The Scent of Hours: A Novel, page 10
And they were not inexpensive. A half ounce of many absolutes ran $20–$40; carnation absolute ran to $100 per quarter ounce, and it was something of a signature note for me. Compared to many of the hobbies of my friends, that was nothing. His prosperity allowed me to amass a top-tier collection of essences, to seek out rare and hideously expensive items, and indulge experiments beautiful and lovely and odd. Blue chamomile and blood orange and civet. Rose absolutes from Turkey and France and Morocco; patchouli from India; vanilla from Madagascar. There were bottles of lighter notes like lime and grapefruit; florals like orange flower and jasmine; herb and spice essences like tarragon and black pepper and clove.
Beyond the essences, there were drawers of various sizes to hold other supplies. Glass eyedroppers and small brown glass bottles for mixing; grape seed and jojoba and sesame oils; rubbing alcohol and perfume alcohol; blotter strips for testing; and test tubes. Pulling out bottles of absolutes and concretes from the box, I lined them up on the counter.
I measured perfume alcohol into a beaker and nestled it securely in its metal stand. Something earthy and female for the base note; twenty-five drops of a custom blend of civet and oakmoss, very strong, even unpleasant until it was mixed with other elements. As the dark essence dropped into the alcohol, it unfurled like a living being, lacing the clear liquid with its power. I inhaled happily, a sense of tension easing away from my neck. Under my breath, I started to hum—the standard perfume soundtrack, a breathy bit of Bach.
Into the mix of base notes and perfume alcohol, I added a few drops—a very few—of patchouli, a very dark brown, and let the notes blend for a minute or two. As the elements swirled around one another, I made a cup of coffee, narrowed my eyes, and bent to the beaker to wave my nose over the combination.
From there it was a very instinctive thing. I had an idea of what I wanted, but opened several bottles and closed them again without using the essences contained within—all too tame. This would not be a simple or easy perfume, and I’d rather ruin one with recklessness than be too cautious. And for this, yes, it needed to be intense.
Into a second beaker, I mixed Moroccan rose, a waft of bergamot, and paused for a moment, trying to let my subconscious toss up the element I could almost sense. Grapefruit? Hmm. Not quite. Ylang-ylang. Yes. I let them blend a little, breathing in the oxygen and crispness of snowy morning air. Opening to a clean page in my perfume journal, I made several notes on both base and heart notes, then blended the two combinations together in the first beaker.
I bent in to smell it, and reared back. Whew! Very intense, and not one that would even out easily. Carefully, I added lavender, one of the greatest perfume absolutes of all, for the work it could do—sometimes sweeten something too bitter, sometimes soften a hard-edged scent; sometimes, as in the case of such strong others, it became nearly invisible itself, while illuminating the rest of the blend, like sunlight falling on a forest floor.
I smelled it. Perfect. I dipped in a strip of blotter paper, noted the change, walked away for an hour, and read a book while it breathed. To finish, I added top notes of spicy clove to give it Roxanne’s laughter, and a splash of ginger. Oddly, carnation asked to be included, and I hesitated, then did it anyway. It was something of a signature, my pleasure in carnation. It was elusive, like memory, not always favored.
I closed my eyes and breathed it in, smiling at the heady mix. Not just anyone could wear such a perfume. Not everyone would even find it appealing, but I liked its complexity.
It was also missing something. I sensed it as a hexagon of emptiness near the edges. A top note, then, but though I squinted and thought, smelled it again and tried to let the answer float in, I wasn’t sure. Heaven knew I’d ruined a great many perfumes by adding one drop, one element too much. Not this time.
Heady, I wrote in my journal. Almost dangerous, like Roxanne. Like drinking three bottles of wine, one for each of us, except I think Wanda only drank two glasses, so how much did we have? A lot.
For now, I’d let it rest. Glancing at the clock, I noted the time, poured a cup of coffee, and went to check my email. I’d come back in an hour or so and check it again.
While I waited for the computer to warm up, I drank my coffee and looked at the swirling snow. Amazing. There was probably three feet of snow in drifts across the road, and I knew from experience that once the skies cleared, the snow itself would be melted in a day or two.
Waiting in my inbox were six actual emails. Three were obvious spam, which I deleted. One was from Giselle, one was from a name I didn’t recognize. One was from my sister Molly in Hawaii, forwarding pictures of my nieces. THOUGHT YOU’D LIKE THESE! said the subject. I opened them and smiled at their freckled noses.
Eagerly, I opened the one from Giselle, written from her Hotmail account.
TO: nikki@scentofhours.com
FROM: gisellegiraffe@hotmail.com
SUBJECT: hi from London!!!
Hi, Mom! Not a lot of time left. I’m writing from a café and Dad’s going to be back to pick me up any second. I’m sitting here listening to all the accents around me and you’d just love it so much I can’t stand it that you’re not here! I’m sending some pics I thought you’d like. London is AMAZING!!!!! I’d like to live here someday, maybe. Thinking of you lots and I’m bringing back presents. Love you!
