sambac, and before long he was dis-criminating between Bulgarian and Turkish extracts of the same rose species. His favorites were the grasses—hay, mel-lilot, flouve—the thick, coumarin scents, sweet as vanilla, made him feel as if he were lying in a field at sunset in late summer.
He decided to work on saffron. He’d once extracted a saffron essential oil, but beyond the absurd cost, the scent of the oil had been fleeting. He found a four-hundred-year-old tincture recipe in the online archives of a society of French food historians in Beaulieu, and spent the rest of the evening experimenting at his desk. He began by gently heating diluted alcohol, then dropping three thick pinches of brick red saffron threads into the warm glass flask. He swirled the flask, savoring the warm, buttery scent of the stamens as they swelled and turned crimson, watching the alcohol’s almost imperceptible change from gin clear to the palest of canary yellows. He dipped a test strip, clipped it to a stand, smelled it, and then methodically sniffed it and made notes during the first hour of the dry-down. After one last sniff, he closed his notebook at 1:00 a.m. and put sheets on the couch.
When he turned out the light, Julie’s cat, invisible all day, slipped out from under the club chair. The cat crept warily across the floor, then jumped up onto the couch to lie against him. Jenner was already asleep.
monday,
december 2
Jenner had had nightmares for months after 9/11, but they had finally gone away, replaced by solid sleep, dreamless and deathlike.
He woke suddenly, disoriented, on the couch. Then he remembered: he was in his living room, in his loft, with Ana de Jong. Awake, eyes still closed, he felt the light through his lids. He remembered traveling with Julie in Spain, driving through Castile–La Mancha in early autumn. The road wound through fields of pale violet crocuses, and as they neared Consuegra, the air filled with the scent of saffron.
He opened his eyes, the saffron still in his nose. He sat up stiffly. It wasn’t a dream: Ana was at his desk, wearing his pajama top, perched on his chair, going through his things.
She was looking through the mahogany box, examining each vial in turn. He watched her take out the vial of Egyptian jasmine, unscrew the silver cap, and sniff it.
She’d had a bad night. Jenner had woken, then lain awake on the couch, listening to her cry. He wondered if she knew he’d heard.
She put the jasmine back and began sniffing the cabreuva.
She tucked one tan leg underneath her and glanced absently in Jenner’s direction, eyes widening a little when she saw him watching her.
“Hi,” she said. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you, Dr.
Jenner.”
“No, you didn’t. Don’t worry.”
“Dr. Jenner?” She swiveled the chair to face him, leg still tucked under, looking tiny in Jenner’s pajama top.
“Please call me Jenner. Edward, if you have to; my friends call me Jenner.” She was sitting half naked in his house, wearing his clothes, going through his things: she might as well call him Jenner.
“You don’t like your first name?”
54
j o n at h a n h ay e s
“Not much.” He hated it. “You had a question?”
“No, I had to tell you I accidentally spilled one of the perfumes. I’m sorry.”
The saffron tincture. He told her not to worry. She was probably wondering why a man would have a collection of twenty glass vials of perfume oil in an elegant wooden case; let her draw her own conclusions.
Then he caught sight of her left hand and understood why she’d spilled the oil. He’d never been particularly good at dressing wounds; he’d bandaged her cut hand into a wad of white the size of a boxing glove.
“How does your stomach feel?” he asked.
“A bit sore. Not too bad.”
“I should probably have a look at it.” She made a little face, and then stood up gingerly, gently pressing one hand to her belly.
“In the bathroom again?”
Jenner nodded and got up,
He decided to work on saffron. He’d once extracted a saffron essential oil, but beyond the absurd cost, the scent of the oil had been fleeting. He found a four-hundred-year-old tincture recipe in the online archives of a society of French food historians in Beaulieu, and spent the rest of the evening experimenting at his desk. He began by gently heating diluted alcohol, then dropping three thick pinches of brick red saffron threads into the warm glass flask. He swirled the flask, savoring the warm, buttery scent of the stamens as they swelled and turned crimson, watching the alcohol’s almost imperceptible change from gin clear to the palest of canary yellows. He dipped a test strip, clipped it to a stand, smelled it, and then methodically sniffed it and made notes during the first hour of the dry-down. After one last sniff, he closed his notebook at 1:00 a.m. and put sheets on the couch.
When he turned out the light, Julie’s cat, invisible all day, slipped out from under the club chair. The cat crept warily across the floor, then jumped up onto the couch to lie against him. Jenner was already asleep.
monday,
december 2
Jenner had had nightmares for months after 9/11, but they had finally gone away, replaced by solid sleep, dreamless and deathlike.
He woke suddenly, disoriented, on the couch. Then he remembered: he was in his living room, in his loft, with Ana de Jong. Awake, eyes still closed, he felt the light through his lids. He remembered traveling with Julie in Spain, driving through Castile–La Mancha in early autumn. The road wound through fields of pale violet crocuses, and as they neared Consuegra, the air filled with the scent of saffron.
He opened his eyes, the saffron still in his nose. He sat up stiffly. It wasn’t a dream: Ana was at his desk, wearing his pajama top, perched on his chair, going through his things.
She was looking through the mahogany box, examining each vial in turn. He watched her take out the vial of Egyptian jasmine, unscrew the silver cap, and sniff it.
She’d had a bad night. Jenner had woken, then lain awake on the couch, listening to her cry. He wondered if she knew he’d heard.
She put the jasmine back and began sniffing the cabreuva.
She tucked one tan leg underneath her and glanced absently in Jenner’s direction, eyes widening a little when she saw him watching her.
“Hi,” she said. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you, Dr.
Jenner.”
“No, you didn’t. Don’t worry.”
“Dr. Jenner?” She swiveled the chair to face him, leg still tucked under, looking tiny in Jenner’s pajama top.
“Please call me Jenner. Edward, if you have to; my friends call me Jenner.” She was sitting half naked in his house, wearing his clothes, going through his things: she might as well call him Jenner.
“You don’t like your first name?”
54
j o n at h a n h ay e s
“Not much.” He hated it. “You had a question?”
“No, I had to tell you I accidentally spilled one of the perfumes. I’m sorry.”
The saffron tincture. He told her not to worry. She was probably wondering why a man would have a collection of twenty glass vials of perfume oil in an elegant wooden case; let her draw her own conclusions.
Then he caught sight of her left hand and understood why she’d spilled the oil. He’d never been particularly good at dressing wounds; he’d bandaged her cut hand into a wad of white the size of a boxing glove.
“How does your stomach feel?” he asked.
“A bit sore. Not too bad.”
“I should probably have a look at it.” She made a little face, and then stood up gingerly, gently pressing one hand to her belly.
“In the bathroom again?”
Jenner nodded and got up,
Similar Books
