The Most Elusive Scent of All

By Arthur Winarczyk

A tale told by a dimension - a living consciousness to which some psychic minds are attune to. A tale about the Sicilian Mafia in the 18th century. The consciousness projects mental images of this period. Images of people, faces rarely distinct, in different situations. The opening words of Chapter 8 is one way to explain such projections: With night came a fierce storm with thunder and lightning and dark visions. Maria slept poorly, tossing and turning. The tale is developed to fit cohesively into those images. A tale about a Way of Life - not about organized crime. In the depression of the 1930s it was the gangster Al Capone who organized soup kitchens for hungry children in Chicago USA such a compassionate deed. Why? To aid the very poor is as much a trait of the Sicilian Mafia as are profits from prostitution. Prostitution always has been one of the largest sources of revenue for the Mafia. The Mafia Way of Life is not easily understood. One reason is that word Mafia is a modern invented word. This tale is about the people that became part of the Mafia in that period, about their background and what led them to accept this Way of Life. People like Pedro, an ox of a man and bodyguard; or Paulo, so talented and saving the life of a woman who would become his wife sets him on a path of no return; of Anastasia and Romeo, a high class prostitute and a killer who fall in love. Central to the tale is the seduction of the first Mafia priest which begins with mysterious notes slid under the church door.

in a room full of women I saw her face

When the Vatican hears a whisper in the wind young Sister Lucy becomes the key to solving the mystery what does Mafia want with our priests? Some still want the Sicilian Mafia to be a myth but read a modern researched book such as Into the Heart of the Mafia by David Lane and the question you may ask is not who in Sicily is Mafia but who is not? It is a Way of Life ancient in origin. The reader needs to bear in mind too that the original womans perfumes could only be made from an essence of a flower found on a tree that only grows in Italy. Thus the Most Elusive Scent mentioned all too often could have been the first true perfume ever discovered. Any wonder that scent had a powerful effect on men? And if we were to ask the Sicilian Mafia dimension what is the one word that can best explain Sicilian Mafia the answer is si. Italian for yes. Only a born Sicilian can say si and cosa nostra (our thing; our way) the Mafia way of saying those words. In Sicily there is even a Mafia (cosa nostra) museum and it is ever so popular with tourists!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483623559

Book preview

Chapter 1

The First Mafia Priest

The super growth of the Sicilian Mafia began with the first Mafia Priest. A young Roman Catholic priest assigned to a town in Sicily. It was the middle of the 18th Century and Father Franko set about his duties diligently. Sicily was mostly peasants and farmers. While it had a fertile plain and produced many crops even so good farming land was sought after due to the rocky and hilly nature of parts of Sicily. Larger estate owners had to look after their boundaries and hire armed men to patrol their properties. Other farmers, or less well to do property owners, that needed pasture land or the fruit from an orchard, on land that belonged to another, found a way to corrupt such border guards. Those farmers especially good at this were called Dons and their services sought. The term Don was a form of respect used for the wealthy estate owners. When referring to a Mafia Don a special emphasis was placed on that word.

Early in its beginning the Mafia adopted a structure similar to a military with Generals and Captains and soldiers—as such were known. There was no uniform as such and ranks were not mentioned in ordinary conversation. Mafia is a modern term—the Italian words cosa nostra mean our thing or our way but a number of meanings have been placed on this including our house and our family—finally the word Mafia emerged. In this story the term Mafia is often used but only to avoid confusion. In fact, children of Mafiosi may grow up never imagining they are part of the Mafia extended family or ever hear that word used. That trait perhaps unique to the Sicilian Mafia shaped the Sicilian way of life. The term Mafia was also used more for local gangs than the family.

The most usual form of corruption was not money. It was the services of a prostitute. Not a typical prostitute. What would be called a high-class prostitute. The exceptional Mafia prostitutes were known as angels and they were not selling their bodies—they were selling love and in those harsh times true love was a commodity few men experienced. The power of love disguised as sex made such Mafia women sought after. A Mafia angel was said to be able to enchant any man, of any age, no matter how in love with his own wife such a man might be. The reputation of the angels had spread to the mainland and much of Europe. Such were shapely, usually relatively young, and taught well to entice and seduce a man at a number of levels. Many a daughter of a Don had learnt from such angels their skill and craft divine.

