The Book of Lost Fragrances: A Novel of Suspense

by M. J. Rose

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m afraid you’re a person of interest in your brother’s disappearance and possible death.”

  “That’s absolutely ludicrous.” Jac put her hands on the desk and stood up abruptly, accidentally knocking over a small perfume bottle sitting precariously close to the edge. The vial fell and shattered.

  An intense scent enveloped her, so powerful that she barely noticed as the inspector excused himself and left. Jac hadn’t smelled it for years but recognized it instantly. This was one of the scents from The Game of Impossible Fragrances. In the scent vocabulary that made up her and Robbie’s secret language, this was Fragrance of Loyalty, Jac’s favorite. Adding notes of bergamot to a rich earthy base of oakmoss, she’d come up with a chypre—a type of warm, woody scent, first made famous by the legendary perfumer François Coty in 1917. Jac’s Fragrance of Loyalty was neither feminine nor masculine, and could be worn by either brother or sister. And that was as it should be, she’d said, so they both could use it to signal when something was wrong and they needed help. Usually that meant they were in trouble with their mother or father and wanted saving. She wound up putting it on far more often than Robbie did.

  Jac didn’t even know he’d kept any of those fragrances. Why had this one been sitting on the edge of the desk?

  “Did Robbie tell you about this perfume?” Jac asked Griffin as she picked up the broken pieces of glass after Marcher left.

  “No.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. Why? What is it?”

  “I don’t think it was here yesterday. If it had been, I’m sure I would have noticed it or smelled it. I’ve sat at this desk a dozen times since I arrived in Paris. And the bottle—our father stopped using them years ago. He gave the ones he had left to us to play with.”

  “I don’t understand. What does a broken bottle of perfume have to do with anything?”

  “What if Robbie is alive? What if he was here last night? He could have left me this bottle as a message. Maybe the shoes and the wallet were a message, too. Robbie could have left them by the river hoping they’d be found and I’d be told. It can’t be a coincidence that they showed up somewhere Robbie and I had been before. A place that scared me so much he convinced my grandmother to cut our visit short and get me away from there.”

  Twenty-eight

  PARIS, FRANCE

  THURSDAY, MAY 26, 3:00 P.M.

  It was misting when Griffin came out of the Porte Dorée metro station. The afternoon sun had disappeared behind a bank of clouds and the entrance to the Bois de Vincennes was shrouded in fog. Through the vapor, he saw glints of gold, but it wasn’t until he was right beneath her that he could make out the towering sculpture of Athena shining like a warning beacon through the haze. The fountain at her feet spilled down into a long reflecting pool that mirrored the gray sky, and the royal palm trees that flanked the fountain stood like masts in the miasma.

  On a weekend, he imagined, this park would be crowded, but now, in the rain, there were long stretches where he didn’t see a soul.

  Suddenly a large black dog burst out of the mist, racing right toward him, followed by a pack. Within seconds, sniffing dogs surrounded Griffin, inhaling his scent and snarling.

  Griffin knew he could take on one dog but not a pack, so he stood still and silent, readying himself for a possible attack. After a few long seconds, however, the alpha male seemed to lose interest. He turned away and took off, with the rest of his pack following. Once the dogs were gone, Griffin realized his heart was racing.

  If he’d known how big the park was—how long it would take to get here or how deserted it would be—he’d have suggested an alternate meeting place. But the lama hadn’t explained much on the phone, just that he was a friend of Robbie’s and wanted to set up a meeting.

  And to please be discreet.

  Griffin had wanted to ask the lama how he’d found him. But the lama had hung up too quickly. It wasn’t a secret that Griffin was in Paris working on the Egyptian artifact. A few nights before, Robbie had invited the curator from Christie’s to dinner with Griffin. The archaeological community was fairly small. Maybe Robbie had shared what the curator had said with the lama

  By the shore of the Lac Daumensil, Griffin finally found the temple he’d been told to look for and walked around to the entrance. Inside he was confronted by a gleaming Buddha at least twenty-five feet tall. The icon was so dazzling, its stature was so commanding, that Griffin didn’t even notice the Buddhist nun, wearing saffron robes, who sat at the sculpture’s feet.

