Scented

by Laurence Fearnley

  I walked over to the wall as the two of them continued with their work and I stood with my hand against the wooden post, my dear friend. I tried to slow down my breathing, inhaling deeply and counting the seconds between breaths.

  ‘It’s a wonderful place,’ said the agent, her eyes following the photographer as he went about his work. ‘It’s so spacious and airy and the younger set go crazy for lofts. We’ll focus on the urban professional market, all those young doctors and lawyers wanting a low-maintenance lifestyle property.’

  ‘Won’t they be paying off their student loans?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, their parents usually come to the table. Homes like this are great investments, they keep their value.’

  I closed my eyes and tried to block out the sound of her voice. I felt the wood against my hand, its familiar scent like a soft fug of wool. I caught my breath as a sob rose in my throat.

  ‘Don’t bring your diffuser,’ I said. ‘If you bring it here I’ll throw it out of the window.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You heard me. If you bring a diffuser, I’ll throw it out of the window and then I’ll hire another agent to take over the sale. You. Do. Not. Bring. A. Diffuser. Here. Understand?’

  ‘But it creates ambience,’ she said. ‘It’s French.’

  ‘I don’t care. You’re not bringing it here.’

  The agent and the photographer exchanged glances and went back to their work.

  I stroked the rough timber and it seemed to exhale with relief. ‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘I promise I’ll do my best to protect you. You’ll be okay.’ I could feel my legs tremble and without intending to I sank to the ground and sat with my arms curled around my knees, staring ahead, as the agent and photographer looked on in horror and incomprehension.

  My thoughts kept circling back to Richard Taylor and the grand Māori perfume. I’d gone back to the museum to read the rest of his journals because I’d grown curious about his background, his travels and, most of all, his personality. I’d warmed to the missionary and my only regret was that Archer wasn’t around to talk to. Despite Taylor’s attention to nature, none of the journals in the museum suggested he was particularly interested in smell. Since I hadn’t found any descriptions of perfume as such in his writing, the recipe lacked the context I sought. And I hadn’t even noticed any mention of the plants identified in the grand Māori perfume. Had he ever smelt it and, if so, why didn’t he describe the scent?

  Having finished the journals I decided to head for the city library to look at the notebook with Taylor’s recipe. There was another reason for going. The real estate agent was true to her word, arriving daily to show people through my apartment, and I needed to get away from the continual intrusion on my space. I felt anxious every time she phoned me, and although she suggested that all I had to do was pop out for coffee for half an hour while she rushed potential buyers through, I ended up fretting about what was being said or planned for my home during my absence.

  The ground floor of the library was bustling with activity but as I made my way up to the special collections the noise fell away and I felt myself relax. I presented the reference given to me by the museum librarian to the assistant on the desk, summarising my interest in Taylor’s perfume recipe. She listened, then disappeared into a back room. I felt self-conscious standing at the desk so took a seat at a large table. I’d barely sat down before a teenager came running in and hid beneath another table, in the corner. There were just the two of us, me sitting upright, him crouched low on the ground with his hoody pulled over his face. I waited, expecting something to happen, but it was as if we’d both been forgotten. The hands on the clock above the desk ticked, minutes passed, and just as I was about to break the silence and ask the teenager if he needed help, he scrambled out from his hiding place and quickly marched away. A moment later the assistant reappeared, an older man beside her. I guessed, from his reserved, rather intimidating manner, that he was a senior member of staff.

  ‘You’re interested in Māori perfume?’ he asked.

  I nodded, and quickly repeated what I’d told the assistant. The senior librarian listened, then placed in front of me a photocopy of a newspaper article from the 1890s headed ‘Ancient Maori Perfumes’. It was an extract from Nature, written by missionary and naturalist William Colenso. Here were references to scented ferns, one, Hymenophyllum sanguinolentum, described as so powerful that its smell impregnated the papers on which it was dried. More trees and plants were listed, and as I read further I came across a description of the rituals associated with collecting gum from the taramea bush, which Colenso had seen growing high up in the Ruahine Ranges. At the end of the clipping was a short Māori lullaby containing the names of the plants piripiri, mokimoki, tāwhiri and taramea.

  ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ said the librarian. ‘A bit more recent than your Taylor, though.’

  I flicked back through the pages, reading again the descriptions of the scented plants.

  ‘Have you looked through any of the John White material?’ he asked.

  I shook my head. I didn’t like to say that, unlike Colenso, I hadn’t heard of him.

  ‘Well, there’ll be quite a bit about plants in his Māori pharmacopoeia, if you get around to it. But here’s the Taylor notebook.’ He placed a bound volume on the desk, adding, ‘It’s a copy, not the original.’ And then, much to my surprise, he pulled up a chair and sat down beside me.

  We scrolled through the pages of the manuscript together, pausing every now and again as we tried to decipher Taylor’s handwriting that, although neat, was difficult to read. The notes covered a broad range of topics, underlined headings that skipped between botany, birds and fishes, to Māori customs, language and proverbs. As we turned each page I realised I was becoming less and less comfortable with the material in front of me.

  ‘I’m not sure what to do.’

  I waited, perhaps hoping that the librarian would offer a suggestion, but he didn’t. I sat quietly, thinking, and after some time one cause for my hesitation came to me. I’d spent many years lecturing, writing journal articles, or presenting papers based on research gleaned from women’s personal narratives: diaries, notebooks and journals. Much of the material was sensitive and I’d always been careful to follow ethics procedures, filling out forms and ticking boxes. But it had been a given that my work was vital and, as such, the historical and cultural institution of the university itself had always bestowed authority and provided a buffer between the material and me. Now, I was morally and personally accountable for all my research-based decisions. I had to ask, Did I have any right to research the grand Māori perfume? And it was clear to me that as a Pākehā, with only a smattering of tikanga Māori, I didn’t.

  ‘This isn’t my story.’

  ‘Probably not,’ agreed the librarian, ‘but it’s your journey.’

  The word ‘journey’, with its hint of personal development, self-discovery and destiny, made me wince. I wished he’d simply said, ‘But you were curious and wanted to find out more.’

  I felt disappointed. My interest in smell and perfume was genuine, and to lay eyes on what I believed to be the first written evidence of the fragrance was immensely appealing. In that instant a sharp sense of loss came over me, which I found difficult to conceal. But I swiftly realised that it wasn’t only the fact that I wasn’t Māori that was holding me back. There was something more, something deeper, more elemental. My brain searched for what it might, be but at that moment the very act of thinking seemed beyond my capabilities. Feeling my way slowly, I said, ‘I think I need to go back to the start.’

  ‘The start?’

  I began gently tapping my fingers on the table, and the repetitive action and soft sound sparked thought. ‘The plants came first,’ I murmured.

  The librarian’s passive expression gave way to surprise.

  ‘What I need to do,’ I continued, feeling more sure of myself, ‘is learn a new way of smelling. My aesthetic is all wr
ong. I don’t know how to smell native plants because my nose keeps drawing me back to the smells I already know and appreciate.’

  The librarian gave me a glance that suggested I’d failed to grasp the nub of the lesson and had gone off on an unexpected tangent.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how to distinguish one plant from the next. I have to teach myself a new way of smelling, so the scents of the individual natives become as easy to locate in my brain as rose, honeysuckle or lavender. I need to start again with the notes.’ Though I was still grasping for clarity of thought, the idea of relearning how to smell took hold and dispelled some of my earlier disappointment. ‘The plants are my way into the subject. They’re the first step towards understanding the traditions and culture surrounding them. That’s how I can learn to be of this land.’

  ‘So botany, ethno botany, tikanga Māori, colonial history … That is quite a journey,’ the librarian said, his face professionally closed once more. ‘I hope you’re not working to a deadline.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I replied.

  He patted the volume. ‘Do you want to see Taylor’s entry for the recipe before you start?’

  ‘No, thanks. It’s okay.’

