by Gary Urey
Dr. Wackjöb shrugged. “It’s fine with me. I can tell how much Schnoz enjoyed spending time with you.”
“But you’ll miss all the deadly spiders at the Museum of Natural History,” TJ said.
“Plus, I wanted Schnoz to help me coax another pigeon into pooping on my head so I could have double good luck,” Mumps complained.
“We’re going to miss you,” Vivian added.
This was a golden chance to get out of another tortuous session of Strange smelling. The stress of trying to figure out the mystery scent was too much, and I needed a break. “You guys are right,” I said. “I should spend the day with you, visiting all the—”
“Nonsense,” Dr. Wackjöb said. “The Museum of Natural History is not going anywhere, and we still have four full days in New York. Schnoz, spending one more day with a professional perfumer like Pierre is the chance of a lifetime.”
My nostrils deflated and I felt a little icky, like a pigeon had just pooped all over my head. Before I could protest, a hard glance from Arnaud caught my attention. He raised his right hand, rubbed his thumb and fingertips together, and made the international sign for money.
One million dollars.
The dough was just a single smell away. If I could sniff out the secret of Strange, I could take care of my family forever. I cleared my throat to get everyone’s attention and raised my water glass in the air.
“A toast to Pierre and the fabulous fragrances of the Français Scent Company,” I declared. “For making my perfuming dreams come true.”
The sound of tinkling glasses filled the air. Pierre was enjoying his dessert of la tarte fine aux pommes—apple tart—when the restaurant doors opened and in walked a familiar-looking man wearing a black tuxedo with bright red Converse sneakers.
Jean Paul Puanteur!
A man wearing a name tag that read Maître D’ welcomed Jean Paul to the restaurant by kissing him on both cheeks. A small entourage, including his two burly bodyguards, joined him at a choice table next to a fancy stained-glass window.
Pierre dropped his spoon, wiped his mouth, and groaned, “I have suddenly lost my appétit. Please excuse me, Aðalbjörn. I have urgent business to attend. Le Nez, I will send Arnaud to pick you up at your hotel at nine a.m. sharp.” He paid for the meal, and then he and Arnaud disappeared into the city streets.
“This was just like at the Art of Odor,” Vivian commented. “As soon as Jean Paul Puanteur enters, Pierre du Voleur decides it’s time to leave.”
“I hope we’re not leaving,” TJ said. “I haven’t even finished my apple tart.”
“I remember Pierre always being a bit odd during our college days,” Dr. Wackjöb said, taking a sip of coffee. “But eat your desserts, children. We will stay until you have finished your meal.”
Seeing Jean Paul made my nose hairs knot. I still found it hard to believe that he had stolen Pierre’s perfumes. This was my chance to meet the man. Maybe I’d have the opportunity to ask him about secret scent so I could be a millionaire! I excused myself from the table and headed in the direction of the bathroom. When I got near his table, I took three quick huffs to calm my nerves and stepped next to his chair.
Instantly, his two bodyguards bolted to attention, ready to escort me away from their boss. Jean Paul, however, waved them off and stared intently at the mass of fleshy cartilage in the middle of my face.
“My name is … uh … Andy … Schnoz … le Nez,” I stuttered. “I am a huge fan of Strange and wanted to … uh … say … um …”
Jean Paul stood up before I finished my bumbling sentence. He was shorter than I had thought. The top of his curly gray hair barely reached the tip of my schnozola. And then, like a man examining a piece of rare, exquisite pottery, he reached out with both hands and gently stroked my honker.
“Beautiful,” he said softly. “You have a nez that puts other nez to shame.”
“My nose can smell great too,” I said. “I know your signature perfume, Strange, has an awesome blend of lavender, jasmine, sandalwood, berga-mot, patchouli, and stuff like that. But there’s another very subtle, mysterious scent in the mixture that my nez can’t quite figure out. What is it?”
The master perfumer frowned and shook his head disapprovingly. “When I arrived at the restaurant, I noticed you were sitting with that untalented insecte, Pierre du Voleur. Tell him that he has stooped to a new low by using an écolier, a schoolboy, to try and steal my creations. Now, leave me alone. I am having dîner.”
