I played the lemon scene several times, and the more I watched it the more ludicrous it seemed. At first I thought it was beautiful. With its subdued golden lighting it reminded me of a painting, a cinematic version of a Morandi still life. Bellini’s Norma played on a tape recorder resting on the windowsill and the contrast between the visual – the modest kitchen – and the aural – the magnificent opera – heightened the distance between Sally’s internal and external worlds. But, watching the sequence over and over again, I became cranky. If Sally wanted to remove the smell of fish, why did she cover herself in sticky lemon juice when she could use soap? The whole thing struck me as phony.
I created Archer’s Atlantic City perfume around lemon, using pure lemon oil extracted from the skins of the fruit. I highlighted the lemon with a few drops of ylang ylang oil and then contrasted the sweetness with lavender oil to ground the perfume. Finally, as much for fun as anything, I added a dropper of oil from a tin of smoked oysters. I diluted the result in fractionated coconut oil and called it It’s Nothing Weird – taken from when Sally answers Lou’s question about why she uses lemons. I hoped Archer would like the perfume as much as Jerome had enjoyed The Awakening scent, but really I’d be satisfied if he identified the fish note.
Evenings were the worst. I kept scrolling through university, museum and employment sites, checking for vacancies that may have popped up since I last looked only a few hours earlier. When nothing caught my eye, I’d grow desperate and fire off polite and undemanding follow-up emails, which asked, in a friendly but professional tone, if the recruitment search was ongoing or if the job had been filled. I stressed that I was still interested and available, that I’d be happy to provide further information or meet for an interview. Sometimes, very occasionally, I received an equally polite reply apologising for the lack of communication, thanking me for my interest in a position that was now filled. Although most of my applications and messages were ignored, I continued to wait, counting down the days until I could send a follow-up to my follow-up. I knew the whole thing was a lost cause, a joke, and that no one wanted me. But I still waited. I tried not to lose heart.
Some nights I surrounded myself with paperwork, trying to figure out how to budget for my future. Should I break into my retirement savings? Advertise for a lodger? Rent out a room on Airbnb? Should I sell up and buy a campervan and join the retirement-age nomads who travelled around the country taking seasonal work picking fruit? I didn’t know what to do, how to make my life work again. I grew so desperate I considered putting my entire perfume collection up for sale on eBay. Some of the perfumes were vintage, others discontinued formulas, a few were rare. Altogether they would bring in a few thousand dollars. But something always stopped me from listing them. The truth was they made me happy and I didn’t want to lose them, at least not through a cold-blooded auction.
When I couldn’t concentrate on emails or budgets, I’d walk around my apartment and touch it: the brick walls, the rough beams, the bookshelves, even the polished floor. I’d stand with my back to the window and look in, towards the loft. My desire to remain in my home was as physical as it was emotional, as if saving the apartment were akin to saving my sight, my sense of smell or even a leg. When I thought about having to move I felt bereft, flooded by anxiety. The front of my skull ached from the permanent clamp that grew tighter every day. I found it hard to sleep. I tried drinking water, taking magnesium, avoiding the light, screens and books, but nothing worked. The headache became a fixture, and my body slowly adapted, and then threatened to shut down, reducing my world to the pressing rhythm of find work, get money, keep home.
Sometimes, in an attempt to release my biggest fear and anxiety, I would walk around my neighbourhood, taking note of places I might sleep once I was homeless while, at the same time, attempting to convince myself that it would never come to that. As a cover, I carried a stack of work wanted flyers in my bag. I targeted all the apartments in my neighbourhood, then moved through the well-kept residential streets, dropping flyers in letterboxes – even those clearly marked ‘No Junk Mail’. I hesitated in front of a homewear design store I’d been in before, trying to convince myself to risk a cold call, but I couldn’t bring myself to go in. My reason was ridiculous. Last time I’d found the interior overpowered by the confusion of smells rising from rose-scented candles, synthetic vanilla reed diffusers, handmade citrus-scented soaps and orchid bath bombs.
