Base Notes, page 26
Even if it was working on me, that didn’t mean it would work on Eisner. His fantasy was strongly drawn, specific. I could extrapolate on anything. He needed an exact accord.
Still, this was promising evidence that my theory about implanting memories via scent and suggestion was viable—that with a story to tie the elements together, a perfume could create something stronger than mere association.
No time to look into it, though; I had a commission to earn.
Eventually, I created three formulations I was willing to risk on a trial. I capped all of my brown glass bottles, stowed everything in the mini fridge—which was near to overflowing—and poured myself a double. I had a crick in my neck and my nose was tired. Stuffing it into the crook of my elbow, I breathed my own scent deep to clear my head. The whisky did the opposite, but in a nicer way.
It was one o’clock in the morning, but I still called Eisner. It went to voice mail; I didn’t leave one.
He retaliated by returning my call at seven in the morning, when I was barely awake and mildly hungover, on account of not eating much besides whisky the night before.
“Good morning,” he said when I greeted him with an interrogative grunt. “I saw I had a missed call.”
“I have some testers,” I told him, voice rasping. “When can you meet?”
“Oh, excellent.” He actually sounded pleased. Giddy, even. “Today is absolutely manic. Actually, the rest of this week is bad. You know, things are really up in the air with three of our executives missing.”
Something about the blithe tone of it froze my blood. Under the ringing in my ears, Jane’s words replaying: How do you know he’s not going to hand you over at the first sign of trouble?
“No shit,” I said, airless. “How’s it working out for you?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about me.” I didn’t, really; I had more important skins to save. Like my own. “I’m up to the task,” he said. “It just means I might not be able to meet until . . . could you do the weekend, actually? Come over. I’ll make brunch.”
At this point I pulled my phone away from my face and checked the time; you’re not supposed to be able to read clocks if you’re dreaming. Seven oh three. This was real life, and I was going to have to deal with it.
“Brunch?”
“I’m not a bad cook,” he said. I thought of Beau’s pasta con zucca and wondered if Eisner measured up. Then I wondered if I would ever get to eat Beau’s cooking again.
Later. Later. First, wrap up this business.
“Fine,” I said. “But no mimosas.”
26
Notes de Tête: Clorox, Orange Oil
Notes de Cœur: Brown Butter and Coffee
Notes de Fond: Cooked Egg, Hudson River Accord
Eisner lived in the West Village, in exactly the place you might imagine he would live if you didn’t imagine him living in a high-rise at the south end of Central Park, or sunbathing on a balcony above the High Line.
He owned a townhouse on Perry Street—owned it, the entire house—in a neighborhood so full of beautiful things it inspired first lust and then rage. Sleepy Federal brick buildings, gnarled old trees. Tiny boutiques purveying raw chocolate and pink sea salt. Coffee shops where they inexplicably sold high-end Scandinavian hand cream. Sidewalks populated by an aesthetic sprinkling of impeccably groomed dogs and people.
After the smeared chewing gum and general stink of the rest of the city—its incessant, insistent noise—stepping into the tangled, tree-lined streets of this old and monied part of the island felt like a magic trick. Or like crossing the border into a fairyland full of cruel creatures you would never understand, amongst whom you did not belong.
I marveled at Eisner’s willingness to give me his address. He knew what I did. What I had done, for him. Maybe he trusted his money to keep him safe. Or my continued reliance on his money. But he had blackmailed me. His arrogance, or ignorance, in this regard was astonishing. Or perhaps it was neither arrogance nor ignorance; perhaps he truly had cooked up some further plan that he believed would tie me up and keep him safe.
If he had, I should act soon. Our holiday sales had been damn strong. Valentine’s orders were excellent. I was looking forward to what would happen with this springtime launch Barry was planning. I wasn’t going to need Eisner’s money again, not after this. Not if it worked.
Jane and Giovanni were both right: I couldn’t afford to let him stick around, knowing what he knew and acting like he did. But I did need Eisner’s money now, even if I wouldn’t later. And so:
There was only one doorbell, centered in a decorative brass plate. Above it, awkward in the centuries-old doorframe, a glossy black dome obscuring the lens of a camera. I rang, and shortly I saw a shadow beyond the leaded glass.
The door opened to the sounds of This American Life. Ira Glass, and Eisner in athleisure, were both unpleasant surprises, but I suppose it was a Saturday.
“Come in,” he said, sweeping me across the threshold. “I’m running a little behind schedule, sorry. Got caught chatting after yoga.”
There was an image I didn’t like to contemplate. “I don’t mind.” I had not brought a bottle of prosecco this time, and there was an awkward moment where I would have otherwise presented a host gift. He hurried us through it by ushering me down the hall—dark wood banister curving tightly to the second floor, black-and-white photographs in minimalist frames. They were not his. I had seen his photos, and these were better.
The kitchen was full French country: high ceiling, white tile with a decorative backsplash. A butcher’s block, a breakfast bar, a bare wood table with an enameled tin bowl overflowing with citrus fruits. It looked like a magazine shoot, except for Eisner’s AirPods and closed laptop sitting on one hooked-rag place mat. He swept these up and deposited them on the breakfast bar before asking, “Orange juice?”
