Smoke from the fire sagged and rolled out of the firebox, and I watched as Archer took a deep breath and blew, the embers glowing, then flickering, as the dry wood caught. He continued to puff and within minutes the smoke disappeared as the blaze took hold. He lit the candles on the table, their flames casting yellow circles of light over the polished wood. ‘We do have lights, if you want something brighter.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
We took it in turns to serve ourselves, happy to linger over the meal. Unlike me, Archer picked at his food. I ate most of the bread, relieved that it filled my stomach and cleared my head. Little conversation passed between us but as the meal drew to a close, I asked Archer how long he’d spent as a barman.
‘Years, off and on. It was a good job, interesting.’
‘Did Renate share your enthusiasm for cocktails?’
He shook his head, but then he reconsidered. ‘We used to experiment using the produce she brought home from the garden. The results lacked the depth and complexity of a true cocktail but they were pretty good. You can turn anything into a decent drink once you’ve mastered the basics of mixing.’
‘Perfume?’
He looked puzzled.
‘Perfume? Could you translate a perfume into a cocktail.’
‘Sure. Easy. What have you got?’
I went into Renate’s room and came back with a small vial of Mitsouko, filled from a 1950s vintage bottle I’d bought off eBay when I still had a job and made the occasional extravagant purchase. I’d spent weeks researching old bottles, packaging, batch numbers, doing everything to calm my nerves, but even so I knew I was taking an extraordinary gamble when I bought it. Apart from the obvious problem that it might be fake, I was worried that the juice might have deteriorated. But Mitsouko had been my first strange love and so I did the unimaginable and placed a bid. With the exchange rate and shipping it came to $978, the most I’d ever spent on a perfume – the most I’d ever spend.
I remember how good the bottle felt in my hand when it finally arrived but, despite my excitement, I couldn’t bring myself to break open the neck seal and release the perfume. It was too much responsibility. One day, there would be no more vintage Mitsouko; it was finite. The bottle sat on my table for days, and then weeks. In the end, I took the perfume to work and handed it over to Jerome. He was eating his lunch when I went in, and as he took the scent from me he held his sandwich in his mouth so that he could use both hands to release the cap. My eyes scanned from the lettuce escaping the two slices of brown bread to the padded cotton neck protector that he ripped off without a moment’s hesitation. Then, pausing to take a bite, he broke the seal on the bottle, all the while chewing the crust of his sandwich. Instead of passing the bottle back to me he wriggled the stopper free and inhaled, still with food in his mouth. He plonked the bottle down. ‘Smells kind of fusty, like wet hamsters.’
‘Describe the smell for me,’ said Archer as he arranged his cocktail shaker and tumblers on the table.
‘Well, if I were to express the fragrance in its most basic terms I’d say orange and lemon peel, peach, cinnamon, clove and oakmoss. A perfect fruity chypre.’
‘When was it made?’
‘Nineteen nineteen.’
‘Okay. Wait and I’ll see what I can find.’
He went to the bar and began pulling out bottles, holding them up, turning them in his hand, keeping some, putting others back. He disappeared into the kitchen and I could hear cupboards banging. Minutes passed before he returned. He set down his ingredients and said, ‘The sidecar. A cocktail that dates back to the First World War. It’s very simple: cognac, triple sec and lemon juice.’
By the time he’d described the drink, it was made, and he pushed it across to me. I took a sip and held the mix in my mouth. It wasn’t as bitter as I thought it should be for the perfume reference. I passed it back to Archer with a nod.
‘Not impressed?’
‘No, I like it.’
‘That’s our starting point. So you understand the basic construction.’
I reached across the table for another taste and, without thinking, drained the glass. ‘It needs peach and moss,’ I said. ‘And something dry, aromatic. It’s too sweet.’
I pulled off a piece of bread, hacked off a hunk of cheese and popped it all into my mouth. I noticed that the room was getting increasingly warm; the fire was doing an excellent job. Automatically, I pulled out my phone to check for texts but then remembered ‘Jessica’ and shuddered. I should have blocked her before now but as long as there was no reception I was safe anyway.
