The Book of Lost Fragrances: A Novel of Suspense (12 page)

Robbie had said that since 1780, every director of the House of L’Etoile had run the business from this desk. Griffin was impressed by that kind of continuity. He found solace in history. What any single man lost in one lifetime was inconsequential when observed through the lens of time. Perspective mattered to Griffin. He relied on it. It kept him centered when nothing else could.

“Don’t worry,” Robbie said as he stood. The optimism in his voice suggested that his mood had already begun to lift. “Regardless of what their GC-MS machine says, we’ll find out what those ingredients are.” He walked across the room and stopped in front of an ornately framed still life of roses and irises in a china vase. Robbie swung the painting open like a medicine cabinet, revealing an old-fashioned wall safe. He turned the dial first to the right, then the left, then back to the right.

Last Friday when he’d sent the pottery fragment to the lab, he’d explained that a GC-MS—or a gas chromatography–mass spectrometry machine—was typically used for drug detection, environmental analysis and explosive investigations. Usually fragrance companies employed the highly complex instrument to study the competition’s scents. In just days, the machine could break down a rival’s formula that had taken months to create.

Robbie withdrew a black-velvet-lined jeweler’s tray from the safe, closed the metal door, swung the painting back into place, and gingerly walked back across the room, depositing it in front of Griffin.

Like a precious gem, each pottery shard was laid out with ample space around it.

“The answer has to be in the part of the inscription you haven’t yet translated,” Robbie said.

“Anything is possible.”

Griffin opened his briefcase and removed his notebook, glasses and a black lacquer fountain pen. He had a laptop and a cell phone complete with video capability, but at this stage of the work, he preferred black ink flowing onto the pristine white pages of a black-bound unlined Moleskine notebook—the same kind he’d been buying for years. Without a father’s rituals to emulate, Griffin had invented some of his own.

Both men studied the white glazed clay pieces, which ranged in size from splinters to one and a half inches long, all decorated with turquoise and coral designs and black hieroglyphics.

Since he’d been in Paris, Griffin had managed to fit more than half the shards together and definitively date the broken pot to the Ptolemaic period, from approximately 323 to 30
BCE
. He’d translated twenty-eight Egyptian words and discovered a story he couldn’t find any reference to in any online database. There were still some libraries he needed to visit, but he doubted he’d find more specific citations.

The narrative recounted a story of two lovers, each buried holding a pot of fragrance to take into the afterlife. Once the lovers reincarnated into their next lives, the fragrance would help them find each other again and so be reconnected throughout the ages.

While the afterlife was absolutely part of the Egyptian religion, opinions differed about its acceptance of reincarnation theory.

The pharaoh Amenemhat I’s name meant “He who repeats births.” The pharaoh Senusert I’s was “He whose births live.” And in the Nineteenth Dynasty, the spiritual name (or ka-name) of Setekhy I was “Repeater of births.” But most comparative religion experts believed that those appellations referred to a soul being reborn in the next world—the afterlife—not in this world again.

Griffin knew that certain sections of the Egyptian
Book of the Dead
could be translated to suit a reincarnation bias, but he’d never seen any definitive evidence that the ancients expected to be reborn again as men on earth. His own theory, though, was that there was a strong belief in reincarnation in the final years of the last great dynasty.

Egypt’s first Ptolemaic ruler hailed from Greece, and for the next three hundred years, all the kings and queens who came after him, including Cleopatra, not only spoke their native language but also studied Greek history and philosophy. This indicated they would have been exposed to and familiar with the teachings of Pythagoras, a great proponent of reincarnation.

Following that logic, it was more than possible that the concept of a soul being born again in a new body had gained popularity. This pottery might be tangible proof of that.

Griffin was certain that if he found proof, his theory would command the academic community’s attention. But would attention be enough to wipe his reputation clean?

A year before, Griffin had published a book tracing texts in the Old Testament to references in the Egyptian
Book of the Dead
. It had stirred controversy and sold better than the dry tomes his father-in-law, the noted Egyptologist Thomas Woods, and many of his colleagues published. Griffin enjoyed the notice the book received until Woods’s publisher accused him of plagiarism.

