Siebenkäs

Carefully, he pushed the Z-51's warp control to 1982.
A gentle jolt was the result; little else seemed to
happen. He leaned back in the medium-comfort leather seat
and took a few peanuts from the
medium excitingly designed center console.
Almost three years now he had been doing this job. Still
still for the same money, still with no discernible
Career prospects. And without any prospect of a little
Fame. Not even a new Timeglider they gave him,
the sleek Z91c or at least the Z71
No, still that old cucumber.
And now this not-so-easy assignment.
"Get ZINO out," had been the terse order on the
self-destructing coaster had only read. "There is imminent
Danger to the scent peace!"
And he knew what that meant.
It wasn't the first time he'd done it, after all.
Which is why he also knew that this ZINO was not an easy
Case.
The landing went reasonably smoothly, only the exact
Time he could not read, because the on-board clock was already
been stuck for a long time, it only showed the season - autumn.
The landing point was well chosen - he hid the Z-51
behind a holler bush and switched on the camouflage optics.
Shortly after, he strolled casually down a small shopping street
dressed in a red crumpled coat
and fringed boots. Well, rather 70s, the outfitting
for time agents wasn't what it used to be either.
Fortunately, he had a by means of sources, which may not yet
a dossier that would help him find ZINO
to help him find ZINO
Faster than expected he found the discotheque "Marquis",
over which lay the small apartment - ZINO's secret
Lair in this angle of time.
Across the backyard to the stairwell, first floor, briefly ear
to the door, silently and quickly open the lock - routine.
And then inside. Two rooms. Quickly checked.
Out flew the bird.
He basically didn't expect it any other way.
But - its smell was still in the air. And that was worth a lot.
He had studied him long enough to recognize his components
quickly. There were clearly elements of the fruity
spicy opening, but which already betrayed a hint of dark
Rose, also of rosewood betrayed. And now, here in 82,
there was also a hint of a bitter note that had been
announced to him at headquarters as "camel to camel sweat-related"
had announced. He had thought it exaggerated and
thought it theatrically exaggerated even now. Yes, there was something tender
bitter, but still nothing really animal. On the contrary -
he even detected a barbershop vibe, not ostensibly,
but playing in the whole, marked by lavender and well
balanced bergamot. ZINO seemed even more unusual to him,
than he had expected - he played around confidently, gave himself
simultaneously as oriental and British in the sense of woody,
Vintage spicy gentleman's club atmosphere. Loose.
And worldly. Yes that was the word.
And its basic character transformed not unusual
Plants - patchouli, sandalwood, cedar, some vetiver -
into a unique, soft-spicy aura that from somewhere
received some sweetness. Where exactly - that remained guessing, but
this slightly sweet-powdery elegance was his real
Secret weapon. With terms like benzoin or tonka not so
easy to explain. As so often was here the whole more
than the sum of the individual parts.
Only, alas, none of this helped.
He had to find it somehow.

Quite perplexed, he stood on the street again.
Then someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind.
Cautiously, he turned around - and grinned.
He had suspected that they might send someone else after him
might send someone else after them, but not so fast.
And not them.
It was Barbie Q - who, though she hadn't long been a permanent time agent
worked for headquarters, but was considered a badass.
As a free agent, he had dealt with her before.
Black leather catsuit with wide schoolster pads,
white Fiorucci shoes and aerobic ankle warmers.
Looked good on her.
"Hi Stanley...good to see you."
"Hi Barbie..."
She smelled like Cuir de Russie, perfectly blended with some
Rostbratwurst.
"You didn't do a bad job on your last one," he said.
She gave him one of her famous pearly smiles.
"Thank you!"
For 2 months she had infiltrated the Ifra and gotten out alive
out alive. And with valuable information at that.
All at once she ran her nose up to his neck, waved
over it, first one side, then the other, back again -
it took a minute at most. Or maybe two.
Three at the most.
"Aramis 900..." she said, "taste you have."

