《香水》( Das Parfum) 第三章

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2013-5-4 17:54

《香水》( Das Parfum) 第三章

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《香水》是德国作家帕特里克·聚斯金德创作的额一部小说,于1985年出版,它构思奇特,寓意深刻,小说《香水》出版前先在《法兰克福总汇报》上连载,立即引起强烈反映,是有史以来最畅销的德文小说。

书中讲述了一个发生在18世纪巴黎的故事,主人公格雷诺耶生在巴黎的一个臭鱼摊子,但天生对香水有着匪夷所思的辨别能力,为了制作香水,他杀害了二十六名少女,以摄取其香味。《香水》写于上世纪80年代,当时现代小说正走入过于观念化、晦涩难懂的死胡同,而《香水》的古典式写法、生动和抓人的情节成了西方小说界的一剂解毒针。《香水》一诞生就引领了新的小说潮流。被人们誉为“20世纪最著名德国小说。人的感官当中,嗅觉的有效范围并不狭窄(比味觉和触觉广,几乎和视觉听觉差不多),但缺乏交流和沟通。美食当前会兴奋,在公交车里的浓郁女士旁边也会兴奋,除此之外少有嗅觉的激动。《香水》是第一部以气味为主人公的伟大作品。奉为经典的那段:“在我们所说的那个时代,各个城市里始终弥漫着我们现代人难以想象的臭气。……“

本书是新浪微博好友“小安Anna“向我们推荐的,这是她朋友录的音。本书录音作者曾是电台播音员,爱好电影和配音工作,现在自己做了这本有声电子书,这是一本德国小说,被翻译成英文,录音作者新浪微博叫“DeanClarke“。

About the author: Patrick Suskind is a German author and screenwriter. A recluse, he lives in Munich and France.

About the storyteller: Dean Clarke is an English teacher in China. He is South African. He speaks in a neutral accent.