To give my outing a semblance of normality I spent a few minutes scanning the books in a pop-up Little Free Library. The shelves were crammed with diet books, celebrity memoirs, scuffed and torn thrillers, and Marie Kondo. Even though I had a stack of unread books by my bed I found two that caught my eye: one about a North Island missionary called Richard Taylor, which I thought Archer might like, and the second a recent anthology of short love poems. This appealed to me because of a handwritten note scrawled across the title page: ‘Daryl, I carry your heart with me.’ A half-page sketch of a naked man with a droopy penis and a bloody heart cupped in his hands filled the rest of the space and above the sad figure, squashed into a speech bubble above his head, were the words, ‘because it is bitter’. I recognised the line at once. It came from Stephen Crane’s ‘In the Desert’, arguably the only poem of his that any student of American literature ever remembered, and sure enough it was listed in the contents. I stared at the image for a good two minutes, trying to put myself in Daryl’s shoes, wondering how I would respond if that copy had been thrust into my hands as, what, a Valentine’s Day present?
Before returning home I decided to extend my walk and cross into town to check out the perfume counter at The Corner Dairy. I recognised the young assistant as the guy I’d seen during my interview with Anna. He was taller than I remembered, immaculately groomed, his hair neatly parted and brushed back over his ears. His skin seemed less red than before, and I realised that he was really quite handsome in his uniform of a neatly laundered, white dustcoat worn over a black shirt and matching trousers.
He caught my eye and smiled.
‘Hi there,’ I said as I approached.
He stepped closer to the counter and looked genuinely pleased to see me. Maybe he recognised me from the interview?
‘I’m looking for a new perfume and I’m really curious about iris notes. Can you help?’
It wasn’t so much a trick question as a test. At a quick glance I could see three iris scents on the shelves, including the most famous of them all, Chanel No. 19, created by Henri Robert for Coco Chanel herself. Chanel was in her late eighties at the time, and the perfume was named after the date of her birth, 19 August. In some ways it was a product of its time, a scent that coincided with the 1970s feminist movement, marking a period when women no longer wanted or needed to smell like a bouquet of flowers. It was, and still is, the perfume women reached for when they were facing a difficult day, when they wanted to appear in charge.
As I waited, anticipating that the assistant would reach down and lift out the bottle of Chanel, every fibre in my body grew tense. If he knew perfume he would have no trouble identifying it. I willed him to hurry up, silently repeating ‘19, 19, 19’ over and over in my mind. I found myself leaning towards the counter, trying to catch his eye and slowly directing my gaze down to the right shelf, as if by some invisible force I could manoeuvre his hand to the bottle.
‘I’m not sure.’ He scanned the shelves behind him, and his hand hovered in front of the Guerlain display before veering off uncertainly towards some Dior bottles. ‘Sorry, I’m still learning.’ His face flushed red and I felt sorry for him. ‘I could ask one of the others,’ he said, glancing down the length of the counter.
‘It’s all right,’ I replied. ‘I was curious, that’s all. Don’t worry about it. Thanks so much, though.’ Almost as an afterthought I added, ‘It must be great working here, surrounded by so many perfumes. I guess you get to test them all.’
I saw the wave of relief that swept over him. His body relaxed and then, catching
sight of another customer, he apologised once more and left. I took a second longer to leave. For some reason I thought he might come back and find the bottle, but he didn’t.
I’d lost out to a young man who knew nothing about perfume. Iris. I heard the word form on my lips. Also listed in perfume notes as orris. The assistant had so many perfumes to choose from: CK One, Britney Spears’ Fantasy, Bois d’Iris from Van Cleef & Arpels, Prada’s Infusion d’Iris, Hiris by Hermès … It was such a common note he could have taken a guess and his hand would have landed on something with iris in it. Or he could have gone through the testers and sprayed them until he recognised the distinctive note by its smell. Anything that reminded him of potatoes, carrots, wet soil, green stalks, powdery florals or hairspray would, most likely, be iris-centred. Strangely, I was more bothered that he didn’t know what iris smelt like than that he had got the job and I hadn’t. It was so disheartening.
