Scented

by Laurence Fearnley

  We came to the main entrance and turned in, following narrow shingle and dirt trails between walls of vehicles. Here the cars seemed older and rustier. Glimpsed at the end of one row was grass and a huddle of sheep that slowly and reluctantly made way as we drew nearer. We were standing in the middle of the yard, a small open square of land that was covered in pellets of sheep and rabbit droppings. Ahead of us was a gully filled with dark native bush, beyond that the mountain. Surrounding us, pile after pile of wrecked bodies.

  We continued in silence, circling back towards some large corrugated iron sheds. We passed old buses, trucks, a collection of Morris Minors. Many of the cars were adorned with spider webs, spun in the gaps between wing mirrors and bonnets. Like the stacks of chrome bumper bars we’d seen earlier, they caught the light and glinted as we meandered by.

  Ahead of us was a shed, and inside we found ourselves surrounded by what, at first glance, appeared to be strange silver eggs. They were headlamps, hundreds and hundreds of them, grouped by model and size on the floor, above our heads and all around us. Few of the hanging lamps had glass, and their disembodied silver sockets followed us around as we moved carefully through the cramped room and on into the next.

  ‘I think I like it better outside,’ I said.

  ‘Okay.’

  We started back for the main entrance, following a path we hadn’t taken before, past the wire remains of car seats, springs and coils spilling out onto the ground in front of us. Some of the springs looked almost new; others were so ancient they were little more than jagged wires poking up out of the long grass.

  Archer stopped in front of a large car, the chrome features of its massive art deco radiator grille sweeping elegantly all the way back past a row of vents to its front doors. With the exception of the chromework, the entire car was rusted, small swatches of verdigris dominating the once gleaming black paintwork.

  ‘That’s your car,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  The bonnet was partially raised, revealing a gaping hole where the engine should be. The headlamps were also missing, leaving two featureless sockets staring blindly ahead. The only part of the car that was undamaged was the windscreen. Despite its good condition, patches of lichen, some white, some brown, spread up the glass in dulled rainbow curves.

  We climbed in, carefully taking our places side by side. Archer rested his hands on his knees; the steering wheel was gone. I could feel the hard springs beneath me through the tattered seat, patches of straw and grass mixed with metal and leather. Whoever had been here before us had lowered the sun visors. It felt as though the car had been driven to this spot and then left without thought, almost as if the driver and passenger might return, start up the engine and continue their journey.

  ‘Do you get the feeling we belong here?’

  Archer laughed.

  I turned in my seat, and saw what looked like a nest built in the springs of the back seat.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Notes for a dear friend: I’m beginning to wonder if friendship or companionship should have a smell. It seems a pity that both love and sex have registered so forcibly in perfume – the first symbolised through roses, the second through layers of skanky musks and heady indoles – and yet friendship has not. A fragrance of friendship might be quieter, less attention-seeking than one symbolising love or sex, but it would have longevity; its base notes would linger, always in the background.

  I know, now, that I’ve found a true friend in Archer. He means more to me than the pipe and slippers man I envisage when I take in his physical appearance. He means more to me than the sly joke of the Susan Sarandon lemon and oyster concoction. In imagining a perfume of friendship the word steadfast comes to mind. I want to honour what he means to me; I want my perfume to be an expression of gratitude. I’m reminded, too, that our friendship is mutual, and so the perfume should represent the bond between us. I will add something that I love to the perfume so when he smells it (which, ironically, he won’t) he will be reminded of me.

  For Archer I will build a scent around lilacs, ivy, ink and leather. I have a picture in my mind of a man seated in a quiet room, working at a desk. A door opens up onto a small garden; it’s spring and the lilac is in bloom. His house is old, covered in ivy. The image references the writers and works he taught, Whitman, Eliot, Faulkner, but only in an abstract sense. I’m not drawing on a line from verse.