Jean Paul’s bodyguards ordered me to step away from the table. As I walked back to the gang, my head and snout felt woozy. Jean Paul and Pierre were accusing each other of swiping fragrances, and I didn’t know which man to believe.
CHAPTER 13
WHO WANTS TO SMELL A MILLIONAIRE?
I tossed and turned in bed all night long, and it wasn’t because of Mumps farting in his sleep. My mind raced with images of Jean Paul, Pierre, and Strange. The two perfumers were obviously rivals, and I was stuck in the middle of their fragrance feud right up to my world-class nostrils.
As the first slivers of sun peeked over the New York City skyline, I heard a knock at my hotel room door. I instantly whipped off the blanket and looked at the clock—5:44 a.m. Arnaud, I thought right away. He must have come early to pick me up for another day of Strange sniffing at the Français Scent Company.
“Schnoz, are you up?” a voice whispered from the hallway.
It was Vivian.
I pulled on a pair of jeans, slipped on a T-shirt, and opened the door. “What are you doing up so early?” I asked her.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
“There are a couple of chairs in the foyer next to the vending machines down the hall. Let’s go. We need to talk.”
Vivian slipped a couple dollars into the vending machine and punched up two packs of peanut butter crackers. “Breakfast is on me,” she said, handing me the crackers. “Now, let’s not beat around the boogers. What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I said. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Something’s on your mind. Last night at dinner, you looked like a stressed-out lab monkey during a psychological experiment.”
I let out a deep snort and stared at the ceiling. “I like your analogy, because that’s exactly what I feel like.”
“Then tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Okay. But you have to promise not to say anything.”
“You can trust me,” she said, and then pretended to lock her lips with an imaginary key.
“I’m one sniff away from being a millionaire,” I blurted out.
Vivian cocked her head and raised her eyebrows. “A sniff away from a million what?”
“One million dollars! Currency, bread, cash, and whatever the French word for money is.”
“Argent is the French word for cash. I learned that at the restaurant last night.”
“Whatever. Pierre said he would pay me a million dollars if I could list every ingredient in a bunch of perfumes. That’s what I was doing at his perfume lab yesterday. I guessed every one until I had to smell Strange. When I couldn’t figure out the secret ingredient, Pierre got so mad I thought he was going to hit me.”
Vivian sat up and paced the hallway, index finger tapping her chin, trying to make sense of what I had just told her. “Did Pierre tell you why he had to know every ingredient in Strange?”
“To see if I was ready for a job,” I said, biting into a peanut butter cracker. “He wants to hire me.”
“Hire you for what? You already have a job sniffing out dog poop in the park.”
“He wants me to be his nez professionnel. That means “professional nose” in English. It’s one of the most important and highly compensated jobs in the perfume industry. The test was to see if I had the smelling chops to perform all the duties.”
“Since you couldn’t figure out the secret of Strange, you failed the test, right?”
“Yes, but he
’s giving me another chance today.”
Vivian paced around some more, still tapping her chin and practically wearing a hole in the carpet. While she marched, I filled her in on every detail—from the offer of a million dollars and smelling all the perfumes to Pierre’s anger issues. I wasn’t ready to tell her Jean Paul and Pierre had accused each other of stealing fragrances.
“Schnoz, this is the sniffing opportunity of a lifetime!” Vivian exclaimed. “Think about it. You can get a million big ones just for figuring out a simple smell. It’s like you’re a contestant on that TV game show Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”
“More like Who Wants to Smell a Millionaire?” I countered.
Vivian laughed. “I say go for it. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
“But what if I can’t figure out the smell? Then I get nothing.”
“Schnoz, think about it. Yesterday at this time, you were standing in Jimmy’s backyard in New Hampshire struggling to lift a gondola off the ground. A day later, you’re in New York City and a perfuming company has offered you a job and a million dollars if you can figure out a dumb odor. You’re the Cinderella of smells!”
