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Memories can keep you awake at night. Hours filled with sounds and images you usually keep closed in a well-hidden drawer of your mind. Memories can scare you to death: they take you by the hand and drag you down to places you have never wanted to return to. Memories can bring comfort too, though, and that is when you linger, wishing never to leave that tiny piece of happiness washed on the shore of all things past.
That seldom happened to Clarice, who was not one to give memories much space. Present and future were the only tenses she was interested in. The future occupied most of her present; each step she took aimed at something awaiting next. Everything counted: the time she took to train, the hours she spent in class, how hard she studied, how good her scores were, how aware she was of herself and of the professional path she was walking on.
The only concession to her past was the strength with which she had scrubbed it off herself. The energy she had put in this had been endless, because it came from an unfathomable place. But how much of herself had she actually been able to erase and reshape? Sometimes her accent slightly gave her away. To an expert eye it was her impersonal outfits, characterised by neutral colours and traditional materials which wanted to convey professionalism and competence, but ended up being a sadly meagre interpretation of power dressing.
Her present self was the total repudiation of what people would expect her to be; it was a carefully crafted persona whose aim was to avoid at all costs a connection with the expression she had dreaded all her life: white trash. Spitted out by classmates (in low voice but loud enough for her to hear), mouthed by the cheerleaders who trained on the opposite side of the track field, shouted by the boys who passed her by while walking home from school. White: the colour of sobriety, asceticism, purity, spoiled by the proximity with a hideous noun. Trash: something which must be thrown away because it stinks, it's useless, it's rotten. Running away from the places which had put the white trash label on her was the only option left. Had it been worth it? Everything she had achieved since then seemed totally unattainable at the time, so it was not really a question of worth, but rather of survival. Learning the literal importance of words the hard way had made her stronger with an awareness which had led her into the scientific realm of language, of behaviours, of deviations.
She hated her past but her feelings towards it were more complicated than plain hatred. There was self-pity, which she could not tolerate, but it was there and had to be acknowledged. It was a sense of longing for something which had never happened, for someone she could have never been. How could her life have been different if her father had not been murdered? If her mother had not left? If her life in Montana had been ordinary and uncomplicated? If she had never spent one day at the orphanage she had actually called home for many years? Where would this other Clarice be now? The thought never abandoned her and that was the reason why she could not let her past go. She was mourning a version of herself that existed in her dreams and teenage wishes only.
Some memories had trapped pieces of her and that was the reason why she could not let them go. Two of them were objects she had jealously kept hidden for most of her life; only recently she had started putting them on the dresser she shared with Ardelia, her roommate. They were personal and intimate because they were the rare pieces of the past which still retained a positive spark; including them in her routine meant revelling in the quiet comfort they were still able to bring.
She remembered with amusement Ardelia's reaction after seeing them on the dresser.
“That tube there, girl. Have you stolen it from your grandma’s vanity?” she said, pointing at a white tube of body lotion she had bought the day before at Walmart. A plain white tube with pink cap and matching cameo of a silhouetted woman, naked shoulders and long hair, a symbol of quiet beauty.
“I bet smells better on you than on her, though,” the girl commented.
Clarice laughed: “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“You know it is. Deal with it. Accept it.” She paused, then asked: “But seriously: why do you wear that? Should I take you to a serious perfume counter and help you navigate through modernity?”
“No, please! I’ll spare you the effort,” replied Clarice without answering her friend's question. “That must be the fifth tube I’ve bought in my life, so I don't think I’ll change my mind any time soon.”
Truth was that she was not sure she could put into words the reason why that skin cream was so important to her. The memories it brought back were too terrible and too good to be put into words. Her mother wore it. “A true American perfume,” she used to say, as if she were doing a patriotic act, in opposition to the pointlessly fancy French purchases of her friends. Clarice had never worn the perfume itself: after spraying it on her wrists once, she had cried her heart out on her way home from Walmart. It was as if her mother was there, sitting next to her in the car her daughter was driving. But she desperately needed it in her life, so she had finally opted for the lotion, a benevolent, languid, almost tropical white floral cloud hugging her like her mother never did. She was sure its beachy mood would have been appreciated by the other Clarice, too; her friends would have probably made a joke about how old-fashioned she smelled but she would have enjoyed it.
