Perfume: The Story of a Murderer Page #6

The choice was quite easy.

Thus his nose led him

ever higher,

ever further from mankind,

more towards the magnetic pole of

the greatest possible solitude.

Grenouille needed a moment to

believe that he had actually found

a spot on earth where scent

was almost absent

Spread all around lay nothing but

the tranquil scent of dead stone.

There was something sacred

about this place.

No longer distracted

by anything external,

he was fnally able to bask

in his own existence

and found it splendid.

After a while, he almost forgot

his plans and obsessions

and, indeed, might have done

so altogether.

Hello?

Hello?

Hello?

There were a thousand

smells in his clothes.

The smell of sand,

stone, moss.

Even the smell of the sausage

he'd eaten weeks ago.

Only one smell was not there.

His own.

For the frst time, Grenouille

realized he had no smell.

He realized that all his life

he had been a nobody to everyone.

What he now felt was the fear

of his own oblivion.

It was as though

he did not exist.

By the first light of next morning,

Grenouille had a new plan.

He must continue

his journey to Grasse.

There he would teach the world

not only that he existed,

that he was someone,

but that he was exceptional.

And with this decision

it seemed that the gods had

at last begun to smile on him.

Go in.

Laura?

Laura?

Coming, Papa.

Haven't seen you here before.

It's my first season.

Picking together

is always more fun.

They say you pick

everything you find.

Idiot!

How many times have I told you

not to cram the blossoms in

like you're stuffing a chicken?

Watch how Grenouille does it.

Look how skillfully

he handles them.

The whole art of enfleurage is

to allow the flowers to die slowly.

In their sleep, as it were.

Handle them as you would a lady.

Wouldn't you agree with me, Druot?

If you say so, Madame.

You. Check the jonquil blossoms.

They need more time.

Do what I say!

Stop it!

I'm not in the mood.

Are you sure?

Of course I'm sure.

I said...

...no!

Suit yourself

Lucien?

Fetch me back the ladder.

Fetch it yourself.

Lucien?

Lucien!

Lucien?

Lucien?

Lucien?

Tuberoses for Madame Arnulfi.

She here?

She's busy.

Seems such a waste to boil them.

So what do you do with them?

Warm them in animal fat.

- What for?

- The fat soaks up their scent.

Then what?

Then I cool it to a pomade

and then I filter it before...

Before what?

Before I add in alcohol and

other essences to make a perfume.

Don't touch anything.

What's in there?

Nothing. Just flowers.

- Can I look?

- No.

Not now. I've got work to do.

You must go now.

- Come on. Let me look.

- Don't touch.

Ah, my tuberoses.

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