"Can I see her papers?"
They hadn't even noticed him, the uniformed man who
who now stood brawnily in front of them. He began with Stanley.
"Name?"
"My name is Drauf. Stanley Drauf."
"How nice for you to be on it all the time..."
"Joker!"
Stanley would have loved to have given him a couple of doubles right then and there
...right then and there. But the guy looked a bit burly. And of course..
...he sensed right away that this wasn't a real cop
Fake stitching on the pants, telltale laces. Lousy
Fake Oak Moss Smell. Fortunately, these Ifra agents
in some ways no smarter than crispbread.
And then it all happened very quickly.
In a flash, Barbie sprayed some Kouros in the bull's face
Face, and he slumped right over.
"There - he's got him in the car!" she shouted, and also rushed
away.
She was good, unfortunately.
In a few seconds they had freed ZINO and were
back at the Z-51, which was a broken shopping cart..
filled with empty paint cans.
The ride back was pleasant, as the Z-51 was rather cramped.
Barely back in the present, together they produced the
Scent Dossier for Headquarters:
"ZINO profile note normal zero/present time:
Bergamot notes underpinned by dark roses,
some lavender and sage freshen up, a bit quieter in the
Entry than in the return year, but not weak.
Soon first orientalism in its very own way.
Sandalwood and cedar softness.
With patch and vanilla everything melts into a tart-sweet,
almost buttery aura, timelessly cosy and unsubtle-cosy.
A distinctive character. More sexy than sedated.
ZINO lives!"

"Not bad..." said #2, as they
presented, "really not bad."
And now that was really the highest praise that
was to be had.
"Makes a good impression, the boy..." he added,
"not exactly modern, almost old-fashioned, but still good..."
"Few things are so old-fashioned as the desire,
to be modern," Stanley murmured. But only very quietly,
because he didn't want to jeopardize his planned luxury vacation..
he didn't want to jeopardize his planned luxury vacation with Barbie Q. He already knew exactly where it
he knew exactly where to go. He knew of an adventure pool in the Sauerland.
With artificial elder bushes. Decadent on the lounger
...get some fries... ...massage Barbie's neck with Vol de Nuit..
sipping fizzy drinks..
"Stanley...?"
Number Two abruptly snapped him out of his reverie.
"Er...yes...?"
"There's a very urgent case coming in just now! Be there tomorrow
Evening at the "Mole" Inn. Anything else on beer mat!",
number Two snapped him out of his reverie in a metallic voice.
"But I wanted..."
"Nothing but! It's about the western world as we
know it. I'm just saying mu... no, I'd rather not say anything,
who knows if even here the walls don't have ears..."
Barbie gently poked Stanley in the side.
"It's okay, Number Two, he'll be there!"

Strange how different the Rue du Thouron seemed that morning
seemed.
Now that she had decided toput all that behind her
leave behind, the trusted paths suddenly looked so different.
The whole town seemed even smaller to her than usual.
The Boulevard du Jeu de Ballon she crossed quickly and
a little way below the school at which she was to start in only a few
Weeks.
But it would not come to that, she had her own
Plans. And that didn't include following in her father's footsteps
her father's footsteps. Or getting caught up in the town's age-old traditions
...by the town's ancient traditions
She wanted to be free. To have her own experiences and to make up
the world, or just a little bit of it, blowing around her nose

With her nose, she had always loved to discover the world
discovered. As a little girl with her mother in the lavender
fields or in the hills of Tanneron, when the mimosas
were in bloom, in her grandmother's kitchen baking, in the
Streets and shops, in cellars and churches, on clothes,
Books, crayons, on flowers and trees as on furniture,
and also in her father's study.
Who knows - maybe she would even become a musician? First of all
to Paris, then on to London, where so much was happening at the moment
where punk was becoming new wave
Her backpack didn't seem heavy, she had only packed the
Necessary packed and in addition her entire savings with it.
Relaxed, she put her hands in her pockets - and felt
something small and round that felt somehow familiar.
She pulled it out and held it on the flat of her hand in the
Morning light. A small perfume tube, on which was written in
fine letters "Mitsouko".
Of course, that told her something. But, although she knew many perfumes
she wasn't sure if she had ever smelled this one before
smelled this one before. How on earth had it got into her bag?
Alain, perhaps? Yes, that could be it, he had
he had talked to her a lot lately, and besides..
suited him quite well
And it suited her desire for new things, her euphoric
Mood.
With a loose hand, she sprayed something right and left
on her neck.
A slightly citrusy, a little fruity and somehow
tingling scent rose to her nose and combined perfectly
with her joyful excitement.
She was now standing at the bus stop - for she had
opted for the cheaper option - it took
longer, but the train to Paris cost twice as much.
A slight astringency was now making itself felt in the scent
noticeable, also something rough-floral and vegetable-spicy,
which harmonized strangely with the slight wistfulness that
rose in her as she waited for the bus that was to take her
far away from all that was familiar to her.

