Relatives

by Walker Minton, 28 January 2008

My nephew has a bottle of Jules by Dior. Or perhaps he has two. He may have several stashed away, I'm not sure.

I have great memories of wearing Jules in the 80s. Sweet boozy citrusy aldehydic leathery manliness in a bottle. A mist of highly composed chemical potion encapsulating the tail end of modernism. However, I didn't see it like that at the time. I was a young man then, lost in city of millions looking for ways to stand out. Unaware of my ordinary youthful potency. Ignorant of the irony contained in the paradoxical cliché that later would become clear; that my youth was wasted on me while young. Back then, like me in my world, scents were complex, larger than life, heavy headed, and gender specific.

I used my bottle up sometime towards the end of that decade of transitions. As I completed my nominal advance from boyhood to manhood, the selfish madness of the times came to a crashing end and the recession kicked in. I forgot about Jules. My precious bottle of R de Capucci given by a favoured aunt sat in a similar place in my wardrobe. Kouros came and made its presence known, first detested then questioned and finally loved. Ricci Club dropped by for a few months, and many other friends whose names I will not recount right now.

Then, a few months ago, I spotted my nephew's bottle. It was unkempt and dirty, tossed dismissively in a washbag, 70% full, sitting in a hot humid bathroom. Clearly this was owned by a utilitarian fragrance user. A normal person, if you like. No longer available in U.K. stores, I knew he had to have come by this from his grandmother's shop. The little gift and cosmetics establishment placed opposite the Tower of London managed by my mother-in-law closed down in the early nineties as the land was forcibly sold to make way for new development. The stock was sold off after an avaricious raid by my brother-in-law and me. Clearly, he got the Jules. It must be at least fifteen years old, probably twenty. What condition would it be in?

Already fragranced that day, I sprayed some on a sheet of toilet paper and took my first tentative sniff for twenty-odd years. Scents etch strong memories for me. The neural maps were still there, the synapses a little dusty but I remembered that smell with certainty. The Jules was in excellent condition. It surprised me that despite lacking a vocabulary, or even a language for scent all those years ago I had filed this scent in my mind in some detail. I remembered nuances without words to describe them.

Some time later, I had a brief conversation with my nephew about cologne during which he bemoaned the fact that he still used 'a really old one from his grandma's shop'. I asked few questions taking great care to choose my words and not intrude too much, to keep his integrity intact. I revealed just a little of my passion. In the end, I promised to buy him a new one.

I enjoyed the moment of seniority, the feeling that I had grown beyond that self-consciousness. It never ceases to amaze me that I'm an adult, a parent, an uncle. I had been too distracted to notice my own prime, but I could clearly see his. So the paradox was fulfilled, the wisdom which comes from being too late to act found its application with a younger generation.

For a Christmas gift I bought him a bottle of Himalaya. I had remembered how awkward I felt at the age of 21 around perfume (not to mention just about everything else). I would not have been comfortable buying it for myself. I remembered the pleasure and relief that followed the gift to me from the quality-obsessed aunt. I thought there might be a chance that I could repeat the gesture for him. Immediately, the Creed seemed to be well received and appeared to be an excellent choice for a high achieving, hard socialising academic student at Cambridge. On following visits, he smelled of it and it was in evidence on his bathroom shelf.

Then recently, while staying for a few days it all became very confusing. The Himalaya seemed appropriately lighter when I gave it a friendly and curious shake. It was still on display in an accessible and appropriate place. I relaxed into the bath; happy to know I had given a good gift. I reached for the soap. Something caught my eye. Facing the wall, on the corner of the bath, all steamed up and neglected sat the bottle of Jules. I picked it up, having quickly decided to sneak a nostalgic spritz. Something seemed amiss. Then it struck me. This bottle was nearly full.

About the author

Walker Minton is a jazz musician and freelance writer with a lifelong interest in scent. He lives in North London with his partner and two sons. walker_minton@yahoo.co.uk

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