Super Schnoz and the Booger Blaster Breakdown (6 page)

“In other words,” Arnaud added, “you need to name every scent in the bottles or you get nothing.”

Pierre looked at his watch. “This test will be timed. Do you have any questions?”

I shook my head, no.

“Then you may begin now!”

A jolt of anxiety shot through my body. My fingers shook as I popped the cap from the first perfume—Sticky by Jacques Gluant. The scent wafted from the bottle and into my awaiting honker.

“I smell bergamot, lavender, amber, civet,” I rattled off. “And a slight hint of lemon.”

“Perfect!” Pierre gushed. “Quickly, smell another one.”

I grabbed the bottle of Dracula Noir by Otto Sang, twisted off the cap, and took a huge whiff. “Off the top, I smell rosemary, basil, lemon, bergamot, and cinnamon. Then subtle hints of leather, amber, pine, and sandalwood.”

“Excellent!” Pierre exclaimed. “You are an aromatic genius, an
odeur
prodigy! Now, smell the bottle of Mammal No. 5.”

For the next fifteen minutes, I astonished Pierre and Arnaud with my olfactory gifts. I systematically listed every fragrance in every bottle of perfume they placed in front of me. The hard work I had put into my mental scent dictionary paid off, and now it was going to reward me with a million dollars. I couldn't wait to see my parents' faces when I handed them a wad of cash to patch the foundation of our house!

“When do I get paid?” I asked, still dreaming of ways to spend the money.

“Not so fast, le Nez,” Pierre muttered. “We still have one more perfume.”

He placed the bottle of Strange on the table. My heart skipped a beat, and a bead of sweat dripped from my forehead all the way down the bridge of my nose. With the excitement of being in a real perfume lab and getting a million dollars, I had forgotten all about my inability to huff out the secret scent of Strange.

“Scent dictionary, don't fail me,” I prayed and then took a big snort of Strange. “There are essential oils like lavender, jasmine, more sandalwood, and bergamot,” I said with a shaky voice. “And I get mild hints of artemisia, coriander, patchouli, carnation, and one final scent is … uh … um.”

“What is it?” Pierre growled in my face. “I need to know the final ingredient or you say
au revoir
to the
millions de dollars!”

My nervous nostrils quivered like a cell phone switched on vibrate. Frantically, I scanned my mental scent dictionary, silently pleading for the odor to reveal itself. The vanilla-like smell was earthy yet sophisticated, the icing on the most deliciously perfect perfume ever concocted by man.

“Tell me the scent!” Pierre demanded.

“It's … it's … I don't know!” I cried out, tears streaming down my face. “It resembles vanilla but none I've ever smelled before!”

Pierre grabbed more bottles and bags of dried bean pods from a shelf. “These are all of the synthetic and natural vanilla essences known to man,” he said. “Do you smell one of these?”

Inhaling deeply, I sniffed vanilla beans from Mexico, Tahiti, and Madagascar. There was no match. I moved quickly to the bottles—vanilla extract, pure vanilla extract, and vanilla essence. Again, there was no match. Lastly, I popped the cap on a bottle of vanillin, the synthetic version of vanilla. The unnatural ingredients made my nose turn away in disgust.

“It's none of these,” I informed him. “The unknown, vanilla-like ingredient in Strange is from a completely different origin.”

Pierre violently slammed his fist on the table, sending bottles crashing to the floor. “You are a failure!” he screamed, his face flaming red and his temple vein throbbing. “You will never be a
nez professionnel,
and you will never see a penny of the money until you figure out every single ingredient inside Strange. Come with me, Arnaud. I need to get ready for our
dîner
with Aðalbjörn and his friends.”

Pierre and Arnaud walked out of the lab, leaving me alone. I laid my nose on the table, feeling horrible because I had let Pierre down. I was a complete sniffing loser, and it was all because of Strange.

CHAPTER 12

UNTALENTED INSECTE

Pierre, Arnaud, and I drove to the restaurant in silence. The two of them were so disappointed in my inability to conquer Strange that they wouldn't even look at me. My dream job as a
nez professionnel
and the million dollars were slipping away.

“We have arrived,” Arnaud said, wheeling to the curb.

I looked out of the car's tinted windows. Dr. Wackjöb, Vivian, and the Not-Right Brothers were waiting on the sidewalk under a big sign that read:
Nourriture
—
Cuisine Française.

“Do not mention anything about what happened in the perfume lab this afternoon,” Pierre ordered before we stepped out of the car. “I have not given up on you yet, le Nez. I have faith that you will tell me the secret of Strange, and the
millions de dollars
will be yours.”

Pierre patted my shoulder and smiled at me. My nostrils swelled with relief. He wasn't mad at me anymore! There was still a chance for me to sniff out Strange and show him the power of my proboscis. I hopped out of the car and walked into the restaurant with my friends.

While Pierre and Dr. Wackjöb chatted, Vivian and the Not-Right Brothers told me about their afternoon touring New York City.

“After the Art of Odor, we went to the top of the Empire State Building,” Jimmy said, biting into a breadstick. “The view was awesome!”

Mumps pointed to greasy splotch on his skull. “This is where a pigeon pooped on my head.”

“Yuck.” I grimaced. “You could have at least washed it off.”

“Not a chance. It's supposed to be good luck. Plus, I'm keeping it there as a souvenir to show my little brother.”