She sat by the window, at the very back of the bus, which was now passing through the
mountainous landscape, glazed over by the morning sun.
Was her decision the right one? The question surfaced within her,
without her wanting it to. Paris she knew but little of and
London not at all. Both cities were infinitely
larger than her dreamy little hometown.
An almost austere spiciness now mingled with the flowers,
which she guessed to be lilacs, plus jasmine, some wild
Rose, too.
Generally there was a beautiful disorder in the fragrance, for the
Fruitiness had soon turned out to be peach or peach-
compote with cinnamon.
And that mixed with the untamed flowers.
The spiciness, reminiscent of dry herbs, soon relegated
soon put the florality in its place, so that the scent
now seemed almost masculine
No, there was nothing sweetly conciliatory, no "All right,
you know what's best for me..."
Of course, her decision was the right one. She would go her
her own way. And not dutifully go to this school just
because her father was already at Roure and everyone
seemed to know what was good for her
All at once the peach announced itself back.
Almost balmy it seemed now, the flowers and spices seemed
less severe, less authoritarian, more open.
"You've got this under control yourself," they seemed to
say, "you can do it, you'll show them."

Eventually she had dozed off, the steady rocking
and the more powerful sun had done its work
done.

When she opened her eyes again, she neither knew
where she was or how long she had been asleep
Then she spotted a sign: Paris 625km. No indication of
the next town, but the exact distance to the capital.
As if all roads knew only one destination.
She felt more rested now, more alert.
And the scent seemed even more perky to her, too.
There was something about it that she so
in a perfume. It was like something alive, a tension
that came from contrasts.
You couldn't control it, the perfume seemed to do that
itself.
There was the almost harsh-lordly austerity, tart-spicy, rough,
untamed. And a balsamic softness, sometimes mossy,
sometimes vanilla-woody, also candied-fruity, cuddly depth
Depth, before which roughness and severity relativized.
Sometimes one, sometimes the other seemed to dominate.
Although the balmy-soft side was the dearer to her,
she found Mitsouko incredible. She felt that the scent
perhaps not quite captured her heart, but 100%
her head. And she was aware that many might have
Might have difficulty.
She, however, was able to look over the whole thing and thus appreciate the
artful, refined quality of the composition effortlessly
recognize.
They were approaching Montélimar. Like the perfume, the
Landscape had lovely and rugged sides.
Didn't it apply to so many things?
That a perfume could express such a thing was new to her.
It played with light and dark - which did not mean good and bad.
Both were equal, like day and night.
Had there ever been a scent like this before?
She might not have known enough perfumes to know.
But she felt a great desire to try new scent ways herself
to try them out. Didn't too many perfumes, mostly thought up by
Men, always went the same way?
Couldn't one try to create a fragrance,
that veered even more to the dark side - not evil,
but playful with soft, enveloping depth,
as some vetivers or woods could, dark,
but also shining, like night on a lake or
iridescent black ink. And weren't there more
Possibilities? Sensitive fragrances, with a life of their own, fragrances
that played on stereotypes of feminine and masculine...
She reached for the small bottle and sprayed herself again
something on. Gently, the scent rose to her, almost saucy,
tingling, but harmlessly pretending.
Mitsouko seemed to be singing softly to herself,
"I know there's more to me..."
In Montèlimar, the bus rolled into a side bay of the Avenue
Jean Jaurès, where it had a stop. On the same side
there was a small shop where one could get provisions.
Most of the passengers got off, she too rose
from her seat and stepped out into the warm,
southern French afternoon sun.
She had taken the backpack with her.
She glanced briefly at the shop from which the first
Passengers were emerging with baguettes.
Then, with a flourish, she threw her backpack over her
Shoulder, crossed the Avenue Jean Jaurès and walked
down towards Rue de Grèzes, where the stop of the
Counter bus was, which was going back to Grasse,
back to her future.

