Unwilling to return indoors, I headed towards the woodshed. What on earth had I been thinking last evening? Now it was daylight I could see small blooms of lichen on the dried timber, green cushions on damp stumps. None of it looked at all like the images of oakmoss I’d seen illustrated in articles. Still, I pulled off a few samples and held them to my nose, enjoying both the dusty, earthy scent of the lichen and the damp, fusty odour of moss.
Back inside I prepared a salad for Archer’s lunch. I worked slowly, still expecting him to turn up at any moment but definitely before the table was set. We could have a quick bite to eat and then get on with the painting, putting in a few hours’ work before it became too cool or damp for the paint to dry. My sense of disquiet increased but I countered my nerves with a list of sensible explanations for his tardiness: he had decided to go to Raetihi for more supplies, the neighbour had invited him for lunch, his car had got a puncture, he’d been flagged down by cyclists on the Mountains to Sea trail, he’d decided on the spur of the moment to go for a walk by the river, Renate had asked him to call her back in an hour and rather than come all the way home he’d remained within cell phone coverage. He wouldn’t be long, I kept telling myself.
I was trapped between two opposing spaces within my brain: one pragmatic, the other fearful. I wanted to escape to bed and sleep, but I went back to the books I’d collected from Renate’s shelves and sat down with the intention of committing to memory the names of at least five scented native plants. This punishment, akin to writing lines, was to remind me that at my age I should know better than to drink myself under the table.
The resource I chose was a well-thumbed spiral-bound pictorial book of New Zealand natives, with plants listed alphabetically by their Māori names. I skipped the introductory section and started at ‘A’, but I couldn’t concentrate so flicked forward, lurching from one entry to the next. At ‘K’ I ground to a halt, staring at an entry headed ‘Kāretu’ with a photograph of a clump of grass centred on the page.
The word kept blurring at the edges as my eyes struggled to keep the letters in focus. ‘Concentrate, idiot.’ I began reading aloud from the text in a clear and measured way, as if talking to a lecture theatre of first-year students. The slow, methodical manner made the words easier to absorb, and I managed to grasp some basic facts about kāretu: it was a sweet, vanilla–hay-scented grass; it was similar to the North American sweetgrass used in Native American rituals; Māori fashioned belts from its plaited strands. I scanned down the page to a small pale blue text box and suddenly the skin on the back of my neck prickled and my heart beat faster. There, in front of me, was the title ‘Recipe for the grand Māori perfume’ with the words ‘Taylor notebook’, followed by a number at the bottom.
A grand Māori perfume? Quickly I traced the listed ingredients with my finger as I read through the recipe. Mokimoki: an aromatic fern. Tarata: a tree that produces scented resin. Kōpura: a moss or lichen found in the mountains. Taramea. Pātōtara. The names were mostly unknown to me. I couldn’t begin to think of how the perfume might smell. Piripiri. I had a feeling this was the same as bidibidi, but I couldn’t be sure. There could be more than one piripiri for all I knew. Kāretu – the vanilla-scented sweetgrass depicted in the photo at the top of the page. Hinu poaka. In brackets: pork fat. Pork fat I could almost understand. I imagined it was used for extracting or fixing the scent, just as the early French perfume makers had placed petals from delicate flowers, such as jasmine, onto wooden-framed glass panes spread with lard or other animal fats in order to draw out and capture their smell.
I looked up from the page. Despite spending years of my life focused on scent and perfume culture, I was ashamed to admit that I knew absolutely nothing about Māori perfume. I didn’t even know it existed. I stared at the entry, working my way through the ingredients once more. I could ‘smell’ lots of perfume notes from memory but the only ones useful to me now were fern, moss and vanilla. As I read, I realised the name ‘Taylor’ was vaguely familiar. I looked for it in the index but there was only one entry, for the page I was on, and there was no bibliography with a list of detailed references. I couldn’t even Google him.