In an era in which girls as young as twelve could be forced into marriage; in an era when an 18 year old might be walking with a 5 year old and wondering how to feed her young daughter—there was no shortage of young pretty recruits eager to join the ranks of Mafia prostitutes. Hunger had a way of detaching the soul from the body and compelling the body to do whatever it took.

Border guards were usually young men and their natural hormones high. Not much of an effort for a beautiful young woman to win favours from such men. By chance one of the Don’s daughters had discovered that a certain mix of plants, herbs and flowers and secret ingredients produced a perfume with a most elusive scent. That scent had a potent effect on men. What the essence was we can only guess but even today the essence of the flower of the Bergamot tree—a type of citrus which grows only around the Italian boot (some claim also grows in a part of France) is vital for all perfumes. In fact, until a synthetic replacement was found, no true perfume could be made without that essence. ‘The most elusive scent of all’ may have been the finest perfume a woman can put on. Not surprising it had a potent effect on men.

Father Franko’s church was an old stone building. Tall and long albeit a touch narrow. Plain inside. Two large and heavy wooden doors were usually left open, or at least one was, during Mass and when the priest was in residence. Each morning, if he was in residence, at 10 o’clock sharp the priest would open at least one of the double doors. This morning as he approached he noticed a white note had been slid under the door. The note had words in large red writing written ever so neatly and elegantly.

. . . in a room full of women I saw her face . . .

There was a scent on the paper—a tantalising scent. The priest held it under his nostrils trying, once again, to decipher that elusive scent. He folded the note neatly and slid it into his pocket. Now he had a number of such notes. The day before there was also a note.

. . . in a room full of mirrors I saw her . . .

And it began the day before that with the very first note.

. . . in a garden of dreams my thoughts turned to her . . .

Inside the church an odour of decay hung in the air. The church was on a cliff and far below the ocean. On most days the sea breeze swept away the stale odour of age and sweat. The church had always been kept clean. High on its two tall walls three narrow stained glass windows. Too dark to let much sunlight in—on a bright day the light that came through formed beams of colour that would blend and entwine. Many a child during Mass became mesmerised by this effect of the dance of light; the child’s head tilted upward and eyes rarely shifting from such a display. Rows of pews, brown and showing age, most scratched, lined the church. At the front the altar. A door to the right of the altar as seen from the pews, not easily visible to the congregation, led to his private room behind the church. That room could also be entered through another door that led directly to the outside at the back of the church.

Toward the front of the church, to the left of the entrance, a room that could be used as an office and an adjacent room. Father Franko did not like those rooms. Refused to allow these to be cleaned because they were not used and would sit with a person, perhaps organising a baptism, in one of the pews at the front.

In his humble church Father Franko was fitting candles into a table especially made for such. These were for the regular Mass on Sunday which was always at 9 am. This Saturday morning the church had been lavishly decorated for a wedding of the oldest daughter of a wealthy estate owner. Many bouquets of flowers had been left by the altar. Some he would later take to refresh the air in his room. Around each pew a white satin ribbon tied in a special way. The ends of the shiny material hanging down and delicately tossed about by a soft breeze. Many young women had attended that wedding, each dressed in fine clothes, each wearing a scent. A faint hint of scents hung in the air. It was not long after the wedding that Father Franko found another note by the open door.

. . . in a house of mirth an angel came to me . . .

The scents from the wedding were still ever so strong. Was this the mirth being referred to? What did it all mean? Who was responsible? The young priest was good looking and in this regard vain. He had become used to female admirers. No doubt the notes came from one such young lady. Surely no reason for concern? Surely it will pass? Whoever she was she had a mystery about her. The notes were haunting and, so the priest thought, were lines of poetry in motion. Father Franko held the note in his hand as he studied the ribbons on the pews. Such decorations would need to be removed before Mass the following day. The usually punctual caretaker of the church had not arrived yet.