Giselle
I scrolled down to look at the photos. There was Giselle, tall and skinny, her hair as curly as mine and just as unruly, blowing out from beneath a striped hat. She stood before the Tower of London with her father, mustached and looking happy and trim. His new wife must have snapped the picture.
An unexpected pinch of hatred stabbed my chest, and I clicked the X to close the email before the evil feeling took over my body.
And yet—how dare he? How dare he look so cheerful and happy? In London? Without me? The pinch rose from my chest to my throat, closing off joy, happiness, the small contentment that had been mine while I made perfume and forgot—for a few minutes anyway—that I was divorced and alone and everyone else was having a good time while I was sitting here, sore, broke, and hungover in a soulless apartment furnished with other people’s furniture.
God, it was so not fair.
I hated admitting it, but I was also forlorn. He looked good, my handsome ex. I’d genuinely loved him from the moment we met, when he’d stomped into my world like a big-footed bear, brown and burly and fierce. He thought I was privileged and spoiled—I was neither—and gave me a hard time. His arrogance, his ambition, his burning wish to prove himself to the world captured me.
And I’d been a good wife to him. It wasn’t fair that somebody else was in London, had a good house and my own daughter, while I was suffering these outrageous losses.
Unable to resist, I opened the photo again. Peered at his face.
There were a lot of disturbing questions that arose out of this whole divorce mess. For one thing, if we were soulmates, as I’d always believed, then something had definitely gone wrong with the Great Plan.
If we were soulmates, did that mean I would be alone forever?
If we’d been soulmates, how could he be so happy with someone else?
And if karma rewarded good, and punished bad, why was he full of joy and delight while I was mewling around here like a lost kitten?
I jumped up and went to the kitchen. Gulped my coffee and poured another cup, stuck my nose into the beaker again for a quick sniff. It calmed me down, but the hexagon of emptiness still waited for me to fill it.
When I was calmer, I went back to the computer, opened the final email.
TO: nikki@scentofhours.com
FROM: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com
SUBJECT: you are not alone
Dear Goldfinger(s):
Here is a link to a blog I thought you would enjoy.
www.workingforaliving.timeblog.net.
I had hoped to go walking today, but like everyone else in this city, I am trapped within my walls by the blizzard. What is it like where you are?
Warmly,
Niraj
Something unfamiliar fluttered in my throat. A man had emailed me! A very attractive man. It had escaped my notice that men might talk to me. That the post-divorce period might hold something positive.
I clicked on the link and read the tale of a young woman in London working in a restaurant for a temperamental chef she called The Ogre, and all the terrible things he did to make her life miserable. She was a good writer, and funny, and plainly liked the job, aside from the evil chef. I laughed aloud three times.
TO: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com
FROM: nikki@scentofhours.com
SUBJECT: at least she’s young!
Hi, Niraj.
Thanks for the link. I really enjoyed reading it and now I don’t feel so terrible about spilling an entire glass of tea on a very grumpy businessman.
Like you, I was planning to walk this morning (with a woman I’ve met in my apartment building; she likes to go to Ute Valley Park—have you ever walked there?), but the snow is awful here too. I’m at Filmore and Centennial, and there isn’t a single car in sight, except the one that’s buried in a snowdrift up to the windshield. Obviously, it was abandoned last night. You wouldn’t even know there were mountains out there.
Nikki
(Niraj is a great name, BTW. Never heard it before you.)
I sent the email and went back to the kitchen to decide what I wanted for breakfast. Everything sounded like too much work, and I ended up making peanut butter toast.
The perfume needed to rest until tomorrow morning, I decided, which left me nothing whatsoever to do for the rest of the day.
My cell phone, sitting on the counter, rang and spun itself around in a circle. I grabbed it and saw that the call was from my mother. I did not particularly want to talk to her, and my heart fell. Sighing, I picked up the phone, prepared to open it—and then suddenly realized I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to. I put it down.
From the other room, I heard the bing of email arriving, and curiously went to see what it was.
TO: nikki@scentofhours.com
FROM: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com
SUBJECT: how to use the hours
Dear Nikki,
I like your name too. Nikki suits you better than Nicole. Less formal. You do not strike me as a formal sort of woman—you are a Westerner, and I like that very much.
So how will you spend your day instead? I am making a very elaborate meal for my supper—rack of lamb with shallots—which I learned from a friend who lived in New Zealand.
What does your email address come from? Scent of Hours—it sounds like a movie.
Cheerfully,
Niraj
P.S. You needn’t feel you must answer quickly. There are obligations with my work that require me to monitor email carefully, even on a snow day. Not everyone is as chatty as I.
TO: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com
FROM: nikki@scentofhours.com
SUBJECT: scent of hours
Dear Niraj,
Your emails are very welcome. There isn’t much to do in a little apartment—I’m used to much more space, and many more toys. I’ve only been living here for a week and I’m not used to it. The perfume is resting. There are not many ingredients in the house to cook with, or like you I’d likely make something elaborate and warming for supper. The lamb sounds fantastic, and I think you must be a wonderful cook if you undertake something like that. Unusual for a man!
Where in the world do you get lamb in Colorado Springs?