Parfum

by Patrick Süskind

Three

FATHER TERRIER was an educated man. He had not merely studied theology, but had read the philosophers as well, and had dabbled with botany and alchemy on the side. He had a rather high opinion of his own critical faculties. To be sure, he would never go so far as some--who questioned the miracles, the oracles, the very truth of Holy Scripture--even though the biblical texts could not, strictly speaking, be explained by reason alone, indeed often directly contradicted it. He preferred not to meddle with such problems, they were too discomfiting for him and would only land him in the most agonising insecurity and disquiet, whereas to make use of one's reason one truly needed both security and quiet. What he most vigorously did combat, however, were the superstitious notions of the simple folk: witches and fortune--telling cards, the wearing of amulets, the evil eye, exorcisms, hocus--pocus at full moon, and all the other acts they performed--it was really quite depressing to see how such heathenish customs had still not been uprooted a good thousand years after the firm establishment of the Christian religion! And most instances of so--called satanic possession or pacts with the devil proved on closer inspection to be superstitious mummery. Of course, to deny the existence of Satan himself, to doubt his power--Terrier could not go so far as that; ecclesiastical bodies other than one small, ordinary monk were assigned the task of deciding about such matters touching the very foundations of theology. But on the other hand, it was clear as day that when a simple soul like that wet nurse maintained that she had spotted a devilish spirit, the devil himself could not possibly have a hand in it. The very fact that she thought she had spotted him was certain proof that there was nothing devilish to be found, for the devil would certainly never be stupid enough to let himself be unmasked by the wet nurse Jeanne Bussie. And with her nose no less! With the primitive organ of smell, the basest of the senses! As if hell smelled of sulphur and paradise of incense and myrrh! The worst sort of superstition, straight out of the darkest days of paganism, when people still lived like beasts, possessing no keenness of the eye, incapable of distinguishing colours, but presuming to be able to smell blood, to scent the difference between friend and foe, to be smelled out by cannibal giants and werewolves and the Furies, all the while offering their ghastly gods stinking, smoking burnt sacrifices. How repulsive! "The fool sees with his nose" rather than his eyes, they say, and apparently the light of God--given reason would have to shine yet another thousand years before the last remnants of such primitive beliefs were banished.
"Ah yes, and you poor little child! Innocent creature! Lying in your basket and slumbering away, with no notion of the ugly suspicions raised against you. That impudent woman dared to claim you don't smell the way human children are supposed to smell. Well, what do we have to say to that? Pooh--peedooh!"
And he rocked the basket gently on his knees, stroking the infant's head with his finger and repeating "poohpeedooh" from time to time, an expression he thought had a gentle, soothing effect on small children. "You're supposed to smell like caramel, what nonsense, poohpeedooh!"
After a while he pulled his finger back, held it under his nose and sniffed, but could smell nothing except the choucroute he had eaten at lunch.
He hesitated a moment, looked around him to make sure no one was watching, lifted the basket, lowered his fat nose into it. Expecting to inhale an odour, he sniffed all around the infant's head, so close to it that the thin reddish baby hair tickled his nostrils.
He did not know exactly how babies' heads were supposed to smell. Certainly not like caramel, that much was clear, since caramel was melted sugar, and how could a baby that until now had drunk only milk smell like melted sugar? It might smell like milk, like wet nurse's milk. But it didn't smell like milk. It might smell like hair, like skin and hair and maybe a little bit of baby sweat. And Terrier sniffed with the intention of smelling skin, hair, and a little baby sweat. But he smelled nothing. For the life of him he couldn't. Apparently an infant has no odour, he thought, that must be it. An infant, assuming it is kept clean, simply doesn't smell, any more than it speaks, or walks, or writes. Such things come only with age. Strictly speaking, human beings first emit an odour when they reach puberty. That's how it is, that's all Wasn't it Horace himself who wrote, "The youth is gamy as a buck, the maiden's fragrance blossoms as does the white narcissus..."?--and the Romans knew all about that! The odour of humans is always a fleshly odour--that is, a sinful odour. How could an infant, which does not yet know sin even in its dreams, have an odour? How could it smell? Poohpee--dooh--not a chance of it!
He had placed the basket back on his knees and now rocked it gently. The babe still slept soundly. Its right fist, small and red, stuck out from under the cover and now and then twitched sweetly against his cheek. Terrier smiled and suddenly felt very cosy.
For a moment he allowed himself the fantastic thought that he was the father of the child. He had not become a monk, but rather a normal citizen, an upstanding craftsman perhaps, had taken a wife, a warm wife fragrant with milk and wool, and had produced a son with her and he was rocking him here now on his own knees, his own child, poohpoohpoohpeedooh.... The thought of it made him feel good. There was something so normal and right about the idea. A father rocking his son on his knees, poohpeedooh, a vision as old as the world itself and yet always new and normal, as long as the world would exist, ah yes! Terrier felt his heart glow with sentimental cosiness.
Then the child awoke. Its nose awoke first. The tiny nose moved, pushed upward, and sniffed. It sucked air in and snorted it back out in short puffs, like an imperfect sneeze. Then the nose wrinkled up, and the child opened its eyes. The eyes were of an uncertain colour, between oyster grey and creamy opal white, covered with a kind of slimy film and apparently not very well adapted for sight. Terrier had the impression that they did not even perceive him. But not so the nose. While the child's dull eyes squinted into the void, the nose seemed to fix on a particular target, and Terrier had the very odd feeling that he himself, his person, Father Terrier, was that target. The tiny wings of flesh around the two tiny holes in the child's face swelled like a bud opening to bloom. Or rather, like the cups of that small meat--eating plant that was kept in the royal botanical gardens. And like the plant, they seemed to create an eerie suction. It seemed to Terrier as if the child saw him with its nostrils, as if it were staring intently at him, scrutinising him, more piercingly than eyes could ever do, as if it were using its nose to devour something whole, something that came from him, from Terrier, and that he could not hold that something back or hide it,... The child with no smell was smelling at him shamelessly, that was it! It was establishing his scent! And all at once he felt as if he stank, of sweat and vinegar, of choucroute and unwashed clothes. He felt naked and ugly, as if someone were gaping at him while revealing nothing of himself. The child seemed to be smelling right through his skin, into his innards. His most tender emotions, his filthiest thoughts lay exposed to that greedy little nose, which wasn't even a proper nose, but only a pug of a nose, a tiny perforated organ, forever crinkling and puffing and quivering. Terrier shuddered. He felt sick to his stomach. He pulled back his own nose as if he smelled something foul that he wanted nothing to do with. Gone was the homey thought that his might be his own flesh and blood. Vanished the sentimental idyll of father and son and fragrant mother--as if someone had ripped away the cosy veil of thought that his fantasy had cast about the child and himself. A strange, cold creature lay there on his knees, a hostile animal, and were he not a man by nature prudent, God--fearing, and given to reason, in the rush of nausea he would have hurled it like a spider from him.
Terrier wrenched himself to his feet and set the basket on the table. He wanted to get rid of the thing, as quickly as possible, right away if possible, immediately if possible.
And then it began to wail. It squinted up its eyes, gaped its gullet wide, and gave a screech so repulsively shrill that the blood in Terrier's veins congealed. He shook the basket with an outstretched hand and shouted "Poohpeedooh" to silence the child, but it only bellowed more loudly and turned completely blue in the face and looked as if it would burst from bellowing.
Away with it! thought Terrier, away this very instant with this... he was about to say "devil," but caught himself and refrained... away with this monster, with this insufferable child! But away where? He knew a dozen wet nurses and orphanages in the neighbourhood, but that was too near, too close for comfort, get the thing further away, so far away that you couldn't hear it, so far away that it could not be dropped on your doorstep again every hour or so; if possible it must be taken to another parish, on the other side of the river would be even better, and best of all extra mums, in the Faubourg Saint--Antoine, that was it! That was the place for this screaming brat, far off to the east, beyond the Bastille, where at night the city gates were locked.
And he hitched up his cassock and grabbed the bellowing basket and ran off, ran through the tangle of alleys to the rue du Faubourg Saint--Antoine, eastward up the Seine, out of the city, far, far out the rue de Charonne, almost to its very end, where at an address near the cloister of Madeleine de Trenelle, he knew there lived a certain Madame Gaillard, who took children to board no matter of what age or sort, as long as someone paid for them, and there he handed over the child, still screaming, paid a year in advance, and fled back into the city, and once at the cloister cast his clothes from him as if they were foully soiled, washed himself from head to foot, and crept into bed in his cell, crossing himself repeatedly, praying long, and finally with some relief falling asleep.