  He sighed. ‘I won’t leave this out for you, then. I’ll reshelve it.’

  As I walked home I saw that the trip to the library had done me good. It seemed as if a faint trace of order was beginning to return to my life. My future, still uncertain, was not as frightening. I’d started to make decisions, to regain control and a sense of purpose. I was no longer tumbling around feeling lost but had begun to move forward at a gentle speed I could sustain. Yes, I would learn about plants, but it wasn’t a race and I had nothing to prove. I didn’t have to become an expert. I would take my time, my whole life if necessary, and allow the knowledge to grow, slowly and steadily, naturally. It would enter me, like breath and scent.

  I could hear the protest before I could see it. A distorted voice calling through a megaphone and the roar of the crowd’s response, ‘Shame, shame, shame!’ I hurried up the hill, joining a stream of people all headed in the same direction. Some kept to themselves and looked downcast, but others formed lively groups, holding banners between them and chanting as they marched ahead. When I reached the main campus I joined the back of a large mass of people. Voices came from all directions, a chorus gathering momentum in its rallying cry of ‘Save the humanities!’, ‘Arts not cuts!’

  A young woman representing the trade union climbed onto the stage and everyone clapped and shouted. Then she launched into an angry and impassioned speech about abuse of power, workers’ rights and the necessity for the humanities. As she finished by declaring that an attack on the humanities was an attack on thinking that threatened the very core of learning and education, a cry of support went up and the crowd erupted in cheers. These were quickly replaced by loud booing as the pro-vice-chancellor took the stage. He looked as arrogant as I remembered, and as he spoke about the university’s commitment to the arts the booing grew in strength and a chant of ‘Shame, shame, shame!’ drowned him out. In one brief lull, I heard him sputter, ‘The changes we make now will save the arts in the future’, but his words were met with ‘Liar, liar, liar!’ and soon that was all I could hear.

  It began to rain, warm, heavy drops falling straight down, saturating us within minutes. Umbrellas appeared, giving the crowd a colourful, festive appearance, and I found myself being pushed closer towards the stage as those around me adjusted their positions, moving to find shelter under awnings and trees. I found a spot beneath a group of gums. Their long strips of bark had been raked and heaped into an untidy mound, and I reached down and absent-mindedly picked up a handful of gumnuts.

  The mood darkened as the vice-chancellor herself reached the stage. Facing straight ahead, her feet slightly apart, she waited a moment, scanning the crowd before speaking. Her voice was clear and calm and the protesters fell quiet. ‘Understand,’ she said, ‘this university loves the arts. We stand by the humanities and all our staff.’ Around me people began jostling and again I was shoved forward, so now I was to the side of the platform, close to the steps leading up to the stage. A voice from the crowd challenged her, and the vice-chancellor immediately swung to face the source of the interruption. ‘I say it again. These cuts are necessary to save the future of the arts.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ said another protester, and people joined in, ‘Bullshit’ and ‘Liar, liar, arts on fire!’ rebounding around the quadrangle. I saw the vice-chancellor look around. The dean of the humanities stepped towards her but she motioned him away. Still scanning the faces in front of her, her eyes settled on me and I saw the flicker of recognition.

  ‘Save our staff!’ another voice called, and again the chant was taken up. ‘Save our staff. Honour learning!’

  The vice-chancellor shook her head, and tried to speak again but couldn’t make herself heard over the racket. ‘One minute!’ she ordered. The crowd fell quiet. ‘We have the best interests of the university and all our staff at heart …’

  I felt sick. Everything she said was a lie and even though I wanted nothing to do with her, I knew I had to say something. Even so, I glanced around, hoping that someone else would do the job for me. Sick with nerves, I slowly mounted the steps and a security guard, one of the campus goons, blocked my path. I tried to edge past but he held his ground. ‘Let me through,’ I said, my voice quiet, barely registering above the crowd. ‘It’s my turn.’ I saw the organiser of the rally glance from me to the vice-chancellor, and in that second she gave a shrug, a gesture so dismissive that it enraged me, and I gave the guard a shove and stepped out onto the stage.

