When I was a boy, in the old wood and glass elevator that went up to the apartment where my mother and I lived, once or twice a year I would recognize, combined with the smell of the lift, a mixture of Chesterfield cigarettes and an old cologne that contained sandalwood and vetiver. It was the smell of my father. He died two years ago and I cannot remember that smell. All that is left is the description.

Valentín Vallhonrat