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Glamorous green flowers in the best company, 30s style
The door opens and there is immediately an incredibly large bouquet of flowers for the hostess, the face of the one who brings it disappears completely behind it, I don't recognize at first whether it is the old aunt of the family or the young princess of Monacco. Now the lilies of the valley are ringing and more flowers are asking to enter the green salon. Are there any green flowers? The aldehydes make the bouquet even more voluminous and very lively. Pearly drinks are served. Wet glittering crystal glasses, a touch of fruit sweetness from the garden, not from the fruit plate. The first quarter of an hour passes.
After this greenflower entree - Hello, how nice to see you (sparkling laughter)! - a hint of flowery exoticism. The recently arrived fresh young Madame from the last century is increasingly becoming a grandiose appearance. Another lady enters the room in a highly elegant costume (Patou, no doubt), hairstyle and even better posture. She greets friendly and also a little royally. Hairdo, hairspray, body-powder, of course pale and elegant, only a few swabs of peach freshness she has conjured up in her face.
This makes her even more beautiful, but not younger, but rather more awe-inspiring, because it reminds of such serious big old figures as the lady Mitsouko.
The impression deepens and I take a seat to watch the general entertainment. A rose washed with noble soap and a somewhat loud jasmine are added. The conversation is lively and lively, only I sit quietly next to it and consider whether I will probably get a headache and if I better apologize. I decide to stay and enjoy the company. You don't have to keep up everywhere.
My eyes and my nose wander to the large crystal vase, which the sea of flowers can hardly grasp. The bouquet is so opulent, it blurs before my eyes. There are no single flowers here, it tends to be abstract.
Back to the flower conversation: Is there a hint of musk to be felt here or do I smell there a strongly dosed washing powder, which blows over from a noble gesticulating white glove or from a rushing dress or nevertheless from the strengthened shirt of the company?
After about two hours and three glasses of champagne I find: All this cultivated elegance becomes a bit monotonous in the long run. I sit in front on the edge of a precious flowered ottoman and start to dangle my legs inappropriately.
But something distracts me and arouses my interest: A small, somewhat shaggy musk ox comes out of the green and looks through the window. Or is he standing behind glass in a showcase?
The champagne begins to work.
It gets a little stuffy in the crowded saloon.
I have to lie down.
A cat has slipped through the door and rolls up on my arm. Her fur shines golden when I stroke her.
I still smell soap now, but soap that is no longer just clean, the people around it are a little heated, the conversations go on. It's a little bit less glamorous, the atmosphere gets warmer, it gets louder later, the jazz music louder.
All this couldn't be further away from AugustA; a society I once enjoyed but didn't want to miss. Forgotten, never even experienced times.
I'll take my coat and go. A hunch of the scent goes with me.