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

these,” she continued, taking in hand a few green leaves, “are eucalyptus leaves.” She paused. “It takes a lot of them to make a tiny amount of oil.”
    “It’s beautiful in here,” said Rosa. She took a deep breath, and inhaled the strange aroma of the room. It was a combination of the stench from the booth and the perfumes of fruit and flowers.
    “It still stinks a bit,” the witch said, smiling.
    Rosa nodded as she took a little blue bottle from the shelf. “Can I open it?”
    The witch shook her head. “Not a good idea,” she explained. “Then you’ll truly smell a stench. These are the bottles where I keep the oils after the distillation. They must rest on these shelves for at least one month in order to lose their bad odors. If you want to smell something good, come this way.”
    It was then that Rosa noticed another door in the flower room. This time she followed the witch right away. It was the door to a pantry, with shelves on three walls.
    “These,” the witch said, pointing at the shelves, “are the bottles you should open. Go ahead.”
    Rosa took a bottle with a pink label, removed the cork, and brought it to her nose. She closed her eyes as she inhaled. It was a sweet and gentle odor, which lingered in her nostrils a long time.
    “It’s a blend of rosewood and tangerine blossoms,” the witch said. She took a different bottle from the shelf. “Try this one now.”
    Rosa spent a long time sniffing bottles that day, while the witch reorganized the shelves and then peeled several tangerines and bright green apples.
    At a certain point, the witch asked, “Would you like to help me with the distillery sometime?”
    Rosa nodded.
    “I’m always here,” the witch said. “You can come back any time.”
    Rosa smiled. “You said that my hair reminds you of the sunsets back home. Where is your home?”
    “Far away. In a beautiful land on the other side of the ocean.”
    Rosa’s eyes glimmered. “You have been on the other side of the ocean?”
    “I was born on the other side of the ocean,” the witch said. “In a village called Manzanillo, on the eastern shore of Costa Rica.”
    Fascinated, Rosa stared at the witch with her large blue eyes. “Is that why you talk strange?”
    “Yes. In Costa Rica people speak a different language: Spanish.”
    Rosa had heard the word Spanish before. Madam C had been upset one day over some men who had come to the Luna with no money. “Never let in Spanish sailors again,” she had told the girls in an angry voice, “unless they show you the money at the door.”
    “Do people have money in Costa Rica?” Rosa asked.
    “Sure they do,” the witch said with a laugh. “It looks different from the Italian liras, but it’s still money.”
    Rosa looked outside. “I have to go,” she said, “or Madam C will get mad.”
    The witch nodded. “I’ll see you later.”
    Rosa rushed to the street, then stopped and turned around. “What’s your name?” she asked.
    “Isabel,” the witch replied.
    “I’m Rosa,” Rosa said before mingling with the crowd in motion.

CHAPTER 4
     
    T he visits to Isabel became the highlight of Rosa’s days. Between her fascination with the distillation process and the fact that Isabel had crossed the ocean, Rosa couldn’t wait to be finished with her chores to rush to Isabel’s booth and ask her questions. Over a few days, she learned that Isabel was eighty years old and had learned the art of distillation as a child, watching her grandmother, Azul, back in Costa Rica. “There was a small hill behind our village,” Isabel told Rosa, “where orchids grew year round, together with ferns and beautiful wildflowers. At least twice a week Azul would take me with her to the hill to pick what she needed to make oils. She had a distillery like this one”—Isabel pointed at the stove—“in a shack behind our house, next to the pigs and goats. No one ever complained about the stench, because it blended with the animals’