Finally.
Nervously you trip from one foot to the other.
The old stone staircase.
Your aunt's house, which is almost as old.
(she has long since lived in a luxurious retirement home.)
Housekeeper - not a word you like.
But it may be true.
"Checking in on things now and then."
No matter.
You're standing in front of your escape castle.
Get me out of this cage.
You keep the bottle in a fake book.
In the library, next to the Buddenbrocks.
You wouldn't take it home.
Never.
There's no room for that at your house.
Too much efficiency. Everything runs like clockwork.
Long march through the institutions, my ass.
First they promoted you.
Then they promoted you again. And again.
Now what?
Executive floor. Corner office. As in "The Apartment".
But you've kept your subversive spirit.
Haven't you?
Now you unlock the door.
Up the stairs. Into the library.
-----
You hold it in your hand.
Geranium Odorata.
Almost nothing holding name.
Almost all holding fragrance
Almost is your word.
You pull the trigger.

The opening is like a door that immediately welcomes you with
citrusy hand into the beloved garden
into the beloved garden. Here everything is as it was in your childhood:
the old table, which stands in an enchanted corner on the
high-growing meadow, half-roofed by a
wild rose bush. The tangy fresh scent of many herbs,
mixed with mint and dandelions invites you to
To sit down. Paper and quill are already ready.
You take a seat and look at the magnificent geranium -
bouquet, which is in a pajama-colored pitcher on the table
on the table. You dip the quill into the small barrel with
finest cardamom ink and begin to draw.
The scent seems to guide your hand - its light, bright
green and encouragingly fresh children's garden aura with
this round, sand-cake-shaped spice doesn't need
to whisper in your ear anymore - you know it just the same:
All is well.
And when you're done drawing and playing,
and maybe roll-around-in-the-meadow sometime,
when it suits you, then, sure, then the soap may come intoplay, too
The good old rose soap, and you'll be sitting
soon after that, inside, at the dining table, and grandmother will
open the soup tureen and everything will be right again.
And at some point, the soothingly refreshing, mildly
floral, barely forefinger-bitter, delicately child-spicy,
familiar-herbaceous and comforting-scented melody softens.
With its slow fading, you find yourself again
in the house, without a hangover, content for now, almost full.
The amazing inner balance that the scent possesses,
seems to pass over to you a little.
Now you can return to normal.
To what they expected of you. Your duties.
And "challenges".
What a ghastly, missounding word.
Compared to "Geranium Odorata".
But you don't mind too much, you're again
you're ready for anything
And besides - they don't have you quite yet.
In the next meeting, for example, you could come up with a
with awell-sounding, balanced rationale
raise for all junior employees.
Although - now would not be a good time
because of the upcoming company valuation. Then just
something else. More vacation? At the moment, unfortunately, quite difficult
feasible.
But you would come up with something good.
And you'd push it through.
Someday.
Wouldn't you?

For perhaps the 17th time, he turned his head to check the
Front door.
Nothing.
No pretty brunette in a hat, anyway.
Well, it was still ten minutes early.
He relaxed. Hadn't he done everything with
He'd arranged everything with care The place - first class.
One that was priced well above his level.
But for a first date with a woman
who had only ever seen him on the dating app, -
just right.
And he was wearing the right fragrance, too.
Carefully chosen.
He had signed up specially on a perfume forum,
to learn as much as possible about fragrances.
For weeks he had read, in earnest.
As if before a vital exam.
And now he had his perfume.

