The Scent of a Rose

“Do you remember that Grandma’s birthday is coming up soon?” My mother’s voice on the phone was stern, and there was no arguing with it.

“Of course I remember.” I always spoke briskly and confidently. You’d never have guessed the phone call had just woken me up. I’d been practising since childhood.

“And you’ll definitely come?” Although it sounded like a question, it was really a command. “We’re getting together on Sunday. At two o’clock!”

“Yes, of course...”

“And make sure you look decent!”

Oh, not this again! It meant Mum was trying to set me up with someone! But I had to be there on Sunday. Although... I could come early and leave by two o’clock...

Around me, several clocks began striking eight: clocks made of plastic and steel, mahogany and birch, with chimes and cuckoos; table clocks, wall clocks — every kind except grandfather clocks.

Lately, I’d had no luck with long-case clocks. I’d had one the year before, but I’d sold it and hadn’t managed to find a replacement. I wanted one just like my grandfather’s. Grandma wouldn’t even recognise it — she didn’t recognise me any more — but it was a matter of principle.

How much time did I have? Two or three days? Oh, almost a week! Fortunately, it was only Monday!

And so I began my search through pawnshops and flea markets.

* * *

Finally, I got lucky, although calling it luck was a bit of a stretch.

A huge case clock. Or rather, its lifeless shell. A cracked, decaying face with no hands; scratches and chips all over the case. Inside — if there was anything inside at all — there were probably only twisted remnants. The chubby salesman wouldn’t let me get close enough to find out.

“How much do you want for this thing?” I asked casually from behind a wealthy-looking couple at the counter.

“Oh, this is a very expensive antique,” the shifty-eyed salesman began. “Lenzkirch! Two centuries! Er... and a half.” He clearly wanted to add a few more years to its age but was afraid of lying too boldly.

“Forget the two centuries,” I cut in. “My grandfather made this clock. It stood in our house until he died, and then my nephew, in his infinite wisdom, threw it in the rubbish. It was already broken by then.”

“Oh, no, wait...” the seller exclaimed, addressing himself mainly to the couple. “The young man is mistaken...”

“I can prove it,” I said cheerfully. “If you open the door, you’ll find a bronze plaque right here with the name ‘Ivan Petrov’ and the date of manufacture — 1967. And here’s my ID. I have the same full name as my grandfather.”

I pulled out my driving licence, but by then there were no buyers left to look at it. The elderly lady was already dragging her husband towards the exit.

Which was just as well, because the name on my licence was Venyamin Alevi. Though I had been honest about one thing: I did have the same full name as my grandfather.

And there might not have been a plaque inside the clock at all...

“Get out!” The seller came stomping towards me. “You have no right! I’ll call the police...”

“Call anyone you like.” I shrugged. “The clock is worthless. It’s been broken for years, and its only value is sentimental — to my grandma. And I’d like to buy it...”

“No way!” he exclaimed.

“I promise to come in regularly and scare away your customers unless...”

“Ahem...” came a sound from the inner doorway.

The doorway was completely filled by the formidable Varvara, the owner of the pawnshop. A real Gypsy queen — in a red dress, a colourful shawl, and with a mass of black hair — she thrust out her powerful jaw.

“Varvara!” I exclaimed, feigning genuine delight. “Te aves baxtali, dear! Maybe you’ll sell me this broken case, where something apparently used to tick in better days...”

“I’d rather smash it myself!” she declared in a smoky bass, flicking a raven-black lock from her forehead. The chandelier lights politely reflected in every one of her rings.

“Varvara, why be like that?” I was as sweet as honey. “Let’s say I give you...”

“Fifty thousand rubles!” she thundered.

“One hundred!” I said even more sweetly. “Dollars. That’s a lot for a not-so-old ruin!”

“To hell with it!” The queen suddenly waved a hand, warming to the game. “You’ve annoyed me enough. You said five hundred dollars? Deal! Just for your pretty eyes, Roma.”

“Ani no Roma,” I said with a smile and a shrug. “Ani Yehudi! One hundred and ten. For a scratched wooden box with no innards, that’s a lot...”

In the end, we settled on two hundred and fifty. And that was only because I was in a hurry.

