Field Note #200 · 11:20

"The water never changed its course. Only the people did."

The house stood at the foot of the mountains and was shut all winter. First you opened the windows: swept out the dust, took down the cobwebs, and the house slowly began to breathe. Behind it the slope fell away, and down it ran two old concrete staircases—one on the left, one on the right. Raspberry and currant bushes grew wild along the steps; no one tended them. For water you walked to the spring: it came out of the rock in a thin, ice-cold stream. You had to set the five-liter bottle at just the right angle, or the water missed. Then back uphill, the bottles heavy, cutting into your hands. All around was the smell of wet earth, currant leaves and cold air. Sometimes clouds gathered. There were no people. It felt as if time there simply did not move.

Opening

The cold of the spring and bitter juniper — the first breath of air by the water, sharp enough to ache.

Heart

The powdery dust of a house shut for winter, and raspberries warmed by the concrete steps — coolness and fruit side by side, never merging.

Drydown

Wet earth after rain, the old wood of the walls, the warmth of skin after carrying heavy bottles uphill.

Openingtop notes

Spring WaterMountain JuniperIcy BergamotFresh Ginger

Heartheart notes

Dusty IrisWild RaspberryMetallic Flower

Drydownbase notes

Wet Earth (Oakmoss)Old Wood (Smoky Birch)Grey AmberWarm Musk

Orris ConcreteOakmoss ResinoidAmbroxanHedione HCHabanolideAmber Xtreme

Oakmoss

Real oakmoss — the scent of a place that never needed people.

You felt the cold before the water reached your hands.

Field Diary

10–24°C, daytime after rain

diffused light, all seasons

noticeable projection, 8–10 hours on skin

EditionAll seasons

LightDiffused light through clouds

SillageNoticeable projection

Temperature10–24°C

MomentDaytime, after rain

WeatherOvercast, fresh

formula No. 200 · 47 ingredients · blended by hand · Bishkek

The way back is always longer. The bottles pull at your hands; you stop twice — by the bramble bush and on the upper landing of the staircase, where the concrete is already warm. A light rain begins, and the smells grow louder: earth, leaves, wet stone. By now the house no longer smells of dust, but of wood and draft. You set the water by the doorstep. Outside there are only mountains and rain. No one. That's how silence stays with you.

Author's Note

As a child I was sometimes taken to an old dacha at the foot of the mountains — it belonged to friends of my aunt. The house stood shut all winter, and summer began with opening it: windows, dust, cobwebs. There was no running water — you walked down to a spring, and the five-liter bottle had to be set at just the right angle, or the thin stream would miss. Carrying the bottles back uphill cut into my hands. Strangely, that walk is what I remember best. No. 199 is an attempt to rebuild that place: the cold of the spring, the dust of the old house, wet earth after rain, and the raspberries by the concrete stairs. Nothing here is invented. Perhaps you had a dacha like that of your own — then you will recognize this scent before you finish reading.