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The Most Elusive Scent of All
A tale as told by a "dimension" (refer  our Science of Life or main page for definition). Historical fiction (or it could be exactly as it happened) set in 18th century Sicily. A period of  time during which the Sicilian Mafia developed a degree of sophistication still unknown in the world at large. Chapters are set aside for the main characters in this "extended family" and how they came to be an integral part of the Colletti family. General adult reading. A few brutal and sexual scenes, very few indeed - merely some paragraphs in a few places - but without these the complex theme would be lost, make this book suitable for adults only.

There are two versions. The first edition is in electronic format. The revised edition is in Microsoft Word format. If you are interested in the latter edition then after purchase let us know and we will email to you where to download from. The second edition has more "body", only possible to do after the first edition was ready. The dimension projects visions into the mind of how it all began. The visions not that strong and neither are they particularly sequential consequently common sense had to be used to bind the tale into a flow; that is, what took place between one set of images and the next had to be developed as fiction but such are small portions relative to the bulk of the tale.

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A "dimension", as our Science of Life explains and defines, is a living consciousness around the planet, an energy field that had sparked a life of its own. Known dimensions in existence include the Hebrew God and the Mafia dimension. There are others but about the others very little is known and such are only briefly documented in our Science of Life series. Some psychic minds, and other minds now and then, can tune into such a dimension. The dimension has "memories" in the sense of critical sequences that came together to bring it life. It is these images which are tuned into by "us" (refer definition of "us" on main page) and these used as a basis to develop the story. Consequently the tale is "fiction" because we don't know exactly the events that linked two images together - but the most likely "pattern" is used to link such sequences together.


Below Chapter 1 and a part of Chapter 2 from the Microsoft Word edition


Chapter 1 - The First Mafia Priest

By the end of the 19th century one of the more influential groups in Europe and many parts of the world was a group of people known in Italy as the Mafia. Their secret of success on a worldwide scale was a discovery of a heightened state of awareness for most true Mafiosi, a version of Roman Catholic Life in the Spirit . A surreal experience that left a person mesmerised. What they actually understood in the modern perspective of the Science of Life , was a dimensional space  which in time attained self-awareness, becoming a consciousness of its own, a new life-form, a life-form with manyfold human intelligence. At times, a true Mafiosi would blend with this surreal energy, attaining an altered state of consciousness and many times natural intelligence. The dimension also learned to blend, altering for a time the state of mind of a person, with those who while not Mafia were well suited to becoming such or with whom the Mafia could do business. This tale is put together from this dimension - the very consciousness itself explains how it came to be and what it knows about itself. The consciousness provides profound insights into the people that had established such an influential foundation for the “Mafia Way of Life”.

And it all began with the first Mafia Priest. A young Roman Catholic priest assigned to a town in Sicily. It was the middle of the 18th Century and Father Franko set about his duties diligently. Sicily at the time was mostly peasants and farmers. While it had a fertile plain and produced many crops, even so good farming land was scarce due to the rocky and hilly nature of the terrain of much of Sicily. Larger estate owners had to look after their boundaries and hired armed men to patrol their properties. Other farmers, or less well to do property owners, that needed pasture or the fruit from an orchard, on land that belonged to another, found a way to corrupt such border guards. Those farmers especially good at this were called Dons and their services sought. The term Don was a form of respect used for the wealthy estate owners but when referring to a Mafia Don a special emphasis was placed on that word. The most usual form of corruption was not money - it was the services of a prostitute. Not a typical prostitute but what would be called in the modern world a high-class prostitute. The exceptional Mafia prostitutes were known as “angels” and they were not selling their bodies so much as they were selling love, and in those harsh times true love was a commodity few men experienced. The power of love disguised as sex made such Mafia women sought after. A Mafia angel was said to be able to enchant any man, of any age, no matter how in love with his own wife such a man may be. The reputation of the angels had spread not just to the mainland, but to many parts of Europe. Such were shapely, usually relatively young, and taught well to entice and seduce a man at many levels. Many a daughter of a Don had learnt from such angels their skill and craft divine.

In the era in which girls as young as twelve could be forced into marriage; in an era when an 18 year old might be walking with a 5 year old and wondering how to feed her young daughter - there was no shortage of young pretty recruits eager to join the ranks of the Mafia prostitutes. Hunger had a way of detaching the soul from the body and compelling the body to do whatever it took.

