Heure Exquise Annick Goutal 1984

Whenever Aunt Käthe announced her arrival for Sunday roast, the little girl would tiptoe conspicuously inconspicuously around the entrance hall, so as not to miss it when Berta opened the door and Käthe floated in with her resonant voice and cooing laughter.
The aunt was different. It started with her honking loudly as she pulled up in her OWN car, which Mother only acknowledged with an exasperated snort - and Father made a disrespectful comment: Woman at the wheel, monster. No one dared to mention what had happened to his own car. Just before Father had hired the chauffeur.
It was not entirely out of the question that he scolded the aunt because she had refused to become Director back then, preferring instead to enroll at the university under a false name. A scandal that had forced Grandmother to bed with a migraine for an entire week. At least that’s what the neighbors whispered to each other. But then everything turned for the better, and Mother became Director in place of her sister.
Aunt Käthe always told completely different stories than Mother or her friends. She laughed louder than the other women ever did and lit a cigarette for herself with the greatest nonchalance, as if the men weren’t even there. She had traveled halfway around the world, even though she had no husband to look after her. Mother always emphasized this, but the little girl never understood why. Aunt Käthe seemed to take good care of herself.
Moreover, Aunt Käthe always smelled so wonderful: A tiny hint of smoke mingled with powdery flowers, shimmering cool greens, and dark woods. But there was also something else. Human and alive.
The aunt never reprimanded the little girl for not sitting up straight or for putting her elbows on the table. And even when she had carefully cut off the lace trim from her Sunday dress with the craft scissors to then trim her doll's hair, it only elicited a deep, cooing laugh from the aunt. “She’s just like you were back then,” Mother had hissed, and red spots had formed on her neck.

Years later, hardly anyone will wrinkle their nose at the young woman who still doesn’t like lace trims and prefers to bury her nose in books rather than concern herself with something as trivial as Sunday roast. Her fragrance has just come onto the market, called No19 and is by Chanel. It reminds her a little of her admired aunt, but it is clearer, more straightforward, and cooler.

***

I ask for forgiveness for the anachronism. I am well aware that Heure Exquise is a full thirteen years younger than No19, but still, the fragrance tempts one to think it has always been there - or at least almost. I smell vintage charm, a touch of melancholy and passion that pulses just beneath the surface, as well as a captivating blend of cool and warm. An animalistic note adds liveliness, but also makes me personally prefer No19 or Jacomo's Silences.