  Lilac itself doesn’t play a major role in men’s perfume. It’s not traditionally masculine. In fact most people would place it with violets or hyacinth as old-fashioned and fusty, the type of fragrance used to scent linen drawers or bath salts. Using lilac for Archer’s scent indicates a softer, gentler side. It also implies a short passage of time: most lilacs bloom for only two weeks or so, not long at all.

  I want to contrast the fleeting nature of lilac with something suggestive of a deeper commitment, a relationship that endures after the flowers have faded. A plant with longevity, tenacious in spirit. Ivy. I love the smell of ivy. The first impression you get when you crush the leaves in your fingers is something quite astringent and green, like flower stalks but sharper. Then the smell becomes earthier, partly like freshly dug roots, but then it transforms again, becoming more fungal, almost like a paper bag filled with mushrooms. I like the fact that ivy is common, widespread and frequently overlooked. It’s not one of those fussy, special plants that needs to be pampered. It gets on with its life. Importantly, it symbolises friendship, tenacity, eternal love. It’s also associated with Bacchus. Archer will know that; he worked in a bar, after all.

  Ink and leather: jottings in a notebook. Ink has worked its way into more and more perfumes in recent years. It’s a strange note, simple – what you’d expect if you sniffed a bottle of Indian ink. More interesting to me is lampblack, the black pigment used in ink that came from the sooty residue of oil lamps. Lampblack features a nice undercurrent of tar whereas, to me, ink is softer, earthier, like moss. I think lampblack might give body and depth and darkness to Archer’s perfume. It is the note of death and decay, the elegiac twist that the scent needs. Leather? Now I think of it I’ll leave it out. Lilac, ivy – the scent I love and want to share – and lampblack: a perfume of friendship for Archer. Ivy. The scent is so beautiful I will also add it to my own collection of heart notes as a constant reminder of my bond with Archer.

  On a rise above a bush-clad valley, Archer pulled over for a final check of his messages. He climbed onto a boulder, holding his phone high above his head; for a moment he reminded me of the Statute of Liberty, albeit a balding, wobbly version. He signalled to me and I climbed out to see what he wanted.

  ‘This is the last place you can get reception. Do you want me to check for you, in case someone’s got back to you about a job interview or something?’

  I shook my head.

  Archer touched my shoulder, resting his hand there. ‘We can return tomorrow, anyway.’

  I used to groan at the number of emails choking my inbox. There were times when I’d wake in the night and see the blue light flashing on my phone and spend an hour or more replying to requests, just so I didn’t have to deal with them first thing in the morning. Most of my colleagues complained of the influx. I know that Jerome stopped responding to all of his. He’d forward them on to me with a pitiful, ‘So, so sorry but I think you know more about this than me. Would you mind sorting out the details? Sorry to be a drag.’ Sometimes I’d snap and return them with a curt, ‘Too busy. You do it.’ But often I’d feel sorry for the sender, or worry about the reputation of the department if the email went unanswered. I wasted so much time covering his correspondence, reading his grant applications, correcting them, flattering him.

  What would I see on my phone now? The chances of it being anything I wanted to see were nil. In fact, I might as well become one of those people who keep their cell phone only ‘in case of emergencies’. People like my mother, who succumbed to family pressure but rarely char
ged the battery. As she’d frequently said, she could always borrow someone else’s if she needed to.

  Behind me, Archer sighed.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Renate. I’ve barely seen her since I lost my job. She’s always travelling. Guess I never noticed before …’

  ‘You were too busy doing your own thing. But she’ll be home soon.’

  ‘Yes. I think she’s flying in from Australia around midnight, from memory.’

  He shrugged and scrambled down from his boulder. ‘It’s a good view, isn’t it? It was even nicer before they started logging.’

