Attar[1] Of Talendar
Peony D. Beckside
I watch the man. I sip at the container of ‘Black wine’ in my hand, though here it is called coffee, or alternatively Café, this place having two main languages. This is poor stuff compared to the fine brews of Thentis grown beans.
A kajira, Greta, that I owned before coming
to this cesspit of a planet told me of this man. Kurt, I believe he is called, though that’s
not certain. Kurt may be the ‘back-room
boy’ at the Internet site where most of the business which is being carried out
here, is conducted.
Kurt if that is who he is, is an Artist in
his field, at least here on Earth he is.
He is a Perfumer, a creator of scents mostly used by women. How he’d compare to a Gorean perfumer, I
don’t know. He does seem to be an expert
in his field. Not just an expert, but
one that loves his job. He is animated
about it way beyond the word keen. Greta
had spoken highly of the time she’d met him, and how even in a different
country, as they call them here, she’d regularly bought her favourite perfume,
it being shipped to her. I have a
proposition for this man.
The city is Brussels, in the country called
Belgium. Between the highly ornate Grand
Place and the city’s Central Railway station is a market, a collection of
temporary stalls set round a small square.
This one is called the Grassmarket.
Greta had laughed when she told me this, she indicated that though
called this, there was no ‘grass’ to be had at all. I must have looked confused, for she told me
that ‘grass’ is a slang term for a plant who’s leaves when smoked engenders a
highly euphoric if not hallucinogenic state in the person doing this. Smoking ‘grass’ is illegal in most Earth
countries, so the buying and selling of such is always hidden. Not that this information is germane to why I
am here.
‘Kurt’s’ market stall is at the far end of a
row of such. There are flagons, vials,
bottles, jars, of every conceivable shape containing liquids in hues of myriad
base colours, not unlike a Gorean perfumer but apparently considerably
different to this planet where most perfumes are inferior products,
pre-packaged and advertised using slick marketing techniques often based on the
current marketability of a given ‘celebrity’.
‘Kurt’ doesn’t seem to be like that.
He cares about what he’s doing.
Greta had said that he is ‘wasted here’.
That he should be working for one of the big perfume manufacturers in
the city of Paris, or perhaps New York.
She’d mentioned that Kurt’s stall is rather like ‘An old fashioned
apothecary’s shop’. I think that I get
what she means when I see how the stall is laid out.
It is towards the end of the day’s
trading. As I approach there are a
couple of young women talking to him. As
essentially a slaver, I appraise these women.
‘Kettle and mat’ girls I fear. Though given that Gorean tastes in
slave-girls are broader than Earth ones, they might fetch a decent price on a
Gorean sales block. With the right
Master they might very well blossom into something truly remarkable. Earth women, when suitably trained often have
a latency that can turn them into the most beautiful and abject of all slaves.
“So, Ladies, tell me what perfumes you
usually wear, what scents do you like the most?”
One of them begins.
“I rather like ‘Obsessed’, but I also enjoy
Grelin’s ‘Tamsin’ and ‘Sholomir’…”
“So you like the spicy perfumes in
preference to the flowery ones and the chypre’s?”
“Yes, that about sums it up…”
“I can mix you a unique perfume that I think
you’d like…”
Kurt takes a small tube and runs it under
several spigots, stirring the mixture before offering the tube to the
lady. She sniffs cautiously, then
deeper, her face mutating into a rictus of ecstasy. She likes it, I can see. She does however only buy the small
vial. She mentions something about
making sure that the perfume will last, that it’s ‘not all top note[2]’
“I understand. This is a list of ingredients. If you should want more, there will be slight
differences as I didn’t measure the various quantity’s of this sample with
precision.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
She pays a sum that seems reasonable given
Kurt’s skill, and the quantity purchased.
Kurt turns to the other woman and after a
similar patter, suggests a group of ‘ready made’ essences. The woman sniffs at several, wrinkling her
nose at some, but clearly appreciating others. After a short while she settles
on one that she likes and completes her purchase.
“If you need any more of this, because
it’s a ‘standard’ perfume, you can reorder on my website. It’s number ‘29’ and is called ‘Style
Royal’. Here’s my card with the site
address on it.”
Greta had told me about the website and how
when I got to Earth, to get a trained kajira to show me what products Kurt had
for sale. I’d done my ‘homework’ as they
say here before setting off to Brussels.
Even with shipping costs, the products are about half of what the fancy
shops are charging for poorer quality products.
Kurt starts to pack away his multifarious
stock items, him not expecting there to be much more trade to be had today.
“Would you be Kurt, by any chance?”