The day had been warm. The sunlight flooded the church through the open doors and its colourful windows. Outside the church there was little activity now and inside peace and solitude. Father Franko did not hear or notice the young attractive Sicilian in a black dress, with a black veil covering her face, walking toward him and now the woman stood motionless. The priest had turned his attention to the note again and was holding it close to his nose once again seduced and hypnotized by that faint scent on the note—oblivious to the woman studying him or her discreet smile as she observed how desperately he tried to decipher the nature of that scent—unaware the elusive scent was now flooding his nostrils more than ever but not from the note!

I need to confess my sins, Father.

Father Franko turned. The woman lifted her veil and removed it. The young woman’s looks were magnificent. Vaguely he recalled her at the wedding standing at the back dressed much as she was now. Had he seen her before that even? At least it could have been the same young woman? For an unknown reason his own eyes had been drawn to this angelic beauty standing at the back. Unlikely anyone of too much importance else she would have been sitting in one of the pews. Such was a tradition among the wealthy. Those who worked for an estate owner often attended weddings and stood at the back and said nothing and left once the ceremony was complete.

She stood in such a way that the strong sunlight pouring through the doors overpowered Father Franko’s eyes and it seemed he was seeing an apparition. There was something else—a scent—an elusive scent. Was the scent similar to the notes? Was it his imagination? That trace of a scent on those notes had haunted him for the last few nights. Could it be the very source of the scent was with him?

This way, my child. Father Franko pointed to one of the confessionals at the far end of one wall. As he walked he neatly folded the note and put it in his pocket. The confessional was not much more than a tall box. He entered one side, closed the door, sat down and parted a black curtain over a small opening covered with black mesh. On the other side the young woman was kneeling.

I am no longer a virgin, Father. The young woman’s voice soft. But I have no husband.

Though less than thirty Father Franko had heard such confessions. Before his appointment to his native Sicily he had served in Rome and outer towns. A compassionate and reasonable man. He knew the general state of poverty that drove young women to gain an advantage over men of substance. About this he was not judgemental. It was the way it was. The young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, was adult enough to make her own decisions in such matters.

Are you pregnant?

Heaven forbid! I would kill the child so born.

Father Franko was horrified and alarmed. He raised his voice. It is a mortal sin to kill a newborn. Are you not afraid of hell?

I am sorry. The woman rose. I ought not have come.

Quickly she was out of the confessional. Father Franko could hear footsteps leaving the church.

He did not move and sat in silence in his dark confessional box. On his mind and in his heart a mystery. What was that scent? His thoughts wondered. Wild flowers? Natural female hormone? Petals of a rose in her hair? I would give all I have to understand what that elusive scent was. His thoughts came quickly and he recalled—one by one—the young women at the wedding that morning, each taking a turn after the service to thank the priest, each with a tantalising scent. All lovely and yet none of the scents had come close to that—the most elusive scent of all—now playing on his mind. A memory came. A new entertainment had arrived in Salermo. A large room full of mirrors. These were shaped in such a manner as to reflect a person in different ways: as fat, lean, extra tall, one mirror especially for women and it only accentuated the size of the breasts. As he wandered through this display, delighted at the exotic effects and so well done, a woman came into view in one of the mirrors. Curious, he looked about trying to spot where the woman stood. He could not find her and when he looked again the image was no more. That particular mirror distorted the face consequently it was impossible to be certain this was the woman—and yet there was a faint elusive scent in the room. Was it the same one?

Father Franko was a man who experienced visions. In his days, days less confused by modern psychology, Father Franko was fond of sharing his mystical visions with families who invited him to dinner. Rumours spread about the young priest. Some said he was not of sound mind. Others said he was a Saint. The priest was fond of using the expression garden of dreams when talking about his visions. That made some suspect he was a user of an illicit drug.

The moment Maria was out of the church she turned sharply. From the pocket of her dress she took out a black veil and put it over her head. She walked down stone steps to a carriage waiting in the shadow of the side of the church. A luxurious carriage. She climbed in and sat down and closed curtains over the windows. The driver moved off.