  The road narrowed and became more and more winding as we descended into the valley and along its floor. A strong smell of burnt rubber from overheated brakes filled the air, combining with the dust that had seeped in through the cracks in the windows and vents. The burning smell got stronger and stronger, and I was about to mention it to Archer when the road flattened out and all of a sudden we were driving through a new landscape of native bush and river flats, lush green paddocks scattered with yellow daffodils. As we drew near to an old homestead, Archer told me that it belonged to his nearest neighbour, Junee, a widow who kept her eye on his property. ‘She always airs out the place and turns on the power when she knows I’m coming. We’ll have hot water and ice, with any luck.’

  We turned through a gateway and bounced along a deeply rutted, overgrown drive that passed through dense bush before finally opening out on a cleared section where a small board and batten timber dwelling with a large verandah took centre stage, surrounded by a smaller shed, picnic table and outdoor fireplace. Gardens occupied a raised bank behind the house, and from where I sat I could make out clumps of daffodils and what looked like lemon trees.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Archer. ‘Welcome.’

  People who are particularly fond of their houses tend to stand outside for longer than usual before unlocking the door and going in. It’s a process of taking the measure of a place, reacquaint ing yourself with its mood or pace. This is what Archer did. He stood still, feeling the fresh air on his face and listening to the birds that called from the trees. He then led the way up to the planted area, pausing to show me the citrus trees planted in the warm shelter of a large water-tank. ‘This is my cocktail garden,’ he said as he plucked a handful of well-ripened lemons and limes from the tree. ‘There’s mint by that tap and over there is a cranberry bush and next to it a blackthorn so I can make my own sloe gin.’

  Beyond the cocktail garden was a neat arrangement of herbs and native planting, bordered by larger trees. In the ground at the foot of some of the plants were neatly painted name plaques, similar to the type found in botanic gardens. ‘This is what Renate refers to as her Mother Aubert garden,’ Archer explained. ‘I don’t know much about it, to be honest, but nearly everything here is medicinal.’ We followed a wood-chipped path, pausing to read out the names: horopito, kawakawa, raukawa, rewarewa, tarata.

  ‘How are they used?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you. The only one I really know is horopito, which is peppery. But there are a couple of books on the shelves inside that might explain, and I think Renate’s recipe book is around somewhere. Go and take a look if you’re interested.’

  We passed the remains of a vegetable garden that was mostly weeds with rhubarb and fennel to one side, before turning back to the front of the house, inspecting the picnic table made from rough-hewn macrocarpa and the fire-pit, and then finally stepping up onto the verandah where gumboots and boots were neatly lined up beneath an old pew. After unlocking the door, Archer stood back to allow me inside.

  As I stepped in I got a whiff of seagrass from the floor, but more noticeable were the beautiful dappled colours of yellow, red and green on its surface from the abstract design on a pane of stained glass hanging on wires from the ceiling. ‘Renate had it made for my fiftieth,’ said Archer. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  One wall of the bach was covered from floor to ceiling with books, and against the back wall was a drinks cabinet brimming with bottles and glasses of all shapes and sizes. ‘Bathroom through there,’ said Archer, pointing to a bright yellow doorway. ‘You have the choice of the bed in the loft or the fold-out couch in Renate’s study. That’s where she keeps her books. Come, I’ll show you.’

  We entered a small, dark room. The air was cold, and when Archer raised the blind, bottles in various shades of blue and green were revealed, lined up on the windowsill. Built-in beneath the window was a long wooden bench on which stood glass jars filled with various bit and pieces, feathers, tools, and, to one side, a few empty amber-coloured bottles – the type I used for my perfume blends. A glass-fronted cabinet, smaller than Archer’s drinks cabinet, displayed more amber bottles, some labelled with the contents, and above that was a shelf crammed with books. ‘The reference library,’ he said, picking up a book and flicking through its dog-eared pages. Attached to the wall above the couch were two fly-fishing rods made from bamboo.

  ‘It’s dark and a bit damp,’ said Archer, ‘but it’ll warm up once we get the fire going.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said.

  ‘Or you’re welcome to the loft, if you want. That’s where I store my albums.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, this is fine.’

