The Perfume

This emailed response has been lightly edited for clarity.

We lived in a communal apartment; one room belonged to a middle-aged, frequently drunk jerk, and another room belonged to me and now to the love of my life… The neighbor kept to himself. He was a chauffeur [for] somebody important in some circles. From time to time, middle-aged women spent nights in his room; not sure these were [the same women] or different. But one time we caught a glimpse of a rare bird who flew into his room — somebody young, beautiful, in unearthly refined light cloths, who left in our hallway a heavenly scent. What brought her into his hole and why [did] she stay there, hiding for days?

Meanwhile, my birthday was coming, and we invited all my girlfriends, about ten or so, and I was determined to introduce my love and to tell them that he is my husband. (We both didn’t care or even notice the fact that some steps for earning this title might have [been] omitted). Anyway, in preparation for the evening we both were busy dragging into our room a school bench found in a nearby yard, so we have a place to sit guests. Suddenly, the neighbor’s door opened, and the young girl appeared. She said: “I know something major will happen, and I congratulate you, and this is my gift…” She left a small bottle of perfume in my hand and disappeared back into the hole.

We looked — it was “Gold of Scythians”. Who knew such [a] thing existed? Whoever in our surroundings held such a luxury thing in [their] hands? Next day we decided to open the bottle. Its glass stopper was very tight, so my husband took the bottle in his strong hands… and broke the cap off…  the shank still inside… Slowly we came to realization that this treasure will never be opened; although we could smell the subtle scent… This bottle is with me for [the] last 35 years. Its golden content was slowly evaporating, turning, by now into a brown essence; and only very little of it [is] left. But the scent is still magical, and now quite strong actually.  I keep it hidden enough not to see it too frequently, but close enough to monitor the process and be able to take a sniff, once in a while. I’m curious whether I’ll be strong enough to see one day only few black specks left on the bottom (by profession, I’m not superstitious; but it will be a tough call). Or may be physical forces will prevail, and [the] last molecules of liquid will be strongly held by the enormously high concentration of liquid-binding solids, so in my lifetime I won’t see these specks at all. Anyway, what is in this bottle for me? It clearly [reminds me of] our young hands; it gives me a metaphor of life, of what’s left after life is over, of what is magical in it, and how people touch each others’ lives — with great anonymity and deep power. Oh God, and so much more…