Il notturno effluvio floreal

Tosca entices her lover Cavaradossi to join her for an intimate evening by saying:

When I read these lines for the first time, the pungent scent of cestrum nocturnum floated up in my memory.  I loved that the librettist(s) used the word effluvio (effluvium): a strong smell that could be unpleasant.

There was a cestrum nocturnum, commonly known as night blooming jasmine, in our backyard.  At night, the rich, sweet yet slightly decaying perfume filled the space.  It was at the same time attractive and noxious.  Whether it intoxicated my little heart or not, it certainly haunted me night after night.

There were plenty of floral perfumes in our garden:  orange jessamine leaned against the fence near the gate.  Jasmines hid under taller shrubs.  Honeysuckles wrapped around the corner of the house.  I learned very early on that plants with tiny white flowers bloomed at night and spread perfumes to attract nocturnal insects.  It is, nevertheless, the odor of cestrum nocturnum that forever reminds me of the sounds and images of night.

I was born a night owl.  Mom would put me to bed.  And, I would stay awake for a long time, listening to all kinds of sounds:  Outside, the insects were chirping tirelessly.  Inside, my parents were talking about the day, about the world and about us.  They tried to speak softly so not to wake us up.  They often spoke in Japanese.  I never knew if they didn’t want us to understand the conversations, or if they felt most comfortable communicating that way. Sometimes, they listened to a classical music program 音樂風 on the radio.

The nocturnal air was damp and cool.  The powerful rotten smell came through the windows.  I began wondering if all was fine, if evil spirits were at work destroy lives and if . . .

Those were the peaceful nights of my youth.

“After a little I am taken in and put to bed. Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her: and those receive me, who quietly treat me, as one familiar and well-beloved in that home: but will not, oh, will not, not now, not ever; but will not ever tell me who I am . . .”—James Agee, A Death in the Family, adapted by Samuel Barber in “Knoxville: Summer of 1915.”