Scent of Hours is a business name I dreamed up a while back. I make perfume and would like to have a business devoted to it someday, so I reserved the domain name. That’s what I did this morning, instead of a walk. I made perfume. It’s brewing on the counter, still missing something. Not sure what.
What is your work? Computers, of course, but what sort of work?
I guess I’m babbling and will stop now.
Best,
Nikki
In the middle of the afternoon, I turned on the tiny television in my living room, and watched old movies on AMC, dozing for hours. It was oddly healing. When at last I roused myself, there was one more email from Niraj.
TO: nikki@scentofhours.com
FROM: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com
SUBJECT: lamb and perfume
Dear Nikki,
You make perfume! How unusual! Did you find the missing ingredient? I buy lamb from a rancher in the East. He sells his own stock—it’s very good.
My work: I’ve done many things with computers over the years, but now I write compression algorithms for transmitting video images across the web.
It is not unusual for a man to cook if he has spent much of his life alone and he enjoys good food. Both are true for me. I have often lived alone and did not want to spend all my pennies eating out, which is not as pleasant as one’s own kitchen. Do you like to cook? If you were making something elaborate today, what would it be?
Would you like to take a walk with me this week sometime?
Cheerfully,
Niraj the Nerd
TO: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com
FROM: nikki@scentofhours.com
SUBJECT: walk
Dear Niraj the Nerd,
I ordinarily don’t allow myself to be seen in public with geeks and nerds, but in your case will make an exception. I would enjoy walking with you. My schedule is pretty flexible at the moment, so let me know when a good time would be.
If I were to cook something elaborate, it would be a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, which I love.
I’ve never eaten lamb, by the way. Just saying.
Sweet dreams,
Nikki
8
Nikki’s Perfume Journal Entry
Ingredients: Clove
Category: Spice
Through steam distillation of the dried flower buds (called cloves).
The flowers are hand-picked when the buds are ready to open out and turning pink. They darken and take on their unique final shape after three days in the sun. Clove essence is extracted through steam distillation of the leaves. The crown, which holds the clove, yields yet another essence characterized by a dry and spicy smell.
Each day I worked things went a little more smoothly. Annie had hired another new waitress, a round-faced girl with elvin eyes named Tabitha, and there was enough staff, enough bread, and crowds that were not too demanding. I started to find my rhythm, and when it got busy and I found myself losing my sense of humor, I’d remember the blog link that Niraj had emailed me, and felt better.
It also helped that I started to get the hang of the job. I liked the people I worked with, learned some of the signals that meant I needed to back away from Mary, the dragon of the kitchen, and started to understand who my allies would be. I left the job pleasantly spent, which meant I could sleep through the night and didn’t wake up at three a.m. freaking out.
The insurance company was still stalling, and I started to wonder if I needed to hire a lawyer. Until this was settled, I couldn’t sell the land, which was enormously valuable even without the house on it.
Wednesday, I worked the lunch shift, and didn’t leave the restaurant until nearly five, which put me right in the thick of rush hour. I was able to avoid the highway by taking back roads, but I still had to stop at the grocery store across the street from the apartments at the worst possible time of day.
It was the usual five p.m. zoo, the well-tended occupants of the lush condos around the corner popping in for their fresh greens and imported cheeses; the harried mothers from Holland Park stocking up on Rice-A-Roni and hot dogs, and macaroni and cheese in a box; the singles like me, from the dozens of apartment complexes in the area, coming in after work to buy frozen dinners and quarts of milk.
I felt tired and frazzled in the store. I’d stepped in a giant puddle left over from the blizzard a few days before, and my right shoe squished uncomfortably when I walked. It also made a loud squeaking noise on the shiny floor, which was more than annoying. I had my list and tried to be methodical about the aisles, but I still didn’t know this store very well, and had to keep backtracking. It seemed there were awful children in every aisle, too, which always made me upset at the mothers who ignored the poor kids until they were hysterical, then over-disciplined them with sharp jerks or spats to the bottom or other physical reprimands, and then had the nerve to apologize to other adults for the child’s behavior. Dan used to complain that I was a nosy parent, and it was true. I hated to see kids get the blame for things that were not their fault.
Not all kids were awful or all parents either. Every so often, you ran across a genuinely miserable child. An overburdened mother trying to soothe a miserable baby or toddler.
Or both, in this case. As I passed the pharmacy, knee-deep with customers, I saw my neighbor Wanda in line, a baby on her shoulder crying softly in obvious pain, a two-year-old in the cart, a boy a few years older leaning on her leg. All three bore the raw, oft-wiped noses of colds, and the toddler in the basket stared glassily toward nothing, his thumb in his mouth.
Wanda swayed back and forth with the baby, whispering to him. The boy on her leg was crying softly, miserably. “I just want to go home!” he said. “My head hurts. Please!”
“I know, honey,” she said, her hand smoothing the hair on his crown. “We’re just going to get your medicine and then we’ll go.”
“Wanda,” I said. “Do you remember me?”
She looked up. Dark shadows ringed her makeup-less eyes. “Hi, Nikki! Yeah, of course I do. Much wine the other night.” She grinned. “That’s the most fun I’ve had in a year. How could I forget?”