It reminded him of his father - that certain, reliable
Authority, coupled with a particular humor, indeed with
a certain rebellious attitude.
And it smelled just wonderful - green-herb and meadow-fresh,
serious and cheerful at the same time, through a fine
bold citrus-orangy effervescence. Like a lightning
Idea. Transitioning into a peculiar warmth, which reminds him of wood
as well as dry spices, cinnamon and camp
fire, of shirt-sleeve or children's-weekend-in-the
Country dreams, of good fresh forest air, of mushrooms, also
of ant soil and log-cabin escape plans.
He would never have said so-but to himself he could
make all that out and enjoy it like a child.
Creaky yet elegant, deep yet fresh, clean
and unafraid to get dirty, sunny and
at the same time reminiscent of redeeming rain.
There was that much in Devin for me. At least.
And then he had this idea.
Maybe a stupid thing.
But anyway. He just wanted to give himself a touch of exclusivity
...to himself. Gray and nondescript, as he often felt.
He would somehow get her to pick up the scent
to take it in her hand. And then
He had the bottle in his pocket. And perfectly rearranged.
It had been a bit of a job - but now
the label said his own name instead of "Devin" -
"Kevin."
The seriphene "K" had not been so easy to cut out
and glue it on... And he thought it was perfect.
"I had it made for me - I have an address like that
in Paris..." he would say casually.
Now all that was missing was her.

Five minutes late - she thought that was just about right.
She opened the door and did a quick, routine check of the interior
of the restaurant.
It wasn't particularly crowded. Quickly, very quickly in fact,
she had located him. That had to be him.
Tousled brown hair that looked like it had been cut by himself.
Tall and thin and kind of like a big kid.
But most of all, there was the dated book on the table,
on the bottom as if in the window of a bookstore -
"The Catcher in the Rye."

"Hello! How nice to meet you..."
"Nice to meet you too..."
She sat down and placed her silk scarf beside her on the
Windowsill.
"Strange, to suddenly feel so in real..."
"Here you go, the card..."
He said that at the exact same moment, she laughed sheepishly,
and took the card.
"Yeah, I think so too..." he tried to pick up her thread,
"I uh..., go ahead and pick something expensive, I'll buy you a drink of course
"I'll buy you a drink..
Maybe he should have phrased that differently?
She looked at him kind of funny, didn't she?
Oh well, he was just imagining it.
"Well, myself, I'm just gonna drink was, ain't hungry right now
Hungry..." he added. "I like watching you though..."
She looked at the map, somehow she seemed tense to him.
Sure, first meeting, all natural, he reassured himself.

Can this be true, she thought. What a jerk. And he says
that so easily there, as if he... he doesn't realize that perhaps?
Almost funny again... but, well, one thing's for sure - he smells
at least quite well... somehow so nice and fresh...
From perfume, she had not so much idea. Sometimes
she smelled it on her friends. Or sometimes on
Men. Mostly she liked that. Roch just quite good, nice and fresh
stop. In any case, mostly.
"Um, yeah, I don't know yet... maybe a salad...?
"Oh well, just have the senatorial platter, it really doesn't matter..
it really doesn't matter..."
But I don't eat meat..."
"Oh, well then..."
He was flabbergasted, he hadn't expected that.
But no matter.
"Comes with scampi too..." he finally said.
"Um... I don't like them either... they're so fishy somehow..."
"Yeah, well, I agree, they are, unfortunately..."
He wondered what else he could say.
She sniffed unobtrusively in his direction.
That scent...there was something green about it, something of nature. And
also something grown-up, self-assured.
Such a certain clean spiciness, perhaps herbaceousness.
Something also reminded her of a Mediterranean forest.
Interesting. Oddly appealing.
And somehow new to her. More than "nice and fresh."