Notes for a bitter heart: Should I add iris to my heart notes? There’s definitely something magical about iris scents. Because the flower itself doesn’t smell, iris perfumes utilise the rhizome. The root is dried for up to three years, allowing the irone molecule, at the heart of the scent, to develop. Once the root has dried it is ground up and distilled to create a butter-like product that smells sweet and earthy, rather like fresh-from-the-garden carrots. The iris butter is then turned into an absolute through extraction using a volatile solvent. This is what will eventually be used in perfume.
Iris? Would it go with oakmoss and oak? Yes, I think it would. The problem is that I’m not sure that iris is a good match for me. Iris is a bit of a shape-shifter. The earthy, carrot aspect is only one of many. Some iris perfumes are powdery, some smell like old-fashioned hairspray and some are austere and cool, the most elegant of scents. Iris isn’t comforting, it doesn’t fill you with a sense of wellbeing. Rather, it’s unflappable and poised, and that can be a hard note to live up to. Iris is a scent for a career woman. I need something more forgiving.
Archer’s apartment lay on a busy thoroughfare, overlooking the port and container terminal. It was a part of town I rarely visited, but when I did I was always surprised at how distinct the area was from the rest of the city. For a start, regardless of the weather, it always seemed to be windy. The breeze was fresher than in the inner city or its surrounding valleys, and it carried the unmistakable smell of the sea. Mixed with the marine scent was an equally strong smell of diesel, oily and gritty, though whether from the endless stream of buses and trucks speeding by or from the fuel tanks in the distance, I wasn’t sure. Finally, as I passed the large storage silos before turning into the pedestrian alley that led to Archer’s, I noticed the smell of cement.
Archer must have been watching me approach as he was standing at the entrance, holding the door open for me when I arrived. He took a step towards me as if he might kiss my cheek, then pulled back and offered his hand. I took it in mine and was startled by how thin and bony it felt. When I stepped back to look at him I saw that he’d lost weight since losing his job. His cheeks were hollowed and his face had a greyish sheen, made more pronounced by the faintest trace of stubble covering his jaw. He looked distracted but then he smiled and I could tell that he was pleased to see me.
‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘Keeping busy?’ His voice, I was pleased to note, was as strong as ever.
I’d only visited his home a few times before, after Renate’s bypass surgery, when some of us in the department took turns fixing meals or watching her while Archer gave his lectures. The three things that stuck in my mind were Renate’s optimism, the fact that neither of them mentioned they were vegetarian but took our food offerings with gratitude, and that the windows were incredibly dirty. It was as if the cement had impregnated the glass, creating an opaque filter that dulled the light from outside.
On this visit the windows were clean, and from a spot near the sliding door that opened onto a small balcony I could see the huge cranes and straddle carriers at work unloading shipping containers.
‘We bought the place for the outlook,’ said Archer.
I laughed.
‘Renate has a bit of a thing for harbours and ports. Something to do with her ancestors being Vikings.’
‘Really?’
Archer shrugged and shook his head. ‘Maybe not. But the view A grows on you. It’s got a cinematic quality, it’s dramatic, larger than life, a bit Mad Max.’
His mention of cinema prompted me to take the scent from my bag. When I passed it to him he did something strange: he shook the bottle vigorously and held it up to the light.
‘I was thinking about that Thelma & Louise party you had,’ I said.
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘And then I went from that idea to Susan Sarandon in Atlantic City.’
As I watched, he unscrewed the cap and sniffed. He looked perturbed and sniffed again before passing the bottle back to me to smell. I inhaled and even though the oils were newly blended, and not yet fully developed, it was rather good. I was relieved the fish oil didn’t dominate the lemon.
‘Thank you,’ said Archer. ‘No one has ever made me a perfume before.’
