I can even imagine Serge's description of it:
“I was sitting at a table outside a souk in Fez during a hot afternoon, drinking my rose tea, when I saw a ravishing blond woman coming back from the spice market and she asked me some information (the time? some address? I can’t remember since I was so enlightened by her mere presence). I invited her to join me and she accepted. In her hands she carried a bag of pepper. “I bought them to my bratwurst store in Berlin” she replied with a delicious accent when asked why so much pepper. A street flourist came to sell some deep red, blooming roses and I gently offered them to her. After some hours, I invited her to my hotel, and in the next morning, when I woke up, discovered I was alone. At my side, on the bed, she left the roses and the full bag of peppers. The fragrance of the flowers and the spices, joined by her own smell that lingered on the pillow she used, was inebriant. La Fille de Berlin is my attempt to materialize this memory.”