The citrus in the enamel bowl turned out to be more than ornamental. The juice was very good. This made me angry in the same way that very good espresso in the Lower East Side had, long ago. I recognized it now as the idea that I appreciated something in a way other people couldn’t possibly. Namely because they lacked a certain set of aesthetic skills, or because they didn’t have to worry about how much it cost. It was a feeling worse than simple fury, because it was covetous. It felt like reading an issue of Monocle: a magazine I could only page through at newsstands because it cost too much to buy.
I set the juice aside and put my ragged tote bag on the table, which made it look less like a magazine shoot. “Would you like to try these now? Or after brunch?”
He cracked an egg into a cast-iron skillet and let it sizzle. “Anticipation is the greater part of pleasure, don’t you think?”
Eisner made a good fried egg. I’ll give him that. His brunch was serviceable if uninspired. There was no booze involved, which was probably for the best. I had no desire to get drunk with him.
Conversation was stilted. What did we have to talk about, besides the commission?
“Are things at EPY&Y as chaotic as I imagine?” I asked.
He shrugged. “The business is actually running better than ever. Rumors like wildfire, of course. And a couple of police detectives in and out.”
“The real police,” I said. “Not just Pip Miles?”
“Speaking of,” said Eisner.
I felt cold like a ghost in my bones. Felt my lungs ache with the memory of alcohol fumes and a hacking cough. “Taken care of.”
Indulging in a self-satisfied smile, Eisner scraped a bit of quinoa salad off his knife and onto his fork. “Excellent.”
“The NYPD is another story,” I said. “What’s your plan for them? I don’t think I can tackle every single officer they send your way.” How much could I convince him to give up?
“Easy,” said Eisner. “You know the deal they were doing wasn’t on the up-and-up. So do I. It was bald-faced money laundering. The police haven’t figured it out yet, but I can ensure they do. Then it’s a foregone conclusion: something went wrong and somebody—powerful—got angry.”
“And you had nothing to do with it.”
Eisner shrugged, all innocence. “I wasn’t in the meeting, was I? Sometimes it pays to be the black sheep.”
This came as a relief—if it was true. It seemed like it could be. It had elegance, which went a long way in my book. I didn’t trust Eisner, but I trusted his dedication to what he perceived as aesthetic. He liked this solution because it had clean lines and a nice color palette.
“Well,” I said. “If you have all that in hand, then the only thing outstanding is this.” I put one hand on my tote bag, covering the shape of a box of samples. I pressed hard to stop a tremor that wanted to climb past my wrist.
Whatever I had in that box, it worked for me, at least theoretically. All the components necessary to capture my idea of the moment were present, and even conjured an image, a moment, when they should have given me nothing but a smell. Would they all come together for Eisner?
“Shall we?” I asked, almost hoping he would say no. But where would that leave me?
Unlike Pearson, his breath did not catch. I watched his face for the telltale flush, or the anxious, anticipatory drain of color. He gave me nothing, and I, in turn, felt a grudging respect.
“Sure,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
From my tote, I withdrew a small cardboard box I had swiped from the office. The same kind we used to ship our discovery sets, or bigger orders of samples. Inside, though, was no perfume our house had ever sold.
Neither was it exactly the perfume I had mixed. These I had diluted, doctored with perfumer’s alcohol until the scent was minimal and the evaporation swift. Remember, I said the memory only lasts as long as the scent remains. Eisner wanted the memory, and I didn’t trust him not to cut and run once he had it. He would get a taste of the goods and no more, not until he paid for them.
“Here.” I popped the box’s top and slid it across the table, showing him three unlabeled sample sprayers nestled in shredded paper. They were all nearly clear, each tinted pale amber by the unique natural components at their base.
“Which one first?” he asked.
I shrugged. Normally I would have an opinion—much in the way of tasting wine or whisky, perfume was best smelled light to heavy. But in this case, the three perfumes were almost equally balanced. They differed only in the emphasis they placed: on people, on office environment, on egg salad. None was stronger than the other, none had a more intense sillage. I had simply held their various parts like threads to ply and adjusted the tension, varying the texture of the finished product.
“Just make sure to clear your nose between,” I said.
He lifted his coffee and I shook my head. Coffee—a strong scent in itself—would merely overwhelm whatever he had been sniffing before. I mimed smelling the crook of my elbow, where my own scent had caught in the weave of my shirt, the knit of my sweater. The familiar molecules of his own body, his unwashed clothes, would bring him back to neutral territory.
“Huh,” he said, and mimicked me. “All right.”
Now, the moment of truth. Suddenly, I wished he had given me weeks to sit in that conference room, to parse the currents of air, the vicissitudes of scent. I had been so confident in my own recollection, but this man sat in that conference room at least once a week. Maybe every day. What hubris to think I understood its scents more intimately than he.
I took a breath, and held it. The orange and Clorox dissipated quickly. The egg fat followed, dragging its heels. Soon all that was left was the bitterness of coffee at the back of my throat, and the burn of air turning stale in my lungs.