Maria was not an ordinary woman. She was the oldest daughter of a powerful Don. Only in her early twenties and still chaste and from the age of seventeen largely looked after the family. Her father had what in modern medicine would be called dementia. A severe form. It was she who looked after the business and it had become a profitable business. For this she had earned much respect from the Generals and other Dons alike. The first Don and family that had left their farming life and made much money from other ventures. On the rare occasion when the head of the border guards could not be corrupted the Don’s family arranged an accident. Like most in town she too had heard rumours about the handsome young priest and his mystical visions. Unlike most she knew what these were. Maria was what in modern terms would be called a super psychic. When she first came across this priest during Mass and accepted the Eucharist the moment she swallowed a strong mental image of the devil formed in her head. She knew what that meant. The young priest could be tempted and would not overpower the temptation. That vision played on her mind and it was at that time, after turbulent nights and tempest, that Maria formed a plan how to take advantage of this situation. In those times of such immense poverty Maria knew some priests became priests to escape a life of poverty—not because they were God’s.

A three-hour carriage ride to her villa. Not far my modern standards but in those days it took that long to cover the 30-kilometre distance by carriage. It could be done in two hours without the carriage. Many hills on the way. Many narrow paths. Sometimes bandits hid in caves in the hills. Pedro kept a vigilant eye. The magnificent crests on the side of the black carriage would alarm and terrify any serious and professional group of bandits. Such would know who the Colletti family was. As for the odd naive ones—such young infidels Pedro could take care of himself. Maria rested in the richly upholstered interior with her head leaning against the back. The moment they left, and the moment Maria closed her eyes, she saw in her mind’s eye the priest in his confessional. She passed him a psychic thought.

Think of me Father. Dream what you as a man would love to do to me as a man. I know my beauty haunts you. And never forget my elusive scent.

As her eyes rested she recalled—as she often did—a vivid childhood memory. She remembered arriving with her father at her uncle’s estate. Not a blood uncle but she knew the man from young as zio (uncle) and his wife as zia (auntie). Maria was impeccably dressed with a flower in her hair. Her mother had even put on Maria a special scent—an elusive scent. Sitting quietly opposite her in the kitchen of the villa a fifteen year old Tony, son of the uncle. Her father and uncle and auntie left for the gardens. Young Tony leant to Maria. You know what this is about? They want us to marry.

Maria was struck dumb. She was only twelve. Her zio and zia planned this? When her father returned and sat next to her, she leant against him then started to hit him on his chest with her fists yelling I am too young to be married, papa! Her father pretended he did not know what she was talking about. They stayed for dinner. Maria and young Tony avoiding eyes.

On the way back Maria insisted her father promise that she will be able to decide when she marries. Her father embraced his eldest and perhaps his favourite daughter. Si, si, as you will, this was your mother’s idea. She plotted behind my back and only told me last night. What was I supposed to do? Who knows, I thought, maybe this is right, maybe you will take to young Tony?

Maria’s memory faded. Halfway into the journey a small village. The carriage slowed due to people on the road. Maria parted a curtain. The authorities on invented and malicious charges had dragged in a senior Don. Now he was put on display in the Town Square. On a wooden platform the Don stood in a white garment. Around him two police officials asking questions loudly. Around the platform much of the village had gathered. The platform was a wooden structure where public hangings took place. A rope with a loop at the end dangled from a beam near the Don, making the man nervous, his eyes glancing at the rope.

There is no such thing as the Mafia! Maria could hear the Don cry convincingly. It’s superstitious nonsense!

Do you deny knowing Senior Vito, Senior Giovanni, Senior Peppa? The police sergeant read from a page and yelled to the crowd.

The first two are my cousins. The Don protested. And the last I met at a family function… . a wedding I think of his daughter… since when is that a crime? Sicilians are family people. That is our way of life. We have big weddings; big birthdays for our children; big funerals. We love our salami, our wine, our cheese, and we like friends and strangers to join us at our table. What is this about?

Maria tapped on the front of the carriage and slid open a wooden enclosure. Move along.

