by M. J. Rose
It was the second time in the last half hour that Robbie had mentioned his sister. Griffin wanted to ask about her but refrained. What good would knowing do? It would just raise the specter of the past. “It’s not surprising that Jac quotes him.” Even saying her name aloud, moving his mouth to make the sounds, felt awkward. “He’s something of a guru to anyone who studies mythology.”
“You probably don’t approve of having a guru, do you?” Robbie asked.
“Let’s say I’m skeptical about them, too.”
“Let’s say you are.” They both laughed. Then Robbie became serious again. “There are wonders out there, my friend. But cynicism blankets them in invisibility. You and my sister . . . seeped in the world of magic and mystery but closing yourself off to it. Turning it into something one-dimensional to study and catalog.”
Griffin had watched Jac’s television show but couldn’t glean who she’d become from the image on his screen except to notice that she was lovely. Still lovely. Her hair was as long as it had always been, and he was glad she’d never cut it. Rich, dark hair that cascaded down her swanlike neck in waves. He remembered how heavy her hair was and how it felt when he wove his fingers in it and pulled her to him and kissed her. He remembered her thick lashes that fringed her wide, almost lime green eyes and the frightened expression he’d see there sometimes. A look that made him ache and promise her he’d keep her safe. But he hadn’t done that, had he?
Sipping his wine, Griffin glanced down at the jigsaw of pot shards. It was one thing to discuss and dissect the ancient past—but not his past. “So Campbell wrote that if you substitute ‘goodness’ for ‘god’ in every story, myth, religious text, homily, or treatise, then you’d really have the perfect religion to live by. If I had to pick something to believe in, trying to be good would do.”
Another lightning flash lit up the sky, followed by a crack of symphonic thunder that rattled the glass. The rain beat harder on the doors. The lights in the workshop flickered once, twice, and then died.
Robbie lit several votive candles and positioned them around the room. Long, sinister shadows danced in the light. “These are infused with one of my new scents. You’ll have to tell me how you like it.”
“You’re asking someone with such an insensitive nose?” Griffin pulled a candle even closer to the pottery and peered down at the broken bits. There was still so much left to do. It had been a relief to escape from all the problems in New York. But he couldn’t stay away forever. He had to get this translation finished and go home. Closing his notebook, he took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That’s it for me. I can’t do much of anything in this light. Let me call the hotel and see if they have power. If they do, come have dinner. There’s not much you can do here in the dark either.”
“The lights won’t stay off for long,” replied Robbie. “Besides, I have an appointment with that journalist in an hour. It’s good they’re interviewing me about my new line. A little press will go far in helping me find some outlets other than our own little store.”
The hotel did have power. So Griffin confirmed his plans to come back the next morning, as usual, at about ten, then borrowed an umbrella and left.
As he walked down the street, he remembered about Elsie’s doll and that it would be waiting at his hotel. How delighted she’d be. At the end of Rue des Saints-Pères, the streetlight wasn’t working, and it was difficult to see through the pelting rain. He peered out. No lights. No oncoming cars. He stepped off the curb, the wine and the idea of his daughter’s pleasure adding a lightness to his step. He neither heard nor saw the car careening around the corner until the instant of impact.
Twelve
NEW YORK CITY
MONDAY, MAY 23, 2:00 P.M.
Malachai wanted to hurry, but walking fast might draw too much attention. If it had been raining, he’d have had an excuse. But it was a warm day, and most of the strollers in Central Park were taking their time: walking dogs, pushing baby carriages, or just admiring the blooming apple and cherry trees. The lush pink and white blossoms perfumed the air. If not for Jac L’Etoile, Malachai wasn’t sure he would have noticed. Until two weeks ago, he rarely thought about scent. Now he was preoccupied with it.
West of the Dairy, Malachai entered the Chess and Checkers House. It was cooler inside the red- and white-brick building, and he smelled a fruity pipe tobacco that wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Two men were playing at the first table on the right. To their left was a clean-cut man in his midthirties wearing chinos and a blue button-down shirt. On his table, along with the chess pieces, were the pipe, unlit, and an open book. As he approached, Malachai saw illustrations of chessboards on its pages.
“Finally studying Petrov’s Immortal?” Malachai asked.
Reed Winston looked up. “Very imaginative game, you’re right.” Almost good-looking, he had a square jaw and strong features, but his eyes were too small and he showed too much gum when he smiled—which he did too often. Especially when he was delivering less than good news.
“Perhaps one of the most imaginative ever played. And exciting.”
“Should I reset the board?” Winston asked.
“No, I don’t have enough time for a game. I was delayed at the office and do apologize. But I have time for coffee. Would you join me?”
While Winston picked up the ivory pieces and returned them to the chess box, Malachai engaged him in a conversation about the famous 1844 game between Russian chess master Alexander Dmitrievich Petrov and F. Alexander Hoffmann. They were still talking chess as they left the building. Only when they were out on the open path did Malachai broach the subject that was the reason for the clandestine meeting.
