To my editor, Sarah Durand, an author’s dream: insightful, wise, patient and sensitive.
To my agent, Dan Conaway-for so many reasons-this wouldn’t be The Book of Lost Fragrances without you.
To my sorcerer of scent-the blogger Dimitri-who opened the doors of the mysterious world of perfume. Thank you for your generous advice and all the vintage samples.
For the inspiration: thanks to the iconic Sophia Grossman, one of the great living perfumers, and the inventive and poetic Olivier Durbano.
To Frederick Bochardy for his wonderful fragrances, spirit of adventure and willingness to share his scents with me and with this book.
To the whole team at Atria Books-those I know: Hilary Tisman, Lisa Sciambra and Paul Olsewski, as well as all the people who worked on this book whom I haven’t had the chance to meet yet-I’m honored to be working with you.
To everyone at Writers House-from the always calming Stephen Barr to the charming Michael Mejias (one day I will open the right door!).
To the dream team-when you’re stuck with a plot point, character or just losing confidence-they’re incomparable and great friends all-Lisa Tucker, Douglas Clegg, C.W. Gortner and Steve Berry.
To readers, booksellers and librarians everywhere who make all the work worthwhile.
As always, to my dear friends and family. And most of all, Doug.
The Romance, the Passion… the Fascinating True Story Behind The Book of Lost Fragrances
M.J. Rose
Several years ago I went to a brocante (flea market) in Cannes, France. It was a perfect morning to peruse antiques-warm with a little breezeto mingle the scent of fresh flowers with theseaside town’s fresh salty air.
One table that caught my attention offered anintriguing mix of items laid out as if they were resting on an elegant woman’s vanity.
Next to a shagreen jewelry box-opened to reveal strings of pearls-was a pair of fine, creamy white, kid gloves. Sunshine glinted off the silver trim of aturquoisecloisonnéhair brush set and illuminated the gold lettering on a group of leather bound books all about mythology.
There were also a dozen perfume decanters scattered around. Some were cut crystalwith fancy repoussésilver caps. Others were intricately sculpted pieces of glasswork-the kind created by Lalique and Baccarat in the late nineteenth and early twentiethcenturies.
Sadly, all the bottles wereempty with the exception of one, which had an inch of thick, dark perfume that coated the bottom. It was the least ornate flacon. A residue of glue was visible to show where a label had once been pasted. It was capped with agreen ceramic stopper shaped into a lotus-a flower that I recognized from Ancient Egyptian tomb paintings.
As I daydreamed about the woman who’d owned all these treasures, I picked up the bottle, uncapped it and sniffed.
In Remembrance of Things Past, Marcel Proust wrote about how the taste and smell of a madeleine returned him to his youth with an immediacy that nothing else ever had. For me it was the scent in that bottle that returned me to a day years before.
Suddenly I wasn’t in the square in front of the Hôtelde Ville in that French town but was sixteen years old, standing on the hill overlooking Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, talking to a boy who I’d just met.
He was telling me about Plato’s theory of soul mates.
And I was falling in love.
The scentin the bottle in the flea market was his scent. He was wearingcologne-discontinued before he was even born-that he’d found in a house his parents had rented one summer.
It had been so long since I’d even smelled it-or even thought of it. But suddenly everything about that meeting-learning about soul mates, being sure I’d found oneand the tall boy with the sly smile who had sadly long since died-came rushing back in that one inhalation.
The Book of Lost Fragrances is very much a suspense novel weaving history into a tense hunt for an important treasure, but the theme for book-an ancient scent that would help people identify their soul mates-came to life that lazy day in the south of France.
I bought the very bottle from the antique dealer and it sits on a shelf with the rest of my perfume collection. I’ve never opened it again… I don’t want the scent to evaporate any more quickly than nature will insistupon.
It’s enough to know that memories lay captured inside and they were strong enough to inspire a novel.