It was late by the time Maria walked into her villa. The large white house was well protected by armed men—this residence of a powerful Don and four lovely daughters. It was said the ever so many guards were more for the protection of his daughters from men of lust than from any true enemy. It was also said that it was more dangerous for a young man to come too close to a Don’s daughter without proper respect than to walk among a field of armed Mafiosi. That was probably true. The Mafia were business people. Their way of doing business of course. It was not likely the Mafiosi would bother strangers for no reason or just for sport even when such strayed onto a Don’s estate. There was a strict code in place about such matters. On the other hand for a young man to glance at a Don’s daughter with lust in his eyes was as close to a hangman’s noose as can be.

There were few disputes among the Dons. Such were not good business. The Dons resolved grievances they had with one another quickly. They had developed their own legal system in that for certain offences against a family a fine was paid and the matter forgotten. For serious offences, the penalty could be brutal, even cutting off the hands of an offender and then a bullet into the head. This had to be done in this exact order. The corpse was left for the officials to find and the word to spread how such a man was found. The Don to whom such an offender belonged was charged with making arrangements. Many codes did the Dons put together during those times. Some of which remain to this day.

Maria passed the busy kitchen preparing the evening meal. She walked upstairs to her room and walked through a wide open door onto a wide veranda that extended across this side of the villa. She sat on a long wooden seat admiring the view. Much on her mind. The young priest was of much interest. Rumours had spread in Salermo that the beautiful young women with that—the most elusive scent of all—were whores. The border guards had become suspicious. It was a much harder trick to bribe them. Maria felt a priest was a perfect weapon against such malice. What better than a young woman introduced to a border guard, perhaps after church service, by a priest? What border guard would suspect any motive other than potential marriage? There was another benefit, so Maria felt, in that a priest could aid her own people when one was burdened in the soul. A Mafia priest could be trusted.

Maria had high hopes for her priest.

Maria had set her heart on corrupting Father Franko. It had to be done the woman’s way. Brute force or stand over tactics would not work with a man of the cloth. The priest would mention such to his superiors and they would whisk him away. Maria also felt she had an advantage. She was a virgin. A virtue she was prepared to sacrifice for her family. Not only would she do that, she would also make sure she would not fall pregnant—the priest would be told she did fall pregnant. Maria would leave Sicily for the next nine months. She would return with a baby. A baby that would be purchased from a poor peasant in Sicily who gave birth to a male child. In those times of immense poverty this was not hard to arrange. It was well known that a rich man could pass the word that his wife wanted a baby and in a matter of days young poverty stricken mothers would be on the doorstep with babies in their arms. Some such mothers so young they barely had the strength to hold their child. Maria felt much compassion for such children.

That night of a full moon, moonlight flooding into her room, a gentle breeze tossing about the white lacy thin curtains, a strong psychic connection took place. As she was fading into sleep Maria had a vision. She saw herself sitting next to the priest in a white flimsy nightie. The room was adjacent to the church. Then she was on top of him and they were making love. Maria sat up and breathed heavily. Her psychic instinct knew the priest had the same experience.

From a young age Maria had psychic visions. Her father and mother had guessed this about Maria. When Maria was young and in Salermo with her father she saw in a vision her younger sister fall of a horse. Quickly papa! Maria grabbed her father’s hand. Back home. Something has happened. When she was older she saw in a vision her sick mother dying during the night. Maria sat with her mother most of the night until suddenly, and unexpectedly, she passed away.

Maria knew how strongly a psychic vision could connect two souls.

Chapter 2

Caesar and Vittoria

Seniore Carni had fired the last Captain of his border guards. The harvest should have been plentiful. Had he not personally inspected every olive tree in his orchards? Had he not personally asked his foreman how much crop to expect and was told such a high value? When the harvest was over what he was left with would make barely enough money for the coming year. Seniore Carni was a Sicilian. He knew what happened—but could not prove anything. He could smell the scent of the Mafia when he spoke to each one of his border guards after the harvest—especially on his Captain!

The town library in Salermo had a wooden board. Anyone who needed to hire a person could post a note on that board. The library would not allow a note to be nailed to their board unless it was on the paper the library supplied—which had to be paid for. Young girls and boys, most dressed in poor man’s clothes, those who could read, hung close to this notice board.

