‘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, maître, can I mix it, can I?’
‘How’s that?’ cried 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 only 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 Pélissier’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 on to 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. Maître, 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 some day 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 some day, 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 Pélissier’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 Grenouille.’
‘Aha,’ said Baldini. ‘All right then, now pay attention, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille! I have
‘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, maître, can I mix it, can I?’
‘How’s that?’ cried 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 only 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 Pélissier’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 on to 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. Maître, 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 some day 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 some day, 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 Pélissier’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 Grenouille.’
‘Aha,’ said Baldini. ‘All right then, now pay attention, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille! I have
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