Instinctively avoiding Mom’s chapter, I open it to my grandmother’s writing and grab a box of tissues just in case. I was welcome to look at the register whenever I wanted, but when she was alive, it seemed like an invasion of her privacy, even though she’d written it for posterity. It’s strange to read because Waipo didn’t like to talk about the past. Mom told me not to ask about Waipo’s uncle, the one who lost the family fortune, because Waipo had never gotten over the shame. I can see traces of it in my great-grandmother’s chapter as well, in the heavy scratch marks through her brother’s name and then its disappearance altogether.
Waipo was a bridge between two fifth daughters and was over twenty years old when Zhengyi died. She lived through some of the most momentous changes in history but documented almost none of them. Her chapter carries no mention of the first time she used a cell phone, but she describes my mother’s scent as a newborn in tender detail. I don’t know when she first saw a computer, but she wrote about her faded memories of the old Nanjing store.
I slow my pace to read every word Waipo wrote after she activated her moli for the first time. Her handwriting is shaky with excitement.
It was as I’d been told, she wrote.A tingle and then a profound knowledge and confidence in myself and what I could do. I could feel the meaning of my power through to my bones, and it made my mark feel alive. To know I was doing what I was born to do is extraordinary. I can see why we never need to test our fragrances. The knowledge is innate.
Excellent, good for her. There’s no mention of my lack of moli, only a single line that I’d left Vancouver. I put the register down to stare at the ceiling and wonder why I torture myself like this. Then, for the first time in a long time, I call my mother.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Luling.” She keeps her surprise hidden, as if this is a normal occurrence. “How was your day?”
The conversation is pleasant enough. Mom tells me Eric was over with the children for an early dinner. “On their screens the whole time,” she complains. “Your brother didn’t care, and they would only eat chicken nuggets. I had to make two meals.”
“How are they?”
“Fine. Kelsey mentioned the perfumes you sent for her gift bags.”
“Yeah? She called me and said people liked them.” I straighten my jade plant pot and take a small cloth to wipe away the specks of dirt that have collected on the edge from overenthusiastic watering.
“That’s good, because she told me the scent you provided seemed unusual.”
“Unusual?” I describe what I sent to her. “That’s as basic as you can get.”
“Kelsey would go to the store and ask for the most popular scent so she can smell like everyone else,” my mother says. “She is not a good judge.”
Unfortunately, Mom’s assessment of Kelsey’s taste is probably accurate. She continues, “By the way, did you see the latest review of your perfumes?”
“You know I don’t look at reviews.”
“Watch Maryska’s.”
She leaves it at that and starts talking about a new house she’s heard of from Thailand that uses traditional cooking spices in their perfumes, like basil and green peppercorn, as well as the fragrance of a candle called a tian op, most often used to scent desserts. I listen with a sick feeling in my stomach, knowing Maryska’s review is probably not going to make me happy.
When Mom hangs up, I immediately pull up the video. Maryska Popova is a critic I respect, with a large following. Unlike some otherreviewers, self-proclaimed experts who make a show of waving blotters around before sniffing them dramatically while looking at the sky, Maryska is astute, insightful, and has incredible taste.
Too bad she doesn’t like the perfume she bought from me. Or at least that’s what I gather, from the little sad-face emoji in her video summary.
“I’ve heard people rave about Ile de Grasse, so I was interested in trying these fragrances. The pedigree of the nose, Lucy Hua, is impeccable, as her family owns Yixiang, one of the world’s underrated perfumeries. My most treasured scent is Blue Lotus from Meilin Hua, whose watery notes are utterly sublime. All of this is to say that I had high hopes for Ile de Grasse, and it gives me little pleasure to say I was…disappointed?”
Here, I pause the video and take a break to breathe before directing my middle fingers at the screen in a private juvenile tantrum that doesn’t make me feel better. Maryska stays frozen, her long sandy hair tied in a neat bun and her face as ascetic as a ballerina’s. Then I pour some more wine, drink it, pour more, and start the video again.
She sprays Thera on a blotter and waves it gently. “Technical perfection,” she says between sniffs. “This is clearly the work of an experienced and creative perfumer who is willing to take risks. The notes are unusual and harmonious, without any of the harshness or imbalance I sometimes get from indie houses.” She puts the blotter down and sprays the other, Petra, on her wrist. “Same here. It melts into the skin. Lucy Hua shows true and undeniable talent.”
Then what’s the problem? I’m on the edge of my seat, leaning forward as if that will make her speak faster. She enlightens her audience soon, her mobile face thoughtful.
“The problem is that it lacks heart. It misses the emotion that transforms a perfume. These fragrances are like listening to a robot play Bach. Every note is perfect, but the sum total exudes a cold impersonality that’s detrimental to the work. Don’t get me wrong,these are excellent fragrances. If you wear Ile de Grasse, people will be impressed by how good you smell, but you might find yourself unsatisfied. It’s a true shame.”
I slam down my phone and jump to my feet, spilling wine down the front of my shirt, which, of course, is white. Swearing, I rip it off and don a black T-shirt and sweats. She has the nerve to call my work heartless. Soulless. A shame. How dare she?
I tumble onto my couch and stare at the ceiling, troubled by a single question. What if she’s right? Moreover, what if she’s so right that it’s the reason I can’t make the moli perfumes? I’m not worried I’m some ghoul, but what if I’m missing the ability to connect with people emotionally? That there’s not something wrong with the perfumes but with me?
Also, what the hell is my mother’s problem that she takes such pleasure in a public takedown of her own daughter’s creations? It’s sick.
I call my mother back immediately. “Why did you feel the need to share that with me?” I demand, voice quivering.
“To tell you she’s wrong. It’s not soulless.”
