A Strong Floral Scent

By Pedro López

A dramatic novel written from the heart with emotional and dramatic chapters that will take you to an historic moment seen through the eyes of a Peruvian family, specifically of a child in the 1970s, where necessity and hunger were everyday challenges and faith and religion both in schools and in family were essential to cope with such survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ibukku, LLC
• Release date: May 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685743796

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A STRONG FLORAL SCENT

Pedro López

All rights reserved. The total or partial reproduction of this work, nor its incorporation into a computer system, nor its transmission in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or others) without prior written authorization of the copyright holders is not allowed. Infringement of such rights may constitute an offence against intellectual property.

The content of this work is the responsibility of the author and does not necessarily reflect the opinions of the publisher. All texts and images were provided by the author, who is solely responsible for the rights thereof.

Published by Ibukku, LLC

www.ibukku.com

Graphic design: Diana Patricia González J.

Cover design: Ángel Flores Guerra B.

Copyright © 2023 Pedro López

ISBN Paperback: 978-1-68574-359-8

ISBN Hardcover: 978-1-68574-378-9

ISBN eBook: 978-1-68574-379-6

…death, powerful misfortune!

Who is there attempting to reign

seeing that he will awake

in the sleep of death!

Life is a Dream

by Pedro Calderón de la Barca

IN MEMORIAM

The one I have loved most in this world,

my grandmother (1900–1976),

who lived through a time of hardship.

And yet,

she left me a light of enthusiasm without which I would not have finished this book.

PART ONE

1

Paolo waited for him in the middle of the courtyard while the neighborhood was napping. He gazed at the misshapen black clouds passing overhead. The old adobe walls smelled of wet earth, dampness poured from their many crevices. From the bottom of a narrow sidewalk, at last, Mario appeared, hurrying to meet him. Paolo tapped him on the shoulder and ran until he could maneuver no more. Mario caught him. It was his turn, he pushed himself against the wall and accelerated. He thought that before he reached the opposite wall he would catch him, however, with a nimble movement, his friend managed to dodge him. He entered the uncovered part of the courtyard and took advantage of him with the lightness of a frightened gazelle. Paolo did not rush after him; he would cut him off on his return. Mario, thinking he was following him, accelerated and crossed the threshold of the street gate like an arrow. Paolo did not pass the limen, he stopped short when he heard a loud honking sound similar to the blast of a cannon.

It was an autumn afternoon. A heavy black octopus-shaped cloud stopped over a gray sky and, for an eternity, the day darkened. The cloud vanished before their eyes with the image of terror, the firmament burned and a drizzle of red drops fell. The thunderous impact of the car against his friend’s body deafened him. He clutched his temple as if he had received a sharp blow to the back of his head. He didn’t expect to see his fall, he came back from that threshold of huge dark doors and crossed the yard with his eyes straight ahead, stiff. He entered his house and noticed the black floor with worn planks. His room had a dangling light bulb in the center that was coming off the high ceiling. At the far end, against the adobe wall, were the two beds placed one on top of the other. The side wall had a curtain covering the colonial window that connected to another large room, his parents’. A funereal atmosphere with deformed people enveloped the air, shadows. He closed his door, closed the latch, and sat down. He did not go up to his bed, he sheltered under the cabin watching the entrance, attentive as a soldier. His mind recreated over and over again Mario’s flight through the air. He fell asleep and his dream described a fiery arc: it was the trajectory formed by his friend when he was rammed.

He woke up hungry and afraid. With his eyes fixed on the ceiling of the cot, he did not move. the gloomy picture made him anxious, he remembered his absent mother and a feeling of lethargy and sadness invaded him. He did not cry, he rubbed his hot forehead to cool it with his icy hands.

He went upstairs and fell asleep again. He awoke twelve hours later with a severe headache. That day he got up from his straw mattress only once to walk around the house and yard looking for his mother. He sensed another major misfortune, which made him deeply unhappy and very tired. He never again played the game and every clattering sound was associated with death.

2

Daniela, his aunt, was a secretary at Radio Miraflores. She had only been working there for six months and her salary had already doubled from when she started. She was efficient, an artist. When it was time to type, she would stretch her neck with a natural haughty gesture, throw her shoulders back, and, laughing, without looking at the keyboard, type at a hundred words a minute. Her work had become her passion, perhaps more than the compliments that fed her vanity. She dressed elegantly and adorned herself with jewels; those who knew her saw her as conceited, she had an innate coquetry. She dressed up beautifully even to go to the market.

You are conceited up to the hilt! her mother used to say to her when they went shopping, uncomfortable with the stares, compliments, and whistles that stalked her.

