The hair God Pan / At dawn, on the corner of the Passage of Small Stables in the 10th arrondissement of Paris, Tristan Lizard scratch her fingers on the system to open the gate of its bistro. In general, this confrontation was not an everyday problem. The gate and the man and grappling for years, like old mates. One creaked, groaned another, then in a last effort, the lock scraped, was sinking, and finally departed the gate. Yet in this very early morning, the gestures were abrupt. Tristan brooding frustration and mumbled a string of curses that the grid absorbed without mufti, remaining closed. The trip to Rungis market two hours earlier was the cause of his bad mood: the lot of trout reserved forty-eight hours before his arrival gave off a painful smell of mud, and six blocks away, the shopkeeper was trying to peddle her Italian basil in it stating that it was a variety Provence. Finally, his hands reeking of diesel. In return, while on the full of his car, the mind as often elsewhere, making a dessert of chestnut flour and nutmeg, the tank had suddenly choked, throwing a few drops on his hand. Sputum quickly offset, but an invisible mark placed on his skin. Intense and bitter. Since then, every time he raised his hand toward his face, grabbed his breath pungent extremely sensitive nose. Since that moment when he restyling of a nervous gesture between two spats with the metal fence, the characteristic smell the crashed again. Heck, as soon as the door - the damn door - will agree to open, he will rush into the tiny bathroom on the floor for a complete flushing: skin, hair and nails! Finally, the gate gave way. Long strident complaint hinges and rivets rusted. Tristan hired a new key in a second lock, and a heavy glass door to dark wooden frame, opened on the hall of his restaurant.
The room was dirty.
The atmosphere of the place had changed overnight.
A fortuitous event occurred, and Tristan knew instantly that this was not a problem of garbage ripped open, or remains of food left on a plate. A dead rat either, because it had already happened in the past, and the smell, he remembered, was lighter and woody. He crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him to avoid drafts. Then he sniffed cautiously by a sudden, face up, to identify the origin of the strange smell. The signals were weak, vague and too watered down. Without hesitation, his face closed, lips pursed, he went on all fours and, like a dog, his nose pointed in all directions.
At ground level, between fragments of dust and the breath of cold tile, he grabbed a piece of information, incredibly sharp and acidic. Tristan froze. Her head tipped, suddenly heavy, and a pathetic sigh escaped from her arms outstretched and stiff. Anger and resentment. For he had seen on the horizon of this fragrant furrow concealed behind the door of the broom closet, crammed with household goods, the reserve of tablecloths and napkins carefully ironed, a dark mass of a hassle, like a terrible snag his reassuring routine. Painfully he got up, dusted with a careful gesture his knees, rubbed his hands, still imbued with the smell of gasoline that spins around a few seconds his face, then walked slowly toward the corner where the smell seeped repulsive. It was not the terror of the gruesome discovery, but the terrible anguish of remugle that would hit the nostrils, imbuing his memory forever, which held his hand on the handle fret. The cold metal is warmed in contact with his fist as he still hesitated. Finally, it occurred to him to enclose his nose in his other hand to breathe the smell of fuel stubborn, unpleasant perhaps, but on the whole, less harsh.
He then opened the closet door with a gesture, dry and lifeless body go limp at his feet. Informs and frayed. The smell burst, metal and viscous, like a bag under pressure. Tristan turned away, but did not prevent the flood from reaching its stinking nasal passages without being invited, grinding soon traces of hydrocarbon. A multitude of loupiottes brightened in his brain. S'opérèrent infinite connections within seconds, images were formed, then, as she came, the wave subsided, the light went off, and Tristan suddenly thought his dessert of the day: a toast to orange marmalade.
Why, why?
The corpse gave off a sweet smell bitter. Sucrailleuse to cause mild nausea, together with an uncontrollable urge to suck a little more attractive this pestilence. A perfume sticky and crunchy caramel mingled with a hint of acidity and bitter fruit: an orange candied citron, forgotten in a casserole, currently attached to the bottom burning. Sweet and charred. With a slight whiff of custard. No, he corrected himself immediately, something more air, like a sabayon.
He knelt beside the corpse and, shutting his eyes to protect against the vision of the flesh mottled, dark and tortured, he put a nose careful to touch the tip of her nose, skin mistreated. He detected an odor of cooked egg, milk boiled, candied orange, interspersed with hints tallow metal and charred pile of dried blood. A little something more, but he was unable to name.
The body of a naked man, rubbed "lost bread" and sprinkled with dark dust, was dropped limply to his feet. Tristan could not say if he knew whether or not this man, because his face was blackened voluntarily. He noticed, besides the singular scent that the body no longer had a single hair, even on the genitals. By cons, he kept his hair, baldness that was beginning to novice sentence. The man was tall, well built, with a slight overweight. Probably fifty. Maybe more. Tristan finally decided to do what he could not push more: join the cops and lose time for reporting, disclosure and other paperwork. Her day was definitely spoiled. Unable to open the restaurant today. As for the rest of the week? He rejected the idea and its consequences, and took his mobile phone.
continued ....
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