He loved this street, it was a mish mash of smells that you didn’t often get going together, all of them so distinct, yet somehow they mixed together like an Avant Garde jazz symphony that almost sounded as if the orchestra were still warming up, but under that seemingly disjointed collection of sounds an underlying rhythm weaved a spell.
That’s how he felt about the smells along this road, at the top as he turned off from the main road almost immediately he smelt the warm sweet and savoury aroma from the large Chinese restaurant, first his left nostril and shortly after the right were gently massaged by the smell of cooking duck and sweet and sour sauce. These were like the base notes of a cello humming out into the darkness, vibrating deep inside.
If he swung his head to the right he could smell the sharper, yet simpler notes of the Chinese supermarket, there was a big community around here, and if he paused in his olfactory reverie he could hear the sing-song of Mandarin punctuating the bowing noise of traffic as it dopplered away from the main street turn.
Beneath it all was the click clack of his stick, barely audible above the general hubbub of traffic, shoppers, tourists and locals. He allowed his attention to be held by the sounds of the road for a few more seconds, his tapping stick the metronome to which the noise set itself to.
He paused for a brief moment allowing his attention to slew back from sound to smell, to an observer it may have looked like he was unsure of whether there was an obstacle in his path as he stood swaying slightly in the breeze. He knew there was nothing in front of him though, his knowledge of this street was more complete than any other apart from the one he lived in.
Sound was replaced by smell as the dominant sense, as he carried on past the Chinese takeaway and supermarket. A blast of cold air on his left cheek brought a crisp and sterile smell, like the shrill notes of the piccolo, grabbing his attention completely as he passed the ice skating rink.
Onward still and the sharp high notes of the rink were replaced by the rich piano tones of new leather. His finger tips tingled with anticipation as he imagined rubbing them over one of the bags the smell belonged to.
At this point he liked to cross over, there was a residential gap nestled in between the collection of shops and restaurants, the smells were boring and neutral and sometimes downright nasty. No, it was the smell of Lebanese shawarma that pulled him over to the other side. A short staccato of shrill bleeping from the crossing he waited at, alerted him that it was time to cross the road.
Now the smell of kebab, carrying the underlying smell of apple tobacco hookah smoke greeted him less than halfway across, he was only semi aware of the half smile creeping around his face as the freeform part of his jazz symphony of smells rose to a crescendo as he reached the other side of the road.
The medley of smells served as a conduit – the bridge in musical terms – to take him onto the next plain of olfactory pleasure.
Lamb shawarma and sweet hookah smoke, it was like the partnership between the double bass pounding out a rhythm with its deep twangs that massaged the very depths of your soul, and the soft muted trumpet giving revealing a hidden conversation between the two.
Hmmmmm.
The bass was always the set up, preparing the listener for the rich variety of sounds about to be added to the tune. The Lebanese didn’t get much time to completely hold his attention, now there was the exotic oboe of the Indian restaurant, the snare drum of fresh smells coming from the Greek, quickly followed by the large symbol crash of the Turkish kebab, all enriched by the shawarma and apple tobacco.
Another small crossing takes him past the mixed tones of expensive perfumes wafting out from the giant Boots mega store, they act as a pallet cleanser, taking away the memory of food and replacing it with sharp, fresh fragrances.
They are almost immediately replaced by the faint clinical smell of lens cleaner, which in turn is snatched away by the starchy smell of a ladies shoe shop. He knows it’s a ladies’ shoes, men’s shoes have a much deeper baritone smell.
This is the point the street goes from slow melodic, rhythmic beats, to disjointed free-form jazz, new shoe smell is replaced by the faint tang of electronics, which in tun is hurriedly replaced by the climate controlled aroma of the bank, which itself is bashed out the way by the loud brash piano of Italian leather.
He is never quite sure what they sell there, but he knows it’s a mix, the steady starch smell of shoes is there, but also intermingled with heavy jackets.
It’s coming to the crescendo now, the warm smells of Gregg’s The Baker bring him gently back down to consciousness, his lips curled into a smile, his symphony of sound and smell has come to an end, tomorrow he’ll be back for more.
It would be nice to see if the sights actually match with his imagination. Doubtful. His blindness has been since birth, and many of the things he smells along Queensway he has never touched.
Ah no matter, he can see much further than the tourist throng he passes through.
He glides onwards, fully sated and satisfied.