Seniore Carni nailed his note to the board. He was looking for a new Captain. He would offer a good wage and a stone house on the estate for the Captain and his family. The Seniore also wrote in large letters only those who know how to fight and use a gun need apply.

Every Saturday morning markets were held in the largest of the four large open areas known as piazzas. Piazza San Domenico was popular and crowded during such times. Many stalls. All kinds of goods. A man, a solid looking man, sat on a chair behind a stall. Three small children playing on the side belonged to him. He kept an eye on them. His wife was a seamstress and made children’s clothes. This made some money. Caesar was a soldier until he was wounded in his left arm. A minor wound. The arm healed but the army physician had not declared him fit. The army paid him off and he was dismissed. In time this money ran out. Selling children’s clothes did not earn much. Caesar was not an educated man and could barely read and write and failed to find work except one night a week at the local Inn. Fridays were a busy night and Caesar’s task was to throw out men that became drunk and rowdy. The pay low. Caesar had seriously thought about begging. His wife, a proud Sicilian, would not hear of this and also took to mending clothes. She was sitting behind her stall and mending a shirt. On a rack hung new clothes for children. At the table in front a pile of shirts—some for very young girls, some for very young boys.

Seniore Carni read his note again and turned making big strides towards the exit. A boy no more than twelve, with a slight limp, came running from behind and tugged at his shirt. The Seniore turned.

Seniore. I know such a man. The boy pointed to the board.

You do? The Seniore was interested.

The boy put out his hand. Seniore Carni took out a coin and put it in the boy’s hand. Five more if this man is suitable and twenty more if the man takes the work.

Follow me, Seniore.

The boy rushed ahead, frequently stopping to check the Seniore had not lost sight of him in the crowds in the markets at this piazza. The boy led him to Caesar.

Seniore Carni explained the notice he had nailed on the library board. Caesar was interested as was his wife. She, with a thread between her teeth, turned to her husband and nodded.

Caesar pulled up a chair. The Seniore sat down. Caesar explained about himself. The Seniore was impressed. Negotiations were short. The starting date was agreed. To help them move Seniore Carni would send a cart for their belongings.

Before he left Seniore Carni gave the boy the coins he had promised. The boy, thrilled, nevertheless was quick you promised 25, Seniore.

I did not! Seniore objected. I said five more if the man is suitable and twenty if the man takes the job. I am a man of my word.

Si, si, the man is suitable. For this you owe me five. The man took the work. For this you owe me twenty more. That is twenty five Seniore. The boy beamed a smile.

The boy was clever! He handed the boy the extra five coins, even ruffled the boy’s hair in a fatherly way, and the boy rushed off—his keen eyes glancing for any new stall. He had made it his business to know as much as he could about anyone who set up a stall. Exiting the piazza the boy kept running down a narrow street and to a house. He knocked and waited until a strong man opened the door.

Chow Peter.

Chow Peso. Senior Carni has found a new Captain. The man Caesar. Know him?

Si, si. The man reflected, asked the boy to wait, and returned and handed the boy a golden coin. Worth much more than many silver coins.

Gracia Peso. The boy beamed a smile, pocketed the coin, and rushed off.

Seniore Carni was pleased with himself. A soldier? Who can bribe a soldier?

Seniore Carni’s estate was an hour’s ride from Salermo. Not such a long distance in those times. The family moved into a stone house on the estate. Months before the next harvest. Until then there was little to do except assign men on patrol. An easy task with rarely an incident. Caesar, in order that his men do not waste time, told them to shoot above the heads of intruders, not to try to kill unless they had no choice. In this way the intruder would run away and they would not need to bring the dead body to the officials and spend time answering questions. This in turn allowed his men to remain on the property for longer thereby better protecting it. Seniore Carni, when he understood the reason, applauded this decision.

Each Saturday Caesar and his wife would go to the markets. Caesar now had a good income but had acquired debts which his wife was anxious to pay off. The clothes she made did not sell well. They were well made but the state of poverty of the times meant mothers would wait until they needed to buy. The wealthy women rarely bought hand made clothes from the stall vendors. It was the poorer class that did. Such lacked money to buy often. Each Saturday usually two items were sold. Not much profit because the material to make such was expensive and neither could Caesar’s wife add too much profit to any item because less people would take an interest and look and purchase.