There was no point fixating on Taylor. The first thing I had to do was go through the rest of the book and find scent descriptions of all the ingredients. I started with mokimoki. Common name: fragrant fern. There was no information about its smell. All I had were two words: ‘aromatic’ from the Taylor entry and ‘fragrant’ from the general entry. To me, aromatic suggested anything slightly bitter and herbal, but I suspected the description in the book was less specific. It could mean simply fern-like. I gave tarata only a brief glance, enough to learn that it was also known as lemonwood and that its leaves, when crushed, had a lemon scent. I was sure it was in Renate’s garden so I could smell it for myself. Kōpura wasn’t listed in the book, kāretu I’d already covered. Next was taramea. I recognised it immediately from its photograph: the sharp, spiky Spaniard grass that I knew from growing up in Canterbury. I couldn’t recall ever having been aware of its scent, which the entry described only as ‘sweet’. I felt frustration rise up within me. Why wasn’t there more detail? Sweet could cover so many smells, from sugary to syrupy to nectar, honey-like, caramel, jam-like, even berries or fruit. So far, all I’d gleaned about the grand Māori perfume was that it contained elements that were aromatic, fragrant and sweet. It wasn’t much to go on.
And where was Archer? I wanted to tell him about my discovery. Discovery. It was such a loaded word, but it described the sense of anticipation and excitement I felt. The next plant I found was pātōtara. Rather, there seemed to be two plants with that name: one a parsley fern and the other a small prickly heath pictured growing out of a patch of stones. The latter was described as having white ‘honey-scented’ flowers. At last, I thought, a fragrance that meant something to me. Finally, piripiri. I felt a tinge of satisfaction on reading that it was bidibidi but my satisfaction was short-lived because there was a second entry, another piripiri – a filmy fern whose dried leaves were described as smelling like blood.
On the back of Archer’s note I made a list of the ingredients, writing their scents next to each plant, and sat back trying to summon the individual fragrances, mentally blending them as I juggled the parts: aromatic fern, lemon leaves, sweet resin, honey-scented flowers, dried blood. I couldn’t, though, make them fit into my scent template. I could group some of the ingredients together, such as the lemon and honey, but once I started adding the dried blood I’d get lost.
I wanted to rush home, back to the city, and find a sample of the grand Māori perfume. Maybe the museum had one, a tester of the sweet, aromatic, bloody goodness? I was so impatient to find out what it was like and I felt certain that someone, somewhere must know.
It was more and more difficult to sit still so I headed out to Renate’s garden. I found the tarata and plucked a leaf, crushing it in my fingers. Although there was a trace of lemon, I wasn’t convinced I’d have been able to identify it without being primed by the description in the book. A few yellow flowers grew in clusters near the ends of the branches, and when I smelt them I detected a soft fragrance that was creamy and sweet, more like pollen than lemon. Finally, I plucked some soft leaf tips and crushed those and immediately the smell of grated lemon rind filled my nose. The scent faded, however, almost before I could fix the fragrance in my mind. I held the crushed leaves up to my nose again, and even though only a minute had passed the smell had all but diminished to a faint veil. I moved slowly through the garden, stopping whenever a name plaque or plant caught my attention. I noticed that the trunk of one large tree was covered with the long-fingered leaves of a climbing fern that I thought resembled the photograph of mokimoki I’d seen. I picked a leaf and bruised it, hoping that the scent would resemble blood, but no. I didn’t bother to smell the heart-shaped leaves from the big kawakawa but circled back to the horopito, Archer’s peppery plant.
I decided to walk down the driveway again. I rem
embered how I used to go down to the gate of my childhood home and look for my father coming home, usually about twenty past six. I missed him during the day, waited for him with the concentration and faith of a dog. Now, I watched for Archer with a similar sense of impatience and longing. His continued absence filled me with a dread that I could no longer suppress. I waited thirty, forty minutes, pacing from the gate to the road, where I tracked up and down, willing him into sight, afraid to leave the area in case I missed him. I stayed by the gate like the little girl I’d been, growing lonely as the sun slipped behind the hill. I knew something was wrong. I did what all people who find themselves alone and lost are told to do. I stayed put, waiting for someone to come and help.