‘Peach. I found a tin in the cupboard so let’s see what I can do with that. Moss is going to be difficult.’ He paused, scratched his head and then I heard him mumble, ‘Aquavit? No.’
He began to prepare another version of my cocktail. He put some orange and lemon peel in a silver mixing tin and pressed it with something like a long-handled wooden pestle. Next he added orange wedges and sliced peaches from the tin and pressed again. He caught my eye and held up the pestle for me to see.
‘A muddler,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how the tinned peaches will go but, as Emerson says, if we aim above the mark we might hit the mark.’
Next he added some bitters, some Cointreau and the cognac, filling the mixing glass almost to the surface with ice. He stirred the drink, then strained it into a highball. He passed a strip of orange peel around the rim of the glass, added a cinnamon quill.
I sniffed. ‘Cinnamon. Orange.’ I then sipped the drink and held it in my mouth before swallowing. I could detect the peach but also the darker aromatic of the bitters.
‘It’s really good.’
‘Is it Mitsouko?’
‘Closer.’ I tried it once more. ‘I like it.’
‘But it’s not right yet?’
‘No. I know … give me a go. I know what to do. We need some moss.’
I stood up. The top half of my body felt heavy and I lost my balance and had to steady myself. ‘There’s bound to be some moss outside.’ I took a step and bumped into the table. I reached for one of the candles but Archer got to it first and moved it away. ‘I’ll get a torch.’
It was far darker outside than I thought it would be. I’d forgotten that the night sky here was black. I managed the first step off the deck but missed the next one and stumbled, preventing myself from falling only by doing a little running skip until I regained my balance. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Archer framed in the light of the door. He seemed to be fussing with his shoes so I set off across the grass towards the shed, anticipating that the older, damper stacks of wood would provide us with all the moss we needed. Behind me Archer called, ‘Careful’ and ‘Wait’, but I didn’t need to. ‘I’m going to muddle some moss!’ I yelled back. That made me laugh. Moss muddler. It sounded like something I should put on my CV. Current employment: moss muddler. Somehow I managed to walk into the picnic table but it didn’t hurt. Then Archer was beside me, banging his torch against his thigh, trying to get it going. A dull yellow light flickered and went out. He took me by the arm and guided me across the grass to the shed.
‘I don’t want that green spongy moss,’ I instructed Archer. ‘I want the grey hairy stuff, like proper oakmoss.’
I saw Archer crouch down and scrape at something with his fingers, and then he was beside me, a tatter of lichen in his hand. ‘Do you think it’s poisonous?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘We’ll find out.’
I took it from him and sniffed. It was papery and peppery, with a touch of cinnamon.
‘What about horopito?’ asked Archer.
‘What about it?’
‘Well, it should have a nice peppery taste. A bit like bay leaf or laurel. We could try it, though it might be too bitter.’
He led the way around the back of the house to the Mother Aubert garden and plucked a couple of leaves. ‘Could work,’ he said.
‘Could work,’ I repeated.
‘At least it won’t kil
l us.’
‘Not if we muddle it up first.’
‘Yep. Gently.
‘A gentle muddle.’
‘That’s it.’
Archer steered me back inside and sat me down at the table while he cleaned the mixing glass. ‘Remember, you can’t go stuffing everything in together and expect it to turn out well. There’s an art to it.’
I laughed. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know.
I took two leaves of horopito, put them in the bottom of the glass and pressed the muddler hard against them. I must have pressed too hard, or not held the muddler straight enough, because the glass suddenly tilted and skidded out from under my hand, rolling across the table. Archer winced. I started again.
‘Don’t bruise the leaves. You don’t need to apply such force.’
‘Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’ In a sing song voice I continued, ‘Crush the cinnamon. Add the horopito. Muddle. Two peach quarters. Muddle. Syrup from tin. Muddle. Cognac.’
I was missing the ice. And something else, I couldn’t recall what. ‘Cointreau,’ I went on as I sloshed it out. ‘Bitters to taste …’
‘Not too heavy on the bitters.’
‘Bit more bitters! Ice. Stir. Around and around and around, and around. And strain. Into a glass.’
