The Book of Lost Fragrances

Thirteen

PARIS, FRANCE

MONDAY, MAY 23, 8:30 P.M.

Robbie was pleasantly surprised when the reporter arrived exactly on time despite the rain.

“I’m Charles Fauche,” he said, oblivious to the fact that his umbrella was leaving a pool of water on the eighteenth-century parquet floors.

“Yes, yes, I’m Robbie L’Etoile. Come in. Let me take that from you.” He snatched the umbrella and deposited it in a Meissen stand. “Can I get you something warm to drink? Coffee? Tea?” he asked as he led the middle-aged man through the storefront and down the corridor.

“Tea would be great.”

“I’m impressed with your fortitude. It’s a heavy storm,” Robbie said as he opened the workshop door and led Fauche inside.

“I was already out. I’m on a tight deadline. I hope you hadn’t made other plans?”

“No,” Robbie said. “I’m really excited about the magazine’s interest in my line.”

The last time he’d been in the press was eight years ago, when he moved to the south of France. It had been news that a sixth-generation L’Etoile had started a niche fragrance company in Grasse. Now they wanted to know how he was progressing.

“Have a seat.” Robbie offered the journalist one of the upholstered chairs in the corner of the room. “Let me just get the tea started.” He turned on the electric kettle and then filled a wire basket with a generous helping of fragrant tea leaves.

“This is Sûr le Nil. A blend of green tea, some spices from Egypt and citrus. Are you a connoisseur?”

Fauche shook his head. “I’m usually just grateful that it’s hot. But it sounds good.”

The kettle started singing.

Robbie shut it off and ritualistically poured in a small amount of water to warm the pot. Swirling it, he made sure the leaves were wet and then filled it. He put the pot on a tray already set with two cups and linen napkins.

“Here you are,” he said as he placed the tray on the low front table in front of the reporter.

“Can you tell me a little about the inspiration for your new perfumes?” Fauche asked, beginning the interview without any warm-up.

“I’m a Buddhist,” Robbie said.

“Yes?” The reporter raised his eyebrows.

“And my beliefs have greatly influenced this line. I used the idea of yin and yang and created pairings of scents to enhance our spiritual and sensual natures.”

“Interesting.” Fauche scribbled some words in a notebook.

Brand new, Robbie noticed.

The tea had steeped long enough. Robbie poured the steaming liquid.

As he handed a cup to Fauche, his fingers brushed the reporter’s worn leather jacket by accident. It was soaked through. Why hadn’t he taken it off?

“Perhaps you’d like to smell the scents.” Robbie walked over to the organ and picked up a small bottle marked 44. He sprayed a burst of the scent on a white card and then offered it to Fauche, who took it, lifted it to his nose and breathed in deeply.

“Interesting,” the reporter said.

Robbie repeated the action with vial 62 and watched as again Fauche put the card up to his nose and inhaled.

“This one is very interesting, too,” he said.

“All the scents have international names that need no translation. Those are two halves of the whole I call Kismet. You can wear each separately or combine them.” Robbie sprayed another card with both scents and watched with surprise as, for the third time, the journalist failed to wait for some of the alcohol to evaporate, or to wave the card and smell the fragrance in the air.

Why had a prestigious international fragrance magazine sent someone so jejune to interview him?

The third card slipped from Fauche’s fingers and dropped to the floor.

Robbie watched the reporter as he leaned over to retrieve the sample. He was wearing expensive lizard-skin boots, soaked through from the rain like the jacket. When he straightened up, his jacket was pushed back at an odd angle. Quickly he pulled it closed.

What is he hiding? Robbie wondered.

“Maybe I could mix up a version of a new scent right now. You could write about the experience of smelling it as I formulate it. I’ll use six ancient essences and absolutes: almond, juniper…” Robbie pulled out one bottle after another and dripped a few drops of each liquid into a glass vial, all the while watching Fauche from the corner of his eye.

A reporter who specializes in scent is sitting in the workshop of the House of L’Etoile and is totally uninterested in watching me work a formula. He’s not writing a word down?

Fauche had gotten up and was walking around the workshop, inspecting the items on the shelves and on tabletops as if looking for something specific. An invited guest wouldn’t do that. Not even one who was a nosy reporter.

Standing in front of his worktable, Robbie turned on the Bunsen burner. “I have to heat two of these essences together.” As he talked, he calculated. Precision was required. Too little, and the fumes wouldn’t be potent enough to have any effect-too much, and they could be fatal-but he had to be prepared. Something was very wrong.

The burner was glowing. The solution was ready. Robbie would give the reporter the benefit of the doubt and allow him one chance to explain who he was and what he was really doing there. If the answer didn’t make sense, then he’d do what he had to do to protect himself.

“Mr. Fauche?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t asked me many questions.”

“I’ve been busy taking notes.”

“Are you really here to interview me about my new line? Or is there perhaps another story you’re after?”

The tense smile the reporter offered almost put Robbie at ease. “Yes, actually, there is something else.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a rumor about an Egyptian relic that you found.”

“How did you hear about that?”

“A reporter never reveals his sources.” Fauche looked pleased with himself for coming up with the cliché.

Griffin wouldn’t have told anyone. Robbie tried to think. How would the word have gotten out? He’d talked to the Rinpoche about giving the gift to the Dalai Lama, but surely the monk hadn’t revealed that to the press. Who else? Ah, yes: it had to be the curator at Christie’s auction house who he’d asked for an estimate when he’d first found the pot shards. So that’s all this was. The interest in his new fragrance line was just an excuse to get in the door and get an exclusive about the Egyptian find. Robbie relaxed.

“Could I see the jar?” Fauche asked.

“I’m sorry, but no. It’s in pieces, and they haven’t all been cataloged yet. I wish you’d been honest with me about the story you were after. You came out on a very wet night for nothing.”

“I must insist you reconsider.” Fauche’s jaw clenched with barely contained rage. His hand moved to his pocket.

It was all the warning Robbie needed.

“No, no, there’s no reason to get upset,” he said. “If it matters that much, I’ll gladly fetch it.” Robbie turned his back on Fauche and slid the beaker over the flame. In the French doors’ reflection, he watched the man who certainly wasn’t a reporter pull out a gun.

“Hurry up, L’Etoile. Show me the damn pottery.”

“I just have to get the key to the safe,” Robbie stalled and pretended to look through a small drawer, moving pens and paper clips and droppers around as the liquid in the beaker began to smoke.

“Ah, here it is,” he exclaimed, turning abruptly.

The man who called himself Fauche relaxed momentarily, expecting to see the key. When he saw Robbie was empty handed, he started to protest, but his words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t catch his breath. He gasped. And then gasped again.