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I said in an earlier (way earlier) status update that this book was only ever going to appeal to a niche demographic, and I still say so now that I've finished it. Orchidists, or those that have been dragged along to greenhouses, shows, and sales all over the country - if not the world - subjected to endless hours of conversations about species, hybrids, variants, varieties, propagation, contamination, mealy bugs, scale ... *ahem* ... will find themselves nodding along to the insanity that's chronicled in this book and saying "Uh-huh, yep."
But it's a fascinating story whether or not you've got any knowledge of the orchid world. There's adventures in the Amazon, romantic dreams of glory, greed, smuggling, drama, investigations, and dramatic court scenes. I'd call it a Grisham tale with a notes and sources appendix, except it's really not; Pittman is a journalist and though the narrative is excellently written and easily read, it isn't written to be snappy entertainment, and it isn't fiction. This is an investigative journalism piece densely packed with details, events, and the players involved (most of them characters both on and off the page).
The story surrounds the discovery of a new orchid, a member of the family that includes those commonly called "Lady Slippers". This isn't just another lady slipper orchid, but a reportedly spectacular, one-in-a-century find; a new Phragmipedium that's (apparently) showier. far larger than all the rest, and strongly scented.
I say "apparently" because, honestly, it looks like any other Phragmipedium I've seen, and as the child of an orchid grower/breeder, I've seen a fair few. It's reported to change color as it ages, so who knows? It IS quantifiably special in terms of size though: the flowers grow to be 10–20 cm (4–8 in) wide - far larger than your average, delicately sized lady slipper. Still, call me sane, but that flower doesn't make me want to spend $10,000 to own it.
Back to the story: this flower is the catalyst for the downfall of at least half a dozen men and the damn near destruction of the Selby Botanical Gardens. The Scent Of Scandal is, at its heart, the story of one particularly romantic fool who was so desperate to have an orchid named after himself that he broke the laws of two countries and an international treaty to make it happen, in the process bringing down a slew of other naive, romantic fools who desperately wanted to 'play the game', exact revenge on a rival, and establish their necessity to their board of directors. On the sidelines, aiding, abetting, profiteering and stirring things up, is a cast of side characters who were equal parts greedy, stupid, and criminal.
The takeaway from this cautionary tale: don't smuggle the flower of the century out of one country and into another only to then ask the scientific community to name it after you. Having your name officially tied to the taxonomy of a smuggled flower makes plausible deniability awkward. If you're the scientific community tempted to help him: don't. Just don't. And - I can't stress this enough - don't keep a piece to grow for yourself. It makes the Justice Department cranky.
Craig Pittman did an amazing job putting this narrative, with a cast that often felt like thousands and settings all over the globe, into a tight, cohesive timeline that followed this story from a chance conversation on a plane between two strangers, through the dramatic headlines, to the conclusion, where nobody really got what they wanted, including the man with his name on the orchid; a few people died tragically, and just about everybody else ended up unemployed and on probation.
This story, while fascinating it its own right, held a deeper appeal to me. As most know, I was born and raised in Sarasota, and my father, as mentioned above, raised, bred, showed, sold, wrote, lectured about and generally just breathed orchids. He was one of these - and I say this with love and adoration - nut jobs who go crazy for orchids. He knew most, if not all, these people well, and did a lot of Selby's lab work for a time. He was NOT, however, a collector that went scouting for unknowns in foreign jungles. His obsession was hybridisation - crossing known species to come up with new and sometimes wondrous forms. Orchids were to him what peas were the Mendel. In this way, he was able to officially name* orchids for several of his kids from the comfort of his laboratory, without anyone getting a grand jury subpoena.
Self-portrait if I'm a plant in my next life.
So, if you're interested in botany or orchids, and you like stories of true crime/international intrigue involving a bunch of naive old men and a few authentically criminal characters, or even if you're curious by any book categorised as "True Crime / Gardening" (I kid you not), this book might be worth finding. I enjoyed it immensely - once the necessary background is established, the story is riveting.
People are truly, deeply crazy.
* in the name of accuracy, my dad didn't do the naming; he made thousands of crosses in his time and never bothered registering most of them. When other growers wanted to register/show one of his crosses, they'd contact him for permission; he always told them yes, but sometimes he'd randomly request they name it after one of us. Thus it is that I've got a big, gaudy flower that is in every way the exact opposite of what I'd have picked, living on through the taxonomic records with my name on it. Not that I'm complaining - I have a plant named after me! And I didn't get arrested for my little pea sized piece of 'immortality'.