Border guards were usually young men and their natural hormones high. Not much of an effort for a beautiful young woman to win favours from such men. By chance, one of the Don's daughters had discovered that a certain mix of plants, herbs and flowers, and secret ingredients, in a subtle way, produced a perfume with a most elusive scent. That scent had a potent effect on men.

Father Franko’s church was an old stone building. Tall and long, albeit a touch narrow. Plain inside, unlike the more modern churches of that period. Two large and heavy wooden doors were usually left open, or at least one was, the two doors together, during mass and when the priest was in residence. Each morning, if he was in residence, at 10 o’clock sharp the priest would open at least one of the doors. This morning as he approached he noticed a white note had been slid under the door. The note had words in large red writing, written ever so neatly and elegantly.

… in a room full of women I saw her face to face…

There was a scent on the paper, a tantalising scent. The priest held it under his nostrils trying, once again, to decipher that elusive scent. After folding the note neatly he slid it into his pocket. Now he had a number of such notes. The day before there was also a note.

...in a room full of mirrors I saw her...

And it all began the day before that with the very first note.

...in a garden of dreams my thoughts turned to her...

Inside the church an odour of age hung in the air. Fortunately the church was near a cliff and far below the ocean. On most days the sea breeze covered or swept away the stale odour of age and sweat. The church had always been kept clean. High on its two tall walls three narrow stained glass windows. These a touch too dark to let much sunlight in - but on a bright day the light that did come through formed beams of colour that would blend and entwine. Many a child during mass became mesmerised by this effect; the child’s head tilted upward and eyes rarely shifting from such a display. Rows of pews, light brown, showing age, most scratched, lined the church. At the front the altar. A door to the left of the altar, not easily visible to the congregation, led to his private room behind the church. That room could also be entered through another door that led directly to the outside at the back of the church.

At the front of the church, to the left of the entrance, a room that could be used as an office and an adjacent room. Father Franko did not like that room, refused to allow it to be cleaned because it was not used, and would sit with a person, perhaps organising a baptism, in one of the pews at the front.

In his humble church Father Franko was fitting candles into a table especially made for such. These were for the regular mass on Sunday which was always at 8 am sharp. This Saturday morning the church had been lavishly decorated for a wedding of the eldest daughter of a wealthy estate owner. Many bouquets of flowers had been left by the altar. Some of these he would later take to freshen the air in his small room. Around each pew a white satin ribbon tied in a special way, the ends of the shiny material hanging down and delicately tossed about by a soft breeze. Many young women had attended that wedding, each dressed in fine clothes, each wearing perfume or scent. A faint hint of such scents hung in the air.  It was not long after that wedding that Father Franko found another note by the open door.

...in a house of mirth an angel came to me...

Those scents from the wedding were still ever so strong. Was this the mirth being referred to? What did it all mean? Who was responsible? The young priest was good looking and in this regard vein. He had become used to young female admirers. No doubts the notes came from one such young lady. Surely no real reason for concern? Surely it will pass? Whoever she was, she had a mystery about her. The notes were haunting and, so the priest thought, were lines of poetry in motion. Father Franko held the note in his hand as he studied the ribbons on the pews. Such decorations would need to be removed before mass the following day but the caretaker of the church had not as yet arrived. The day had been warm. The sunlight flooded the church through the open doors and its colourful windows. Outside the church there was little activity now and inside peace and solitude. Father Franko did not notice the young attractive Sicilian in a black dress walking toward him and now the woman froze, standing motionless. The priest had turned his attention to the note again and was holding it close to his nose, once again seduced and hypnotized by that faint scent on the note - oblivious to the woman studying him, or her soft discreet smile as she observed how desperately he tried to decipher the nature of that faint scent – unaware that the elusive scent was now flooding his nostrils but not from the note!

"I need to confess my sins, Father." Was the first he heard.

Father Franko turned. The young woman's looks were magnificent. Vaguely he recalled her at the wedding standing at the back dressed much as she was now. Had he seen her before that even? At least it could have been the same young woman? For an unknown reason, his own eyes had been drawn to this angelic beauty standing at the back. Unlikely anyone of too much importance or wealth else she would have been sitting in one of the pews. Such was a tradition among the wealthy. Those that worked for the estate owners often attended weddings but were to stand at the back and say nothing and leave once the ceremony was complete.