But, Mom, why am I to blame for the fact that you’ve given me such a regal figure? she replied, looking at herself with a wiggle, boasting of her qualities.

No wonder you don’t have any friends, her mother grumbled.

Daniela was 29 years old, wearing a cream blouse with long sleeves. She told her mother, a brunette devoted to her religion, how much fun she was having at work and the many suitors who were stalking her: broadcasters, businessmen, all good matches. Ever since she had her daughter, her mother warned her about the coldness of men when they wanted to satiate their instincts, about what liars they were; like her father, who ended up abandoning them. She reminded her that she was a single mother, that it would not be easy for her to achieve her dreams in a society of prudes, and that those of good looks and good economic position were, otherwise, a bunch of casanovas… She would cut her off, always replying the same thing: I know, I know. I’m not stupid.Two days after losing his friend, on Monday, April 9, Paolo felt in his dreams the sound of high heels, a strong smell of flowers, and a woman’s voice. Daniela had received a call at work at ten o’clock in the morning. The nurse had told her that her presence was urgent. She left immediately. It was very cold when she arrived at her sister’s house and only found her nephew sleeping, she covered him up and went out in the middle of an incessant drizzle. The cab driver in the black car did not have time to read the first note in his newspaper. The driver crossed the city with caution, the roads were slippery, and the car skidded more than once.

They arrived at the Lima Maternity Hospital. The large room smelled of chlorine mixed with sweat, there were pregnant women complaining of back pain, leg discomfort, numbness, and tingling. Every time they opened the inner door they could hear the cries of babies entering the room. Daniela waited impatiently trying to unravel the predicament.

It can’t be anything serious, she thought, My sister is only thirty-three and strong, she has come through her first eight deliveries well, even going back to work the same day. So, now she may need a ride home.After a long wait, the obstetrician approached her with a sweaty face:

We couldn’t control the bleeding, he said, wiping his forehead with a faded handkerchief. She hemorrhaged, she’s gone.Daniela knew what that meant, but she didn’t react. She shook her head from side to side with an expression of denial.

I think it’s a mistake, doctor, she said after a long pause. I told the receptionist I was coming for my sister. Her name is Gloria…

Yes, that’s her, your sister… he whispered. The baby survived. And after a pause, she added, Soon you will be able to come in and see it.

At that moment her dark face paled, her small feet could not resist her, and she collapsed. The doctor supported her and helped her to sit up.

Tell me it’s not her, doctor! she said aloud, between sobs and tears.

She sat there, not knowing what to do or say, her eyes red-rimmed and her contours smeared with mascara. When his grandmother entered the large, crowded lobby, she went to the reception desk and asked to speak to the doctor. She waited at the window, not realizing that her daughter was sitting in the corner crying, her hands covering her face. Out came the head of the medical board that delivered her daughter, a man older than the one who broke the news to Daniela, with a short beard and gray hair. He was used to responding to such tragedies. He began with affectionate gestures, studying the degree of distress the relative reflected.

We did all we could, ma’am, I’m sorry, he stammered and his face lit up. Your daughter is gone.

His grandmother’s eyes seemed to bulge, she clenched her hands into fists, pressed her thick lips together, clutched her head as if to stop it from bursting, opened her mouth… She was about to say something rude, but she remembered her God. Then the doctor, fearing a fainting spell, held her by the arms and let her fall into a chair.

She wept, thought of her grandchildren, her long black skirt uncovered her ankles and low shoes without laces, and wiped her tears on the sleeve of her cream silk shirt. Trembling, aloud, she prayed the Lord’s Prayer: Our Father who art in heaven…. She fell silent.

Daniela came out of her daze and stood up like a spring at the sight of her. They wept disconsolately. His grandmother was the first to calm down, telling her daughter to call her brother-in-law and tell him the news. Daniela pulled herself together, shook her head, got up, approached the phone booth, and between sobs called.

His father did not react when he heard her, he remained silent, without interrupting his sister-in-law’s sobs.

I’m going, I’ll tell my commander. They can arrange the burial here, he explained.

Meanwhile, that day Paolo had gone out to wait for his friend where they used to meet. He sensed a feeling of sadness and discouragement in the middle of the cold courtyard, he wondered where everyone had gone. He spent the morning sitting on the ground in the open, wishing that Mario or someone would show up and give him some reason for what was happening; in the afternoon his hunger increased, he returned home, found nothing to eat, and went out again, standing at the gate of the deserted street. Since then, the sunny evenings at the beginning of April made him sad and he felt a deep sense of loneliness.

