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Authors: Erwin Mortier
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convent school suddenly stopped wearing their hair in plaits and started giggling uncontrollably, as though the first stage of growing up was like being tickled.
They always made me feel as if my knees were abnormally big when I strode past the gate, where they would hang around in clusters, sticking out their tongues or taunting me for having freckles and smelling bad.
I felt a pat on my shoulder and air wafting against my cheek as the girl flounced past.
‘We saw the circus arrive,’ she said, trailing her fingers along the edges of the shelves behind the counter.
‘There was an awfully loud noise, and I was scared … It was a lion roaring.’ I could hear her skirt brushing against the large bins of un-roasted coffee.
She came out from behind the counter and surveyed the goods in one of the windows. Aunt thought she had a high forehead, and that it was typical. I thought it was because her hair was pulled flat over her scalp and tied at the back. Hélène Vuylsteke struck me as the sort of governess who would use a hairbrush to punish misbehaviour, but Aunt said people of high birth always had high foreheads. She didn’t know why, it was just one of those things.
‘Too much inbreeding, if you ask me,’ Uncle Werner used to say. ‘Happens with rabbits, too. Not the foreheads, of course – the ears.’
The girl sat on the bottom step of the ladder and reached for the book Mr Snellaert had lent me. She began to turn the pages without much enthusiasm. Now and then I heard her emit a little sigh of boredom, which sounded to me like a personal summons to relieve the monotony of the moment.
In the commotion following their arrival in the shop Aunt had forgotten to lock the glass showcase in which she kept the most expensive items. One of the little doors was ajar. I snatched a few glistening fruits from a jar of sugared cherries and held them out to the girl, in the space between her nose and the book.
She shook her head and pushed my hand away, but I found it hard to believe she was in the least interested in the page she was looking at, which had no pictures on it.
I had another try with a few bright green pellets from a tall canister. Uncle always sang their praises as a sure remedy for a sore throat or dry cough, and when I put three of them in my mouth at the same time to show him how much I believed him I was blown straight to Alaska on a polar wind of peppermint and eucalyptus. This offer, too, was waved away without so much as a glance at me.
As a last resort I turned to the bottles on the top shelf, where Aunt kept her most treasured wares, her essential oils or whatever they were, which she decanted into glass phials with an eye-dropper and sold to customers wishing to give their preserves an extra zest, or to heighten the taste of cakes baked for special occasions and family visits.
‘
Alcohol of orange citrus
’ read one of the labels in Aunt’s spidery hand, and I always wondered how that colourless liquid could possibly smell so strongly of oranges.
According to Uncle Werner it was all quite straightforward. ‘They just put an orange to bed with some alcohol for the night,’ he grinned, ‘and in the morning the alcohol smells of oranges. That’s how I got hitched to your aunt.’ It was one of those remarks that sent the blood rushing to Aunt’s cheeks.
I picked a small, bulbous bottle from the front row, and carried it in both hands to the girl. Before holding it underher nose I twisted the stopper off. There was an exquisite little squeak in the neck of the bottle, from which a wonderful fragrance immediately floated up.
‘Oooh, l’essence d’amandes,’ she cooed. She threw back her head and shut her eyes, luxuriating in the smell of almonds.
Encouraged by my success I returned to the glass cabinet in search of other fragrances. I heard the girl doing pirouettes behind my back, and making little scraping noises with her shoes on the floor.
‘L’essence, l’essence,’ she
They always made me feel as if my knees were abnormally big when I strode past the gate, where they would hang around in clusters, sticking out their tongues or taunting me for having freckles and smelling bad.
I felt a pat on my shoulder and air wafting against my cheek as the girl flounced past.
‘We saw the circus arrive,’ she said, trailing her fingers along the edges of the shelves behind the counter.
‘There was an awfully loud noise, and I was scared … It was a lion roaring.’ I could hear her skirt brushing against the large bins of un-roasted coffee.
She came out from behind the counter and surveyed the goods in one of the windows. Aunt thought she had a high forehead, and that it was typical. I thought it was because her hair was pulled flat over her scalp and tied at the back. Hélène Vuylsteke struck me as the sort of governess who would use a hairbrush to punish misbehaviour, but Aunt said people of high birth always had high foreheads. She didn’t know why, it was just one of those things.
‘Too much inbreeding, if you ask me,’ Uncle Werner used to say. ‘Happens with rabbits, too. Not the foreheads, of course – the ears.’
The girl sat on the bottom step of the ladder and reached for the book Mr Snellaert had lent me. She began to turn the pages without much enthusiasm. Now and then I heard her emit a little sigh of boredom, which sounded to me like a personal summons to relieve the monotony of the moment.
In the commotion following their arrival in the shop Aunt had forgotten to lock the glass showcase in which she kept the most expensive items. One of the little doors was ajar. I snatched a few glistening fruits from a jar of sugared cherries and held them out to the girl, in the space between her nose and the book.
She shook her head and pushed my hand away, but I found it hard to believe she was in the least interested in the page she was looking at, which had no pictures on it.
I had another try with a few bright green pellets from a tall canister. Uncle always sang their praises as a sure remedy for a sore throat or dry cough, and when I put three of them in my mouth at the same time to show him how much I believed him I was blown straight to Alaska on a polar wind of peppermint and eucalyptus. This offer, too, was waved away without so much as a glance at me.
As a last resort I turned to the bottles on the top shelf, where Aunt kept her most treasured wares, her essential oils or whatever they were, which she decanted into glass phials with an eye-dropper and sold to customers wishing to give their preserves an extra zest, or to heighten the taste of cakes baked for special occasions and family visits.
‘
Alcohol of orange citrus
’ read one of the labels in Aunt’s spidery hand, and I always wondered how that colourless liquid could possibly smell so strongly of oranges.
According to Uncle Werner it was all quite straightforward. ‘They just put an orange to bed with some alcohol for the night,’ he grinned, ‘and in the morning the alcohol smells of oranges. That’s how I got hitched to your aunt.’ It was one of those remarks that sent the blood rushing to Aunt’s cheeks.
I picked a small, bulbous bottle from the front row, and carried it in both hands to the girl. Before holding it underher nose I twisted the stopper off. There was an exquisite little squeak in the neck of the bottle, from which a wonderful fragrance immediately floated up.
‘Oooh, l’essence d’amandes,’ she cooed. She threw back her head and shut her eyes, luxuriating in the smell of almonds.
Encouraged by my success I returned to the glass cabinet in search of other fragrances. I heard the girl doing pirouettes behind my back, and making little scraping noises with her shoes on the floor.
‘L’essence, l’essence,’ she
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