An Alibi for a Gentleman, or The Bergamot Trap

A fairy tale about how Evil once decided to change its wardrobe.

In 1888, in Bologna, perfumer Claudio Casamorati was the saddest man in Italy. Queens wore his perfumes, ministers washed their hands with his soap, but the maestro was yearning. It seemed to him that he had reached a ceiling: all the scents of the world were merely copies of flowers, while he thirsted to create the scent of essence itself.

One day, on a rainy November evening, the bell above the door rang so quietly, as if a draft had rung it.

The visitor who entered was tall, thin, and dressed to the nines. His frock coat fit impeccably, his cane gleamed with black lacquer, but the smell... A strange, barely perceptible odor emanated from the guest: a mixture of cold stove ash, old parchment, and something disturbingly hot, like an iron forgotten on silk.

"Signor Casamorati," said the guest in a voice like the heavy rustle of velvet. "I need a disguise."

"Are you hiding from creditors?" the perfumer inquired politely.

"From reputation," the guest grinned. "You see, my work involves... high temperatures and heavy moral dilemmas. Wherever I go, people feel anxiety. They expect a trap. But I want them to feel happiness when I appear. Unconditional, foolish, sunny happiness. I want to smell in such a way that even angels, flying by, would nod to me as one of their own."

"Do you want to smell of innocence?" Casamorati clarified.

"Oh, no. Innocence smells of milk and boredom. I want to smell of impeccability. Create for me the scent of a man to whom one would want to entrust one's wallet, wife, and soul, just by looking at his snow-white collar."

The maestro accepted the challenge. He locked himself in the laboratory for three weeks. 

He rejected frankincense (too churchy) and patchouli (too gloomy). Casamorati decided to play on contrast. He took the most resonant citrus fruits from Amalfi—grapefruit and lemon—so they would ring like a child's laughter. He added iris and rose—flowers that make people think of romance, not sin. And at the base, he placed white musk and sandalwood—the scent of an expensive barbershop, a clean-shaven face, and a freshly laundered shirt.

When the maestro opened the bottle, the laboratory filled with radiance. It was not a smell. It was liquid charisma. The aroma of "dolce vita"—the sweet life, where there is no death, no debts, no reckoning.

"It is ready," said the perfumer. "What shall we call it?"

The guest inhaled the aroma, and his dark eyes momentarily turned blue, like the summer sky. "Name it after my old stage name, 'Mefisto'. Let that be our little joke."

He threw a pouch of gold onto the counter, which was suspiciously hot, and vanished into the fog.

---

The guest, of course, was the one you thought of. And his plan was insidious. He intended to appear at the grand ball at the Vienna Opera, fragrant with grapefruit and roses, to seduce, deceive, and sign a hundred or so contracts for souls while the victims were charmed by his freshness.

He applied the perfume to his neck, adjusted his cuffs, and entered the hall. The effect was instantaneous: countesses turned around, dukes bowed respectfully. No one smelled sulfur. Everyone smelled the scent of an ideal gentleman.

Mefistofeles approached a young, beautiful lady, intending to whisper a vicious proposal into her ear that would ruin destinies. He opened his mouth... and suddenly felt the aroma of lavender and lemon tickling his nose. This scent was so clean, so impeccable and secular, that the words of cursing stuck in his throat. Instead of "Sell me your eternity," he suddenly, even to his own surprise, uttered: "Madame, allow me to note that this shade of silk matches your eyes marvelously."

The lady blushed. Mefistofeles was stunned. He tried to get angry, to summon the ancient darkness within himself, but the "Mefisto" fragrance worked like a corset—it held him within the bounds of decency. It is impossible to plot schemes when you smell like a freshly washed aristocrat walking from morning mass. Form dictated content.

All evening, the Great Tempter was forced to maintain small talk about the weather, Verdi's music, and the quality of cloth. He picked up fallen fans for ladies, gave up his seat to the elderly, and smiled politely. The aroma demanded conformity. He became a hostage of his own mask.

Towards morning, furious, he returned to his chambers and tried to wash off the scent. But Casamorati's creation was persistent.

They say that since then, Mefistofeles no longer appears in high society in person. He realized a terrible truth: absolute elegance kills the capacity to do evil. Evil requires dirt, sloppiness, or at least a shadow. But in the radiance of Italian bergamot, evil simply fades and turns into ordinary, boring politeness.

Thus, the "Mefisto" perfume became the only cage from which the Devil could not escape—the cage of good manners.