  Nothing in all my years of lecturing could have prepared me for the sight of such a large crowd, all strangers. When a lone voice called out, ‘Make American studies great again!’, I tried to locate the speaker but it was impossible. Someone handed me the megaphone and I stepped forward. ‘I am Dr Siân Rees and I was a lecturer in the American studies department …’ A cheer went up. ‘I was employed at this university for almost fifteen years, until the morning I came into work to discover a brown envelope in my pigeonhole. Inside was a letter informing me that my department had been disestablished and that I was redundant. This is what the VC means by management for change – a management that lacks honesty, respect and empathy.’

  ‘Shame, shame, shame!’ went the crowd.

  ‘When I lost my job, I discovered that I no longer recognised myself – I lost my identity and sense of self. Moreover, in the face of permanent unemployment I’m about to lose my home, a place I love and cherish. But that’s nothing compared with what we, as a society and culture, lose when the arts come under attack. Our collective identity, our cultural memory, the narratives we share must be acknowledged and honoured and we can only achieve that if …’ At that moment I saw the vice-chancellor roll her eyes and glance at her phone and I lost my composure and train of thought, stammering, ‘short-sighted attack … egregious business model …’

  The crowd didn’t seem aware of my stumble. ‘We support the arts! Save the humanities!’ and the sound of spontaneous clapping filled the air.

  ‘American studies, religious studies, art history, history, linguistics, languages, philosophy, classics, archaeology … all under threat. So let’s be clear, this conversation is not about saving the humanities. Rather, it’s about saving the university. Because, make no mistake, the university needs us. Without us, it will lose its relevance. It will no longer be a house of learning or command authority and respect. It will be diminished, reduced to a shell. A bland institution offering conveyor belt courses …’ I couldn’t hear myself think. I tried to continue but my growing awareness of the vice-chancellor’s restlessness distracted me. I tried to take up where I’d left off, repeating, ‘The university needs us’, but I was lost, and I stepped away from the microphone.

  As I pushed back through the crowd one or two people smiled at me, but most didn’t notice me go by. The protest
continued, the crowd continued to chant. The energy within the quadrangle rose and fell, and I was just another voice, one of many. But I’d eased my conscience and I felt better. Quite possibly I’d made a fool of myself but at least I hadn’t remained silent. And that was enough for me.

  Notes for a beating heart: A question mark hangs over my heart notes; I can’t complete them yet. At least I now know where to look, where to find the final ingredient for my blend. I’ve already started my search. As I left the protest the sun came out and within minutes the heat caused the ground to steam. The first thing I noticed was the scent rising from the mound of eucalyptus bark. It was intoxicating, the smell transporting me to a place of piercing light and heat shimmering beneath a cloud of fresh camphor. The steam continued to rise, creating a fine mist that filtered through the trees at the outskirts of the university grounds. It was like being inside a hothouse. Walking past a small planting of native bush I identified a kawakawa, its bright green and caterpillar-nibbled heart-shaped leaves distinctive against the ferns nearby. I plucked a leaf and crushed it, inhaling a scent of peppered baked potatoes. I took some more and sniffed again, aware that I was being watched by a group of students seated on a bench across the small lawn. The scent was muted, but pleasant, far less harsh than the peppery horopito I’d muddled at Archer’s. Ignoring the students, I stepped deeper into the bush and went from plant to plant, plucking, crushing and inhaling the leaves. I found a tarata and enjoyed the lemon scent I’d first ‘discovered’ back in Renate’s garden. I took my time sniffing and testing, and as I pushed further into the thicket I realised I felt happy. A weight had lifted, I was having fun.

  A list of potential heart notes: wool, dust, oak, mince, daffodils, iris, lemon, oysters, the sea, roses, camphor, gorse, cigarette smoke, pumice, mud, ash, fern, lilac, sweat, ivy, whisky, wormwood, benzoin, paper, willow, corpse flower, kawakawa, horopito, tarata.