Two weeks after Caesar moved into the stone house a new stall had set up next to the stall he and his wife put up. Each vendor had to pay for a spot to an official that came around. The rule was that a new stall in a spot cost twice as much the first time. For this reason once a vendor decided on a spot they would set up their stall in exactly the same spot each Saturday. Some stalls were carts made to stand upright while the donkey or horse was tied to a beam on one side of the square. Some stalls were tables assembled on the site. Those who sold clothes had racks with hung clothes. Such also might erect a change room. A tall box with a heavy curtain across. Usually large enough for two because mothers tended to want to go inside with their daughters. Caesar’s wife had no need of such because her clothes were for young children.

Caesar, as he sat in his chair, often glanced at the new stall while keeping an eye on his three children. Two attractive young women selling soaps and scents. These lay on their table. The aroma tantalised his nose. A welcome change to the smell of raw sewerage around this part of Salermo.

One of the young women introduced herself. Hello. I am Vittoria. We will be neighbours. She said this to Caesar’s wife with only a brief glance at Caesar.

Caesar stood and smiled and nodded and mused. It is a lovely change, the aroma, so fresh, compared to what we often smell.

Si! The young woman stepped closer. Maybe you like to buy a special scent for your wife? She came closer and lifted her hand. From her wrist an elusive scent—the most elusive scent of all—stimulated Caesar’s every sense.

Maybe one day. Short of money at the moment.

The young woman smiled, turned in a delicate way, her eye maintaining contact with his eyes during this turn, a sensual toss of long black hair, and she returned to her table.

That Saturday morning four dresses were sold. A small windfall! On their way back his wife was unusually silent. His new boss supplied a fine horse but only for work. Their own horse was old and lacked the strength and vigour of youth. He was pulling a heavy wooden cart with three small children, two adults, and a portable table and rack and clothes. On steeper hills the horse could not make it on his own. Caesar would get off and help by pushing the cart. The horse had become used to this. If Caesar was preoccupied and a steeper hill came the horse would stop. If Caesar took too long to get off the cart the horse would turn his head, his eye on Caesar, and would shake his head and neigh.

While he so sat, limply, holding the reins, that—the most elusive scent of all—was playing on his mind. What was it? Opium? Petals of a rose?

What do you think of our new neighbours? Caesar asked.

Stupida! His wife glared. They were whores.

Whores? Caesar found this hard to believe.

What woman shoves her wrist under a man’s nose? And the way they were dressed! Shape of breasts so visible! And that scent!

Why are whores selling soaps and scents?

I don’t know. Maybe to find clients? I don’t know how a whore thinks.

To Caesar this did not add up.

What is a whore, mama? Their five year old sitting back to back with her mother turned.

Stupida! Don’t say such words. Her mother glanced behind.

Bellu. Caesar spoke kindly. I was a soldier. I was assigned to the city police. I had seen whores. I had seen streets of whores. I locked whores away in prisons. I have never seen whores so attractive. A whore is easy to tell. A whore has no style, no class, cannot look deep into a man’s eyes, and only wants a quick trick and her pay. And no whore have I ever seen as beautiful as that young woman.

Papa, what is a whore? The four year old, barely managing to say this word, prompted by the five year old, turned to his father.

Eh? Caesar turned to his son and winked. Your mother calls any young woman who smiles at an old man like me a whore.

Caesar’s wife laughed.

She was a devout woman. She would attend church each Sunday. A woman who believed in the confessional. She had a guilty conscience. Her mother had taken ill. About this she had received word through the mail service. It was a long way to travel to where her parents lived. So far she had not went fearing the cost of the journey they could ill afford. She was feeling guilty more and more and wanted the priest during the confessional to absolve her of any wrong doing.

One Sunday she received word, through Father Franko, that her mother’s illness may have taken a turn for the worst.

Seniora. Father Franko looked persuasive. "The local priest in that area knows your mother. He sent me