* * *

Yes, there was a plaque with the company name, but Lenzkirch, my foot! It was as much a Lenzkirch as I was the Queen of England. Well, never mind. Let it stay — it made the clock look more respectable.

“Come to me, darling,” I crooned, caressing its cracked and scratched side.

Restoring the wood was the easiest part. And the most beautiful. The camera lovingly captured me fitting the missing pieces into place, sanding them smooth, and then — the special moment — coating the wood with varnish. Suddenly, it came alive in wonderful shades of dark red and gold. Like music in colour! Instagram and YouTube love moments like that. And so did I.

Repairing the mechanism was much more difficult. Everything was bent and twisted, though it was all familiar and relatively standard to me.

Then I noticed something intriguing: a wooden box attached inside the top of the clock, containing a brass cylinder covered in tiny pins, with a metal comb beside it — a musical mechanism! Like a music box. As the cylinder turned, the pins caught and released the teeth of the comb, making them vibrate and produce delicate musical notes. But most of the complicated gearing and mounting around it was missing.

But how was it all connected? Ah, that’s how! A whole mess of parts, intricately assembled to make the thing play just once a year — imagine that! I wondered what kind of music it played. I’d figure that out later. Right now, the priority was to get it assembled and working... and quickly!

The wood had the potential to resonate like a Stradivarius — just a light tap, and it seemed to sing! The sound would be amazing once it was all put together.

I rummaged through my storeroom, where I kept old mechanisms sorted in drawers — brass, copper, steel, large and small, with chains and weights, some with chimes and others without. Dials, hands — they came in all types and sizes. It was like assembling a puzzle — gear to gear, hand to hand. I aimed for a similar look. Two years ago, purely by chance, I’d even managed to find an antique clock face just like the one in our family photos of Grandpa’s old clock.

I found everything I needed! Except for the musical part. It was twisted, half of it was missing, and there was nothing suitable to replace it. It was quite a complex mechanism. Perhaps I should throw it out? Then again, what if I discarded only this part and connected this gear to that one, making it play every day at noon? Why not? Why bother with all that ceremony just to play once a year? I only needed to rearrange everything and secure it like this…

* * *

"Venyamin, why don't I see you yet?" came my mother's decisive voice over the phone. She usually called me Venya, but now she was clearly displeased.

Oh, was it Sunday already? How many days had passed? Time to run. And I didn’t even know if it would work...

“And what on earth did you bring here?” Mum was ready to block my way, though far from being as imposing as the pawnshop queen Varvara.

“It’s a gift! For Grandma.”

“And here I was hoping it was a baby crib. When are you going to give me grandchildren?” Mum placed her hands on her hips, her tone half-serious, half-teasing. “Just don’t dare say you prefer boys! It’s a mockery of nature not to pass on such eyelashes to a son.”

“I’d prefer a daughter, but I don’t see anyone on the horizon...”

“That’s because you’re not looking!” Mum exclaimed.

“Of course I’m looking, but I don’t see anyone who even comes close to you!” I retorted playfully.

I kissed her on the cheek and gave her my most innocent look.

And she softened, allowing me into the apartment. That was when I suddenly found myself not just face to face, but eyes to eyes with a girl. Like two green lakes — and I felt myself sinking into their depths, momentarily lost. I even flinched.

It was only then that I took in her appearance: she was slim, with dark hair neatly tied in a ponytail, dressed in a crisp blue nurse’s uniform, medical gloves on her hands.

“What’s going on?” I asked, a wave of concern washing over me. “Is someone sick?”

Mum’s voice was quiet, tinged with sadness.

“This is home hospice care,” she explained. “A nurse has been coming for Grandma. She doesn’t have much time left... And you come to visit so rarely.”

“Well, Grandma, look what I found — Grandpa’s clock,” I said, gently taking her trembling fingers in my palms.

She didn’t recognise me, but I smiled, and she returned a faint smile.

“Where’s Venya?” she asked quietly. “And So... So... and... I...”

She was probably trying to remember Sophie’s and Izia’s names. And Venya — Venyamin — was my grandfather. As I told you, I share my grandfather’s full name.

“Sophie is here,” I pointed to Mum. “And the others will come soon,” I reassured her, then added, “and here’s your clock, it’s about to play — listen!”

