Childhood, then. Late childhood, a time of drowsy glands and awakening curiosity. A time when my first fumbling attempts at such an understanding could only fail, obviously; at that tender age, who could cope with X-rated transgressions? Actually, my first real experience did come by way of a book, though, only it wasn't any science fiction classic, not that one! Not with those pictures of nearly nude ladies, some even all bare, naked! – and wasn't it clever of me to snoop around and stumble upon such a rare grownup treasure? In the middle drawer of Bernadette's dresser, of all places, tucked underneath a neatly folded stack of pink nylon things, underwear and stuff. Snooping was always fun there, everything smelled of sachet, as sweet as baby powder but a lot spicier, the kind of woman-smell that could almost make me dizzy. Somehow, even in the farthest reaches of my memory, I had always managed to find that warm scent – or something quite like it – in the silky-stuff drawer of every maid who ever stayed long enough to unpack. Even the skinny old prune-face, the one who practically had a nervous breakdown the year before, keeping house for my father and taking care of me and complaining about her backache as if all three were symptoms of the same illness. Not that I did much sniffing of her silkies. I was glad to see the old witch replaced, especially by someone like Bernadette, so soft and plump and good-natured – and much younger, of course, almost too young for that motherly sachet smell.