Vivian was right. Strange was my glass slipper and the million dollars my happily ever after. But I knew that every fairy tale had a villain. Who was my Evil Stepmother—Pierre, Arnaud, Jean Paul, or Strange itself?
“Thanks for cheering me up,” I told her. “This is the experience of a lifetime. And if I can’t figure out the smell and don’t get the million dollars, no big deal. I never had it to lose in the first place.”
“Now you’re thinking like a superhero,” Vivian said, cupping a hand to her mouth to cover a yawn. “I’m going back to bed.”
We parted ways and went back to our rooms. When I opened the door, Mumps was still asleep and tooting away under the blankets like a bad trombone player. I plopped down on my bed and reviewed my mental scent dictionary. Each delicious scent was alphabetized, categorized, and organized like a virtual public library. The secret of Strange was hiding somewhere inside my honker, and today was the day I would reveal its fragrance.
CHAPTER 14
THE BOATHOUSE
A couple hours later, I met the gang in the hotel restaurant for breakfast.
“After we eat, we’re heading straight for the Museum of Natural History,” TJ mumbled through a mouthful of oatmeal.
“Then we’re going to the Central Park Zoo,” Mumps added.
Dr. Wackjöb held up his empty cup, signaling to the server that he’d like more coffee. “We wish you could be with us,” the doctor said, splashing milk into his refill. “But I know how much your time with Pierre is worth to you.”
“It’s worth a million bucks!” Vivian blurted out.
“What do you mean a million bucks?” Jimmy asked.
My nostrils flared with anger. I shot Vivian a dirty look. The girl had promised to keep the million dollars a secret, and two hours hadn’t passed before she let the snot out of the sack.
“It’s just a figure of speech,” Vivian said quickly after realizing what she had done. “You know, it’s an experience that money can’t buy.”
“I’d buy a lot of experiences with a million dollars,” TJ mused.
“Like what?” Mumps asked.
“First, I’d buy us a big jet and fly us around the world!”
Jimmy pointed to my nose. “We already have a jet, and it’s plastered right in the middle of Schnoz’s face. He sailed us all the way from New Hampshire to New York with just a few sniffs of cayenne pepper fueling his solid rocket boogers. If we loaded his honker with enough cayenne, he could probably fly us to the moon and back!”
The restaurant door opened, and Arnaud stepped inside.
“My ride is here,” I said.
“Have a great day of smelling Strange,” Vivian said with a wink.
I chugged down the rest of my orange juice, said good-bye to my friends, and hopped in the backseat of Arnaud’s car. I was surprised when we sped past the Français Scent Company’s bland brick building.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Monsieur du Voleur thought a change of scenery might be better for your nez,” Arnaud explained. “He has rented a private space for the day inside the Boathouse in Central Park.”
“What’s the Boathouse?”
“It is an exquis restaurant and oasis in the middle of the city. You can rent boats and bicycles by the hour. You can also rent private dining rooms. Monsieur du Voleur has reserved one for you.”
I shrugged, not caring where the final smell test would take place. The only thing that concerned me was figuring out the mystery ingredient in Strange and getting my million. Arnaud wheeled the car into a parking garage. We then entered Central Park at Seventy-Second Street and Fifth Avenue on foot and strolled down a path toward the Boathouse.
Five minutes later, we came upon a lake. I remembered the body of water instantly. It was the same place where I had almost landed the gondola when we first arrived in New York. Rowboats for rent bobbed in the water along a wooden dock. Arnaud led me into a large building with a fancy green roof and a large outdoor terrace for dining.
“Do you have a reservation?” a hostess wearing a white shirt and flowing black skirt asked us.
“We have one in the name of Pierre du Voleur,” Arnaud said. “It is for a private room, party of three.”
“Yes, of course,” the hostess said. “Mr. du Voleur is waiting for you. Please, follow me.”
The hostess led us through a packed dining area and into a small room with an awesome view of the lake and even better view of the skyscrapers towering over the trees in the distance.
