Free The Scent Of Rosa's Oil by Lina Simoni Page A

know.”
    One week later, Rosa returned to Vico Usodimare. The witch was seated quietly by the booth door, on a black rocking chair. There was no steam blurring her figure that day, and Rosa noticed that her eyes were shiny black and the leathery skin of her face was crisscrossed with wrinkles. “Hello, Tramonto,” the witch said when Rosa stopped in front of the booth.
    “Hello,” Rosa whispered. “I’d like to know about the steam.”
    “Come here,” the witch said, standing up. “I’ll show you.”
    Rosa moved forward very slowly, and her knees shook a little when she stepped past the booth threshold. The room in front of her was more spacious than she had imagined, with walls of bare stone and graniglia floors like those on the first floor of the Luna, only dirtier. There was a cot in a corner, behind the rocking chair.
    “See all this?” the witch said, pointing at some strange equipment in the very back of the room. “I use it to make perfumes. It’s a distillery, like the one my grandmother had at home.”
    Silently, Rosa stared at a wood stove much larger than the one in the Luna kitchen, a big iron box with pipes coming out of each side, a glass carafe with a pipe that looked like a pig’s tail, and two marble mortars set on the floor. She thought those would be exactly the type of tools a witch would use to cast spells on people. “Perfumes?” she said. “I don’t believe you. It stinks in here.”
    “Do you know how perfumes are made?” the witch asked.
    Rosa shook her head.
    “You pick flowers and plants and seeds and pieces of wood, and then you boil them. If you boil them long enough, they release oil. And then,” the witch continued, pointing at the big box with the pipes, “you separate the oil from the steam and collect the oil”—she placed a hand on the carafe—“in here. Certain fruit peels you can’t steam. You must press them in the mortars. When you do all this, it stinks. But a few weeks later, the stench goes away, and you can use the oils to make perfumes and massage balms. You can also mix them with melted wax and make scented candles.”
    “Where are the flowers and the plants?” Rosa asked with mistrust.
    “In here,” the witch said, pointing at a small door across from Rosa, next to the wood stove. The door opened with a squeak under the pressure of the witch’s fingers.
    From her position on the booth threshold, Rosa caught sight only of a deep darkness. This is it , she thought. That’s where the witch keeps the children. She uses the perfume story to lure us in, and then she boils us.
    “Don’t be afraid,” the witch whispered. “Look.” She went in and returned a moment later holding a bouquet of lavender and a small cardboard box. “Hold on to this,” she said, handing Rosa the lavender. “Smells good, huh? And look in here,” she whispered, opening the box.
    Rosa took a quick peak. There were white petals inside.
    “They are orange blossoms,” the witch said. “This,” she added, taking a blossom in her hand, “is for you. You should put it between two sheets of paper and keep it there till it dries. It’ll last forever.”
    They were both silent a while. Then Rosa stepped forward and walked cautiously toward the little door. Through the penumbra, she saw on the floor of the next room various flowers set in vases, a box filled with leaves and pieces of wood, and a second box filled with oranges, apples, and tangerines. As she slowly stepped in, she noticed shelves along one of the walls. On the shelves were boxes like the one that had the white petals inside, tiny glass bottles with cork stoppers and labels of different colors, and droppers like the one Madam C used to keep her eyes clear. Leaning against the opposite wall, filled to the top, were six cloth bags almost as tall as Rosa. “What are those?” Rosa asked.
    Isabel pointed at a bag filled with purple flowers. “This is lavender,” she said, then pointed at a second bag. “And