She stood in such a way that the strong sunlight pouring through the door overpowered Father Franko's eyes and it seemed he was seeing an apparition. There was something else - a scent - an elusive scent. Was the scent similar to the note he still had in his pocket? Was it his imagination? That trace of a scent on those notes had haunted him for the last few nights, could it be that the very source of the scent was with him?

"This way, my child." Father Franko pointed to a small room at the far end of one wall. As he walked he neatly folded the note and put it in his pocket. The confessional was not much more than a tall box. He entered one side, closed the door, sat down and parted a black curtain over a small opening covered with black mesh. On the other side the young woman was kneeling.

"I am no longer a virgin, Father. " The young woman’s voice soft. "But I have no husband."

Though less than thirty, Father Franko had heard such confessions. Before his appointment to his native Sicily he had served in Rome and small outer towns. A compassionate and reasonable man, he knew the general state of poverty that drove young attractive women to gain an advantage over men of substance. About this he was not judgemental. It was the way it was.

"Are you pregnant?" the priest asked.

"Heaven forbid!" The woman replied. "I would kill the child so born."

Father Franko was horrified and alarmed. He raised his voice. “It is a mortal sin to kill a newborn...are you not afraid of hell?"

"I am sorry." The woman rose. "I ought not have come".

Quick as she could she was out of the confessional. Father Franko could hear footsteps leaving the church.

He did not move and sat in silence in his dark confessional box. On his mind and in his heart a mystery. "What was that scent?" His thoughts wondered. “Perfume? Natural female hormone? Petals of a rose in her hair? I would give all I have to understand what that elusive scent was.” His thoughts came quickly and he recalled - one by one - the young women at the wedding that morning, each taking a turn after the service to thank the priest, each with a tantalising scent or perfume. All lovely – and yet none of the scents had come close to that – the most elusive scent of all – now playing on his mind. A memory came. A new entertainment had arrived in Salermo some weeks back. A large room full of mirrors. These were shaped in such a manner as to reflect a person in different ways: as fat, lean, extra tall, one mirror especially for women and it only accentuated the size of the breasts. As he wandered through this display, quite delighted at the exotic effects and so well done, a woman came into view in one of the mirrors. Curious, he looked about trying to spot where the woman stood. He could not find her and when he looked again the image was gone. That particular mirror distorted the face consequently it was impossible to be very certain this was the woman - and yet, there was this faint elusive scent in the room. Was it the same one?

Father Franko was a man who experienced visions. In his days, days less confused by modern psychology, Father Franko was fond of sharing his mystical visions with families who invited him to dinner. Rumours spread about the young priest. Some said he was not of sound mind; others said he was a Saint. The priest was fond of using the expression “garden of dreams” when talking about his visions. That made some suspect he was a user of an illicit drug.

The moment Maria was out of the church she turned sharply. From the pocket of her long dress she took out a black veil and put it over her head. She walked down stone steps to a carriage waiting in the shadow of the side of the church. A luxurious carriage. She climbed in, sat down. The driver moved off. Maria was not an ordinary woman. She was the eldest daughter of a powerful Don. Now in her mid twenties, Maria was still chaste. Her father also had what in modern medicine would be called dementia. It was she who looked after  the business and it had become a profitable business. The first Don and family that had left their farming life, but it was still used as a shield, and made much money from bribing border guards. On the rare occasion when the head of the border guards could not be corrupted, the Don's family arranged an accident. Like most in the town, she too had heard rumours about the handsome young priest and his mystical visions. Unlike most, she knew what these were. Maria was what in modern terms would be called a super psychic. When she first came across this priest during mass and accepted the Eucharist, the moment she swallowed a strong mental image of the devil formed in her head. She knew what that meant: the young priest could be tempted and would not overpower the temptation. That vision played on her mind and it was at that time, after turbulent nights and tempest, that Maria formed a plan how to take advantage of this situation.