“Yes,
That’s me. How can I help you?”
“I have a proposition for you. Finish your packing up, and then we can
discuss it. Over a beer if you like.”
“Fair enough, It’ll take about ten minutes.”
“I have time. Carry on.”
In short order Kurt has cleared everything
into a nearby van. We repair to a nearby
bar. These Earth drinking establishments
are utterly hopeless. Even the meanest
of paga tavern’s would be preferable if there were such things on Earth, but
there aren’t, at least not in the more ‘civilised’ parts anyway. As for the ‘beer’, it’s not to my taste. By comparison to the bite of paga, it’s
insipid. Instead I choose a whisky.
“So what do you have in mind, then? And what do I call you.”
I give him the name that I am using here;
the name on my semi-official ‘passport’.
I offer Kurt a vial.
“Have a sniff of this.”
He does so.
I see in his face that he’s appreciating, analysing, and ultimately
liking the aroma. He’s puzzled though.
“It’s interesting. I can’t honestly say that I’ve ever come
across anything quite like it, and I thought that I’d smelled just about every
flower essence on Earth. What is it,
please?”
“It’s Attar of Talendar.”
“Talendar? I can’t say that I’ve ever
heard of that flower.”
“You wouldn’t have. It’s very rare, and supplies of the attar are
still scarce. Larger supplies can be
obtained once that the demand has been proven.
One thing’s for certain is that no-one on Earth can obtain the attar
except through me. It has a chemical
signature that cannot be synthesised even with the most careful of
analysis. It is a unique product. I’m sure that you can see that a whole range
of perfumes can be created using such a rare base as this.”
“Get your point: But tell me more about
this Talendar flower.”
I smile.
“The Talendar grows in foreign
parts. I cannot tell you where, and you
probably would not believe me if I did.
It’s the flower of a vine, rather than of a bush or tree as such. It is associated with love in the lands where
it grows, in much the same way that roses are here…”
“Yes… I did sense the romantic power of
the bouquet.”
I continue
“In those lands, a slave-girl will put a
Talendar in her hair to tell her Master that he has truly mastered her, that
she now loves him; yes slavery exists in those lands, but it is not like the
sordidness and brutality of modern slavery in many parts of this world.
Free-women
too occasional utilise the Talendar to show a man that she would like him to
take an interest in her.”
“If this attar is so rare, it’s
doubtless very expensive. I’m not sure
that I’ll be able to afford it.
Presumably you’ll be selling to all the big perfume-houses as well, so
I’ll still be competing with them.”
“No, or should I say, yes and no. When I release this attar to the world, I
will do so exclusively through one brand only.
What I’m proposing is to set up a new perfume company altogether. You and I being partners. You design unusual and extraordinary perfumes
using attar of Talendar as the base, and I will handle the marketing. Because Talendar based perfumes will be
unique to this company, I anticipate that we can carve a major niche in the
perfume market. You can still operate
your existing business, as long as you work diligently for the new company.”
“You talk a nice line, but by comparison
with the major perfume houses I’m small time; so why me? Why choose me?”
“You were described to me by one of my
slaves in those lands. She was very
complimentary. She told me that you were
exceptional in your knowledge and keenness; that you clearly loved your
work. That ardour and passion will be
essential if we are to be selling to the most beautiful women in the world.
I
will be building contacts with such women, keeping in touch with them, offering
them ever new and intriguing variation on the Talendar theme. It will be your job to create those
varieties.”
I don’t tell Kurt that such a database will
be the perfect recruiting tool for identifying potential slaves to be shipped
to Gor. That this whole exercise is
intended for that purpose. Perhaps even,
when Kurt is deeply enough enmeshed, he might be sent to Gor himself to learn
from the expert perfumers of Gor. A
spell on that planet, being served by the delicious collared beauties, might
also encourage him to serve as a recruiting agent here in Belgium in
particular, but in Europe as a whole.
It’s always useful using local people if they can be controlled
adequately. They are less likely to slip
up out of ignorance of the culture.
“Subject to certain safeguards, we have
a deal! Greetings, partner!
[1]An essential oil created by one of various forms of
distillation. It is a highly
concentrated essence of its base.
[2]The first element of the fragrance, that poor perfumer’s use to sell
the product with. The true aroma coming
out only after being worn for a short while.
Illustrations created by Tracker based on idea from Attar of Talendar.
A girl in the Grassmarket, overcome by the scent of a perfume created by Attar of Talendar is inspired to strip herself for slavery.
The same women, enslaved in a talendar patch on a pleasure garden on Gor.
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