‘What about your moss?’ asked Archer.
‘And,’ I said, raising my finger like a conductor counting in an orchestra, ‘a garnish of orange rind and a hint of moss and there you have it.’
I slid the glass to Archer and he took a polite sip and coughed. ‘Certainly strong.’
‘Give it here.’ I raised the glass to my mouth, tilted it and then stopped. ‘You must sniff it first,’ I said. ‘Appreciate the bouquet.’ I inhaled and something made me sneeze. I sniffed again, more gently, and I don’t know, it smelt okay to me. I took a big gulp. Boy, it was bitter but I pretended it was fine. ‘Delicious.’ I sipped and held the cocktail in my mouth. ‘Have you got any absinthe in your cabinet?’ I asked. ‘I think absinthe is what’s missing here. Don’t you?’
I could see that Archer was having trouble keeping up with the programme. He looked so puzzled, like a young boy trying to figure out how to tie a shoelace. ‘Absinthe,’ I repeated. ‘The wood of the worm, wormwood.’
‘You mean like a Sazerac? Absinthe and cognac.’
‘Sazerac? Yep, that’ll do it.’ I took a long sip of my cocktail. And spluttered. ‘It’s not really a Shalimar. It needs more vanilla. Have you got a vanilla pod?’
‘What’s a Shalimar?’
‘The perfume. What did you think? It’s what we’re making.’
‘I thought we were making a Mitsouko.’
I fell silent. I had a feeling he was right. Not that it mattered. They were both terrific perfumes and I could happily drink either.
‘Absinthe,’ I ordered.
From the corner of my eye I saw Archer wander across to the bar and look inside. His hand reached into the cabinet but then he paused and turned back to face me. ‘Are you sure? It’s very strong, almost seventy proof.’
‘Just for the taste of it.’
He shook his head and came back to the table, carrying a deep green bottle with a label bearing the word ‘Sauvage’. That was a good sign. One of the best male perfumes of modern times was Dior’s Eau Sauvage. I told Archer so as he pulled his chair closer to the table.
‘Do you want to try it first? So you can appreciate how it tastes before you add it to your cocktail?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
When he made no move I reached for the bottle and yanked out the cork. I recognised the smell straight away: it was similar to the bottle of Artemisia oil I had at home. I was about to pour the drink into a glass when Archer stopped me. ‘No, not like that. We have to louche it.’
‘You don’t muddle it?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I louche it.’
‘You’re quite louche yourself.’
He looked at me as though he’d heard that joke before, so I shut up and watched as he poured a small quantity of the emerald green liquor into a glass. He passed it to me to smell and I took a deep breath. ‘Nice,’ I said.
‘You wait,’ said Archer. ‘It’ll be even better in a minute.’
He took a spoon with holes and balanced it against the rim of the glass, placing half a lump of sugar on it. Next he put a special straw into a glass of iced water and drew up the liquid, filling the bulb at its end. Then, holding the straw over the spoon, he began slowly to release the water, allowing it to fall drop by drop onto the sugar lump.
The clear green liquid began to cloud ever so slightly in the base of the glass. As Archer continued to drip in water, the level rose but it didn’t become cloudy all at once. Rather, a band of clear liquid rested on top of the cloudy base. Finally, only the thinnest film of undiluted, clear liquid remained, hovering above the milky mix. At that point Archer took away the spoon and gave the drink a gentle stir. ‘The ritual of la louche, just for you.’
I drained the glass and wiped the residue off my lips with the back of my hand.
‘Hmm,’ said Archer. ‘I think that’s enough for one night.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘You should stop while you’re ahead.’
‘Says who?’
He smiled. ‘Me.’
I saw Archer’s hand hover over the absinthe bottle and I snatched it away from him, sheltering it in the hug of my arms.
‘That’s right. Leave the bottle. I like the taste. It’s bitter. Like my heart.’
Poor Archer rolled his eyes at that. ‘I think I’ll leave you to it.’
‘That’s right, old sport!’ I laughed. I’d always noticed that my humour became sharper and more sophisticated when I drank. Something to do with losing inhibition and opening a direct channel to the creative brian … brain.
