The road from Kerala has been finally constructed and the cargo all the way from its verdant backwaters is getting delivered to the ship traveling from the bays of the Indian ocean to Southampton. It carries on it a small quota of the spices of the East, in wooden chests decorated with the coat of arms of the port commander for his personal use. Amongst them nutmeg is the crowning glory, the seed of the Myristica tree, cool and tingling at the same time, redolent of that curious contradiction of serenity and languor that is the east to a westerner's mind.
All the splendour of the spice-laden ships has been translated into Caravelle Épicée by Frapin, a fragrance intended for armchair pirates contemplating looting one of them and sailing off to the Seychelles to enjoy the fruits of this escapade. And behold, what do I see in my pocket telescope? Here is a band of them storming the agile vessel with their sabres in hand!
They're inhaling the spicy notes escaping the small hold, caraway and coriander with their cool piquancy, a counterpoint to the hotness and dryness of black pepper, a potent mix never ceding to sweetness. They're already intoxicated with the good-smelling treasure they captured. Maybe too intoxicated to get through the risky voyage to the islands. I can see it even from here. The captain lies in ambush, his particular type of pipe tobacco lingering on the vessel long after he hid. There's hope for the ship yet!