A broken heart is a broken heart – wherever you are.

I try to draw strength from the hope that things will change, sooner or later. Marcello will go back on his decision, and I’ll climb out of this dark hole, reclaim my old life. Although I’m not sure I’d want it as it was before: I could certainly do without the things that brought our romance to an end.

In a recurring dream I’m at the station. A train rolls in, slowly passing me. Occasionally it stops briefly, but it’s too crowded for me to get on board. As I wake up I tell myself that, when I manage to board that train, things will change for the better.

Meanwhile I’ll carry on moaning. Where was I? Oh yes, my defects, my shattered love dream, my desires.

Too many: they’ll never come true.

For a start, my salary barely covers basic necessities, and the slightest extra runs me dry: a new bra; a hair trim – why, oh why does it have to cost like a haircut? And I can’t possibly give up pre-dinner drinks with my girlfriends: socialising is important! Hell, I slog away all day, and often evenings and week-ends as well.

I’m a copywriter in an advertising agency, ever struggling to meet deadlines. Until the text of a new ad is approved, it rattles on and on in my mind while I’m having a shower, through dinner, and even in my sleep.

Competition is fierce. A commercial will only work if it goes straight to the heart, or the mind. The key is to engage. To convince, in seconds, that such-and-such a product is of vital importance; that it will change your life, obviously for the better: that you’ll no longer live in a dingy little flat, with pain-in-the-arse neighbours, among drab, grey apartment blocks with bedraggled geraniums begging for a ray of sunlight. That by magic you’ll find yourself in a beautiful country home, surrounded by a lawn of surreal green; and while you’re having breakfast and losing yourself in the lustful eyes of a dishy actor, his eager, voluptuous lips will draw nearer and nearer… Not your neck, sorry, but a slice of freshly-baked bread. This isn’t one of mine, but trust me: when it comes to deceitful advertising, I have extraordinary talent.

My colleague Paola and I form the creative duo: I write all the bullshit proclaimed off-screen while she, the art director, handles images and graphics. I like what I do. I play with words, gloating when I see them on TV and posters. If only I earned a bit more, I’d stop blurting out: Why is there always so much month left after the money’s all gone?

Paola, too, lives on her own; but she’s subsidised by her dad and can afford to indulge every whim. She dines with her family in the trendiest restaurants; goes to the gym and to beauty farms. When she travels, she only stays in luxury hotels, with whirlpools on seafront terraces; king-size beds; big-screen, HD resolution TVs; and champagne for breakfast – that’s all the rage, I’m told. And on the beach, a lounger with canopy, complete with refreshing vaporised mist: just the thing for sunbathing. Really cool. When she tells me all this, I fall into a reverie – feeling a harmless twinge of envy.

I often wonder what her house is like. Paola is not just a colleague: she’s my best friend. I tell her all my secrets, we share our sorrows. Truth be told, the keenest chagrin she ever confessed was missing the latest Jimmy Choo handbag (a must-have). God forbid this should ever happen again! Now, of course, the moment she receives a text message from the salesgirl she dashes off to the shoe store, so as not to risk her new-to-sale size 5 favourite-designer shoes being bagged by someone else. Giulia, our creative director, doesn’t always notice Paola’s vanishing acts; but when she does, I’m the one who has to cover up for her. Unfortunately, when I’m engrossed in my work and questions are fired at me out of the blue, I can’t always think of a prompt comeback, so I end up mumbling the same trite excuse: She’s out buying sanitary towels. After three such absences in a month, Giulia recently came out of her office the exact moment Paola had left – as if she’d stuck a GPS to her tail feathers. Faced with Giulia’s don’t-you-dare expression, courage failed me and I didn’t say a word – but she did: That girl should see a gynaecologist.

Because of Paola, I risk putting myself in a bad light with Giulia. Not that it matters: I’m really fond of Paola. But is it mutual? It’s strange that she’s never invited me to her place. I’ve already asked her over to mine many times, but she’s never accepted. She probably prefers to go out. When you’re cooped up all day in an office with sealed windows – the air too cold in summer, too dry in winter – and always with the same faces, it’s normal to want to go on the town, to see different people, hang out in new places.

During my lunch-hour today, the coldest day in January, I’m celebrating my birthday with my nose glued to the Cartier shop window in Via Montenapoleone, popping Lindt chocolates into my mouth at regular intervals. I love all that glitter, despite the fact that it will never adorn my neck, wrists or fingers. Shades of " Breakfast at Tiffany’s" … But I like to take refuge in day-dreams. With all the years of practice I have, I can safely say that I’m an expert in this field.

When I was small, someone would always break the spell: Stop fantasising, get your feet back on the ground. Real life is a whole different story! Damn it.

A whole different story… What’s that supposed to mean?

I feel fine in my "cashmere cardigans (actually 50% acrylic, 50% wool… but with loads of conditioner they’re almost as soft as the real thing). I flaunt my Chanel or Louis Vuitton" bags, bought from Moroccan peddlers, as if they were authentic; and day after day I convince myself that they are. After all, that’s what really matters!

Only Paola knows my secret. She says I’m doing it right: even she can’t tell the difference between originals and fakes.

There’s not a soul around at this time of day. Wait, there’s a dog waddling my way: long coat glossy and well-groomed; collar studded with pink Swarovski crystals. A she-dog. With a Birkin in her paw she’d look exactly like some dame fresh out of a Coppola salon, where so-called trims cost a quarter of my salary. The bitch is giving me a sniff. I ignore her and she does the same. She’s local: a rich person’s hound.

A euro for your thoughts… whispers someone behind my back.

Wasn’t it a penny for your thoughts? Anyway, so much for intuition! What could possibly be on a girl’s mind, when she’s been glued to a Cartier window for half an hour? Robbery? I could almost be content with a fake… But then again, that ring in the top right-hand corner, the really tiny one: that would do fine – as long as it came from him. He’d have to ask me out to dinner in a cosy little restaurant; then drop the ring, unseen, into my champagne glass. Hell, a pint of draught beer at the pub round the corner would do just as well, provided he were armed with good intentions, the life-ruining bastard.

I hear retreating steps and turn around: built like a tank, an ancient one at that, judging by the colour of his hair. I’d guessed as much from his voice. Who else would use a line from an old film to chat a girl up?

Some pigeon shit drips down the sleeve of my coat. Fuck. I’d better get the bus, or I’ll be late for work. No sooner have I taken two steps when my shoe slides on steaming dog poop. Not my day. That uppity Maltese: this is her doing, I’ll bet. Why was she wandering around alone, with no owner to pick up her droppings? I sometimes see the two strolling together, dog and owner: same gait, gaze, features. It’s a known fact that, after living together for some time, dogs and their owners begin to resemble one another. Take Lily, the elderly neighbour who owns my flat: she looks just like her poodle, round-eyed, tight-lipped, curly white hair, head slightly inclined to one side. Every time I meet them they observe me in identical manner, as if they were about to utter an admonishing remark.

Owing to my soiled shoe, an empty space quickly clears around me on the crowded bus. I can feel other passengers’ gaze on me. Shall I ignore them?

I stare back defiantly. The moment drags on endlessly, until their gazes drop, one by one. Great, now I can look elsewhere: the hurried to-ing and fro-ing of people returning to the office, and ambling of those leaving restaurants. A couple of elderly tourists staring at the menu on the door of a trattoria: the woman is translating, using a small dictionary and the man, despite his specs, is checking prices with a magnifying