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The Story
On a mystical autumn night, someone leans against the mossy wall of a church on the riverbank.
The lamp barely outlines a face. Osmanthus skin, tangerine lips, patchouli hair. Both hands are in the pockets of an old leather jacket, where there is probably tobacco and a few crumbs of rhubarb pie.
The cedar door creaks open and lets out the lightly spiced air of the cellar and a dim gold light. It is Narcis shining from within, an old lover whose music sounds like whales singing, luring toward the depths and the danger of drowning in passion.
Lumps of ambergris lie on the stairs on the way down, then comes a slow sink below the surface to follow the song. Luminous creatures light the dark, soft as white sheets of magnolia petals. When the organ starts, endless space opens out underneath. Every sin down here is forgiven in advance, for anyone who can keep a secret.
The Perfumer
The House
