The front of the building, embellished with a number of cracked, ornamental plaster baubles, resembled the visage of a mummified Egyptian king. Gray and weathered, it glowered at you as if it had demonic intentions for the living. The window shutters of the two upper floors,which as Gustav had mentioned were empty, were partly broken, but shut. Something uncanny emanated from these upper floors. You couldn't see the roof from below, but I would have bet my life that it was in a state of complete dilapidation. Because the ground floor apartment into which I and my muddled friend were to move was about six feet above street level, you could only catch a glimpse of the interior through the windowpanes, covered with filth; in the harsh, merciless afternoon sun, I could make out its stained ceilings and tasteless wallpaper.
Because Gustav only uses a particularly inane baby talk with me, which doesn't bother me since I would employ the same primitive language if I chose to speak with him, he emitted some guttural sounds of enthusiasm when we finally came to a halt in front of the house.
If you have gained the impression that I harbor hostile feelings toward my companion, you are only partly right.
Gustav … well, what is Gustav like? Gustav Löbel is a writer. Yes, a writer, but only a telephone book would recognize his intellectual contributions to the world. He pens "novelettes" for "women's journals" of such clever brevity that the plot exhausts itself well within the space of half a page. Mostly, he derives the inspiration for his strokes of genius from the vision of a hundred-dollar check - his "publishers" would never fork out more. Yet, how often have I seen even this conscientious author struggle with himself, searching for an apt conclusion, for a spectacular dramatic effect (at least within the bounds of his genre), or for a variation on adultery that has never been thought of before. For only brief periods does Gustav write what he really wants to, abandoning the imaginative world of legacy hunters, violated secretaries, and husbands who never notice that their wives have been prostituting themselves behind their backs for the last thirty years. Since Gustav studied history and archaeology, when he writes what he wants to he composes treatises on ancient civilizations—especially on Egyptian divinities. This, however, he does at such boring length that all these works, sooner or later, turn out to be unsalable, and his dream of someday making a living from them has been receding further and further from reality. Although his appearance is not unlike a gorilla's, and although he is the most extreme example of obesity with which I am personally acquainted (286 pounds), he still retains, to employ a euphemism, a childlike, if somewhat feebleminded, charm. His attitude toward the world is based on tranquility,congeniality, and complacent self-satisfaction. Gustav seeks to avoid all that threatens this holy trinity. Ambition and stress are foreign words to his harmless, easygoing spirit; mussels in garlic soup and a bottle of Chablis are worth far more to him than a challenging career.
So that's Gustav: my exact opposite. It is no great wonder that we get in each other's hair every now and then. But I think I'll let the subject go for now. Gustav does provide for me, shields me from the daily, banal inconveniences, protects me from danger, and the greatest love in his sheltered life remains none other than Yours Truly. And although I must confess that it is at times extremely difficult, I do respect him.
After Gustav had crammed the car into the slot between the chestnut trees in front of the house (Gustav never did understand how to park a car; parking is quantum physics for him), we both got out. While he maneuvered the entirety of his awe-inspiring mass in front of the building and regarded the house with a gleam in his eyes, almost as if he had built it himself, I made an immediate scent check.
The musty stench of the monster hit me like a sledgehammer. Although a mild wind blew, the dry rot in the house smelled so strong that it sent my nasal receptors into a state of shock. I realized in a flash that this unpleasant smell did not rise from the foundation of the building, but crept down from the upper floors, and was now about to extend its stinking fingers into the apartment in which we were about to, if not precisely live with dignity, at least exist. There was something else as well, something unknown, strange, even threatening. It was extraordinarily difficult even for me to analyze these barely perceptible smells, and I can claim without false modesty that my two hundred million olfactory cells, even compared to those of others of my species, are unique in their power of discernment. Yet no matter how much I moistened my nose, I could not identify these unusual scent molecules. I therefore called upon my good old J organ for help and grimaced, licking the air and pressing my tongue against my palate.1
This had the desired effect. I now discovered a further, and peculiar, odor beneath the dry-rot stench of our new home. It, however, had no natural origin, and it was some time before I could classify it. But at last I knew what it was: a potpourri of chemical smells.
Of course I still didn't have the faintest idea what specific smell this haunted house was emitting, but at least it was now clear that synthetic chemicals were involved. Everyone knows the odor that penetrates hospital corridors or a pharmacy, and my powerful schnozzola distinguished
