‘I’m not sure what to do.’

I waited, perhaps hoping that the librarian would offer a suggestion, but he didn’t. I sat quietly, thinking, and after some time one cause for my hesitation came to me. I’d spent many years lecturing, writing journal articles, or presenting papers based on research gleaned from women’s personal narratives: diaries, notebooks and journals. Much of the material was sensitive and I’d always been careful to follow ethics procedures, filling out forms and ticking boxes. But it had been a given that my work was vital and, as such, the historical and cultural institution of the university itself had always bestowed authority and provided a buffer between the material and me. Now, I was morally and personally accountable for all my research-based decisions. I had to ask, Did I have any right to research the grand Māori perfume? And it was clear to me that as a Pākehā, with only a smattering of tikanga Māori, I didn’t.

‘This isn’t my story.’

‘Probably not,’ agreed the librarian, ‘but it’s your journey.’

The word ‘journey’, with its hint of personal development, self-discovery and destiny, made me wince. I wished he’d simply said, ‘But you were curious and wanted to find out more.’

I felt disappointed. My interest in smell and perfume was genuine, and to lay eyes on what I believed to be the first written evidence of the fragrance was immensely appealing. In that instant a sharp sense of loss came over me, which I found difficult to conceal. But I swiftly realised that it wasn’t only the fact that I wasn’t Māori that was holding me back. There was something more, something deeper, more elemental. My brain searched for what it might, be but at that moment the very act of thinking seemed beyond my capabilities. Feeling my way slowly, I said, ‘I think I need to go back to the start.’

‘The start?’

I began gently tapping my fingers on the table, and the repetitive action and soft sound sparked thought. ‘The plants came first,’ I murmured.

The librarian’s passive expression gave way to surprise.

‘What I need to do,’ I continued, feeling more sure of myself, ‘is learn a new way of smelling. My aesthetic is all wrong. I don’t know how to smell native plants because my nose keeps drawing me back to the smells I already know and appreciate.’

The librarian gave me a glance that suggested I’d failed to grasp the nub of the lesson and had gone off on an unexpected tangent.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how to distinguish one plant from the next. I have to teach myself a new way of smelling, so the scents of the individual natives become as easy to locate in my brain as rose, honeysuckle or lavender. I need to start again with the notes.’ Though I was still grasping for clarity of thought, the idea of relearning how to smell took hold and dispelled some of my earlier disappointment. ‘The plants are my way into the subject. They’re the first step towards understanding the traditions and culture surrounding them. That’s how I can learn to be of this land.’