‘Call me if you need anything,’ said Archer.
‘And I’ll be there!’
Archer hesitated but I shooed him away. I had cocktails to make. Je Reviens! No. 19! And for Jessica, a big glass of Poison. Base note, heart note, top note. Simple.
I felt the light against my lids long before I summoned the strength to open my eyes. I looked around, trying to take in my surroundings. I was surprised to discover I was in a bed, the sofa bed in Renate’s room. I was under the covers and, as far as I could tell, I was in my pyjamas. I had no recollection of how I’d got there.
I lay still, listening for the sound of Archer in the next room. Every now and again a wooden board creaked but I couldn’t make out the sound of footsteps or movement. I had the distinct feeling I was alone in the house.
Slowly I pieced together the events of the previous night. The introduction to cocktail making, the hunt for moss, the attempt to make Mitsouko, the absinthe, and then what? I had a feeling I’d hunted out some spices from the food cupboard. What had I been making? Poison, wasn’t it?
The floor beneath my feet felt uneven but at least it was firm. Little by little events came back to me. I remembered getting undressed. I’d managed that by myself. My shoes were placed neatly on the floor by my suitcase. I hadn’t been too drunk to be tidy. That was a good sign. My trousers were hanging over the back of the chair. I needed coffee and then I’d help Archer with the painting. I wasn’t nearly as sick as I might have been. I’d got off lightly, all things considered.
The table was clear. All the bottles and glasses from the night before were back on the shelves. The fruit was in a bowl on the bench. The peaches were in the fridge, along with the jar of honey. On the table was a small stem vase containing two daffodils and a sprig of rosemary. I couldn’t see Archer outside. He wasn’t working on the window frames, and when I went around to the front I realised that his car was gone. I checked my watch. It was almost eleven.
I was halfway through my second cup before I noticed the note propped up on the mantelpiece. ‘Checking in with Junee and then will try to phone Renate. Back around lunchtime. Arch. P.
S. Keep away from the Bloody Mary. It is not your friend.’
The rafters creaked but, because of my hangover, the sound seemed muffled, as if removed from where I was. It was the sound of absence. To fill that silence I put on one of Archer’s classical albums and made breakfast, managing only one or two bites of my toast before pushing it aside. After showering I gathered up some books from Renate’s shelves and spread them out before me on the table. I thought I’d read for a moment or two, just until I could tolerate the scratch of sandpaper against timber, and then I’d get on with the sanding.
My attention was drawn to a leather-bound notebook with ‘Recipes’ embossed in gold on its cover. I opened it and on its first page, in green, purple and yellow felt pen, was the heading ‘Rongoā/Mother Aubert’. Picking a page at random, I saw a recipe for an ointment used to treat rashes and bruises prepared from kawakawa. Another page contained a handwritten copy of a letter sent by Mother Aubert in Island Bay to the Sisters of Compassion in Jerusalem requesting seeds. Some of the names were familiar, the same plants I’d seen in Renate’s medicinal garden during my tour of the property.
I glanced at my watch: it had gone lunchtime and there was no sign of Archer. I went outside and began walking around the garden, hoping to hear the approach of his car. Every few steps I stopped and listened, straining for the sound of an engine, but the air was still, with not even the rustle caused by the wind through the trees to break the silence. I scanned the driveway but again there was no movement. I was the only living thing and instinctively my hand searched out my phone, even though I knew there was no reception. Feeling cut off from the world, I started for the small rise at the back of the house. Standing on a log, I held my phone high above my head in the hope that one or more bars would light up. None did.
I decided to stroll down to the gate. I walked slowly, listing all the flowers, weeds and bushes I recognised on my way: daffodil, thistle, dandelion, flax, daisy, cabbage tree, rimu, fern and grass. At the gate I tiptoed across the cattle-stop and stood on the side of the road, looking first one way and then the other, listening for approaching traffic. I picked up a small piece of smooth, white rounded quartz that stood out from the rough gravel, dusted it off in my hand and put it in my pocket as if saving it for later. I crossed the road and checked my phone once more. Still nothing.
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