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03/21/2020
Floyd
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The ghostly duke's privy councillor
The White Duke sleepwalks on the balustrade of the bombastic balcony of his stately estate, his pale nightdress glowing like a spirit in the moonlight. For hours I look over to him through the lead glass window of the servants' house. The ducal court perfumer had had a fragrance of his own created, the servants were supposed to be blinded by his smell, and as soon as he opened it, he let me come to evaluate it. He wanted to know whether it was worthy of His Serene Highness. At 280 Thalers per marble bottle, certainly no one from the lower classes could afford it, I assured him. His facial expression brightened noticeably. What does it smell of? Oh stupid philistine of an aged bloodline! You could have bottled everything for him, toad urine, bog sludge, pig sweat, if I had only attested him a noble fragrance as his ducal privy councillor.
The bouquet began warm and spicy and resinous, bergamot balanced by sweet and nutty clary sage, floating in leaden amber, balsamic myrrh resin and obscure amber. He responded to my explanations with a dumbfounded incomprehension, a derailed face. I assured him that it smelled elegant. I saw him brooding, lost in thought, insecure, confused. Good, I said, it smells good Once again he rubbed his olfactory bulb on the ducal wrist. And now? He wanted to know. It definitely smelled different. I was amazed at his choice of words, and I was also worried about an interpretation of what was presented to me. Sweet resins, tobacco like light at first they soon seemed to overlap in supersaturation, fruity, sweet and sour. Hmmm! I heard the Duke in rapture, apricots and lychee were mixed in by the perfumer, what a highly-born breath of feudal fruit! I decided not to contradict him, knowing that the origin of these fragrances was something inexplicable to me, since there was no wood in them, no resin that could evoke such an association An hour later he called me again for advice. He said it was already so weak that it could not have been the perfumer's intention. A duke must smell strong and powerful. I heard a faint medical touch of benzoin, some Arabic incense, sweetish and clean patchouli. That signaled devotion to the church, I took refuge in explanations, contentment with the belief that this was a sign of strength! Then the duke became a honey pie and I knew that I had prolonged the life of the average perfumer, too ordinary, almost unimportant was this water, warm and spicy fruity, moderate to dead quiet, like the moonstruck man on his wall.
The bouquet began warm and spicy and resinous, bergamot balanced by sweet and nutty clary sage, floating in leaden amber, balsamic myrrh resin and obscure amber. He responded to my explanations with a dumbfounded incomprehension, a derailed face. I assured him that it smelled elegant. I saw him brooding, lost in thought, insecure, confused. Good, I said, it smells good Once again he rubbed his olfactory bulb on the ducal wrist. And now? He wanted to know. It definitely smelled different. I was amazed at his choice of words, and I was also worried about an interpretation of what was presented to me. Sweet resins, tobacco like light at first they soon seemed to overlap in supersaturation, fruity, sweet and sour. Hmmm! I heard the Duke in rapture, apricots and lychee were mixed in by the perfumer, what a highly-born breath of feudal fruit! I decided not to contradict him, knowing that the origin of these fragrances was something inexplicable to me, since there was no wood in them, no resin that could evoke such an association An hour later he called me again for advice. He said it was already so weak that it could not have been the perfumer's intention. A duke must smell strong and powerful. I heard a faint medical touch of benzoin, some Arabic incense, sweetish and clean patchouli. That signaled devotion to the church, I took refuge in explanations, contentment with the belief that this was a sign of strength! Then the duke became a honey pie and I knew that I had prolonged the life of the average perfumer, too ordinary, almost unimportant was this water, warm and spicy fruity, moderate to dead quiet, like the moonstruck man on his wall.
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