Set in 18th Century Paris, by the second paragraph we’re already immersed in odours. Pretty soon, we know this isn’t a rose-tinted Catherine Cookson history, in Suskind’s past –

‘The streets stank of manure, the courtyards of urine, the stairwells stank of mouldering wood and rat droppings, the kitchens of spoiled cabbage and mutton fat . . .

And into this riot of foul smells Grenouille is born, to a heartless mother who is soon put to death for the murder of Grenouille’s infant siblings – nothing like getting a good start in life. So the young Grenouille is packed off to a loveless orphanage, so far, so Dickens, only it’s already been noticed that the child is different.

‘I can only say one thing: this baby makes my flesh creep because it doesn’t smell the way children ought to smell.’

As we follow his growth in a cruel, heartless world, we learn that Grenouille, although possessing no scent of his own, has a magnified, complex, dog-like sense of smell. We follow the ‘tick’ (as Suskind refers to him) as he slinks his way through life, ostracized by others, abused, with no morality of his own, nothing governing him except self-interest. He’s almost a Gollum character, small and hunched, contracting Anthrax but surviving with the horrific scars – his first boss only seeing this as a benefit, since he can’t contract the disease a second time.

Grenouille remains enchanted by the smells of the city, and, one day, smelling the most beautiful scent, he’s led to a murder which is almost an afterthought. Soon his attention turns to ways of capturing intricate scents, each capable of altering perceptions, of changing human behaviours.

What follows is like a twisted Dickens. We have Grenouille becoming a perfumier, showing off his skills to an old fraud in a scene that could come from a hundred movies. And as the book goes on smell assumes such an importance that it becomes close to the building bricks of human interaction. Charm, innocence, courage, godliness – all of them just scents, all of them within the expert Grenouille’s reach.

We’re led through grisly murder and the odd satirical scene to a grand ending, with all the trimmings, with cruelty, gore, and everything you want in gothic novels like this. Why hasn’t anyone made a film out of it yet, or a BBC drama? Better this than some third-rate nobody’s-filmed-it-yet-so-we-will Austen.

Before the ending kicks in we get a little interlude, as Grenouille rejects humanity and lives in solitude for seven years. This section is what inspired the often-misanthropic Kurt Cobain, whose ‘Scentless Apprentice’ takes its name and much of its lyrics from Suskind’s novel.

There was hardly a corner of Paris that was not paralysed with people, not a stone, not a patch of earth that did no reek of humans.

It’s this section that hints at a greater meaning. Grenouille, a man apart from other humans, lacking a scent/identity of his own, jealous of watching the world behind a screen, resolves to conquer his enemies. He sets out, through scent, to enslave the whole human race, to become a God, a vengeful one.

Little ugly guy, dealt shitty hand in cruel world, growing up, by the skin of his teeth, to be amoral and full of hate, taking it out on innocents. If you look at it that way, it isn’t too far removed from a lot of modern, and true, stories.

Iain Bahlaj lives in Fife, Scotland. His short stories have appeared in Front & Centre, Fife Fringe, Chapman, Pulp.net and The Macallan Shorts 3 and 5. His novel, 'Tilt' was published in 2003 (Pulp Books, London). The short story 'Sugar' is a prequel to 'Tilt.' Iain currently works as a night-shift shelf-stacker, while working on a novel about vampires, in this spare time.

© 2004 Laura Hird All rights reserved.