Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

Chapter 29

           Thelastfewyards,heheldhisnoseclosedandopeneditagainonlywhenhehadlowereditrightdownontothepile.HemadethesniffingtesthehadlearnedfromBaldini,snatchinguptheairandthenlettingitoutagaininspurts.Andtocatchtheodor,heusedbothhandstoformabellaroundhisclothes,withhisnosestuckintoitastheclapper.Hedideverythingpossibletoextracthisownodorfromhisclothes.Buttherewasnoodorinthem.Itwasmostdefinitelynotthere.Therewereathousandotherodors:theodorofstone,sand,moss,resin,raven’sblood-eventheodorofthesausagethathehadboughtyearsbeforenearSullywasclearlyperceptible.Thoseclothescontainedanolfactorydiaryofthelastseven,eightyears.Onlyoneodorwasnotthere-hisownodor,theodorofthepersonwhohadwornthemcontinuouslyallthattime.Andnowhebegantobetrulyalarmed.Thesunhadset.Hewasstandingnakedattheentrancetothetunnel,wherehehadlivedindarknessforsevenyears.Thewindblewcold,andhewasfreezing,buthedidnotnoticethathewasfreezing,forwithinhimwasacounterfrost,fear.Itwasnotthesamefearthathehadfeltinhisdream-theghastlyfearofsuffocatingonhimself-whichhehadhadtoshakeoffandfleewhateverthecost.Whathenowfeltwasthefearofnotknowingmuchofanythingabouthimself.Itwastheoppositepoleofthatotherfear.Hecouldnotfleeit,buthadtomovetowardit.Hehadtoknowforcertain-evenifthatknowledgeprovedtooterrible—whetherhehadanodorornot.Andhehadtoknownow.Atonce.Hewentbackintothetunnel.

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