Until the allegation was made, Griffin hadn’t realized that the attributions he’d included in his manuscript had been left out of the printed book. Neither the proofreader, the copy editor, nor Griffin had caught the error. Somehow in the editing process they’d been deleted.

Despite producing the manuscript and the allegations being dropped, the damage was done. And it was hell. Griffin had been through an accusation of plagiarism before, in graduate school. It had almost destroyed his chances for his degree and had cost him the woman he’d loved.

And now he had to live through it again.

He could have gotten through it intact if he hadn’t seen the doubt in his wife’s eyes; the same doubt he’d seen in Jac’s eyes so many years before.

He told Therese he wanted a separation.

For the rest of the morning, Griffin struggled to piece together the next shard and then the next. With three new ones in position, he scrutinized the glyphs for their meaning, testing each word against the previous one, rejecting some choices, finding alternative interpretations, testing again.

While he worked, Griffin became aware of scents swirling around him, merging, melding together in fragrances.

“What are you mixing up? It’s starting to smell like an old tomb in here.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Robbie said and gestured toward a dozen glass bottles on the tabletop. Each was filled with a few inches of liquid—each a different shade of amber, from a pale yellow to a deep rich mahogany. Sunlight pouring through the doors sent colored flecks of light dancing. The visual interplay as intriguing as the mixture of musky scents.

“I’m trying to amass all the essences and absolutes that we know ancient Egyptians used and that are still available. I want to be prepared when you find that list of ingredients—”

“If,”
Griffin interrupted.

“When,”
Robbie corrected emphatically.

Robbie’s enthusiasm was as contagious as ever. Griffin remembered him as a thirteen-year-old boy rooting through the ancient ruins in the Languedoc, in the south of France. They’d been exploring the remains of a castle since early that hot, sunny August morning. Suddenly Robbie let out a whoop and jumped up into the air. For a split second, the young boy hung there: arms outstretched, silhouetted against the sun; frozen in an exultant pose.

Robbie had found a beat-up silver clasp engraved with a dove and was sure it was a Cathar relic. He was so excited and certain that Griffin hadn’t been surprised when an expert later confirmed its provenance and dated the artifact to the early thirteenth century.

At a little before one in the afternoon, Griffin’s cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he saw it was Malachai Samuels. He took the call.

“Your sister turned down his offer,” Griffin told Robbie after he hung up.

“I’m disappointed but not surprised. Since our mother died, no one has gotten her back into a workshop. I thought that maybe an ancient myth about reincarnation would at least tempt her.”

“Malachai’s very disappointed. He asked me about the chemical analysis. That didn’t improve his mood. Nonetheless, after I told him where I was with the translation, he upped his offer for the pot shards.”

Robbie acted as if he hadn’t heard. “It’s time for a café au crème, yes?”

“Robbie? Malachai is damn serious about buying the pottery. Will you at least let me tell you what he offered?”

“I can’t sell it.”

“You don’t even want to hear the amount?”

Robbie laughed. “Why, is he offering you a commission?”

“I should be insulted,” Griffin replied sharply and then said: “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“I can’t sell it,” Robbie repeated as he opened the door.

He was gone for a few minutes, and when he came back, he hovered over Griffin’s shoulder, looking down at the enigma on the velvet tray.

“There are so many ways to read the same symbols,” Griffin said. “You think you’re going in the right direction, and then you find the next piece of the puzzle, and suddenly everything reads different. Listen to this: ‘And then through all time, his soul and hers were able to find each other again and again . . .’”

“Can I read it? Everything you’ve translated so far?”

Griffin handed him the notebook.

While Robbie read, Griffin stood on the threshold of the French doors and looked out into the garden.

