Perfume. The story of a murderer - Suskind Patrick - Страница 17

“Silence!” shouted Baldini. “Do not interrupt me when I’m speaking! You are impertinent and insolent. No one knows a thousand odors by name. Even I don’t know a thousand of them by name, at best a few hundred, for there aren’t more than a few hundred in our business, all the rest aren’t odors, they are simply stenches.”

During the rather lengthy interruption that had burst from him, Grenouille had almost unfolded his body, had in fact been so excited for the moment that he had flailed both arms in circles to suggest the “all, all of them” that he knew. But at Baldini’s reply he collapsed back into himself, like a black toad lurking there motionless on the threshold.

“I have, of course, been aware,” Baldini continued, “for some time now that Amor and Psyche consisted of storax, attar of roses, and cloves, plus bergamot and extract of rosemary et cetera. All that is needed to find that out is, as I said, a passably fine nose, and it may well be that God has given you a passably fine nose, as He has many, many other people as well— particularly at your age. A perfumer, however”-and here Baldini raised his index finger and puffed out his chest-”a perfumer, however, needs more than a passably fine nose. He needs an incorruptible, hardworking organ that has been trained to smell for many decades, enabling him to decipher even the most complicated odors by composition and proportion, as well as to create new, unknown mixtures of scent. Such a nose”-and here he tapped his with his finger-”is not something one has, young man! It is something one acquires, by perseverance and diligence. Or could you perhaps give me the exact formula for Amor and Psyche on the spot? Well? Could you?”

Grenouille did not answer.

“Could you perhaps give me a rough guess?” Baldini said, bending forward a bit to get a better look at the toad at his door. “Just a rough one, an estimation? Well, speak up, best nose in Paris!”

But Grenouille was silent.

“You see?” said Baldini, equally both satisfied and disappointed; and he straightened up. “You can’t do it. Of course you can’t. You’re one of those people who know whether there is chervil or parsley in the soup at mealtime. That’s fine, there’s something to be said for that. But that doesn’t make you a cook, not by a long shot. Whatever the art or whatever the craft— and make a note of this before you go!-talent means next to nothing, while experience, acquired in humility and with hard work, means everything.”

He was reaching for the candlestick on the table, when from the doorway came Grenouille’s pinched snarl: “I don’t know what a formula is, maitre. I don’t know that, but otherwise I know everything!”

“A formula is the alpha and omega of every perfume,” replied Baldini sternly, for he wanted to end this conversation-now. “It contains scrupulously exact instructions for the proportions needed to mix individual ingredients so that the result is the unmistakable scent one desires. That is a formula. It is the recipe-if that is a word you understand better.”

“Formula, formula,” rasped Grenouille and grew somewhat larger in the doorway. “I don’t need a formula. I have the recipe in my nose. Can I mix it for you, maitre, can I mix it, can I?”

“How’s that?” pried Baldini in a rather loud voice and held the candle up to the gnome’s face. “How would you mix it?”

For the first time, Grenouille did not flinch. “Why, they’re all here, all the ones you need, the scents, they’re all here, in this room,” he said, pointing again into the darkness. “There’s attar of roses! There’s orange blossom! That’s clove! That’s rosemary, there…!”

“Certainly they’re here!” roared Baldini. “They are all here. But I’m telling you, you blockhead, that is of no use if one does not have the formula!”

“… There’s jasmine! Alcohol there! Bergamot there! Storax there!” Grenouille went on crowing, and at each name he pointed to a different spot in the room, although it was so dark that at best you could surmise the shadows of the cupboards filled with bottles.

“You can see in the dark, can you?” Baldini went on. “You not only have the best nose, but also the keenest eyes in Paris, do you? Now if you have passably good ears, then open them up, because I’m telling you: you are a little swindler. You probably picked up your information at Pelissier’s, did some spying, is that it? And now you think you can pull the wool over my eyes, right?”

Grenouille was now standing up, completely unfolded to full size, so to speak, in the doorway, his legs slightly apart, his arms slightly spread, so that he looked like a black spider that had latched onto the threshold and frame. “Give me ten minutes,” he said in close to a normal, fluent pattern of speech, “and I will produce for you the perfume Amor and Psyche. Right now, right here in this room. Maitre, give me just five minutes!”

“Do you suppose I’d let you slop around here in my laboratory? With essences that are worth a fortune? You?”

“Yes,” said Grenouille.

“Bah!” Baldini shouted, exhaling all at once every bit of air he had in him. Then he took a deep breath and a long look at Grenouille the spider, and thought it over. Basically it makes no difference, he thought, because it will all be over tomorrow anyway. I know for a fact that he can’t do what he claims he can, can’t possibly do it. Why, that would make him greater than the great Frangipani. But why shouldn’t I let him demonstrate before my eyes what I know to be true? It is possible that someday in Messina-people do grow very strange in old age and their minds fix on the craziest ideas-I’ll get the notion that I had failed to recognize an olfactory genius, a creature upon whom the grace of God had been poured out in superabundance, a wunderkind… It’s totally out of the question. Everything my reason tells me says it is out of the question-but miracles do happen, that is certain. So what if, when I lie dying in Messina someday, the thought comes to me there on my deathbed: On that evening, back in Paris, I shut my eyes to a miracle…? That would not be very pleasant, Baldini. Let the fool waste a few drops of attar of roses and musk tincture; you would have wasted them yourself if Pelissier’s perfume had still interested you. And what are a few drops-though expensive ones, very, very expensive!-compared to certain knowledge and a peaceful old age?

“Now pay attention!” he said with an affectedly stern voice. “Pay attention! I… what is your name, anyway?”

“Grenouille,” said Grenouille. “Jean-Baptiste Gre-nouille,”

“Aha,” said Baldini. “All right then, now pay attention, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille! I have thought it over. You shall have the opportunity, now, this very moment, to prove your assertion. Your grandiose failure will also be an opportunity for you to learn the virtue of humility, which-although one may pardon the total lack of its development at your tender age-will be an absolute prerequisite for later advancement as a member of your guild and for your standing as a man, a man of honor, a dutiful subject, and a good Christian. I am prepared to teach you this lesson at my own expense. For certain reasons, I am feeling generous this evening, and, who knows, perhaps the recollection of this scene will amuse me one day. But do not suppose that you can dupe me! Giuseppe Baldini’s nose is old, but it is still sharp, sharp enough immediately to recognize the slightest difference between your mixture and this product here.” And at that he pulled the handkerchief drenched in Amor and Psyche from his pocket and waved it under Grenouille’s nose. “Come closer, best nose in Paris! Come here to the table and show me what you can do. But be careful not to drop anything or knock anything over. Don’t touch anything yet. Let me provide some light first. We want to have lots of illumination for this little experiment, don’t we?”

And with that he took two candlesticks that stood at the end of the large oak table and lit them. He placed all three next to one another along the back, pushed the goatskins to one side, cleared the middle of the table. Then, with a few composed yet rapid motions, he fetched from a small stand the utensils needed for the task-the big-bellied mixing bottle, the glass funnel, the pipette, the small and large measuring glasses -and placed them in proper order on the oaken surface.