Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

Chapter 7

           Hewouldoftenjuststandthere,leaningagainstawallorcrouchinginadarkcorner,hiseyesclosed,hismouthhalfopenandnostrilsflaringwide,quietasafeedingpikeinagreat,dark,slowlymovingcurrent.Andwhenatlastapuffofairwouldtossadelicatethreadofscenthisway,hewouldlungeatitandnotletgo.Thenhewouldsmellatonlythisoneodor,holdingittight,pullingitintohimselfandpreservingitforalltime.Theodormightbeanoldacquaintance,oravariationonone;itcouldbeabrand-newoneaswell,withhardlyanysimilaritytoanythinghehadeversmelled,letaloneseen,tillthatmoment:theodorofpressedsilk,forexample,theodorofawild-thymetea,theodorofbrocadeembroideredwithsilverthread,theodorofacorkfromabottleofvintagewine,theodorofatortoiseshellcomb.Grenouillewasouttofindsuchodorsstillunknowntohim;hehuntedthemdownwiththepassionandpatienceofananglerandstoredthemupinsidehim.

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