The Scent Keeper(85)

“Please,” I said.

He picked up a glass, checked it for water spots. “Okay,” he said finally, shaking his head. “But I’m telling you, it’s not a good idea.”



* * *



The restaurant Victoria chose was hip and new, with metal chairs and concrete floors, white linen tablecloths and single, out-of-season peonies in slim glass vases. The menus were tall, the paper thick, the writing rolling across the page like waves. When the waiter came, Victoria ordered a crab salad. I asked for the salmon with Béarnaise sauce.

“I’ll have the burger,” Fisher said, handing the menu to the waiter, who hid a smile.

“I haven’t been to this place in ages,” Victoria said, gazing about. “I heard they have a new chef. He’s supposed to be wonderful.”

She talked for a while about other restaurants in the city, and the challenges of creating fragrances for settings that so actively generated their own smells. Next to me, I could see Fisher watching the drinks coming out on small round trays. He looked as if he was trying to guess the intended customers. Every so often, Victoria would glance over at him.

A couple walked in, the young woman rail thin, with artfully torn jeans. I could smell her perfume, sultry and deep, too loud for such a small space.

“Poison,” Victoria said, shooting me a knowing smile.

“What?” Fisher said, turning.

“It’s a fragrance, circa 1985,” she explained. “It got completely cheapened later, but the vintage stuff is still striking.” She paused, sniffing lightly, ticking off scents on her fingers. “Plum, coriander, and opoponax.”

“What?”

“It’s a myrrh.”

Fisher shook his head. “You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.”

She nodded, pulling lightly on one long curl of hair, observing him. “You do know this is what Emmeline does? She’s brilliant. She’s going to do fantastic things, given the right environment.”

I saw Fisher bristle slightly at those last words. “She’s always been brilliant,” he said.

Not anymore, I thought. I was about as uncomfortable among the scent bottles these days as Fisher must have been in this restaurant.

I watched the two of them, Fisher in what I knew was his only clean long-sleeved shirt, Victoria in a green silk sheath of a dress. Their conversation was a volley of top notes, but I could sense something moving underneath. I felt my foot start to jiggle. I reached for my water glass and took a sip, the ice clicking against my teeth. I wished it was wine, but I was still too young to be served in a restaurant. The one good thing about my November birthday, I thought, was that I would be nineteen five months earlier, legal to drink here.

The waiter returned with our order and set the plates noiselessly in front of us. Victoria’s salad was an artwork of green and white. My salmon was the size of a clamshell, drizzled with a creamy golden sauce; five dots of pureed green surrounded it like an appreciative audience. Fisher’s hamburger took up most of his plate.

“Ketchup?” Fisher asked the waiter, who nodded. He returned with a small glass bowl and an even smaller spoon. Fisher took off the top of the bun and added the ketchup, one scooplet after another, like Gulliver attempting to use the Lilliputians’ tools. Victoria waited patiently, her fork raised. When he was done, he picked up the burger with both hands and took a bite.

“Good chef,” he commented.

“Yes,” Victoria said.

We ate in silence for a moment.

“Where are you living these days, Fisher?” Victoria asked. I stiffened, just barely, but both of them saw it.

“A boat,” Fisher said, the burger still held aloft. I saw ketchup emerging at the far edge of the bun.

“A houseboat?” Victoria asked. A drip of red landed on the rim of Fisher’s round white plate.

“Kind of,” I said, stepping in.

Victoria’s eyes studiously avoided the upraised hamburger across from her. “There are some wonderful houseboats out in the West Bay, but I’ve heard it gets expensive. Do you have roommates?” She selected a piece of crab from her salad. “It must be hard on a bartender’s wages.”

Fisher stopped chewing.

“There’s Jim,” I offered. “He’s older.”

Fisher put down his hamburger and licked off the grease that had trickled into the curve between his right index finger and his thumb. “I live in the Desolates,” he said. His voice was matter-of-fact, a dare.

“The Desolates?” Victoria asked.

“That’s what people around here call them. You know, those boats just outside the city limits?”

“You mean where the homeless men live?” Victoria put down her fork. “Did you take Emmeline there?”

“They’re just people,” Fisher said.

“Who live in places that aren’t theirs,” Victoria noted. For every degree of heat that his voice gained, hers dropped two.

“Places that were abandoned by people rich enough to throw a boat away,” Fisher said. “But you’re right; it’s hard to afford rent around here when you’re the one serving others.” His gaze went to the waiter, who was trying to maneuver his way around Victoria’s water glass to refill her wine.

“I know about serving others.” Victoria raised her wineglass toward the waiter. “My mother worked in a department store.”