1930
In the garden outside the house, Lucien sniffs a large red rose. It’s his favorite smell: it reminds him of his mother.
Every morning, Emma would clean his face with cotton soaked in rose water, which she made herself. She would collect the petals in autumn and leave them to macerate, in a white enamel basin, all year long. When her bottle was empty, she would dip it into the basin to refill it with the fragrant liquid.
Sometimes, Lucien would plunge his hands and forearms into the viscous rose water. A few scraps of torn petal would cling to his hairs, like wrinkled stars. His father would immediately notice the scent. You can’t hide a thing from a blind person. Even lying has a smell. His father would say to him, “Girls wear perfume, not boys.”
He misses his mother.
Lucien opens his eyes and gazes at the redness of the rose. It’s the color of blood. Is it that color that gives it that wonderful scent? Does the blood flowing in his mother’s veins smell of roses?
Does he really have her eyes? The eyes of someone who leaves? Lucien thinks his mother left them, him and his father, because it’s no life, living with a blind man. Because, one day or another, you’re bound to want to live with someone who looks at you.