Page 23 of The Missing Pages

PIPE SMOKING WAS ONE OF THE HANDFUL OF ACTIVITIES I shared with my father.

When I was twenty years old, he took me to his favorite tobacco store in Philadelphia where they had blended a special recipe just for him, and offered me the chance to make one of my own.

The owner had me sniff through the tins of smoked leaves, brought from places as close as Roanoke and as far away as India, and let me choose the ones I found most appealing.

“Start with a Virginia blend for the base,” my father guided. The tobacconist placed several yellow leaves atop a small postal scale for measuring.

“And what condiment leaves would you like to add to that, Mr. Widener?” he asked as he pulled a handkerchief from his apron and cleaned his hand.

My father turned to me. “Well, Harry, what do you like?” His ruby ring, the one he never took off, flickered in the light.

I let my nose wander over tins that smelled of leather, vanilla, cherry wood, and oak.

I wanted my tobacco blend to encapsulate the smell of my study. To evoke to me the scent of reading. The scent of a library. But, with my father, I just stuck to the basics with him.

“I think I’d like something that smells of oak,” I answered.

The tobacconist nodded and got on his ladder, pulling down a tin from the upper shelf. He opened it and I inhaled, nodding with approval.

He then searched a lower shelf for another tin.

“Many of my customers have found that this one is a fine complement to oak.” He pulled off the lid. “Here you go, sir.”

I cupped my hand over the opening and took in the rich scent of hide. It reminded me of my leather reading chair at home.

“Yes. Perfect,” I said.

“We’ll need to add one more note then, Harry,” my father advised. He suggested vanilla.

This time the tobacconist brought down four tins for me to sample.

“These are all different blends of vanilla. Bourbon. Tahitian. French and African. They each have their own distinction,” he informed.

I peered down, inhaling each one for their own unique notes.

“The bourbon, please,” I decided. My response to it was immediate.

“The fragrance of kings,” my father said, laughing. His approval was evident.

It was not the bourbon’s royal provenance that drew me in. It was, instead, the sensation it gave me. A similar feeling to when a book carried me away. It felt like time travel. It evoked reverie. It elicited mystery.

This would be my scent, my little tin of books and dreams. From now on, I could withdraw it from my pocket at any time, and in plumes of blue smoke, fill the air with it.

“Thank you, Father,” I said as he signed for the payment.

He ordered some more of his personal blend to take home. I knew that scent so well. I’m not sure if he was conscious of the fact when he created it, but his also smelled like a mix of paper and ink. It was a different kind from mine, though.

It smelled like money.