Notes from here to there: There was a woman with a toddler on the seat next to me on the bus during the journey from Raetihi to Hamilton. The child was well behaved. He didn’t wriggle, or cry, or kick the seats. He spent the entire journey looking at an iPad, building cars from bricks. He was so absorbed in the game that he was completely unaware of me, even when I began to cry. His guardian asked if she could do anything but I shook my head. I told her that my friend had been in an accident, driven off the road, and had been flown to Waikato Hospital. The police explained he was in a critical condition. The woman in the seat next to me said, ‘I’ll pray for him.’ I nodded. She apologised for the smell coming from the boy. ‘He needs his nappy changing. I think I might wait until the next stop – it’s not far. It’s a bit tricky otherwise.’ I reassured her that I didn’t mind. And that was true, I didn’t.
Near Tūrangi I checked my phone and saw the word ‘urgent’. The sender and the address were unfamiliar and I thought it must be the hospital, or Renate, or Hester so I opened the message. It contained a photo of an erect penis and the words, ‘I’m waiting for you.’ The boy in the next seat played his game, his guardian scrolled her phone. The couple across from me looked at their phones. The bus was unusually quiet, but perhaps not. No one texted to let me know Archer’s condition. Why would they? I began to imagine I could smell burning brakes. I glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed but the driver appeared settled up in his seat; he didn’t move. I could see his face reflected in the rear-view mirror; he looked bored. I could still smell the burning but I didn’t speak up.
In recent years there have been a lot of articles about how people in the industrial world are slowly losing their sense of smell. We rely on our sense of sight far more heavily than we used to. Why sniff food when you can read a use-by date? In surveys young people state that they’d rather lose their sense of smell than their phone. And yet when the police officer arrived at Archer’s cabin I knew he was a smoker. Not from the yellowish bristles on his moustache but from the smell of his body. Junee, who drove me to the bus stop, smelt of coffee – instant coffee. It was on her breath. The woman from whom I bought the bus ticket smelt of hair product, a sweet fruity-coconut scent. The driver smelt of sweat. Someone behind me was eating a banana. The seats were musty. The bus was burning. I looked out of the window.
I sank into the comfort of my home, exhausted.
The apartment was quiet. The air was still; it soothed me, enfolding me in the warm scent of wool and lanolin. Everything within my home was as I’d left it. It was as if it had been waiting for my return and now I was back it would take care of me and help me to regain some semblance of peace. I never wanted to leave again.
I sat down at my table, drawing in the traces of scent from the oils set out in front of me. The smell was muted, but I could detect some of the notes: the incense-like smell of frankincense, the beautiful rich Bulgarian rose, the smooth amber, the forest floor of oakmoss. I’d missed these smells. It felt so good to feel their presence once more.
I never wanted to step foot outside my home again. I never wanted to return to that hospital corridor, the gleaming linoleum and the smell of disinfectant, half-eaten dinners, sickness and grief. I had got there too late; Archer was dead.
Renate had arrived before me. She sat holding a brown paper bag containing Archer’s personal belongings, and took a moment to recognise me as I entered the sitting area outside the morgue. On the bench beside her was a young woman, an almost-identical version of Renate. Although I’d never met her, I guessed straight away it was Hester.
‘We’re waiting for the funeral director, aren’t we?’ said Hester. ‘We thought he’d be here by now.’
I held Renate in my arms. Her body felt frail and lacking in substance, as if hollow. ‘What are we going to do without him? I’m so sorry.’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘I got here as soon as I could.’
Despite the gravity of the moment we started talking about transport. Hester asked how I’d got there and when I explained that Junee had dropped me at the bus stop in Raetihi, she commiserated, adding uncertainly, ‘We drove down together, didn’t we, Mom?’
‘How was the cabin?’ asked Renate. Her voice sounded automated, as if responding to an on switch. ‘I haven’t been there for the longest time.’