Bound by fifteen-foot-tall stone walls, the L’Etoile house on one side and the workshop on the other, the courtyard was invisible from the street. Designed in the late 1700s, the deep and dense
petit parc
was planted with dozens of ancient trees and Egyptian-style topiaries and decorated with statuaries. In its center was a cypress hedge maze. On Saturday Robbie had recited the parc’s history while he and Griffin walked on glossy black-and-white-pebbled paths through the labyrinth to its heart, a little oasis with a stone bench, flanked by statues of sphinxes and a tall, authentic, limestone obelisk.

There was a knock on the door.

“Entrer!”
Robbie called out.

Lucille entered the room with a tray.

Only in Paris, Griffin thought, watching as she set down a cup in front of each of them. The repast had been sent by the neighborhood café complete with china cups, glasses of water, napkins, and spoons. Croissants at breakfast and sandwiches or pastries in the afternoon.

Robbie took his coffee over to the perfumer’s organ and sat down. It was a wondrous apparatus patterned after the musical instrument of the same name. Eight feet long and six feet tall, it was made of poplar wood and took up a full quarter of the room. On the console, first, second and third tiers—instead of keyboards—held rows and rows of small glass vials of different essences. Over three hundred of them.

“How much do you know about the organ’s provenance?” Griffin asked.

Robbie ran his fingers lovingly over the shelf’s rim. “I don’t know who the cabinetmaker was, but according to my grandfather, it’s as old as the shop.”

“So it predates the French Revolution?”

Robbie nodded and sipped his coffee. “For centuries, perfumers have been practicing their craft at laboratories like this one.” He put down the cup, picked up a disposable plastic pipette, opened a small bottle, squeezed the bulb and then dripped several droplets of a tawny liquid into a clean glass vial. “Even though many modern labs have stopped using these organs, for me there’s no better way to work. Perfume is about the past . . . about memories. . . . It’s about dreams.” He spread his arms. “All the generations of perfumers in my family have used these same bottles, sat in this same chair.”

“Now the youngest member of the House of L’Etoile is keeping the oldest method of orchestrating a perfume alive,” Griffin said.

“Traditions matter, don’t they? Give us grounding. And without knowing what he was doing, my father has put it all at risk.”

Griffin nodded. He knew how his friend felt and put his hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “Consider Malachai’s offer. Despite the lab results, he’s willing to pay you three times the amount the auction house estimated.”

“It’s a generous sum, but even if it were enough to offset the debt, now that I know what’s written on the pot, I’d have to think twice. I’ve made up my mind about what I’m doing with the shards.”

“Yes?”

“Once you’re done with the translation, I’m going to give the pottery to the Dalai Lama.”

“The Dalai Lama? Are you nuts? What will he do with a box of broken pot shards?”

“A lot more than Malachai will by putting them on display in one of those lovely cabinets of his. I’ve been thinking about nothing but this for the last two days—ever since you made the first real breakthrough in the translation. If there once was an actual fragrance that helped people remember their past lives, there could be one again. The fact of that will be enormously inspiring to the Tibetans and invaluable to their cause. It could help raise awareness and bring even more attention to the crisis they’re facing.”

“It’s an inscription on a piece of pottery, Robbie,” said Griffin. “We don’t know that any such unguent ever existed. The pot could have been filled with an ordinary fragrance, and the legend could have been an ancient version of a modern-day sales pitch.”

“Or maybe there really was a fragrance that triggered past-life memories. You sound like my sister. Why is it my karma to be surrounded by cynics?” He shook his head. “His Holiness will be in Paris next weekend. I’m trying to set up a meeting with him through a lama I study with at the Buddhist center.”

“That’s it? You’re committed to giving this treasure away? There’s nothing I can say to talk you out of it?”

“Why would you try? It can do His Holiness more good than it will ever do me.”

“Even if it could pay off part of the company’s debt?”

“Malachai’s offer would cover only a small percentage of what we owe. We’d still be facing the bank’s deadlines. My only choice is to give in to my sister’s solution. The entire amount will be paid”—he snapped his fingers—“with one drop of the guillotine’s blade.”