The Perfumer’s Commission

Seren's studio smells of nothing at all, which is the point. She keeps the windows open, wears no scent, and rinses her hands in unperfumed water between clients. When Leila first sits down at the long table, she is met by a room as blank as a clean page. Leila has brought no photograph, no sample, no instructions beyond a single sentence. She wants the smell of her grandmother's kitchen, in a house that was sold when she was ten.

Studio Seren sama sekali tak berbau apa pun, dan itulah maksudnya. Ia membiarkan jendela terbuka, tidak memakai wewangian, dan membilas tangan dengan air tanpa pewangi di antara klien. Ketika Leila pertama kali duduk di meja panjang itu, ia disambut ruangan sekosong halaman bersih. Leila tidak membawa foto, contoh, atau petunjuk apa pun selain satu kalimat. Ia menginginkan bau dapur neneknya, di sebuah rumah yang dijual ketika ia berumur sepuluh tahun.

Seren has made scents for hotels, for weddings, once for a man who wished to smell like the inside of his first car. She has never been asked to rebuild a room. "Tell me what you remember," she says, "and don't try to be accurate." So Leila talks. Warm linoleum, and onions going soft in butter; a drawer of tea towels ironed too hot; the sweet, faintly scorched smell of a toaster that nobody ever cleaned.

Seren sudah membuat wewangian untuk hotel, untuk pernikahan, sekali untuk seorang pria yang ingin berbau seperti bagian dalam mobil pertamanya. Ia belum pernah diminta membangun kembali sebuah ruangan. "Ceritakan apa yang Anda ingat," katanya, "dan jangan coba bersikap akurat." Maka Leila bercerita. Linoleum yang hangat, dan bawang yang melunak dalam mentega; laci berisi lap dapur yang disetrika terlalu panas; bau manis yang sedikit gosong dari pemanggang roti yang tak pernah dibersihkan siapa pun.

They meet every Thursday for six weeks. Seren mixes small accords on paper strips and waves them under Leila's nose like tiny flags; Leila shakes her head, or closes her eyes, or says, "Closer. But colder." Gradually the work stops being about chemistry. Seren finds herself asking questions that no formula needs: who stood where, which way the window faced, what was said over the sink.

Mereka bertemu setiap Kamis selama enam minggu. Seren meramu aroma kecil di atas strip kertas dan mengibaskannya di depan hidung Leila seperti bendera mungil; Leila menggeleng, atau memejamkan mata, atau berkata, "Lebih dekat. Tapi lebih dingin." Lambat laun pekerjaan itu tak lagi tentang kimia. Seren mendapati dirinya mengajukan pertanyaan yang tak dibutuhkan rumus mana pun: siapa berdiri di mana, jendelanya menghadap ke arah mana, apa yang dikatakan di atas bak cuci.

Not until the fourth Thursday does Leila mention the radio on the windowsill, and then only to say that it was always playing something she can no longer name. That is the day Seren notices she has stopped watching the strips and started watching Leila's hands, which move as she speaks over an invisible counter, smoothing, sorting, setting out cups. Had Leila asked for her mother's perfume, or a lover's, Seren would have refused, as she always does. A kitchen is safer. A kitchen, she tells herself, belongs to no one in this room.

Baru pada Kamis keempat Leila menyebut radio di ambang jendela, itu pun hanya untuk mengatakan bahwa radio itu selalu memutar sesuatu yang kini tak bisa ia sebutkan. Hari itulah Seren menyadari ia telah berhenti memandangi strip dan mulai memandangi tangan Leila, yang bergerak saat ia bicara di atas meja yang tak terlihat, menghaluskan, memilah, menata cangkir. Seandainya Leila meminta parfum ibunya, atau kekasihnya, Seren pasti menolak, seperti biasa. Sebuah dapur lebih aman. Sebuah dapur, katanya pada dirinya, bukan milik siapa pun di ruangan ini.

On the sixth Thursday the formula is finished, and it is very nearly perfect. Leila lifts the strip, breathes in, and is silent for so long that Seren glances at the clock. "It's beautiful," Leila says at last. "But nobody has cooked anything in it."

Pada Kamis keenam rumusnya selesai, dan hampir sempurna. Leila mengangkat strip itu, menghirupnya, dan terdiam begitu lama sampai Seren melirik jam. "Indah sekali," kata Leila akhirnya. "Tapi belum ada yang memasak apa pun di dalamnya."

Seren understands before she has put down the pipette. It is the flaw, not the craft, that brings a room back. She adds a single drop of something she would normally call a mistake: the edge of a burnt crust, bitter and brief. The next strip goes under Leila's nose, and this time her eyes fill. Then, to Seren's surprise, her face breaks into a quick, embarrassed laugh, the laugh of someone caught out by her own past.

Seren paham sebelum ia sempat meletakkan pipetnya. Cacatlah, bukan kerajinan, yang memanggil kembali sebuah ruangan. Ia menambahkan satu tetes sesuatu yang biasanya ia sebut kesalahan: tepi kerak yang gosong, pahit dan singkat. Strip berikutnya dibawa ke hidung Leila, dan kali ini matanya berkaca-kaca. Lalu, mengejutkan Seren, wajahnya pecah menjadi tawa singkat yang malu, tawa orang yang tertangkap basah oleh masa lalunya sendiri.

"That's it," Leila says. "That's the toast. She burned it every single morning."

"Itu dia," kata Leila. "Itu rotinya. Nenek membakarnya sampai gosong setiap pagi."

Seren caps the vial. Having finished the commission, she ought now to explain the invoice, the bottles, the three weeks the blending will take. Instead she stands there with her hands clean and empty in the unscented air, aware that the studio, without her having noticed, has become somewhere she waits for Thursdays.

Seren menutup botol kecil itu. Setelah menyelesaikan pesanan, seharusnya kini ia menjelaskan tagihan, botol-botolnya, tiga minggu yang dibutuhkan untuk meraciknya. Sebaliknya ia berdiri di sana dengan tangan bersih dan kosong di udara tanpa bau, sadar bahwa studio itu, tanpa ia sadari, telah menjadi tempat yang ia tunggu-tunggu setiap Kamis.

"What would you say this room smells like?" Leila asks, looking round it. "If you had to make it."

"Menurut Anda ruangan ini berbau apa?" tanya Leila sambil memandang berkeliling. "Kalau Anda harus membuatnya."

Seren, who has never once been asked, finds that she has no answer. "I'd need more Thursdays," she says.

Seren, yang belum pernah sekali pun ditanya, mendapati dirinya tak punya jawaban. "Saya butuh lebih banyak Kamis," katanya.