A three-hour ride to her villa. Not far by modern standards but in those days it took that long to cover the 30-kilometre distance. Many hills on the way; many narrow paths, many bandits hidden in some of the caves on the hills. Pedro kept a vigilant eye. The magnificent crests on the side of the black carriage would alarm and terrify any serious and professional group of  bandits, such would know who the Colletti family was. As for the odd naive ones - such young infidels Pedro could take care of himself. Maria rested in the richly upholstered interior, her head leaning against the back. The moment they left, and the moment Maria closed her eyes, she saw in her mind's eye the priest in his confessional. She passed him a psychic thought: "think of me father, dream what you as a man would love to do to me. I know my beauty haunts you. And never forget my elusive scent."

As her eyes rested, she recalled - as she often did - a vivid childhood memory. She remembered arriving with her father at her uncle’s estate. Not a blood uncle, but she knew the man from young as such, and his wife as auntie. Maria was impeccably dressed with a flower in her hair. Her mother had even put on Maria a special scent - an elusive scent. Sitting quietly opposite her in the kitchen of the villa, a fifteen year old Tony, son of the uncle. Her father and uncle and auntie left for the gardens. Young Tony leant to Maria. "You know what this is about? They want us to marry." Maria was struck dumb. When her father returned and sat next to her, she leant against him then started to hit him on his chest with her fists yelling "I am too young to be married, papa!" Her father pretended he did not know what she was talking about. They stayed for dinner. Maria and young Tony avoiding eyes.

On the way back Maria insisted her father promise that she will be able to decide when she marries. Her father embraced his eldest and perhaps his favourite daughter. "Si, si, as you will, this was your mother's idea. She plotted behind my back and only told me last night. What was I supposed to do? Who knows, I thought, maybe this is the right thing to do, maybe you will take to Tony?"

Maria’s memory faded. Halfway into her journey a small village. The carriage slowed due to people on the road. Maria parted a curtain. The authorities on invented and malicious charges had dragged in a senior Don. Now he was put on display in the Town Square. On a wooden platform the Don stood in a white garment. Around him two police officials asking questions loudly. Around the platform much of the village had gathered. The platform was a wooden structure where public hangings took place. A rope with a loop at the end dangled from a beam not far from the Don, making the man nervous, his eyes glancing at the rope.

"There is no such thing as the Mafia!" Maria could hear the Don cry convincingly. "Its superstitious nonsense!"

"Do you deny knowing Senior Vito, Senior Giovanni, Senior Peppa?" The police sergeant read from a page and yelled to the crowd.

"The first two are my cousins." The Don protested. "And the last I met at a family function....a wedding I think, of his daughter...since when is that a crime? Sicilians are family people, we have big weddings, big birthdays for our children, big funerals. We love our salami, our wine, our cheese, and we like friends and strangers to join us at our table. What is all this about? "

"Move along." Maria tapped on the front of the carriage and slid open a wooden enclosure and told Pedro.

It was dusk by the time Maria walked into her villa. The large white house was well protected by armed men - this residence of a most powerful Don and four lovely daughters. It was said the ever so many guards were more for the protection of his daughters from men of lust then from any true enemy. In fact, it was also said that it was more dangerous for a young man to come too close to a Don's daughter without proper respect, than to walk among a field of armed Mafiosi. That was probably true. The Mafia were “business” people, their way of doing business of course. It was not likely the Mafiosi would bother strangers for no reason or just for sport, even if they had strayed onto a Don’s estate. There was a strict code in place about such matters. On the other hand, to glance at a Don’s daughter with lust in the eyes was as close to a hangman’s noose as can be.

There were few disputes among the Dons. Such were not good business. The Dons resolved grievances they had with one another quietly and quickly. They had developed their own legal system in that for certain offences against a family, a fine was paid and the matter forgotten. For serious offences, the penalty could be brutal, even cutting off the hands of an offender and then a bullet into the head. This had to be done in this exact order. The corpse was left for the officials to find and the word to spread how such a man was found. The Don to whom such an offender belonged, was charged with making arrangements. Many codes did the Dons put together during those times, some of which remain to this day.

