The Book of Lost Fragrances: A Novel of Suspense (14 page)

“I don’t want to be a complete pest.”

Griffin laughed.

“And I assume when you have more, you’ll tell me.”

“I have more.”

“Yes?” He was up and over at Griffin’s side of the desk in seconds.

“A new phrase. One I think you’re looking for.” Griffin read: “‘And then through all time, his soul and hers were able to find each other again and again whenever the lotus bloomed.’”

Robbie repeated the last four words, “
Whenever the lotus bloomed.
The lab didn’t confirm any traces of Blue Lily but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. In all my reading that flower has been named over and over as a very popular ingredient in ancient times.”

The more excited he was, the more pronounced Robbie’s accent became, and Griffin had to struggle to follow what he was saying.

“Are you saying the
Blue
Lily?”

“Yes,” Robbie nodded. “The Blue Lily. It’s still in use. Also called the Blue Lotus or even the Egyptian Lotus.” Robbie picked up Griffin’s magnifying glass and peered down at the mosaic of broken bits of pottery. “If this ingredient is listed here, maybe the rest are. We’re going to solve this, you see? We are.”

Once again he was that thirteen-year-old leaping up into the air.

“Maybe we are.” Even Griffin was starting to believe.

Outside, the wind picked up and rattled the French doors. Robbie walked over and shut them. Then he returned to the desk and again bent over the pottery.

“Blue Lily, hmmm . . . let’s see.” He breathed in deeply once . . . then twice. He smiled. “It might be my imagination, but I think I can smell it.”

Griffin bent over and inhaled, then shook his head. “The only thing I’ve been able to smell since I started working on this project is clay. I guess I must not have a very sensitive nose.”

“I don’t inherently have one. Mine is all training. Jac is the one with the magical gift.” Robbie inhaled again and this time remained hunched over the fragments for a few seconds. When he straightened up, Griffin noticed that he rubbed his forehead.

“Something wrong?”

“This happened the other day. If I sniff these shards for too long, I get lightheaded. Almost as if I’m going to faint.”

“You know Blue Lily is a hallucinogen, right?” Griffin asked. “Except it couldn’t still be potent after all this time.”

“No, it couldn’t be,” Robbie said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Other than as an ingredient in fragrances, I don’t know much about its history. Was it a fairly common flower?”

“Popular and plentiful, yes. You’ll find it carved on the tops of columns and in tomb paintings, and there are records of it being used in rituals and rites. But I wouldn’t call it common. It’s the Egyptians’ most sacred plant. A symbol of death and rebirth. Osiris was said to be reincarnated as a blue water lily.”

Robbie’s eyes widened.

“Yes, another coincidence for you,” Griffin said.

“If you insist on calling them coincidences.”

“What would you call them?”

“Signs. Amazing, life-affirming signs.”

As people grow up and age, few hold on to the delight and wonder they had as children. But Robbie had. He was unusual that way. Griffin wondered if Jac was as unchanged as her brother.

“Tell me what else you know about the symbolism of the lotus,” Robbie asked.

“According to ancient legends, the world was dark and chaos ruled until the morning the Blue Lily rose up from the depths of the river. When the flower opened, a young god was sitting in its golden center. The divine light he emitted illuminated the world, and the sweet scent he gave off filled the air and banished universal darkness. The Egyptians believed that when the flower opened anew each morning, it chased away the chaos that reigned during the night.”

“Hence it being a symbol for renewal. How did they use it as a hallucinogen?” Robbie asked.

“Mostly by drinking it. There’s an ancient recipe that called for nineteen flowers to be soaked in wine. The wine was then used in religious rituals and recreationally at parties. A lot of the time, you see lilies in tomb paintings of sexual scenes. Tutankhamen’s body was covered with them.”

“Any idea of the effects of the hallucinogenic properties?”

“You sort of drift into a state of euphoric tranquility. A few of us brewed some up when we were in grad school.”

Robbie’s eyebrows arched.

“We got curious. There were references to it everywhere. This flower is so important, it’s in the Egyptian
Book of the Dead
.” Griffin recited from memory: “‘I am the cosmic water lily that rose shining from Nun’s black primordial waters, and my mother is Nut, the night sky. O you who made me, I have arrived, I am the great ruler of Yesterday, the power of command is in my hand.’”

Outside, heavy gray clouds blew across the sky. Robbie turned on the desk lamp as the early evening turned prematurely dark and cast the workshop in deep shadow.

“How can something that ancient give me a headache and yet not be picked up by the lab?” he asked.

“Makes no sense.”

“You feel fine, right?”

Griffin nodded. “No headache. And certainly none of the feelings I remember from drinking it.”

A sudden flash of lightning lit up the courtyard beyond. The electric zigzag mesmerized both men, who watched as a second flash hit.

“What the hell? Did you see that?” Griffin pointed to a spot in the garden.

“The ghost?” Robbie asked.

“Well, I doubt it was a ghost, but there’s a man out there.”

“No one can enter the courtyard except through these doors here or from the house. What you saw is the shadow of a very old tree to the right of that hedge. Jac and I used to call it
the ghost.
In certain light, it looks like a man.” Robbie opened the door to the windswept courtyard. “Come, I’ll show you.”

Just as he stepped outside, another bolt of lightning hit, and rain started to pour down. In the odd light, it looked as if Robbie were being splashed with liquid silver. Ducking back inside, he brushed himself off, then reached for a bottle of Pessac-Léognan. “I’m going to open some wine. You’ll have some, yes?”

“Yes.”

Robbie uncorked the Bordeaux. “Sometimes in the dark we imagine things that aren’t there. And sometimes deep concentration can bring them to life.”

“Manifest them?”

Robbie nodded as he handed Griffin a goblet of the supple red. “There are Tibetan monks who can create creatures—
tulpas,
they’re called. Have you heard of them?”

“I have. Supposedly, highly evolved monks can give form to thought by meditating.”

“You don’t sound as if you believe it,” Robbie said.

“I don’t. Do you?”

“I do.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Griffin said.

“What
do
you believe in, my friend?”

Griffin laughed. “Not much, I’m afraid. If I have a religion, I suppose it’s history.”

“History isn’t a belief system. Are you quite serious? Despite all the religions you’ve studied, you don’t believe in anything?”

“Joseph Campbell said—” Griffin stopped. “You know who Campbell is, right?”

“Yes, of course, the mythologist. Jac’s been quoting him for years.”

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.”