“Tomorrow we're going to the Museum of Natural History,” TJ said. “There's a living spider exhibit that I have to see. Black widows, tarantulas, wolf spiders, hairy scorpions, giant vinegaroons, the brown recluse, and the deadliest creepy-crawly in the world—the Brazilian wandering spider!”

Jimmy shuddered. “Spiders give me the creeps.”

“Maybe one will bite you,” Vivian joked. “Then you'll become Spider Boy!”

We all laughed.

“How was your afternoon of sniffing perfumes?” Dr. Wackjöb asked me.

Pierre stared at me, his intense gaze like sharp needles plunging up my nose holes.

I lowered my head, unable to look Dr. Wackjöb in the eye. “It was fun,” I muttered. “Pierre has some awesome new fragrances coming out.”

After parking the car, Arnaud joined us at the table. Since he had preordered our meal, we didn't get to pick from a menu. Our first course—
salade verte
and
la soupe à l'oignon
—was really a hunk of iceberg lettuce with some tomatoes and a cup of onion soup. I could do without the salad, but the soup was okay. I love the smell of onions.

Next was the main course. Our choices were
les coquilles Saint-Jacques à la Provencal, le saumon d'ecosse,
or
les filets de bœuf.
We quickly learned that
coquilles Saint-Jacques
were scallops,
saumon d'ecosse
meant Scottish salmon, and
filets de bœuf
was beef. The Not-Right Brothers and I picked beef. Dr. Wackjöb and Pierre ordered the salmon, and Arnaud had the scallops. Vivian just got a refill of salad, bread sticks, and onion soup.

“Le Nez,” Pierre addressed me through a mouthful of baked salmon. “I would like you to return to my perfume laboratory again tomorrow morning. Your astute observations of my fragrances were quite impressive. Is this okay with you, Aðalbjörn?”

Dr. Wackjöb shrugged. “It's fine with me. I can tell how much Schnoz enjoyed spending time with you.”

“But you'll miss all the deadly spiders at the Museum of Natural History,” TJ said.

“Plus, I wanted Schnoz to help me coax another pigeon into pooping on my head so I could have double good luck,” Mumps complained.

“We're going to miss you,” Vivian added.

This was a golden chance to get out of another tortuous session of Strange smelling. The stress of trying to figure out the mystery scent was too much, and I needed a break. “You guys are right,” I said. “I should spend the day with you, visiting all the—”

“Nonsense,” Dr. Wackjöb said. “The Museum of Natural History is not going anywhere, and we still have four full days in New York. Schnoz, spending one more day with a professional perfumer like Pierre is the chance of a lifetime.”

My nostrils deflated and I felt a little icky, like a pigeon had just pooped all over
my
head. Before I could protest, a hard glance from Arnaud caught my attention. He raised his right hand, rubbed his thumb and fingertips together, and made the international sign for money.

One million dollars.

The dough was just a single smell away. If I could sniff out the secret of Strange, I could take care of my family forever. I cleared my throat to get everyone's attention and raised my water glass in the air.

“A toast to Pierre and the fabulous fragrances of the Français Scent Company,” I declared. “For making my perfuming dreams come true.”

The sound of tinkling glasses filled the air. Pierre was enjoying his dessert of
la tarte fine aux pommes
—apple tart—when the restaurant doors opened and in walked a familiar-looking man wearing a black tuxedo with bright red Converse sneakers.

Jean Paul Puanteur!

A man wearing a name tag that read
Maître D'
welcomed Jean Paul to the restaurant by kissing him on both cheeks. A small entourage, including his two burly bodyguards, joined him at a choice table next to a fancy stained-glass window.

Pierre dropped his spoon, wiped his mouth, and groaned, “I have suddenly lost my
appétit.
Please excuse me, Aðalbjörn. I have urgent business to attend. Le Nez, I will send Arnaud to pick you up at your hotel at nine a.m. sharp.” He paid for the meal, and then he and Arnaud disappeared into the city streets.

“This was just like at the Art of Odor,” Vivian commented. “As soon as Jean Paul Puanteur enters, Pierre du Voleur decides it's time to leave.”

“I hope we're not leaving,” TJ said. “I haven't even finished my apple tart.”

“I remember Pierre always being a bit odd during our college days,” Dr. Wackjöb said, taking a sip of coffee. “But eat your desserts, children. We will stay until you have finished your meal.”

Seeing Jean Paul made my nose hairs knot. I still found it hard to believe that he had stolen Pierre's perfumes. This was my chance to meet the man. Maybe I'd have the opportunity to ask him about secret scent so I could be a millionaire! I excused myself from the table and headed in the direction of the bathroom. When I got near his table, I took three quick huffs to calm my nerves and stepped next to his chair.

Instantly, his two bodyguards bolted to attention, ready to escort me away from their boss. Jean Paul, however, waved them off and stared intently at the mass of fleshy cartilage in the middle of my face.

“My name is … uh … Andy … Schnoz … le Nez,” I stuttered. “I am a huge fan of Strange and wanted to … uh … say … um …”

Jean Paul stood up before I finished my bumbling sentence. He was shorter than I had thought. The top of his curly gray hair barely reached the tip of my schnozola. And then, like a man examining a piece of rare, exquisite pottery, he reached out with both hands and gently stroked my honker.

“Beautiful,” he said softly. “You have a
nez
that puts other
nez
to shame.”

“My nose can smell great too,” I said. “I know your signature perfume, Strange, has an awesome blend of lavender, jasmine, sandalwood, berga-mot, patchouli, and stuff like that. But there's another very subtle, mysterious scent in the mixture that my
nez
can't quite figure out. What is it?”