He would have to say something now, something intelligent or even
Funny. But what? Somehow elegantly bring the perfume into
So that afterwards he could perhaps
could pull out the bottle
Of course, quite nonchalantly and inconspicuously...
"Do you think my perfume is that great?"
"Um...I, yeah, what can I say..."
What was that about now? Had he really asked her that now
really asked her that now? She was actually speechless.
"Well, it does smell good, uh, nice and fresh..."
She just couldn't think of anything better, even though she knew
that it was weak.
"Here, look, this is it!"
He pulled out the bottle and set it on the table in front of her.
"I had it made, there's this perfumer
in Paris..."
This couldn't be true. She immediately recognized the letter
it looked just too ridiculous
What was she supposed to say to that? Was this possibly his kind of
Humour? Was she supposed to laugh now?
"Great, Kevin, a scent with your name!" she said instead.
He sprayed her arm a few times without asking.
"Here, take a sniff yourself..."
As if in a trance, she brought her forearm to her nose.
The fresh scent mingled with the one he was not exactly
faintly. It gave quite a concert of scents,
a word that came to her as if of its own accord.
Freshly cut grass, soft cinnamon, perhaps a few
Cloves, a kind of moss that smelled pleasantly raw and natural,
a subtle, pleasant sweetness that was somehow accentuated by an equally subtle
Bitterness somehow accentuated even more.
Or was it the other way around?
The terms came to her mind without her being able
could construct a meaningful sentence for them. Or wanted to.
One phrase that didn't even remotely come to her mind
came, was: Smells like a hermaphrodite from Aromatic Chypre
and Green Fougère in the drydown, a sophisticated variation
of "Alliage", and typical of Barnard Chant..."
Where from?
Instead, she thought about Kevin.
Wasn't that an absolute moron?
So moronic, in fact, that in the end it was all right.
Somehow...she didn't really know herself.
Anyway, not a bore.
And actually not unsympathetic.
Rather the opposite.

E beamed at her.
She had to smile.

There was a certain warm feeling inside her,
as if from a still tiny little flame.
She remembered a phrase her aunt had often said,
she had never given it much thought, but now..
it suddenly seemed somehow appropriate. It read:
When you smell good, the whole world smells good.

Rumors that "The Perfume Man" had parted company with his reporter
7-Cheese had parted ways, we strongly deny.
(It may be that such a thing was briefly talked about because he again-
fetches our editor-in-chief's Demeter yogurt from the
Company refrigerator to go with it. However, after we
learned of his new coup in fragrance,
his resignation was immediately rescinded, especially since he replaced the
stolen yogurt was replaced, albeit only by two
Aldi yogurts)
So here is his, we think, exciting report:

"Friday, 5pm 10th
...with the new sample from the headquarters of the fragrance guru J.Acko
arrived in Paris. Just the right place to launch this
special perfume in style to test. Because my maxim
is and remains now times - always think of the reader!
And do not save. (aren't the expenses ultimately
ridiculous when it comes to delivering premium content for the
"Scent Messenger"?)
While I consider whether the room at the Ritz is big enough
for a first test, I place the test unit gently
in front of me on the Louis Quinze secretary.
Well then - bravely fresh way 3-4 sprayers dowelled on it...
and still 2 as a booster on my new Charvet shirt.
(just at the Place Vendome as a test shirt for the fragrance
acquired. )
Aha.
A slightly ethereal entry, but with an immediate
Impression of dry wood arises, which then after
and gradually unfolds into the image of a complete forest.
But this is not a normal forest, much more a special forest permeated by a
certain power permeated special forest, somehow
french refined.
But how? And to what end?
I can't possibly fathom that here in this dull hotel room
in this dull hotel room
A glass of Chablis and a little dinner might
my imagination and my ability to formulate..
Leaps and bounds..."

