There is a certain class of figures that have meanwhile at least disappeared from German-language literature, but were more frequently to be found until the 1960s - not only in upmarket literature, but also in H.G. Konsalik's and Co.'s works - for example, Joseph Roth's œuvre or Alexander Lernet-Holenia's, in particular. Here in short strokes an exemplary illustration: A lean, elderly gentleman of at most medium size sits in the leather armchair of his small library. The accurate moustache and the surprisingly flowing movement of his age, with which he leaves the armchair to greet him, suggest a somehow military background. The handshake is firm, but not dominant, the conversation develops friendly, the eyes are lively and interested even in casually cut themes. Not the slightest trace of senile bitterness. A classic gentleman in every way? A "gentleman", therefore, to try this shamefully ridden, poor word again? Is it so easy?
On the window-side wall and behind some showcase panes there are all sorts of irritating things: Cossack arrows and bows, a somehow Turkish looking sabre (well...), strange headgear, a Tschibuk pipe, started orders, which neither to Prussia, Saxony, Bavaria nor to the k.u.k.. Monarchy include, a dried monkey hand (?), something that looks like a shrunken garland (??).
The visit asks about the bearskin that was draped so casually-beautifully on the Divan, just to find out that it fell to the former officer (so much we already know) during a Balkan offensive. Separated from most of his regiment in the snowy skirmishes, he had no choice: without the warmth of the bearskin (and, please, his still steaming intestines!), he and his adjutant would hardly have survived the night. It turns out during the afternoon that his life was woven from such episodes. He was one of those men to whom the inner call of the adventure came at least as loudly to the ear as the call of duty. Rhodesia, Indo-China, Asia Minor. Monstrous stories, even more monstrous hints. On the table, Rilke's Malte Laurids Brigge. In a way, a double man, double enormous, in which not, as in us, civilization and savagery lead the eternally same, eternally murky battles, but both, in that the elements were at the same time led to their extremes, experienced a dialectical envelope as it were. Another uncanny, awe-inspiring realization of human possibilities.
Why now does Yatagan make me think of a man of this beat of all people? The fragrance impression actually bears the characteristics of a "gentleman's fragrance" that seems classic to us: a bright, conifery-etheric forest fragrance, almost a little medical. However, already just below the surface it is over with the cleanliness. The impression of nature is not embellished and far away from cultivated gardens with idyllic groves where the eye can rest. This forest is not safe. The whole picture reveals to us undergrowth, in which skeleton bleaches. The otherwise so uniform earth scent splits into its elements and not all are lovely: urine, secretions, an elusive impression of heat (Meanwhile reformulated?) Gar neutered? Then what kind of bestial bomb must he have been in the seventies?! Hard to imagine...). After a few hours then more conciliatory leather notes: The animal is eaten, its skin tanned. Plus a hunch of incense. The durability is good, the Sillage never exceeds an arm's length when used sparingly. Uniqueness? For my part, I haven't smelled anything like that yet.
Anyone who is seriously interested in an "Alpha-Male" fragrance that ranks beyond ridiculous office stallion caricatures and disco furniture fragrances should be referred to this fragrance. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't pay a single compliment at the beginning, but with his primordial conception of masculinity hidden under the Saubermann shell, which lies deeper, he could unfold a profound, yes, "pheromone-like" effect. Perhaps not a perfume for every day, but one that can force the wearer into a certain posture when he needs it.