“To keep the exciting shadow of romance ever over your white shoulders” was the naively romantic prompt the perfume was marketed with in the 1940s, and Clarice was attracted to it, as attracted to something that life had in store for anyone but her. The lotion lacked the narcotic quality of the lush gardenia and the green facets of the neroli, but it was still sparkling at heart. She had started wearing it during the second year at high school, keeping it as a secret at first, and rubbing it off before going back home. Everybody hated it, so she kept wearing it with pride. The personnel at her orphanage didn't approve but closed an eye on that habit. How could she explain this to someone whom she held as dear friend but who basically didn't know anything about her past? Smells and memories had their own private code and nobody but Clarice could decipher it.
“But see! It's not over! Have you spent all your money on girly things, Clarice? C’mon, pass me that bottle!”. Ardelia had not finished with her yet. Clarice took the glass bottle topped with a pair of doves and handed it to her friend.
“Can I smell it?”, she asked.
“You have already smelled it on me a million times,” and Ardelia sulked, “but sure, go ahead.”
“Well, it’s the splash version,” the girl exclaimed. “This is class. You know that, right?”
“Is it?”
“Sure is. Because you don't spray but dab it. Like old Hollywood stars did,” and imitated a silver screen diva carefully applying perfume behind the lobes.
“Who’s this? Marilyn?”
“It’s Gloria Swanson, silly. ‘Alright, Mr. DeMille. I’m ready for my close-up’”, and giggled. In her tattered grey t-shirt and striped pajama bottoms she was an unlikely Swanson impersonator, but definitely cuter than the original. She didn't replicate the gesture with the real perfume but held it carefully, removed the stopper and sniffed it. “This is heaven,” and closed her eyes for a moment. “It’s so you, Clarice. I could recognise this anywhere.”
So her. Right. What did she have to do with a French perfume, one of the posh items her mother despised? She had found it at a thrift shop on her last year of high school. The torsade motif on the bottle looked elegant, and the doves were simply sublime. They were symbols of peace and purity that no white trash accusation could soil. The lovely bottle could not justify the purchase, but the perfume did. Airy, clean, almost soapy: it made her feel instantly, unapologetically herself. No more self-pity when she wore it, no more regrets for lost happiness, no more poor little girl alone in the world. All the broken parts of herself came together to reflect the strength of her will and the energy of her motivation.
Ardelia thought it was “alluring” and she agreed. It achieved what her sensible shoes, minimal make-up, sleek auburn hairdo and badly-cut suits could not: it made her feel in charge of her life.
Ardelia knew the objects but did not know the truth and the reasons behind them, so Clarice felt her secrets were safe. The girl would never ask about them again, so there was nothing to worry about. But one day something changed, and that's why she was so distracted when she walked into her bedroom that evening.
“What did you do today, girl?”. Ardelia always asked questions as if the answers could make no possible difference.
“Wheedled a crazy man with come all over me,” she snapped while throwing her bag on the floor and herself on the bed.
“I wish I had the time for a social life–I don’t know how you manage it, and school too.”
“This comes with living in an orphanage and planning your escape for years. It’s called multi-tasking,” and gave her a wink.
She hoped that was the end of the small-talk quota her roommate expected from her. She took refuge in the bathroom to wash away the strange feelings she had returned burdened with.
Water and sleep could wash away everything, she used to think when she was younger. “Take a shower and you’ll feel better.” “Get a good night's sleep and you’ll feel like new.” False reassurances parents usually give their kids. But part of her still wanted to believe they were true, as much as she wanted to believe that someone once had cared about her.
She got undressed, left her clothes piled on the floor and stepped into the shower, where hot water was already running. She carefully went through the details of her visit at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. She remembered how exciting that visit had sounded when her mentor had asked her to do it. Interviewing Dr. Lecter for a current serial killer investigation! And it was her who had been chosen, not another trainee. Her! The chief of the Behavioural Sciences Unit believed in her, and she would have never refused the chance to show him he was right. Reliable, trustworthy, sharply intelligent, obsessive about details, diligent: that's who she was now; those were the labels she willingly accepted others to put on her now.
Yet, she was not ready for what was awaiting at the hospital, even if she had been alerted. The echo of Special Agent Crawford’s recommendations were still in her ears.
