Perfume: The Story of a Murderer Page #3

- You lied.

- What?

You lied to me.

How dare you talk to me like that.

You said I could capture

the scent of anything.

And so you can.

What do you smell?

What do you smell?

Nothing.

What were you expecting to smell?

Glass.

But glass doesn't smell.

Course it does.

What's this?

I don't smell a thing.

It should smell like copper!

Enough!

You were trying to distill

the smell of copper?

Iron? Glass? Copper?

What else did you try?

No!

Have you gone completely insane?

You told me I had to experiment.

Experiment? Experiment?

But not with the cat.

What kind of a human being are you?

Don't you know anything?

You can no more distill

the scent of a cat

than you can distill

the scent of you or me.

I can't?

Of course not!

He is in stadio ultimo.

- What?

- He's dying.

Is there nothing you can do?

- I fear not.

- No! He cannot die.

Well, my fee is 50 francs.

You charlatan!

You can't even name the disease!

No! Jean-Baptiste!

You cannot do this to me.

Not now. Not yet.

Is there

any other way

to preserve smell

besides distill it?

Jean-Baptiste?

Is there, master?

Well, yes, I believe there is.

What is it?

It is known as the mysterious

art of enfleurage.

Can you teach me?

Not even I am intimate

with its secrets.

But could I learn it in Grasse?

- Well...

- Could I?

Where else but in Grasse?

Wthin a week Grenouille

was well again,

but to travel to Grasse to fnd

ajob he needed journey papers.

Baldini agreed to provide them

on condition that

Grenouille left him

not less than one hundred

formulas for new perfumes.

Grenouille did not mind. He

could have given him a thousand.

The morning of Grenouille's

departure, Baldini was pleased.

At last, he felt rewarded for

his many years of hard work.

He could not remember

a happier day.

Deeply satisf/ed,

he went back to sleep

and awoke no more in this life.

Wth every step he took from

the city, the happier he felt.

The air above him grew

clearer, purer, cleaner,

and at last he was able

to breathe freely.

There were two ways

to reach Grasse.

The first followed the winding

roads through the villages

while the second lead across

the mountains, down into Provence.

The choice was quite easy.

Thus his nose led him

ever higher,

ever further from mankind,

more towards the magnetic pole of

the greatest possible solitude.

Grenouille needed a moment to

believe that he had actually found

a spot on earth where scent

was almost absent

Spread all around lay nothing but

the tranquil scent of dead stone.

There was something sacred

about this place.

No longer distracted

by anything external,

he was fnally able to bask

in his own existence

and found it splendid.

After a while, he almost forgot

his plans and obsessions

and, indeed, might have done

so altogether.

Hello?

Hello?

Hello?

There were a thousand

smells in his clothes.

The smell of sand,

stone, moss.

Even the smell of the sausage

he'd eaten weeks ago.

Only one smell was not there.

His own.

For the frst time, Grenouille

realized he had no smell.

He realized that all his life

he had been a nobody to everyone.

What he now felt was the fear

of his own oblivion.

It was as though

he did not exist.

By the first light of next morning,

Grenouille had a new plan.

He must continue

his journey to Grasse.

There he would teach the world

not only that he existed,

that he was someone,

but that he was exceptional.

And with this decision

it seemed that the gods had

at last begun to smile on him.

Go in.

Laura?

Laura?

Coming, Papa.

Haven't seen you here before.

It's my first season.

Picking together

is always more fun.

They say you pick

everything you find.

Idiot!

How many times have I told you

not to cram the blossoms in

like you're stuffing a chicken?

Watch how Grenouille does it.

Look how skillfully

he handles them.

The whole art of enfleurage is

to allow the flowers to die slowly.

In their sleep, as it were.

Handle them as you would a lady.

Wouldn't you agree with me, Druot?

If you say so, Madame.

You. Check the jonquil blossoms.

They need more time.

Do what I say!

Stop it!

I'm not in the mood.

Are you sure?

Of course I'm sure.

I said...

...no!

Suit yourself

Lucien?

Fetch me back the ladder.

Fetch it yourself.

Lucien?

Lucien!

Lucien?

Lucien?

Lucien?

Tuberoses for Madame Arnulfi.

She here?

She's busy.

Seems such a waste to boil them.

So what do you do with them?

Warm them in animal fat.

- What for?

- The fat soaks up their scent.

Then what?

Then I cool it to a pomade

and then I filter it before...

Before what?

Before I add in alcohol and

other essences to make a perfume.

Don't touch anything.

What's in there?

Nothing. Just flowers.

- Can I look?

- No.

Not now. I've got work to do.

You must go now.

- Come on. Let me look.

- Don't touch.

Ah, my tuberoses.

Morning, Madame.

Morning.

Why have you covered the tank?

It's an experiment, Madame.

To protect the blossoms

from daylight.

To preserve the scent better.

Well, if you say so.

Come with me. I'll settle

your master's account.

To preserve

their scent better, you say?

I don't smell much.

No. Then my experiment

was a failure.

Make sure it's your time

you're wasting, not ours.

How much must I pay

to be with you?

Depends what you want.

What's that stuff?

I'm creating a perfume.

Lie down, please.

It feels horrible.

It's only animal fat.

To soak up your scent.

Creating a perfume, eh?

Admit it. You're getting

some sort of bang out of this.

Aren't you?

I enjoy my work.

Hold your arm still.

Don't think

you're gonna tie me up.

Hold out your arm, please.

I've come across some

strange men in my time...

Just relax.

Holy Mother, what's that?!

Just for scraping off the fat.

- Are you mad?

- Relax. You'll ruin everything.

If you're frightened, you stink.

Then your perfume will be spoiled.

I've had enough.

Here, take your money.

Basting me up in all this goo.

You think I am a Christmas goose?

Get out of here!

Quickly, blow them out

before the roses melt!

- Roses can't melt, Papa!

- These ones can.

Now I'd like to propose a toast

to our guest of honour,

his Excellency,

the Marquis de Montesquieu.

May our trade

continue to flourish!

I thank you all

and would ask of you

the honour to be the first

to offer my congratulations

to your beautiful daughter

and present her with a small

token of my affection.

It's beautiful.

I'm overwhelmed, your Grace.

"Your Grace"?

I had hoped that we would be

on more familiar terms by now.

Let's have a game

of hide-and-seek!

Let the men catch the women.

Albine! Wait!

Put me down. Please?

Now there's no escape.

Game's over, everybody.

Laura?

Time to go in now.

Laura?

Albine? Franoise?

Laura, have you seen the twins?

No, not since the game started.

Albine? Franoise?

Albine? Franoise?

Jacques?

Take this way.

You two with me.

Your Excellency? Through here.

Albine! Franoise!

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