Yatagan

He wore a tweed jacket made of English fabric, in which he felt secure. Purposefully, he directed his steps towards the noble old shop on St. James Street in London, checked the fit of his tie once more, and stepped inside. The distinguished lady with a friendly smile in front of the old wooden display cases looked at him. He was a customer to her liking. An English gentleman of the old school. Surely, he was a loyal customer of their establishment, D. R. Harris, the English court supplier of fine cosmetics for centuries, a favorite of Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales, and also favored by the late Queen Mother. Each of the unassuming boxes bore the coat of arms of Her Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. He briefly swallowed his nervousness and then ordered: a bottle of Eau de Cologne Arlington and the matching aftershave. Was there anything else? No, of course not, that was perfectly sufficient; he didn't care much for creams and other products, he left that to his wife. He quickly stepped back onto the bustling street in the noble London district. And then he could no longer help himself. Casting aside all his good English upbringing, he opened the white, noble box right there on the street in front of all the people and took out a bottle of his beloved fragrance. He did not see that the lady behind the D. R. Harris window was smiling. A spritz, and he smelled his scent: Arlington. First citrus notes, perhaps a bit of bergamot, in any case fern, embedded in the typical scent of a cologne, not those overpowering eau de toilettes that the barbaric gentlemen on the continent preferred. He thought with nostalgic regret that the old formula of Arlington had distinct notes of oak moss, which had been sacrificed to European standards because oak moss caused allergic reactions in some people. But the new composition was remarkable as well. After a few moments, as he got into his old Rover, he still smelled herbal components that he had never been able to classify precisely. The fragrance matched perfectly with his jacket, his Burberry tie, and his English nobility. He was satisfied. He would not stand out, but just emit enough fragrance that his wife would perceive it pleasantly. With this thought, he entered his terraced house in Harheim in the north of Frankfurt. Had he indulged in a daydream? Was it the fragrance, his English jacket? As his wife heard the key in the door lock, she calmed down again. He had never been away from work for so long. Confused, he looked at the bottle of Arlington in his hand...