Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

           Notbecauseheaskedhimselfhowthisladknewallaboutitsoexactly,butsimplybecausetheboyhadsaidthenameofthewretchedperfumethathaddefeatedhiseffortsatdecodingtoday.“HowdidyouevergettheabsurdideathatIwouldusesomeoneelse’sperfumeto…”“Youreekofit!”Grenouillehissed.“Youhaveitonyourforehead,andinyourrightcoatpocketisahandkerchiefsoakedwithit.It’snotverygood,thisAmorandPsyche,it’sbad,there’stoomuchbergamotandtoomuchrosemaryandnotenoughattarofroses.”“Aha!”Baldinisaid,totallysurprisedthattheconversationhadveeredfromthegeneraltothespecific.“Whatelse?”“Orangeblossom,lime,clove,musk,jasmine,alcohol,andsomethingthatIdon’tknowthenameof,there,yousee,rightthere!Inthatbottle!”Andhepointedafingerintothedarkness.Baldiniheldthecandlestickupinthatdirection,hisgazefollowingtheboy’sindexfingertowardacupboardandfallinguponabottlefilledwithagrayishyellowbalm.“Storax?”heasked.Grenouillenodded.“Yes.That’sinittoo.Storax.”Andthenhesquirmedasifdoublingupwithacrampandmutteredthewordatleastadozentimestohimself:“Storaxstoraxstoraxstorax…”Baldiniheldhiscandleuptothislumpofhumankindwheezing“storax”andthought:Eitherheispossessed,orathievingimpostor,ortrulygifted.Foritwasperfectlypossiblethatthelistofingredients,ifmixedintherightproportions,couldresultintheperfumeAmorandPsyche-itwas,infact,probable.