‘Good, beautiful,’ I said. ‘We only got started on the sanding, though. We were planning to finish the painting but then Archer …’
‘That’s okay,’ said Renate.
‘Your garden …’
Renate nodded and for a moment her eyes flickered, as if fighting to stay awake.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I continued.
‘Did Archie show you around?’
I nodded.
‘Did he make you a cocktail? He’s very good at cocktails. He used to be a bartender at Max’s Kansas City? Did he tell you that?’
‘That’s a bar?’ asked Hester.
‘Nightclub,’ said Renate. ‘He was a party boy back then, still going strong at 5 a.m. even when he had lectures to attend.’ Renate smiled and squeezed her daughter’s hand, but her eyes had filled with tears. ‘I often wonder if he wouldn’t have been happier staying with that crowd. I think he only got caught up in academia because of me. Out of duty, the belief he should provide. I don’t know, but I feel I crushed his spirit in some way, without intending to.’
‘No,’ I protested. ‘He admired you. You’re all he ever talked about – you and his work. He loved you so much.’ I could feel my eyes prick at the thought of the conversations we’d had but then I realised my gaffe. ‘He always talked about you, too, Hester. He was so proud of you.’
‘Then why did he buy that crazy car behind my back?’ said Renate. ‘Why didn’t he tell me? He’d been dropping hints for years and all that time I’d said, “You don’t need it” or “It will cost a fortune in repairs – you’re not a mechanic”, and he’d drop the topic for a while but then slowly reintroduce it, hoping I’d come around. He always wanted a Pontiac and I never said yes. I was one of those wives …’
I looked at her, uncomprehending.
‘You know, the type of wife who says no all the time. In the end the husbands have to sneak off and buy what they want in secret because they’re scared of being told off.’
‘No, I don’t think that’s true,’ said Hester.
‘Then why didn’t he let me in? Because I was too mean. I should have said, “Hell yes, let’s do it! Life’s too short …”’
She fell quiet and looked past me towards a space over my shoulder. ‘I should have said, “Go for it. You’re a saint. You deserve it,”’ she whispered.
‘You weren’t to know,’ I said.
The minutes ticked by and there was still no sign of the funeral director. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, Hester asked, ‘Do you want to go in and say goodbye?’
The finality of her question brought me to tears. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to farewell my dear friend. However, Hester must have mistaken my reticence for squeamishness. ‘He looks normal. You can’t tell he’s been hurt.’ It was my opportunity to ask what had happened, what had caused the accident, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t brave enough.
&n
bsp; I left Renate and Hester shortly afterwards and went to wait for the northbound bus that would deliver me home. I was glad that so little of the journey retraced the route Archer and I had taken only a few days before. It wasn’t until we reached the outskirts of the city that the two journeys merged, but by then I was too tired to notice much.
To my surprise, Jerome visited the morning after my return. I hadn’t seen him since his garden party and he seemed grey, his eyes circled with dark rings and his complexion mottled. I invited him in and he came and sat at my table, his hands clasped on the top as if he were a schoolboy sitting to attention. I could think of nothing to say, and after a few moments of awkward silence he stood up and hugged me, the weight of his body heavy against mine. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said.
It became obvious that he’d already spoken with Renate and had a much clearer idea of what had happened. ‘The cyclists who called the ambulance said he was barely conscious when they found him. There was no phone reception so it took about forty minutes to raise the alarm. Can you imagine?’
I waited for him to describe the crash, the tell-tale smell of burning brakes, but instead he became distracted by a pile of papers and books on the end of the table, and started rearranging them into a neat stack. ‘He loved you, you know.’
I made a sound, a whimper, and Jerome stopped what he was doing. ‘No, not like that. Not in a weird way. I meant that he held you in high regard and thought the world of you. Why else would he refuse to take the job at the university during the restructuring?’
My whole body contracted. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When he was given the opportunity to transfer to the history department.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Just that. He could have moved across but he said he wouldn’t do it. He didn’t think it would be right to accept unless everyone else in the department got equal treatment.’
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