Maria passed the busy kitchen preparing the evening meal. She walked upstairs to her room, took off her veil and walked through the wide open door to the balcony. She sat on a long wooden seat admiring the Sunset. Much on her mind. The young priest was of much interest. Rumours had spread in Salermo that the beautiful young women with that - the most elusive scent of all - were whores. The border guards had become suspicious. It was a much harder trick to bribe them. Maria felt a priest was a perfect weapon against such malice. What better than a young woman introduced to a border guard, perhaps after church service, by a priest? What border guard would suspect any motive other than potential marriage? There was another benefit, so Maria felt, in that a priest could aid her own people when one was burdened in the soul. A Mafia priest could be trusted. Anyone could explain anything to such a man, whatever burdened the soul, and the priest would find a way to reconcile.

Yes, Maria had high hopes for her priest!

Maria had set her heart on corrupting Father Franko. It had to be done the "woman's way". Brute force or stand over tactics would not work with a man of the cloth. The priest would mention such to his superiors and they would whisk him away. Maria also felt she had an advantage. She was a virgin. A virtue she was prepared to sacrifice for her family. Not only would she do that, she would also make sure she would not fall pregnant - but the priest would be told she did fall pregnant. Out of shame, Maria would leave for another country for the next nine months. She would return with a baby in her hand, a baby that would be purchased from a poor peasant in Sicily who had a male child as their first offspring. In those times of immense poverty this was not hard to arrange. It was well known that a rich man could pass the word that his wife wanted a baby, and in a matter of days young poverty stricken mothers would be on the doorstep with babies in their arms. Some such mothers so young they barely had the strength to hold their child. Maria always felt much compassion for such children.

That night of a full moon, moonlight flooding into her room, a gentle breeze tossing about the white lacy thin curtains, a strong psychic connection took place. As she was fading into sleep Maria had a vision. She saw herself sitting next to the priest in a slim see-through nightie. The room seemed adjacent to the church. Then she was on top of him and they were making love. Maria sat up and breathed heavily. Her psychic instinct knew, simply knew, that the priest had the same experience.

From a young age Maria had psychic visions. Visions few knew about. Her father and mother had guessed this about Maria. When Maria was young and in Salermo with her father, she saw in a vision her younger sister fall of a horse. "Quickly, papa!” Maria grabbed her father's hand. "Back home...something has happened." When she was older she saw in a vision her sick mother dying during the night. Maria sat with her mother most of the night until suddenly, and unexpectedly, she passed away.

Yes, Maria knew how strongly a psychic vision could connect two souls!



Chapter 2 – Caesar and Vittoria

Seniore Carni had fired the last Captain of his border guards. The harvest should have been plentiful. Had he not personally inspected every olive tree in his orchards? Had he not personally asked his foreman how much crop to expect and was told such a high value? When the harvest was over, what he was left with would make barely enough money for the coming year. Seniore Carni was a Sicilian. He knew what happened - but could not prove anything. He could smell the scent of the Mafia when he spoke to each one of his border guards after the harvest – especially on his Captain!

The town library in Salermo had a wooden board. Anyone who needed to hire a person could post a note on that board. The library would not allow a note to be nailed to their board unless it was made on the paper the library supplied which had to be paid for. Young girls and boys, most dressed in poor man’s clothes, those who could read, always hung close to this noticeboard.

Seniore Carni nailed his note to the board. He was looking for a new Captain for his border guards. He would offer a good wage and a stone house on the estate for the Captain and his family. The Seniore also wrote in large letters, “only those who know how to fight and use a gun need apply.”

Every Saturday morning in Salermo markets were held. Many stalls. All kinds of goods. A man, a solid looking man, sat on a chair behind a stall. Three small children playing on the side belonged to him. He kept an eye on them. His wife was a seamstress and made children’s clothes. This made some money. Caesar was a soldier until he was wounded in his left arm. A minor wound. The arm healed but the army physician had not declared him fit. The army paid him off and he was dismissed. In time this money ran out. Selling children’s clothes did not earn much. Caesar was not an educated man and could barely read and write and failed to find work, except one night a week at the local inn. Fridays were a busy night and Caesar’s task was to throw out men that became drunk and rowdy. The pay was low. Caesar had seriously thought about begging. His wife, a proud Sicilian, would not hear of this and also took to mending clothes. She was sitting behind her stall and mending a shirt a mother had brought. Behind her on a rack hung new clothes for children. At the table in front a pile of shirts - some for girls, some for boys.

Seniore Carni read his note again and turned, making big strides towards the exit. A boy not more than twelve, with a slight limp, came running from behind and tugged at his shirt. The Seniore turned.