  “Mr. North, thank you for being so prompt,” she said, startling Griffin. “I’m Ani Lodra.” She extended her hand.

  “I was expecting to meet the lama. Is he here?”

  “No, he offers his apologies. He’s been detained and asked me to conduct the meeting.”

  Griffin nodded.

  “Time is of the essence.” The small, wiry woman with a shaved head gestured to a cushion next to her own. “Will you have a seat, please?”

  Incense permeated the air, and votive candles flickered in their red glass holders.

  “I feel as if I’ve left France and crossed over into India,” Griffin said as he sat down.

  “Yes, it’s very much like home. It’s nice for those of us when traveling to come here for a respite and to meditate.”

  “You’re from India?” Her features didn’t fit. She was slight, with yellow skin and slightly oblique brown eyes.

  She nodded. “Most who followed His Holiness into exile live now in McLeod Ganj, India. There are over one hundred thousand of us there.”

  “You hardly seem old enough to have fled Tibet in 1959,” Griffin said with surprise. The nun looked to be about twenty-eight or thirty.

  “My parents were followers. I was born there. My envelope is twenty-eight years old.”

  Griffin had met other Buddhists who considered their bodies to be hosts for reincarnated souls. Envelope: there was something intriguing about how this woman phrased it.

  “Let me explain why we’ve dragged you to the middle of this park. We assume you must be as concerned as we are about Mr. L’Etoile.”

  “I am, of course.”

  “His Holiness has been looking forward to meeting with Mr. L’Etoile when he visits next week,” said the nun. “So when we read the news that he was missing, we became concerned. Were you able to see the ancient artifact before Mr. L’Etoile disappeared?”

  So Robbie really had been keeping the lama updated. “Yes, I’ve been working on it for several days.”

  “And were you able to finish your translation?”

  “Not completely. There are still phrases I hadn’t pieced together and nuances I hadn’t worked out.”

  “But what you did translate suggests the fragrance in the pot was a memory aid to help one remember a past life?”

  “It mentions specifically finding a romantic interest in a past life, yes. A soul mate.”

  “That’s interesting but not that surprising. There is much attention to soul mates in reincarnation literature.”

  At the sound of a kettle whistling, the nun stood. “Excuse me. I prepared some tea.” Walking around to the side of the statue, she took the kettle off an electric burner and arranged a tray.

  “In a temple?”

  “There is a Buddhist tea ceremony, Chan-tea, that dates all the way back to the Western Jin Dynasty, where the tradition began at the Tanzhe Temple to help enlighten and reveal the truth.” She poured the steaming liquid. “Monks there picked and dried the leaves, then brewed the tea, which they discovered helped during long meditations.”

  Griffin sipped the hot, fragrant beverage. “It’s very good.”

  “Yes, it is. But I miss the buttered tea my mother used to make,” the nun said as she lowered her own cup.

  Griffin nodded. “I’ve had yak butter tea.”

  “It is superior. In the same way that butter candles have a softer and warmer light than
these,” she said wistfully.

  “Tibet is a wonderful country.”

  “It was. It could be again. It’s being destroyed by the political situation. Which is a travesty.”

  “I agree,” Griffin said, sensing they were getting to the heart of the reason for this meeting.

  “Mr. North, we have only two days before His Holiness arrives in Paris. This memory tool is something that he would very much like to share with his followers. If there is any chance of finding it—of finding Mr. L’Etoile—we’d like to offer our services.”

  “The police are doing everything they can to find Robbie.”

  “The police?” the nun’s voice was surprisingly cynical. “Red tape will stop them from working with the speed necessary to accomplish this goal in time. We want to help you and Mr. L’Etoile’s sister to find him.”