"6:25 p.m., at the entrance to L'Arpège in the Rue Varenne.
The liveryman won't let me in, without a reservation.
I pull out my press pass, he just smiles tiredly.
When I repeatedly yell, "The perfume guy," he
finally relents.
Soon I am seated at a nice little table.
Not the best view of the place, but not badly
located, very close to the door to the toilets.
I order a glass of Chablis and a burger with fries.
But they don't have them here, the waiter says that almost
indignantly. Instead, he recommends the menu Surprise.
Because of me. I nod nonchalantly.
But now back to the scent, you are surely already curious,
dear readers.
So back to the forest.
I sniff myself.
The scent is indeed reminiscent of a forest, but one
of very controlled originality, without loudness and
Wild growth, but with an aura of chic inappropriateness.
"Monsieur" takes elements from a wild, nature-dominated
Forest and tames them so that their roughness and pithiness fit perfectly
fit into the urban jungle. And just there especially well
work - for example, like a Barbour jacket.
Or a slightly dirty jeep in front of the Opéra.
In addition, there is - you can smell it early - a certain
non-aquatic rock freshness, which reminds of mountains and whitewater
reminds. It holds back, however, it merely ensures
that the forest is not too arid.
The whole thing is grounded by - well, what do you think? By moist
Earth and some patchouli. Matschouli so to speak.
This works wonderfully and elegantly, together with the
noble-looking woods, everything seems immensely distinguished and
parisian.
As expected, the Chablis has loosened my formulation motor
loosened up. I note my impressions immediately, the word
"distinguished" I underline three times.
Posh is the card too, made of heavy handmade paper.
Then I see what the menu Surprise costs. 800 euros.
Well, at least the L'Arpège has 3 stars.
Slight doubts rise in me... whether the chief editor
about the settlement of my expenses only with displeasure...
Then my waiter comes out of the kitchen with a greeting..
as I know it from my favorite restaurant at home. Here
it's not a little note that discreetly reminds me
my unpaid bill from last time.
But rather something small to eat. Nice.
Maybe they'll think I'm a food critic if
if I write a lot? And I don't have to pay... No, that
would look like corruption, wouldn't it?
Slightly nervous, I stand up and head for the exit.
"Fumer... je reviens...", I mutter towards the waiter.
Outside, it's cool-dusky. I don't smoke, of course,
for a long time.
Quite a few taxis are parked in front of the pub.
I follow a sudden inspiration and get into one
one of them. "Père Lachaise, s'il vous plait...", I just say.
On the way, I continue to meditate on the scent. Logically, always
in use, for you, dear reader!
On the way, I ask the driver to stop briefly at an Indian
Sandwich stand in the Marais to stop, where I get myself for the trip
a sandwich "mushroom special."
Now something about the smell reminds me of the short time
i used to smoke. (Mainly because I just looked so casual with a cigarette
just looked so casual - which is why I also no value on
the quality of the cigarettes, I consumed only very
cheap brands like "Schnorratti Privat", "Rinnstein Auslese"
or "Van Anderen.")
That slight smoky note in the fragrance - isn't it the link
from the wilderness to culture? Smoke in the hearth as the main feature
of civilization... the tamed wildness of fire...
There's also a bit of incense now - a slightly
esoteric element so. In addition, a healing tincture-like note,
the breath of a French magic potion, with which you can
no Romans can thrash, but more supple in the
Bon Chic Bon Genre sphere... well, maybe.
At least that's how you feel..."

"19.47, entrance to Père Lachaise...
Was this really a good idea, visiting celebrity graves here
like Jim Morrison's? Just to make the
Connection of the fragrance between Parisian bohemia and
the spirit of rock 'n' roll to explore? Is there?
Anyway. For the reader, you have to be willing to take any detour
for the reader
I walk off the main path, onto a small trail that
leads me deeper into the darkness of the cemetery.
The woodsy and now woodsy-tender-smoky aura of the fragrance
mingles, yes muddles, beautifully with the damp-green
fresh evening air.
I sit down on a stone bench.
What happens now may sound strange. But I'm
i'm sure the reader will believe me, for how many
olfactory incredible adventures have I not
faithfully recounted?
A fox comes out of the bushes, looks at me
and laces closer to me. Strange. Rabies? (the animals
then lose their shyness)
He sits down right next to me.
"Do you know what this is?" asks the fox.
I remain silent, embarrassed.
"Well, this is my town. Here I know everything, every path,
every tree. Only when I want wilderness - then I
out, into your streets. Your city is to me what the forest is to you
the forest is..."
"Very interesting!", I say softly...
"You smell just like the border between the forest and the city...",
said the fox..."

And here ends the report.
By the way, there's still for a short time at the conclusion of a subscription
of the "Perfumed Messenger" two orange-covered folding camping chairs.
Or the popular thermos with oud wood pattern.
(unfortunately, our intern missed the photos of these.
But I'm sure you can picture them just fine.)