The Private Papers of Eastern Jewel
“There was a syringa tree in the inn's small garden, not white as in its name, but suffused with the more usual lilac flowers. If I left the shutters of my room open I was overcome by its scent, a fragrance which, like that of ripe strawberries, was so heady as to be reminiscent of decay. The house, a single-storey building, had airy rooms, low beds and light that entered as though filtered through a prism. The wooden structure, a little damp from being so close to the sea, was half-painted whit...e, as if someone had tired of the work and given up. To this day if I smell syringa, I am reminded of the feelings of excitement and regret that I experienced in that charming halfpainted house, and the joy I took in being clean, perfumed and warm. The day I arrived, I went to the bathhouse and spent hours washing with a ball of finely milled soap that smelled of chestnuts. The steam was comforting, the heat quite wonderful, but I was full of sadness. I could do nothing but sit hugging myself as salty tears streamed from my eyes.MoreLess
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