  Earlier today, after Inspector Marcher had left, Jac had asked Griffin to help her search for Robbie. She was certain that he was alive and trying to contact her. The phone call the first night she arrived in Paris, when she could hear someone breathing but no one answered. Robbie’s shoes and wallet being found in the Loire Valley. The Fragrance of Loyalty that hadn’t been there the day before. She was convinced Robbie was sending her messages: “I’m alive. Find me. Help me.”

  But how could the lama or this nun have known what Jac and Robbie were planning?

  “We must get to Mr. L’Etoile before the Chinese government does. They are actively doing whatever they can to discredit His Holiness by regulating reincarnation to ensure that no more lamas are found outside of their provinces. It’s not that they believe in reincarnation; rather they are determined no one outside of their control claims to rule Tibet.”

  “I see.”

  “The world sympathizes with us exiles but doesn’t act on their kind words. What Mr. L’Etoile found could be a powerful weapon in the struggle. Even if there is nothing left but a legend, words have influence. If we can even suggest there might be a way to ascertain who is a true incarnation and who isn’t, we can cast enough doubt on the Chinese government’s actions in Tibet since taking control of the government to energize our cause.”

  “We’re talking about a myth written on broken pot shards.”

  “What are myths?” the nun asked.

  “Stories.”

  “True stories?”

  “No. They are emotional, spiritual and ethical maps laid out for people to follow.”

  The nun shook her head as if the answer disappointed her.

  “What makes you think Robbie is alive and that his sister is looking for him?” he asked. “How do you know what her plans are?”

  “Do you know what tulpas are?”

  “I do,” Griffin replied. It was curious: just that week, Robbie had mentioned tulpas: forms created by the thoughts of highly evolved monks.

  “Do you think they are true beings?”

  “No.”

  “When my father was a boy, in the mountains in Tibet, winters were always brutal. But one year was especially bad, and my grandfather became very ill. My grandmother tried all the remedies she knew of, but to no avail. The snow made it impossible to go for help, and the family was in despair. On the third day of my grandfather’s illness, it seemed as if the storm was going to outlast him. The fever was eating him alive. Late that night, there was a knock at the door. My grandmother opened it to find a monk. He was very short and thin and had a big smile. Despite the terrible weather, he was dressed similarly to how I’m dressed now and didn’t appear to be at all uncomfortable. He was barefoot.”

  The nun stopped to sip her tea.

  Over the years Griffin had met a few natural-born storytellers, people who, once they started to spin a tale, managed with a steady gaze and an expressive voice to pull you in and keep you transfixed. This woman was one.

  “The visiting monk sat down by my grandfather’s bedside and stayed there throughout the night. He sent the rest of the family off to their mats and even made my grandmother go to sleep. She fought him, but the truth was, she was exhausted and needed the rest.

  “Mr. North, you are a smart man. So you can guess why I’m telling you this story. The next morning, my grandfather was improved. Though it would take over a week for him to regain his strength, he was no longer fevered, and his life was no longer in danger.

  “The monk wouldn’t take anything from the family but a cup of buttered tea. Then he walked off, out into the storm. His job, he told them, was done.

  “Six months later, my family set off to visit my great-uncle in his monastery. When they arrived, one of the first things my great-uncle asked was how my grandfather was feeling after his illness. My grandfather asked how his brother had known about that. ‘I dreamed it,’ my great-uncle said. ‘So powerful is the bond between us.’ My grandfather and his brothers were amazed,” the nun told Griffin. “They knew about the power of dreams, but this was the first time they’d seen proof.”

  As she continued telling the story, the nun refilled their teacups.

  “My grandfather, who had no trouble accepting that his brother had dreamed about his illness, asked if he could meet the monk he’d sent, so he could thank him. My great-uncle reminded him that it had been the dead of winter. There would not have been any way for someone to cross the mountains. The monk who had come to visit had been a tulpa. Created through prayer and meditation. Tulpas. Created when a highly disciplined disciple gives palpable being to a visualization through sheer willpower.”

  “And are you one? Can you create these thought forms?”

  “Sadly, I am not yet that learned. But my teacher is. Tai Yonten Rinpoche is from one of the oldest lineages of all reincarnated lamas.”

