Perfume and death. Connections between the two have been made for centuries. Roses are snuffed out so their essence may be captured. White flowers reveal their most seductive odours just at the point of decay. Incense is carried to the sky by the rising notes of a requiem. But maybe the links run deeper still. Maybe perfume itself - as an idea, an invention, a construct - is an expression of mortality. It bursts into life. It settles. And then it fades, despite all our attempts to keep it alive. Maybe perfume is a scented version of a sand mandala: created only to vanish. Maybe part of its purpose is to perish. Of course, one heart-breaking consequence of this link between scent and the underworld is that the former has the power to grant us a glimpse into the latter. Smells revive the dead, albeit briefly. And a few days ago, when all our hopes and wishes and vigils ended in the inevitable, a new perfume joined Poison and Fidji in my personal lexicon of the departed: Eau Sauvage. From this point onwards, treasuring a bottle of it will be as important as hanging on to every single memory of the man who loved wearing it.