Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

Chapter 18

           Fromtimetotime,whenthedistillatehadgrownwateryandclear,theytookthealembicfromthefire,openedit,andshookoutthecookedmuck.Itlookedasflabbyandpaleassoggystraw,likethebleachedbonesoflittlebirds,likevegetablesthathadbeenboiledtoolong,insipidandstringy,pulpy,hardlystillrecognizableforwhatitwas,disgustinglycadaverous,andalmosttotallyrobbedofitsownodor.Theythrewitoutthewindowintotheriver.Thentheyfedthealembicwithnew,freshplants,pouredinmorewater,andsetitbackonthehearth.Andonceagainthekettlebegantosimmer,andagainthelifebloodoftheplantsdrippedintotheFlorentineflask.Thisoftenwentonallnightlong.Baldiniwatchedthehearth,Grenouillekeptaneyeontheflasks;therewasnothingelsetodowhilewaitingforthenextbatch.Theysatonfootstoolsbythefire,underthespelloftherotundflacon-bothspellbound,ifforverydifferentreasons.Baldinienjoyedtheblazeofthefireandtheflickeringredoftheflamesandthecopper,helovedthecracklingoftheburningwood,thegurgleofthealembic,foritwasliketheolddays.Youcouldloseyourselfinit!Hefetchedabottleofwinefromtheshop,fortheheatmadehimthirsty,anddrinkingwinewasliketheolddaystoo.Andthenhebegantotellstories,fromtheolddays,endlessstories.

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