“Seniore.” The boy pointed to the board. “I know such a man.”

“You do?” The Seniore was interested.

The boy put out his hand. Seniore Carni took out a coin and put it in the boy’s hand. “Five more if this man is suitable, and twenty more if the man takes the work.”

“Wow!” The boy exclaimed. “Follow me, Seniore.”

The boy was quick and rushed ahead, frequently stopping to check the Seniore had not lost sight of him in the crowds in the markets at this piazza. The boy led him to Caesar and waited.

Seniore Carni explained the notice he had nailed on the library board. Caesar was interested, as was his wife who heard this. She, with a thread between her teeth trying to break it, turned to her husband and nodded.

Caesar pulled up another chair from behind the stall. The Seniore sat down. Caesar explained about himself. The Seniore was impressed. Negotiations over a wage were short. The starting date was agreed. To help them move, Seniore Carni would send a cart for their belongings.

Before he left Seniore Carni gave the boy the coins he had promised. The boy, thrilled, nevertheless was quick, “you promised 25, Seniore.”

“I did not!” Seniore objected. “I said five more if the man is suitable, and twenty if the man takes the job. I am a man of my word.”

“Si, si, the man is suitable. For this you owe me five. The man took the work, for this you owe me twenty more. That is twenty five Seniore.” The boy beamed a smile.

Seniore Carni had to smile. The boy was clever! He handed the boy the extra five coins, even ruffled the boy’s hair with his hand, this in a fatherly way, and the boy rushed off as happy as a bee.

Seniore Carni was pleased with himself. A soldier? Who can bribe a soldier?

Seniore Carni’s estate was two hours ride from Salermo. Not such a long distance in those times. The family moved into the stone house. Months before the next harvest. Until then there was little to do except regularly assign men to patrol the estate. An easy task with rarely an incident. Caesar, in order that his men do not waste time, told them to shoot above the heads of intruders, not to try to kill unless they had no choice. In this way the intruder would run away and they would not need to bring the dead body to the officials and spend time answering questions. This in turn allowed his men to remain on the property for longer, thereby better protecting it. Seniore Carni, when he understood the reason, applauded this decision.

Each Saturday Caesar and his wife would go to the markets and set up their stall. Caesar now had a good income but he had acquired debts which his wife was anxious they pay off. The clothes she made did not sell that well. They were well made but the state of poverty of the times meant mothers would wait until they needed to buy. The wealthy women rarely bought hand made clothes from the stall vendors. It was the poorer class that did. Such lacked the money to buy often. Each Saturday, usually, two items were sold. Not much profit because the material to make such was expensive; and neither could Caesar’s wife add too much profit to any item because then less people would take an interest and look and purchase.

Two weeks after Caesar moved into the stone house a new stall had set up next to the stall he and his wife put up. Each vendor had to pay for a spot to an official that came around. A small amount. The rule was that a new stall in a spot cost twice as much the first time. For this reason once a vendor decided on a spot, they would set up their stall in exactly the same spot each Saturday. Some stalls were carts made to stand upright while the donkey or horse was tied to a beam on one side of the square in which the market was. Some stalls were tables assembled on the site. Those who sold clothes had racks with hung clothes. Such also might erect a “change room”. A tall box with a heavy curtain across. Usually large enough for two because mothers tended to want to go inside with their daughters. Caesar’s wife had no need of such because her clothes were simple and for children.

Caesar, as he sat in his chair, often glanced at the new stall while keeping an eye on his three children. Two most attractive young women were selling soaps and scents. These laid out on their table. The aroma from these tantalised his nose. A welcome change to the smell of raw sewerage around this part of Salermo.

One of the young women came and introduced herself. “Hello. I am Vittoria. We will be neighbours.” She said this to Caesar’s wife with only a brief glance at Caesar.

Caesar stood and smiled and nodded and mused. “It is a lovely change, the aroma, so fresh, compared to what we usually smell.”

“Si!” The young woman smiled and walked over to him. “Maybe you might want to buy a special scent for your wife?” She came very close and lifted her hand. From her wrist an elusive scent – the most elusive scent of all – stimulated Caesar’s senses.

“Maybe one day. Short of money at the moment.” Caesar replied.