3

His father did not react to his boss’s condolences, told him to take the necessary days, and remained motionless before him. Plácido Flores wore a short-sleeved shirt despite the cold; he did not remember how long it had been since he had seen the wet mornings and slippery tracks at that midday hour, nor the last time he had moved in a cab. On the way, he took out the tally, nine children, his sister-in-law had told him that the last one had survived a cesarean section. She thought it had been a productive relationship for them, the sense of loss had not yet set in.

His parents had ten children, all of whom had left very young for the capital at the end of the rubber boom. He recalled the series of events that brought him to Lima despite his promise to stay in his homeland.

It all began in the month of February when the demons, according to legend, were on the loose and carnivals were being celebrated in Iquitos. The revelry in the streets was impressive. The dancers wore multicolored feathers, bare chests, and short tunics; the women were richly made up and adorned with two small pieces similar to bathing suits that wiggled little strings and rose to the swagger of the cumbia. He recalled the time when he and his sister arrived at the Plaza de Armas and delighted in the dances under the blazing sun as they listened joyfully to the sounds of the flute and bass drum. Alba had curly brown hair, a sensual smile and wore a one-piece tunic that covered her to her feet. She watched the dancers imagining herself among them and, infected by the music, she moved discreetly. She separated from her brother to go to the kiosk to get a masato. At that very moment, a nice, tall, and slim young military man arrived at the stand to get a Coca-Cola, but when he saw her, he changed his mind and asked for the same Loreto drink. She noticed his presence, looked at him with the demureness of a well-bred young woman, and her bright, tender eyes bewildered him. He was taken and thoughtlessly examined her attentively, enraptured and pierced with a deep desire. He plucked up his courage, put on his kappa, and approached her brother.

"Gee, they dance beautifully! -He said with his characteristic Andean intonation. I bet you know how to dance like them.

I don’t know, Plácido answered as if singing, with a shy smile, trying to decipher the institution to which the uniform belonged.

You should take the time to teach this young man, said Ivan with an admonishing gesture followed by a smile. And after a brief pause, he added: Miss, you can see that this young man has a talent that should not be wasted. How old are you?

Twelve years old, Alba interjected candidly, in the spirit of playing with her brother. And yes, he dances, but when he’s not being watched.

Plácido, with a gesture of annoyance towards his sister, went to buy a soda. Ivan took advantage of the moment to flatter her figure and her singsong way of speaking. The girls watching the parade shamelessly turned to look at Alba’s beauty and Ivan’s elegance, his impeccable uniform, and his personality. Alba tried to guess Ivan’s origin, his slow and clear speech, and his particular way of pronouncing.

Plácido remembered that Ivan told his parents that day if they would allow him to be friends with his sister when he realized that he had used him to get close to her. From that moment on Plácido hated him, he would tell him that she was not at home when he visited her, that she had another friend. When that didn’t work, he would throw stones at her from the roof with his slingshot. In early spring, before leaving, Ivan asked her to marry him; they were married in December in Lima. His boss told him that the FAP facilities were at his disposal. They had eight children.

Plácido and his mother were the last of the exodus to the capital where they settled down after finishing fifth grade. His passion for mathematics made him decide to become an engineer. He was in his third year at the engineering university when, one Sunday when he accompanied his mother to the parish, the Virgen Milagrosa, he met a young woman who was also accompanying his mother. Gloria was a brunette with a black veil that barely revealed her almond-shaped eyes. She led her mother to the only available space at the front where she met Plácido, who upon seeing them got up and gave them his seat.

They got married when they found out she was pregnant. His mother protested, telling him that she was going to have to work and give up her career. Plácido consoled her by telling her that she would go to work, that with Odria in power, there was work for everyone, they needed men in the armed forces. They had nine children. A sudden brake from the driver brought him out of his reverie. He thought about the brevity of life, about the wake, and the fact that not two days had passed since his son had lost his friend.

4

Death to Paolo became mixed up with his childhood games. By the time the day of the wake arrived, he was afraid. His grandmother showed great sadness, but not the rest of his relatives, his younger siblings were running around restlessly. The sky was beginning to cover with clouds when at ten o’clock the coffin was placed in the middle of the courtyard it was already completely gray. The mist made it difficult to see at close range. Floral arrangements in baskets and vases were the first to arrive. The bouquets of lilies, roses, carnations, and orchids were placed on top of the coffin. Easels in the shape of triangles, crosses, and hearts were placed around the coffin. A sweet smell took over the courtyard and penetrated through all the open doors and windows of the rooms. Paolo entered the small anteroom of his paternal grandmother’s house, it had a long table with a black tablecloth and a view of the courtyard. He approached the window and saw three men dressed in black opening the two heavy gates of the main entrance. They walked with martial strides and mournful faces and in the corners of the courtyard, they set up three gold-colored metal candlesticks. They placed three large thermoses of coffee, which they placed at one end of the table. Then a couple dressed