  Only then, after the full tour of the garden and house, did we begin to unpack the car, stacking boxes of food and clean linen in a heap on the table. As we put things away, Archer described the holidays he, Renate and Hester had spent building the cabin. ‘We started with all three of us camping out in the small shed. Junee’s husband was still alive and he did most of the real construction work on the cabin, but we chipped in as much as we could. It was very satisfying, creating something from scratch, a place built to last. It reminded Renate of her days in the Green Guerillas.’

  ‘So why are you thinking of selling?’

  ‘I don’t know if I am, to be honest. But I guess we don’t make it down here as often as we used to now that Renate’s got so busy with work. I could come down on my own, I guess. Spend my days out on the porch.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Archer shrugged. ‘How are you, anyway? Are you okay?’

  ‘Surviving.’

  ‘Good.’

  We devoted the afternoon to cutting firewood and sanding down window frames, Archer up on the stepladder, me working on the sills. We didn’t talk much, though every now and again I heard Archer humming to himself, a tune that sounded a lot like ‘9 to 5’, though sung by someone who knew only half of the lyrics. I was beginning to grow tired and bored and was wondering how I could suggest a break without giving up, when Archer called, ‘Cocktail hour.’ It wasn’t quite five.

  I hadn’t drunk cocktails since Archer’s Thelma & Louise party, a night that started innocently enough with beer, but soon took off with variations on the classic redhead recipe. Never much of a drinker, I couldn’t hold my liquor and was soon out of my depth. One of my last images, before giving up and going to my bunk, was seeing Jerome with his arm draped around Archer’s shoulders, telling him how much he admired and respected him, and how professors like him were one in a million. One in a million! Jerome must have said it four or five times, before turning to the others and exclaiming, ‘Would you look at this guy! One in a million.’ Archer, far more sober than the rest of us, laughed off the compliment with a professional, ‘Here’s to your health!’, before shrugging off Jerome’s arm and going back to his chair in front of the movie. I didn’t wake up until noon.

  ‘So, I was thinking,’ said Archer as I followed him to the kitchen, ‘that we could start with a nice gin rickey made with my own sloe gin.’ I watched as he measured and mixed the ingredients, enjoying the skill with which he worked. He passed the first drink to me and then made himself one, using exactly the same measurements.

  ‘Let’s go and sit outside,’ he said.

  The sun had fallen behind the ridge and the light was beginning to fade but it felt good to be si
tting at last, facing each other across the picnic table.

  ‘Points if you can name the novel that features a gin rickey.’

  ‘Something by Hemingway?’ I guessed.

  Archer shook his head.

  ‘I’m going to go with F Scott Fitzgerald or Truman Capote, then.’

  Archer looked pleased.

  ‘I think it’s not flamboyant enough for Capote so I’ll try Fitzgerald.’

  ‘Yes. But which book?’ Archer tapped his glass and waited.

  ‘Tender Is the Night?’

  Archer shook his head. ‘Nope. The Great Gatsby. The lunch party when Tom twigs that Daisy loves Gatsby, before they all drive off into town.’

  ‘I was going to say that!’ I joked.

  ‘We used to have Gatsby nights at one of the bars where I worked. None of the regulars took part. They’d sit at the counter and roll their eyes, blowing smoke from their cigarettes and downing bourbon, while all around them office workers and East Village types got tipsy and crashed into chairs, calling, “Sorry, old sport!”’ He paused and took a sip from his glass. ‘So, how do you like your drink?’

  ‘Good. Delicious. There’s a bit of fruit?’

  ‘That’s the sloe. Plummy but bitter.’

  Despite having had only one drink I could feel the alcohol take effect. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast; somehow I hadn’t got around to it.

  ‘You want another?’ asked Archer.

  ‘Maybe?’

  We went inside, and as Archer laid the fire I pulled together some snacks: bread and cheese, hummus, smoked salmon, tomatoes and cucumber. I laid out more than I thought we’d need. I was already unsteady on my feet and I wanted to make sure there was food close at hand.