“Be very careful with Hannibal Lecter. Dr. Chilton at the asylum will go over all the physical procedures used with him. Do not deviate from them for any reason whatsoever.” Had she deviated from the physical procedures she had been instructed to follow? Her mind reeled back in time and no, that had not happened. Had it been something else, then? What had possibly given her away so easily?
“And you're to tell him nothing personal, Starling.” That hadn't happened either: Dr. Lecter had done it all by himself.
“Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head:” there it was, the truth. Not even five minutes in front of the plexi wall and see what had happened. The holes in the wall: it was their fault! But they had to be there. It had been her vanity’s fault, then, and the childish desire to wear a cream that made her feel protected in such a hostile and dangerous environment.
“Fuck you, Clarice,” she screamed at herself in her head. “The times you felt guilty for even existing are over. It's not your fault. He’s a psychopath and a serial killer. It's him, not you. Not you.” And this time Crawford’s words came to the rescue: “Just do your job, but never forget what he is.” Exactly: she hadn't forgotten what he was. Yet hot water could not wash away the unpleasant feeling of discomfort, along with the details of her interlocutor. First, his face - angular, jarring, chiseled. Second, his posture - stern, elegant, on a slender body, a straight line ready to curl and strike. Third, his accent - Lithuanian, an instrument concealed or revealed at ease. Fourth, his eyes - mellow dark brown, almost caramel. Fifth, his teeth - sharp canines, the left lateral incisor taking an unusual, almost playful, angle.
“Damn! Scrap that list! It’s what he said about you that got into your head. It’s what he said that you can't take off.” She took deep breaths and started to wash her hair. “All he had to do was taking a tiny sniff. But maybe he had already learnt everything about you the moment you started walking down the corridor of his cell.” She was almost scratching her scalp. “Stop it now. Calm down” but she just could not.
His sense of smell. That was the point. What else did it tell him about her?
“You use Evyan skin cream, and sometimes you wear L'Air du Temps … but not today.” He had detected the fleshy tuberose of the cheap, old-fashioned body lotion she was actually wearing. But he had also detected a sparkle of aldehydes still lingering on her tweed jacket, the remains of a recent spray of her French perfume. She had felt naked upon hearing that remark, powerless, but she had known better and moved the topic of the conversation on the impressive drawings of Florence Dr. Lecter had pinned on the walls of his cell. And there came the second blow. All the minute architectural details of the Duomo came from his memory only.
“Memory, Agent Starling, is what I have instead of a view,” he said, referring to the only resource he had been left with, but - as she would soon learn - there was more about what he actually said. The power of language. The layers of meaning, of hinting at something else, of pointing at another level of communication, deeper and murkier. Were these words true for her, too? The realisation came as an epiphany. Yes, they were. She too had memory instead of a view. Deep inside she knew memory meant more than she was willing to admit, and the perfume and skin cream she had been wearing all her adult life proved it.
What was she supposed to do now? Change her habits, trash her favourite products, quit her assignment because a psycho killer had shown his ability to guess perfumes right as in a TV contest? She smiled at the idea. She could almost imagine him sitting on an uncomfortable stool in front of a microphone, the host’s voice booming in the studio: “Now, Dr. Lecter, a final set of questions for you. In our glass case there's a pretty young woman. Her name is Clarice. Take your time to sniff her through the holes in the glass, then sit down and let's start.” He would have guessed everything right.
Emptied of energies after spending too much time under scalding hot water, Clarice wrapped herself in her bathrobe and sat on the toilet, lid down.
Ardelia knocked on the door. “Are you ok in there? Are you up for some Thai takeaway?”
“I am!”, she replied without moving. “Always.”
She wore her pajamas and moved into the bedroom. Her roommate was back to her books, so she quietly sat on the bed and went through the notes taken after the meeting with the Doctor. Her stomach clenched but she refused that feeling. She controlled her breath and finally calmed herself down. True: Dr. Lecter knew. But she knew better. She knew solitude, fear, the sense of unworthiness that comes with being orphan and poor. She knew what it felt to walk into a room of men only, how to stare back at them, how to make herself visible. Dr. Lecter had never been a girl running away at night with a lamb on her shoulders. He had not and would never be. The painful burden she felt inside was unrelentless but it was hers, not his. No one could take it away from her. The spring lambs were still screaming, but they were screaming for her. And for her only.