Of course, I took the camera. This was a moment worth capturing for posterity. I inhaled deeply and announced, “Everyone, quiet!” Then, with deliberate slowness, I pulled the chain. The weights swung and rose; I gently nudged the pendulum... A historic moment was unfolding, and I wasn’t even sure if it would work...

Like a breath of life, the first heartbeat echoed in the room. There it was — tick-tock, tick-tock... The pendulum sprang to life, the heart of the clock began to beat. Internally, I shouted “Hooray!” and finally allowed myself a deep breath of relief.

Tick-tock... Tick-tock... The clear, gentle sounds filled the house, just as I had imagined. This wood, I mused, had the potential of a Stradivarius violin.

Everyone around me froze, listening intently to the rhythmic sound. I glanced at my digital watch, only to confirm the time. But the hands of the old relic I had deliberately set to almost noon, not for accuracy, but to engage the music mechanism. To hear its melody, of course.

“Well, okay,” Mum said, “that’s sweet, but we have a lot of work to do. Come on, help me.”

“No, wait,” I insisted, “just a few seconds more... Now...”

“What are we waiting for?” Mum questioned, puzzled.

“Just a little longer... A bit more...” I murmured, focusing the camera.

Finally, a loud click resonated from within the clock, signalling the big hand meeting the small one. Then, a rhythmic chime echoed — soft, gentle, almost mysterious, like a distant call. The clock struck the long-awaited twelve, and with a creaking sound, a melody began to unfold. The brass drum commenced its slow rotation, the pegs delicately plucking the metal strips. They released a wonderful, melancholic melody into the house, resonating like tiny bells throughout the world. Do-do-mi-sol, fa-mi-re-do, fa-a, mi-i...

I was painfully trying to remember where I might have heard this wonder before, but I was in for another surprise.

Grandma listened intently, initially frozen. Then, softly and almost in a whisper, she began to sing along: “Puncha, puncha la rosa huele...”

Her broken voice trailed off, though her lips still whispered the continuation. And when the verse ended, the musical drum in the clock started its second round — but along with the tiny bells, another voice chimed in, young, beautiful, soft. The nurse picked up the melody:

“Puncha, puncha-a la rosa huele, que el amor mucho duele...”

“Venya, it’s a miracle!” Mum quietly gasped. “You really found your grandfather’s clock!”

“What?” I was surprised.

But I knew the nameplate was fake. Didn’t I?

I opened the door. Yes, there it was, a brass plaque — supposedly a Lenzkirch, as much as I was the Queen of England! I took out a screwdriver and unscrewed it. Beneath it was the name, burned into the wood — not in Cyrillic or Latin, but in Hebrew: Venyamin Alevi...

For a long time, I couldn’t find the words. Then it occurred to me that I would need to varnish the wood again.

* * *

“You sing so beautifully,” I said, escorting the nurse to the door. And I noticed she looked a lot like my mum in old photos. “What is that song?”

“It’s Sephardic,” she smiled. “About unhappy love. ‘Oh, how sweetly the rose smells, but your love brings me suffering. We are not meant for each other...’”

“Is that the song’s content, or are you saying that about me?” I smiled innocently.

“About you — firstly, it’s too early, and secondly, do you really want it to be about you?”

“Touché!” I laughed. “Of course not. But it’s beautiful!”

“And the clock... Did you restore it yourself? I saw it at Varvara’s pawnshop. It was in terrible condition...”

“You go there too?”

“Yes, I live nearby.”

“It seems like fate... Will you come to us again?”

“Of course. When I’m on shift, I visit all our patients... Can I...” She suddenly hesitated. “My father is a watchmaker. He’s been eyeing this clock for a long time. Could he come and have a look? It’s marvellous work. I’ll tell him — he’ll be amazed...”

“Let’s ask Mum!”

There were many guests, but I was so tired I couldn’t remember any of them. I didn’t even notice the ladies with their young daughters who had been specially invited to meet me. I just waited for a quiet moment when I could open YouTube and find that melody. The one about the wonderful scent of the rose and unhappy love.

And suddenly I realised I hadn’t even asked the girl’s name.

But that was all right. I’d have another chance.

Very soon...