The young woman smiled, turned in a delicate way, her eye maintaining contact with his eyes during this turn, a sensual toss of long black hair, and she returned to her table.

That Saturday morning four dresses were sold. A small windfall! On their way back his wife was unusually silent. His new boss supplied a fine horse but only for work. Their own horse was old and lacked the strength and vigour of youth - he was pulling a heavy wooden cart with three small children, two adults, and a portable table and rack and clothes. On steeper hills the horse could not make it on his own. Caesar would get off and help by pushing the cart. The horse had become used to this. If Caesar was preoccupied in his thoughts and a steeper hill came the horse would stop. If Caesar took too long to get off the cart, the horse would turn its head, his eye on Caesar, and would shake his head and neigh.

While he so sat, limply, holding the reins, that – the most elusive scent of all - was playing on his mind. What was it? Perfume? Opium? Petals of a rose?

“What do you think of our new neighbours?” Caesar asked.

“Stupida!” His wife glared. “They were whores.”

“Whores?” Caesar found this hard to believe.

“What woman shoves her wrist under a man’s nose? And the way they were dressed, shape of breasts so visible!” His wife replied. “And the perfume!”

“Why are whores selling perfumes and soaps and scents?” Caesar inquired.

His wife shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe to find clients. I don’t know how a whore thinks.”

To Caesar this did not add up.

“What is a whore, mama?” Their five year old sitting back to back with her mother, turned to her mother.

“Stupida! Don’t say such words.” Her mother glanced behind.

“Bellu.” Caesar spoke kindly. “I was a soldier. I was assigned to the city police. I had seen whores. I had seen streets full of whores. I had locked whores away in prisons. I have never seen whores so attractive. A whore is easy to tell if you have seen such. A whore has no style, no class, can not look deep into a man’s eyes, only wants a quick trick and her pay. And no whore have I ever seen as beautiful as that young woman.”

“Papa, what is a whore?” The four year old, barely managing to say this word, prompted by the five year old, turned to his father.

“Eh?” Caesar turned to his son and winked. “Your mother calls any pretty woman who smiles at an old man like me, a whore.”

Caesar’s wife laughed. She was a devout woman. She would attend church each Sunday. A woman who believed in the confessional. She had a guilty conscience about her mother who had taken ill. About this she had received word through the mail service. It was a long way to travel to where her parents lived. So far she had not went, fearing the cost of the journey they could ill afford; but she was feeling guilty more and more and wanted the priest during the confessional to absolve her of any wrong doing.

One Sunday she received word, through Father Franko, that her mother’s illness may have taken a turn for the worst.

“Seniora.” Father Franko looked persuasive. “The local priest in that area knows your mother. He sent me a letter. Late last night it came to me, when the mail run came. Where is it?” He searched through his pockets. “Must have left it on my desk. I know what it said. The priest, a Father Jensil, writes that I am to find you and tell you that your mother is gravely ill. He explains about you and how you are a seamstress and your name and your husband’s name. Now, I do stress that I do not know who this Father Jensil is, I have not heard of him. The Bishop does not tell me everything. Priests change parishes, as you know. I do not know how reliable this information is, or what sort of man is this Father Jensil.”

On the way back it was decided that Caesar would remain, that he could not afford to leave his new protective work, while his wife and children would book passage on a carriage to see her mother. An expensive passage – they would have to pay for each child the same price as for an adult. They booked the passage on Monday and the next morning Caesar waved his family off.

The price of the passage was all the money they had. His wife had insisted Caesar was to go on Saturday to Salermo and set up the stall. Selling two items would provide enough to live on until the next week.

Come Saturday Caesar set up the stall. The two lovely young women were there, interesting onlookers in their soaps, scents, and perfumes.

Caesar sat on his own. Vittoria came and sat on a chair next to his. She had an easy manner. “Alone?”

“Si, mother-in-law very ill. My wife left last Tuesday for Torino. A long journey, two days.” Caesar’s nostrils were taking in that  – the most elusive scent of all – as Vittoria sat ever so near.

A woman came past with a young child. The woman and child well dressed. In the child’s mouth a lollipop. The woman picked up a shirt from the table.

“For boy or girl?” The woman’s eyes turned to Vittoria.