  “And you’re saying that your teacher created a tulpa who has kept you informed as to our plans?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or maybe it wasn’t a bad guess that the sister of a man who’s missing would go in search of him.” Griffin drained his cup. “How do you propose to help? Having the tulpa find Robbie and lead us to him?”

  “It’s your choice to believe whatever you see fit. But the Western way of thinking is narrow and constricting. You seem to be a cynic.”

  “I’m not a cynic—I’m a researcher. I put my faith in stones and ruins. Record them and analyze them and make sense of them.”

  “And turn them into the dust under our feet instead of the shine of the stars.”

  “Lovely image.” He hadn’t meant to be sarcastic, but as his wife was fond of saying, it was his natural default position when he felt out of control.

  The woman’s eyes locked on Griffin’s, her expression inscrutable. “We believe that your friend is alive and is in trouble with the police, and is probably trying not to be arrested before he meets with His Holiness, as intended, to give him the pottery.”

  Griffin was taken aback. “You’re saying that Robbie was given an appointment to meet with the Dalai Lama?”

  “That’s correct. He was waiting for us to confirm it and give him instructions on where that meeting would take place. We didn’t get to him in time. We know—and so assume he must too—that there are Chinese nationalists who do not want that meeting to take place. Even if you, or Mr. L’Etoile’s sister, find him on your own, it’s me he wants to talk to. I am the map to that meeting.”

  Twenty-nine

  4:09 P.M.

  Jac was sitting in her old bedroom in front of the windows, looking down at the courtyard garden, trying to think like Robbie and imagine where he’d go and what he’d do if he were in trouble. When her cell phone rang and she saw it was Alice Delmar, she answered it.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your Robbie,” Alice offered in her crisp British accent.

  Jac nodded, then realized she couldn’t see her and thanked her.

  “Any news?” Alice asked.

  “No, none.”

  There was a moment of transatlantic silence. Jac pictured the kind woman on the other end of the phone sitting in her
office overlooking Central Park. Alice and her husband, who owned a large cosmetics company, were old friends of Jac’s father’s. They’d treated her like family, inviting her to their house on holidays. She’d have given anything to be back there with Alice, sitting over dinner in Sant Ambroeus, sipping wine, listening to her complain about overpriced ingredients and perfume sales that had dipped 14 percent in the last year.

  “Is there anything I can do? Get on a plane and come and be there with you?” The suggestion was like an embrace, offering momentary solace.

  “No, please don’t. The police are doing everything they can.”

  “But it’s not enough, is it? Your brother is still missing.”

  “That’s true. But there’s nothing I need now. Not right now, honestly.”

  “I hear something in your voice. What aren’t you telling me? Is it about the loan? If the damn French bankers are breathing down your neck, we can arrange something.”

  Alice ran the company’s fragrance division. She’d been the one to come up with the idea of buying Rouge and Noir in order to solve the House of L’Etoile’s financial crisis.

  “Thank you, but we’re fine for a little while longer.” Jac was staring down at the garden. The topiary that was usually shaped into pristine pyramids hadn’t been trimmed in a long time. The shapes were losing some of their form.

  “Then what is it?”

  “The police think I’m involved in my brother’s disappearance because he was getting in the way of the sale and that I—” she couldn’t finish.

  “That’s preposterous,” Alice’s voice blustered. “You? He’s your family. You adore him.”

  Jac pressed her forehead against the glass, comforted by its cool smoothness and neutrality. The absence of scent was a relief.

  Outside, the wind picked up, the leaves in the trees danced for her, and the sun hit the seven-foot obelisk in the maze’s center. The object supposedly dated back to Egypt at the time of the pharaohs. In yet another family legend, Giles L’Etoile had brought the limestone needle back from Egypt along with the rest of the treasure. Jac knew it was just as likely a nineteenth-century copy. No one had ever bothered to find out. Her family preferred to believe the fantasies that were the cornerstone of the House of L’Etoile. She knew the shaft’s tip was white like the rest of it, but from the window, its top looked like it had been capped with something black.