Eisner sprayed the first perfume. The mist settled across his collarbone, in between the lapels of his zip-collared workout shirt. I gasped, starved for oxygen, and he looked up sharply. His eyes were clear. No joy.
“Smells right,” he said. “You nailed the eggs.” Sniffing again he said, “Doesn’t last very long.”
“Try the next one,” I said. It was a battle not to sound grateful for my breath. One down. Two more chances. Then it was back to the drawing board, back to the mixing palette. Back to rationing my raw materials as I experimented, hoping for success.
I couldn’t read his mind. All I could do was throw spaghetti at the wall and hope it stuck.
Looking down at the two vials left, I panicked. Which one? If the next one failed him, so much would ride upon the third. But if the second worked, the third would languish unappreciated. Did that matter, really? If the second perfume worked, I was home free. Except which of these two would work, if either?
I didn’t know which I would pick up until I had closed my fingers on the slender tube, felt its glass slide between my fingers and the cotton pad upon which it rested. Air bubbles inside shifted as I lifted the tester. Uncharacteristically, I couldn’t remember the formula for the sample I had chosen—which was this? Was this number two or number three? Did it land more heavily on its base, or sublimate those notes beneath the orris root and freon?
I could not care. If I cared I would pause, and if I paused I would dither. And dithering was both unprofessional and unproductive. So, clenching my teeth hard enough to approximate a smile, I handed him the second vial.
He lifted his left wrist and sprayed.
I felt physically lighter, leaving Eisner’s. And more expansive. As if helium had been pumped into the space behind my ribs. The late-winter sun sparkled between the bare tree branches. No, not bare—I could see the small swellings of buds stippling each stem. Equinox was approaching swiftly. The days were growing longer, and soon it would be spring.
You can see where the neo-pagans came up with the whole idea of Ostara, of estrus and sex and rebirth. The smell of it hangs in the air, charges each inhalation until just breathing is a party drug and you’re desperate to move, to touch, peel off your clothes and feel the fresh movement of mild air on your skin.
I bought an exorbitantly priced coffee from the place that sold Scandinavian skin products and sat on a bench out front, watching dogs. I even smiled at a few, and petted one particularly effusive specimen. Nothing could put me out of my good humor. The money was mine. All outstanding threats had been successfully dispatched. No Pip Miles, no blackmail, no ghost of time behind bars. Eventually I would need to do something about Eisner, to keep myself out of similar soups in the future. But I deserved a moment of respite to celebrate my success.
Once more, I let myself relive the moment:
Eisner’s face, blank but for a haughty crook in one thinning eyebrow. The ostentatious widening of his nostrils as he sniffed. The heart-pounding pause. The reward of his surprise. It hit him like a splash of paint, a clown’s thrown pie; he jerked back, head bobbing at the end of his skinny neck. And then that haughty crook was gone and the muscles of his face went slack. He was lost reliving a moment that had never been.
And just as quickly, it was gone.
“That’s it?” he said. “That’s what you expect me to pay for? I could hardly—it was nothing. It was gone in half a second!”
Months of hard work and personal peril, and those were the first words out of his mouth? I felt not one iota of sympathy.
“It was a proof of concept,” I said. “A dilution.”
“Why?” he asked, sounding almost wounded. But like any fearsome animal, it would only serve to make him vicious.
“Joseph.” I swept the sample bottles into a tidy pile on my place mat and resettled them one by one in their box. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t really trust you very much.” The winning vial I set in between the other two, as if it were an Olympian on the gold-medal podium. “When I’ve been paid, you can have the perfume at its full strength, in a full-sized bottle.”
He licked his teeth and regarded me with narrowed eyes. I regarded him right back. Let him posture. For once, I had power over him.
“I’ve got to move some money around,” he said at last, leaning back in his chair. “But I’ll have the payment to you sometime late next week. Does that work?”
“Splendidly,” I said. When I set the lid back on the box, he watched me with hungry eyes. My relieved sigh—silent—smelled of egg salad on the inhale.
Now, breathing the free spring air outside, I didn’t try to analyze the components of its many scents. I only stretched my lungs, expanded my diaphragm, and felt the spasming muscles between my hips and spine relax. The first time I had breathed easily since this all began.
I thought I had won.
27
Notes de Tête: Butterfly Pea
Notes de Cœur: Coffee
Notes de Fond: Scalded Milk and Paper Money
“Surprise,” I said to Barry, first thing on Monday morning. For once I had beaten him to the office. Or, for once I had let him know he was beaten.
The shock stopped him on the threshold, and he flinched so hard he nearly spilled his fancy coffee. What was the seasonal beverage of late February?
“You gave me a freaking heart attack!” He set his coffee on the desk and put his hand against his chest: fingers spread, cocked at the wrist, like a Hollywood ingenue’s who, me?
“I’m about to give you another one. I’m bumping up your advertising budget for the springtime launch.”
“By how much?”
I handed him the spreadsheet I had just printed. The paper was still warm. His mouth fell open before he had even finished closing his fingers on it. “Vic, where did this money come from?”
“Are you my accountant now?”
“No, but I’m not trying to be involved when they come to arrest you for . . . whatever it is you’re doing.”