‘It’s nothing weird,’ I replied, hoping he might say something about the actual smell of the blend but he didn’t. Instead he placed the bottle on the counter and fetched me a glass of water.
‘Renate used to make soap using lavender and tea tree oil when I first met her,’ he said. ‘But since her operation she’s become very health conscious, and now she’s worried some oils cause hormonal problems. Have you heard about that?’
‘I have but I’m not sure I believe it.’
‘It’s a shame she gave up. She still keeps a collection of oils at our cabin. That’s where she was most creative. She planted a native garden because she wanted to explore the plants’ medicinal properties.’
I’d never heard Archer mention a cabin before, and I was confused because the Thelma & Louise party had been in a rented place.
‘That’s one of the things I’ve been meaning to do for a while,’ he continued. ‘I need to give it a lick of paint and tidy it up, in case we decide to put it on the market.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Oh, it’s kind of remote.’ He waved his hand in a distracted way. ‘It’s not close to anywhere. Do you know Raetihi?’
I nodded.
‘Well, if you went west you’d be in the general vicinity.
We bought the block when Hester was in high school and Renate started making noises about escaping the rat race and taking up fly-fishing.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know.’
‘It’s peaceful.’
‘I bet.’
He sighed. ‘I’ve applied for an overseas position, but if that doesn’t pan out Renate may want us to relocate to the States to be closer to her family. What are you going to do?’
‘I’m still looking for work. I don’t want to sell up or move if I can help it.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Having a home is good.’
‘I’ve been doing the rounds, applying for jobs, putting out flyers. Looking for scraps.’
‘Scraps? You’re better than that.’
‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’
‘Well, if you need money you can help me paint the cabin.’
I laughed. ‘No, no thanks. I don’t do remote.’
We fell silent, our gaze fixed on the cranes unloading the huge ship and the back and forth activity of the straddle carriers receiving the containers. A fly crawled up the window, then took off, flying in a jerky square formation in the middle of the room.
‘You can smell the sea from here,’ I said.
‘That was a drawcard for Renate. She often likes to sleep with the door open.’
‘Would you agree that we have a kind of genetic memory for smells, one that goes further back than direct personal experience?’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Archer.
‘Well, if our sense of aesthetics is embedded in o
ur cultural background, we must also be biased towards certain smells? Renate’s fondness for the smell of the sea is inherited from her Viking ancestors, for example. It forms part of her scent DNA.’
‘That’s possible, but I guess people find some things pleasant smelling, or disgusting, regardless of cultural background.’
‘So you think smells are universal, not culturally specific?’
Archer gazed back towards the window, and I could see he was working through my question. ‘I think both,’ he said finally. ‘Some scents, like the smell of rain falling on dry ground, must have universal appeal because they’re linked to growth and survival and hark back to the time of the hunter-gatherers. But other scents are culturally specific and our preferences would be inherited or learnt. Buttered popcorn or pumpkin pie seem very American to me, and those smells mightn’t translate or be appreciated by other cultures.’
‘Do you think there’s such a thing as a New Zealand smell?’ I asked.
Archer shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m not in position to answer that. You’d have to ask a New Zealander.’
On my way home I decided to make a detour via the rose garden. It wasn’t far out of my way and so close to home that it was surprising I hadn’t visited more often. In recent weeks I’d found myself wandering past places, shops, galleries, parks, and thought I should go in but I’d kept on walking. Perhaps I hadn’t got over the fact that I was no longer a busy person.
The entrance was an imposing black volcanic rock gateway flanked by pōhutukawa trees that dripped with tentacles of pale green moss and lichen. On the far side of the gateway the path disappeared down a slope and out of sight. Unkempt vegetation added to a sense of menace. Before going through the gate I had to remind myself that I’d never witnessed anything out of the ordinary, ever, in the rose garden, and that the last time I visited the only other person I saw was a middle-aged woman walking a Labrador with a bag of poo attached to its lead. The only people there today were a gardener, a young man with dreadlocks bound around his head with brightly coloured cotton strands, working at the beds at the far end, and me.
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