He cuts quite a figure as he strides down the streets of Florence. Cashmere coat and tailored suit, a glint of gold at his cuff. In cafés he leans back in his chair, laughs and tells stories. Of places visited, people loved. They can’t help but lean closer, to the smell of tobacco, the simmer of bourbon vanilla. And the trace he leaves on the air of so many miles travelled, so much life lived — the scent of oud, warm and deep, more precious than gold itself, a mystery they long to unravel.