Top Notes 
Cypriol
Indonesian patchouli
Nutmeg
Sandalwood
Heart Notes 
Ambroxan
Oud
Tonka bean
Base Notes 
Vanilla
Musk
Siam benzoin
08/03/2025
SantinoJo
4 Reviews
Translated
Show original
SantinoJo
3
Ambre Bohème.... The contract at the jazz crossroads
They say that if you wander the streets alone on Christmas Eve, you run the risk of running into yourself. Or worse, someone who knows too much about you.
It was just before midnight. I was soaked to the bone, my last drink had been cheap, and the city seemed to have forgotten that it was once alive. Only a trumpet beckoned, somewhere between garbage cans and memories.
A trumpet.
Wounded, smoky, beautiful.
It sounded like it came straight out of an old blues movie.
I followed the sound, through alleys I had never seen before.
Until I stood in front of a rusty door.
Above it a faded neon sign that flickered: "Saint Louis".
Not the city. The man.
And his spirit was palpable.
I stepped inside.
Inside: a jazz club, like from an old movie.
Smoke, sound, shadows.
The room was warm from the smoke, permeated by bass lines that made the air vibrate.
The sound had weight. The shadows moved like memories.
And then, sitting in the corner between the glow of ziagrettes and glasses of whisky, I drank it.
The tuxedo Santa! Not red, no ho-ho-ho, no cap, no smile.
A man like from a forgotten fairy tale. He sat there as if he owned the room. Black tuxedo, crumpled elegance. Black from head to toe except for his white beard.
His posture, calm like a conductor before the last movement.
His gaze, the gaze of an old predator, hit me like a shot to the head: old, knowing, tired.
As if he were looking through me.
I was like tied up and couldn't move.
But it wasn't his gaze, it was the scent that captivated me. As if someone had known I was coming.
Cypriol, spicy and dry, permeated the room like honest smoke.
Patchouli, velvety and warm, nestled against the memory.
Nutmeg, soft and fine, floating, almost like a spell.
And then a cloud of woods, warm and golden, floating through the room like an old soul.
woody, dry, dark, warm - like a pact that you regret even before you sign it.
I sat down with him without having asked.
He said nothing, just a nod.
Then he lifted his glass, blew out smoke, didn't look me in the eye and asked in a whisper:
"You remember the story of Crossroads, don't you?"
I nodded. Of course.
"The boy, the guitar, the devil, the pact, the crossroads"
He laughed softly.
"But you're not at the crossroads, friend," he said.
"You're in the middle of the club. It's not blues with you...it's a scent. And your instrument is...(he tapped my wrist)...your skin. (short pause)
Your pact...is olfactory!"
Then the scent continued to rise, unlike anything I had ever known.
Oud was there, yes. But not loud, not medicinal, not overt. No drama.
It just whispered...like a distant bass line in the fog. Deep. Noble.
Tonka bean came to the fore, sweet and warm like trust.
And with it followed:
Vanilla, soft as evening light on warm skin.
Musk, sensual, without whispering.
Siam benzoin, golden, balsamic-resinous...like amber that clings to the soul.
I wanted to say something, but the moment was complete.
Like a chord that doesn't need to be explained.
Then the light flickered. The music fell silent. He was gone.
An empty chair. Just an echo.
I got up and left the club.
The club had disappeared.
No door. No "Saint-Louis". No jazz.
Just the night and Ambre Bohème on my skin and my coat.
I was standing at a crossroads, but I wasn't selling anything...I found myself.
Not by a sound, but by a scent that was quieter than any lie and truer than any promise.
Ambre Bohème was not a pact with the devil.
It was the revelation that some chords are not played, but worn.
Forever.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it and that the movie recording is understandable. :)
It was just before midnight. I was soaked to the bone, my last drink had been cheap, and the city seemed to have forgotten that it was once alive. Only a trumpet beckoned, somewhere between garbage cans and memories.
A trumpet.
Wounded, smoky, beautiful.
It sounded like it came straight out of an old blues movie.
I followed the sound, through alleys I had never seen before.
Until I stood in front of a rusty door.
Above it a faded neon sign that flickered: "Saint Louis".
Not the city. The man.
And his spirit was palpable.
I stepped inside.
Inside: a jazz club, like from an old movie.
Smoke, sound, shadows.
The room was warm from the smoke, permeated by bass lines that made the air vibrate.
The sound had weight. The shadows moved like memories.
And then, sitting in the corner between the glow of ziagrettes and glasses of whisky, I drank it.
The tuxedo Santa! Not red, no ho-ho-ho, no cap, no smile.
A man like from a forgotten fairy tale. He sat there as if he owned the room. Black tuxedo, crumpled elegance. Black from head to toe except for his white beard.
His posture, calm like a conductor before the last movement.
His gaze, the gaze of an old predator, hit me like a shot to the head: old, knowing, tired.
As if he were looking through me.
I was like tied up and couldn't move.
But it wasn't his gaze, it was the scent that captivated me. As if someone had known I was coming.
Cypriol, spicy and dry, permeated the room like honest smoke.
Patchouli, velvety and warm, nestled against the memory.
Nutmeg, soft and fine, floating, almost like a spell.
And then a cloud of woods, warm and golden, floating through the room like an old soul.
woody, dry, dark, warm - like a pact that you regret even before you sign it.
I sat down with him without having asked.
He said nothing, just a nod.
Then he lifted his glass, blew out smoke, didn't look me in the eye and asked in a whisper:
"You remember the story of Crossroads, don't you?"
I nodded. Of course.
"The boy, the guitar, the devil, the pact, the crossroads"
He laughed softly.
"But you're not at the crossroads, friend," he said.
"You're in the middle of the club. It's not blues with you...it's a scent. And your instrument is...(he tapped my wrist)...your skin. (short pause)
Your pact...is olfactory!"
Then the scent continued to rise, unlike anything I had ever known.
Oud was there, yes. But not loud, not medicinal, not overt. No drama.
It just whispered...like a distant bass line in the fog. Deep. Noble.
Tonka bean came to the fore, sweet and warm like trust.
And with it followed:
Vanilla, soft as evening light on warm skin.
Musk, sensual, without whispering.
Siam benzoin, golden, balsamic-resinous...like amber that clings to the soul.
I wanted to say something, but the moment was complete.
Like a chord that doesn't need to be explained.
Then the light flickered. The music fell silent. He was gone.
An empty chair. Just an echo.
I got up and left the club.
The club had disappeared.
No door. No "Saint-Louis". No jazz.
Just the night and Ambre Bohème on my skin and my coat.
I was standing at a crossroads, but I wasn't selling anything...I found myself.
Not by a sound, but by a scent that was quieter than any lie and truer than any promise.
Ambre Bohème was not a pact with the devil.
It was the revelation that some chords are not played, but worn.
Forever.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it and that the movie recording is understandable. :)
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