Caesar did not know. He had never done this on his own or took that much interest in what the difference was. Vittoria came and examined the shirt. “Girl.”

“I will take it.” The woman took out coins. “Keep the change, you have been most helpful.”

The woman put the shirt into a large bag and left. Her child, curious about young children near the stalls, glanced behind as she walked enjoying her sweet. The young ones equally curious about the sweet the child was licking.

Vittoria sat next to Caesar and counted the coins. “You did well!” She handed the coins to Caesar.

“I did not know which shirts are for girls, which for boys. Please, Seniorita, take some coins for your trouble, this is more coins than we make most Saturdays.” Caesar insisted.

“Call me Vittoria, and if you do, then I will take one.” She smiled - such a lovely warm smile.

“Vittoria.” Caesar smiled. “Please take two.”

“No,” she said quietly, sensually, maintaining eye contact and she had lovely dark eyes  – with an even lovelier smile  - and took one small coin from his hand. “If you need me, you know where to find me.” She returned to her stall.

On the way home two things played on Caesar’s mind. That – the most elusive scent of all – and the small windfall. With that Caesar was most pleased.

Sometimes he jingled the coins in his pocket. “We are rich Sebastian!” He would yell to his horse.

Come a steep hill the horse stopped and turned to look behind and neighed.

“Stupida!” Caesar got off and began to push the cart. “It is only me you are pulling!”

The following Monday Caesar did his usual rounds. A common practise in those times was for the borders of a large estate to be along a common dirt road. Each guard, of which there were not many in-between harvests, would take a regular route. The routes themselves were similar. From the villa across hills to a dusty dirt road that was the boundary.  Caesar’s route went up a hill and to the other side. The border was the road. Caesar would take this road - much easier for the horse and himself than the hill. In the distance he saw a young woman picking flowers from the side of the road. She was not on his side of the estate, but on the other side. As he came closer the young woman glanced in his direction. He thought he recognised her. The closer he came the more certain he was and then a scent – the most elusive scent of all – came to him.

“Vittoria?” Caesar yelled to the young woman.

The woman straightened and turned around and waved. Caesar made his horse put on pace. Soon he was by her, and she smiling. Caesar jumped off his horse.

“Lovely to see you, Vittoria, why are you here?” He asked.

“Picking flowers.” Vittoria had a basket half full of flowers. “I live over there.” She pointed to a distant yellow house. “With my parents. Are you spying on me?”

“No, no.” Caesar shook his head and explained what he did for a living.

“Oh, impressive!” She smiled. “And I thought you sold clothes. Are you going that way?” She pointed toward the distant yellow house. “This bend in the road is a good place for flowers I need for my scents. I had seen when coming here two young men on yonder hill. Unsavoury types.”

“Ah?” Caesar took an immediate interest, his eyes scanning the distant hill. “Si, I will walk you back, you never know.”

Caesar held the reins of his horse as they walked. She was a lovely companion. Talking smoothly, easily, so often smiling. And that – the most elusive scent of all – tantalizing.

“My parents,” she explained, “are crippled. They own a small parcel of land but can not make a living anymore from it. If it was not for me, they would have starved. I love them, not their fault their cart overturned on a hill, badly, and rolled on top of them. My father is paralysed in one leg, can walk but drags the leg behind. My mother has one arm that can barely move and her fingers closed most of the time, she has such pain trying to straighten them. They are quite old. When young, my mother thought she was barren, could not conceive. Then, when at an age when women no longer think they can fall pregnant, she did, and I was born.”

“You sell flowers too?” Caesar asked.

“No, these are for my scents, silly.” She said “silly,” so Caesar felt, in such a “heavenly” way.

A narrow dirt path branched from the road and led to the yellow house. At this junction they parted.

“Gracia.” She smiled. “I will walk back on my own. I owe you a favour. What is your name?”

“Caesar.”

“Anytime, anyplace, Caesar.” The girl smiled, a sensual toss of long flowing hair as she turned, her eye smiling at his eye all the way during her turn until her eye could not see his anymore.

Caesar watched as she walked toward the distant yellow house. How fine her figure! And even as she was walking away that – the most elusive scent of all – was hinting at its mystery on the wind, flirting with his nostrils. And her manner, her flow, her style - she was lovely – divine even.