Malachai had his office swept for bugs every week. But there was little he could do about directional mikes, which the FBI had used on him and the foundation in the past. Over the last few years, Malachai had been questioned about several robberies. Even taken into custody. Although never formally charged with any wrongdoing, he was always one of the FBI’s prime suspects in any crime involving memory tools. And even though there was no overt sign or obvious reason for the bureau to be currently paying attention, he preferred to conduct certain conversations outdoors.
“What kind of connections do you have in Paris?” Malachai asked.
“Good connections.”
A toddler broke free from his mother’s hand and stepped out in front of the two men. In seconds his mother was on top of him, apologizing for getting in their way.
Malachai smiled at her and told her not to worry. He didn’t respond to Winston until they were out of the woman’s earshot.
“I would prefer excellent connections.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“This time I’ll need some guarantees.”
While he didn’t take part in criminal activity himself, Malachai had found himself on the wrong side of the law several times in the last few years. He wasn’t the only one pursuing the fabled memory tools, and more than once he’d had no choice but to engage people to do some rather dirty work for him. Unfortunately, none of those efforts had proved successful.
“We’ve had too many accidents, Winston. Missed far too many prime opportunities. If anything untoward happens this time, you can be sure we won’t be working together in the future.”
“We had a terrific team—”
Malachai put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. To anyone watching, they appeared to be father and son or uncle and nephew. “I’m not asking you to defend your work. Just giving you some advice. All right?”
“Yes, fine,” Winston said. This time without one of his trademark smiles.
“Pictures of the object will be delivered to your abode tomorrow along with a name and an address.”
“‘Abode.’ Ha. If you saw my apartment, that’s the last thing you’d call it.”
They had reached a wisteria arbor. About ten feet long, it was overburdened with green, leafy vines and lush, lavender blossoms. As
beautiful as the foundation’s Tiffany stained-glass windows of wisteria were, the actual flowers were far lovelier. Malachai lifted his head toward the low-hanging flowers and breathed in the scent. He didn’t recall ever smelling it before. In his recent reading, he’d learned there are flowers whose scents can’t be extracted. Chemists reproduced the scents with synthetics that came close but rarely matched nature’s handiwork. When he got back to his office, he was going to call Jac and find out if wisteria was one of those.
“Have you ever smelled wisteria?” Malachai asked Winston.
“Smelled it? Not that I’m aware of.” He looked confused, then sniffed the air. “You know . . .” He inhaled again. “I think I have smelled it before. It reminds me of my grandmother’s house; this must have been that big vine that grew along the front porch.”
“Scents stir the memory. You can stumble on one fragrance and suddenly remember an entire day of your childhood—and it will be as real and as vivid as if it happened just hours before.” Malachai didn’t usually digress. “It’s a subject I’ve been studying.”
“Because it has to do with what you want me to find?”
“Yes.”
“And when I find it, you want it taken?”
“No. We’re just watching for the moment. Not touching.”
The ex-Interpol agent arched his eyebrows. “That’s what you want me to organize?”
“Yes. We are going to go slower and be more careful this time. I can’t afford another misstep. And the people involved are friends of mine.”
“Play it safe?”
Malachai nodded. Any memory tools that had survived this long could be anywhere. He knew it. And the FBI knew it. The objects could be hidden in plain sight, buried in a ruin, on display in a museum, or sitting in an antique store or in some grandmother’s curio cabinet. To date the search had taken years and cost a fortune. Not just in money, but in lives. It was anyone’s guess how much longer it might take. All Malachai wanted was one tool: intact and functional. That’s all.
Except that was like saying “all” you wanted was to pull down a star from the heavens.
So far finding a tool had proved an impossible dream. But Malachai couldn’t let go. He had devoted his life to the study of reincarnation and had grand plans to reorient human belief in past, present and future lives. He wanted to give the gift of hope to the world.
But that wasn’t his only motivation. Or the reason he was in a hurry. His father was still extremely healthy for an octogenarian, but how many more years would he remain compos mentis? Malachai had to find out about his own past lives soon. If what he guessed was true, he wanted to shove it in the old man’s face. He wanted to hear his father’s reaction and savor his father’s pain when he realized what he’d thrown aside so casually.
Three times he had come close to owning a tool. Three times he had failed. There couldn’t be a fourth.
“We’ve been walking for too long,” he observed to Winston. “But before I go, I think I’d like you to get a beat on Agent Lucian Glass. Make sure he’s not paying any attention to me, can you? If we get any indication he is, I’m going to want to rethink our strategy.”
And then without saying good-bye or giving the ex-agent any indication he was leaving, Malachai turned around and proceeded to walk back around the lake in the direction he had come. He stopped only once, under the wisteria pergola, to inhale yet again the purple blossoms’ sweet fragrance.
Thirteen
PARIS, FRANCE
MONDAY, MAY 23, 8:30 P.M.
Robbie was pleasantly surprised when the reporter arrived exactly on time despite the rain.
“I’m Charles Fauche,” he said, oblivious to the fact that his umbrella was leaving a pool of water on the eighteenth-century parquet floors.
“Yes, yes, I’m Robbie L’Etoile. Come in. Let me take that from you.” He snatched the umbrella and deposited it in a Meissen stand. “Can I get you something warm to drink? Coffee? Tea?” he asked as he led the middle-aged man through the storefront and down the corridor.
