| Have you ever smelled Andalusia in the springtime? The air is saturated with the delicate perfume of the orange blossom (azahar). There is something intoxicating about this scent. The sweet aroma of the orange blossom possesses an alluring fragrance that teases the senses and inspires vivid changes in behavior. The azahar perfumes Andalusia in the spring. Its aroma floats on the air and defines the region. Andalusia is the heart of Gypsy Spain, and the setting for Azahar, a multicultural novel scented with the blossoms of orange and jasmine, and developed around the sensually rich atmoshpere of Holy Week in Seville. I invite you to join me on a short journey into Gypsy Spain . . . . (Unfortunately the construction of this web site does not allow for quotation marks, accents, Spanish letters and punctuation marks, or apostrophies. Please ignore the breach in grammar). A disturbing wind blows from the east, saturating the city of Seville with the scent of orange. Juan Antonios dark hair flies off his shoulder and whips against his face. The seductive aroma of the orange blossom surrounds him and the perfumed wind wafts past his ears, whispering secrets only he can hear. Can you smell the orange blossom? murmurs the wind. I love that scent. Do you remember? The wind blows stronger over the Guadalquivir River, lifting with it the raw reminder of a time when spring smelled sweet. Juan Antonio looks up sharply and stares out over the river, his hand tensing around the fret board of his flamenco guitar. He feels the wind crawling around his neck, blowing past his face. He brushes a strand of hair from his eyes, but the fragrant wind only blows it back. I can still feel you, whispers the wind. Smell you . . . taste you. The wind tosses a burst of citrus his way. Your hands smell of horses and leather, your lips of chocolate. I will never forget your delicious scent. But, I fear you have forgotten mine. An angry cloud of orange swirls over Juan Antonio, threatening to engulf him. He yanks a scrap of cloth from his pocket and ties his hair back with the tattered fabric. Then he shouts to the perfumed wind. Dejame! Leave me alone! Frantically, he clamps the back of his hand against his nose to block out the opressive sweetness, but it is impossible to block the scent that the wind lifts. The seductive aroma of the azahar, the orange blossom, lives inside of him . . . tormenting him . . . robbing him of the peace he longs to find. But there is a change in the wind and the scent that rides upon it. It is a subtle change, hardly noticeable at first -- more the premonition of a scent than the scent itself -- exotic, aromatic, like a sandalwood forest after a refreshing rain. It is the scent of India blowing in from the East . . . . Who brings this alluring scent that rides upon the air, asks the wind. My friend, Rajiv Kumran, says Juan Antonio. His odor is mysterious, sensually intriguing. Why is he here, in Spain? To be free . . . something I will never be. Juan Antonio whispers to himself, but the wind hears. No. You cannot be free, because you belong to me. The wind wraps itself around him, smothering him with the scent of orange. But why is it that I smell loves seduction in the air? It is not the essence of lavender that you love, but another scent, a foreign scent. The air is infused with the aroma of potpourri, that light floral fragrance that wafts through the gift shops in New England. I smell lilac and rose. Who is this woman that intoxicates you with the allure of foreign perfume? Her name is Sara Webb, and shes unlike any woman I have known before. Her skin is fair, and her eyes are like the Mediterranean Sea -- sparkling blue with flecks of light. And her hair, it is the pale amber of Manzanilla wine. Shes smart, and shes not afraid to talk to me about . . . . Be careful my love, you are a Gypsy. Do not allow this woman to tempt you into seeing the world beyond your emotional and cultural boundaries. She will bring conflict to your life. The voice of the wind sounds jealous. It also sounds wise . . . . Sara watches Juan Antonio as he fingers the strings of his flamenco guitar, the deep scar on his left hand rippling as he caresses the strings without producing sound. The silver ring on his index finger gently rises and falls with the undulating movement of his fingers across the strings -- foreplay that produces no sound, but arouses the expectation of ecstasy. Sara inhales sharply. Then she goes where no one else has dared. What was she like? The woman from your past? Juan Antonio looks up, stunned, his fingers frozen over the strings. He attempts a smile, but it falters as he looks beyond her. Then for a brief moment, the brooding darkness in his eyes clears. Slowly, he lowers his guitar and says, Cierra los ojos . What? Close your eyes. Sara hesitates, then closes her eyes. Put your hand over the cup. Gently, he guides her hand over the steaming cup of chocolate. Feel that heat on your hand? Sara nods. Thats how her skin felt against my body . . . soft and warm. Now breathe. Sara breathes in deeply, inhaling the sugary scent of frying churros and melted chocolate. Thats how her breath smelled upon my lips . . . fresh and sweet. Now taste. He dips his finger in the chocolate and touches it against her lips. Sara slides her tongue over his finger and along the silky chocolate. Thats how she tasted . . . dark and rich . . . so rich that I could never get enough of her. She made me sense everything more intensely than I ever have before. Slowly, Sara opens her eyes and lowers her forehead to his. I could fall in love with you, she whispers, drunk on his voice. It is like potent brandy seeping through her, warming her, and making her glow. She feels his lips curve into a smile as they touch hers. His kiss is sweet, tasting of chocolate. Sara is falling under the spell of Gypsy Spain, and has no desire to stop the fall. Not everyone is as fond of Gypsy Spain as Sara is. Andres Aragon de Castillo loathes the Gypsies. And in his loathing, he becomes a powerful antagonist . . . . To read on, click Next. |
| Excerpts from the Novel-in-Progress Azahar Copyright 2007 by Susan Nadathur |