“Le Nez,” Pierre said, shaking my hand as I entered the room. “I am so glad you could join us. Voulez-vous le petit déjeuner?” He motioned toward a buffet table loaded with fruit, cheese, croissants, and a large jar of Nutella.
I raised my eyebrows, not sure what Pierre had just asked me.
“He wants to know if you would like breakfast,” Arnaud clarified.
“No, I’m good. I just ate at the hotel.”
“Very well,” Pierre said. “Now, let’s get down to business.”
A small round table with a single chair sat next to a window that overlooked the lake. Sitting in the center on a white tablecloth was a brand-new bottle of Strange.
“The moment has arrived, le Nez,” Pierre said to me. “Today, you become a nez professionnel, an odeur artiste with such an acute sense of smell that you can compose complex fragrances that convey intense moods, deep feelings, and wonderful sensations.”
“Don’t forget about my million dollars,” I reminded him.
Pierre smiled. “I will be back in fifteen minutes. You will then reveal to me the secret of Strange, or you don’t get a penny.”
The two men then walked outside and closed the door behind them. I sat down at the table, just my nose and a rosy bottle of Strange. Like two MMA fighters ready to duke it out for the ultimate prize. My heart raced, nostrils quivered, fingers shook as I twisted off the cap. Instantly, familiar smells wafted in the air: lavender, jasmine, sandal-wood, bergamot.
One last scent escaped from the bottle—the mystery ingredient, the phantom fragrance, the million-dollar odor dancing around my nose like an aromatic apparition. I huffed and snorted with all my olfactory might. The vanilla-like smell penetrated my scent receptors, flooding my mental scent dictionary. I frantically searched for the musk’s origin like a computer program scanning for a rogue virus.
“Earthy … grass … dirt …” I gasped. “Something definitely found on the ground, yet totally sweet and intoxicating. The secret of Strange is … I don’t know!”
I slammed my nose violently on the table. The glass bottle of Strange flew on the floor and splintered into a thousand shards. The mysterious scent was everywhere, mocking me, teasing my nose worse than any playground bully ever had. Tears formed in my eyes. I looked out the window and saw Pierre and Ar
naud walking toward the Boathouse.
Before I had to face the men with my failure, I tore out of the room and raced into the heart of Central Park.
CHAPTER 15
THE SECRET OF STRANGE
The Central Park Zoo.
Mumps had mentioned at breakfast that the gang would head to the zoo after visiting the Museum of Natural History. I stopped and asked directions from an old guy who was feeding stale bread to pigeons.
“Zoo’s that way,” he grumbled, pointing in a southeast direction. “Sixty-Fourth and Fifth.”
“Thanks,” I said, and then tore off down a path.
While I ran, I looked over my shoulder every few yards to see if Pierre and Arnaud were following me. They were nowhere in sight. When I arrived at the zoo, I checked the time on a clock mounted to a brick wall—ten thirty-five.
It was way too early for Vivian, the Not-Right Brothers, and Dr. Wackjöb to be at the zoo. They were still touring the Museum of Natural History and probably wouldn’t even show up until after lunch. My only choice was to wait for them, so I purchased a ticket and pushed through the turnstile.
Like throughout the rest of New York, the smell of Strange completely permeated the zoo. I even saw the gift shop manager spraying himself with the stuff when I was browsing through a book of endangered animals. Using the zoo map, I scooted down a walkway and entered the Tropic Zone.
The exhibit featured creatures found in the Earth’s rain forests. Black and white lemurs leaped through a canopy above my head. Colorful birds with names like golden weaver, Victoria crowned pigeon, and white-rumped shama flitted from branch to branch. A creepy-looking orange-and-yellow snake called a macabrel sat curled in a corner.
The next animal I saw stopped me in my tracks. A creature called a big-nosed tamandua—otherwise known as an anteater. My animal spirit had sandy fur with striking black markings. The shape of our noses was surprisingly similar. Long, pointy, and fat with a set of huge, flaring nostrils. The anteater flicked its lengthy pink tongue and then stared at me. Its black eyes were intense and glistening, like it was trying to communicate with me.