“Tea would be great.”
“I’m impressed with your fortitude. It’s a heavy storm,” Robbie said as he opened the workshop door and led Fauche inside.
“I was already out. I’m on a tight deadline. I hope you hadn’t made other plans?”
“No,” Robbie said. “I’m really excited about the magazine’s interest in my line.”
The last time he’d been in the press was eight years ago, when he moved to the south of France. It had been news that a sixth-generation L’Etoile had started a niche fragrance company in Grasse. Now they wanted to know how he was progressing.
“Have a seat.” Robbie offered the journalist one of the upholstered chairs in the corner of the room. “Let me just get the tea started.” He turned on the electric kettle and then filled a wire basket with a generous helping of fragrant tea leaves.
“This is Sûr le Nil. A blend of green tea, some spices from Egypt and citrus. Are you a connoisseur?”
Fauche shook his head. “I’m usually just grateful that it’s hot. But it sounds good.”
The kettle started singing.
Robbie shut it off and ritualistically poured in a small amount of water to warm the pot. Swirling it, he made sure the leaves were wet and then filled it. He put the pot on a tray already set with two cups and linen napkins.
“Here you are,” he said as he placed the tray on the low front table in front of the reporter.
“Can you tell me a little about the inspiration for your new perfumes?” Fauche asked, beginning the interview without any warm-up.
“I’m a Buddhist,” Robbie said.
“Yes?” The reporter raised his eyebrows.
“And my beliefs have greatly influenced this line. I used the idea of yin and yang and created pairings of scents to enhance our spiritual and sensual natures.”
“Interesting.” Fauche scribbled some words in a notebook.
Brand new, Robbie noticed.
The tea had steeped long enough. Robbie poured the steaming liquid.
As he handed a cup to Fauche, his fingers brushed the reporter’s worn leather jacket by accident. It was soaked through. Why hadn’t he taken it off?
“Perhaps you’d like to smell the scents.” Robbie walked over to the organ and picked up a small bottle marked 44. He sprayed a burst of the scent on a white card and then offered it to Fauche, who took it, lifted it to his nose and breathed in deeply.
“Interesting,” the reporter said.
Robbie repeated the action with vial 62 and watched as again Fauche put the card up to his nose and inhaled.
“This one is very interesting, too,” he said.
“All the scents have international names that need no translation. Those are two halves of the whole I call Kismet. You can wear each separately or combine them.” Robbie sprayed another card with both scents and watched with surprise as, for the third time, the journalist failed to wait for some of the alcohol to evaporate, or to wave the card and smell the fragrance in the air.
Why had a prestigious international fragrance magazine sent someone so jejune to interview him?
The third card slipped from Fauche’s fingers and dropped to the floor.
Robbie watched the reporter as he leaned over to retrieve the sample. He was wearing expensive lizard-skin boots, soaked through from the rain like the jacket. When he straightened up, his jacket was pushed back at an odd angle. Quickly he pulled it closed.
What is he hiding? Robbie wondered.
“Maybe I could mix up a version of a new scent right now. You could write about the experience of smelling it as I formulate it. I’ll use six ancient essences and absolutes: almond, juniper . . .” Robbie pulled out one bottle after another and dripped a few drops of each liquid into a glass vial, all the while watching Fauche from the corner of his eye.
A reporter who specializes in scent is sitting in the workshop of the House of L’Etoile and is totally unintere
sted in watching me work a formula. He’s not writing a word down?
Fauche had gotten up and was walking around the workshop, inspecting the items on the shelves and on tabletops as if looking for something specific. An invited guest wouldn’t do that. Not even one who was a nosy reporter.
Standing in front of his worktable, Robbie turned on the Bunsen burner. “I have to heat two of these essences together.” As he talked, he calculated. Precision was required. Too little, and the fumes wouldn’t be potent enough to have any effect—too much, and they could be fatal—but he had to be prepared. Something was very wrong.
The burner was glowing. The solution was ready. Robbie would give the reporter the benefit of the doubt and allow him one chance to explain who he was and what he was really doing there. If the answer didn’t make sense, then he’d do what he had to do to protect himself.
“Mr. Fauche?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t asked me many questions.”
“I’ve been busy taking notes.”
“Are you really here to interview me about my new line? Or is there perhaps another story you’re after?”
The tense smile the reporter offered almost put Robbie at ease. “Yes, actually, there is something else.”
“What is it?”
“There’s a rumor about an Egyptian relic that you found.”
“How did you hear about that?”
“A reporter never reveals his sources.” Fauche looked pleased with himself for coming up with the cliché.
Griffin wouldn’t have told anyone. Robbie tried to think. How would the word have gotten out? He’d talked to the Rinpoche about giving the gift to the Dalai Lama, but surely the monk hadn’t revealed that to the press. Who else? Ah, yes: it had to be the curator at Christie’s auction house who he’d asked for an estimate when he’d first found the pot shards. So that’s all this was. The interest in his new fragrance line was just an excuse to get in the door and get an exclusive about the Egyptian find. Robbie relaxed.
