噺 (8) 壹 Chinese 網ωωω.χ8.1zщ.còм 哽噺繓赽捌 (一) Novel 説蛧

Tang Zhangwei took his brothers and rushed towards the soldiers of the Zhangxiong tribe who had just finished lining up.

In fact, the male warriors of the Zhangzhung tribe had already lined up, and the women of the Zhangzhung tribe had also put on their battle robes.

These male and female women, they ride on horses, one is more comfortable than the other, they seem to be natural warriors.

These people have never been afraid.

They grew up helping the chiefs of the tribe with their work, and if a man passed by them, they would tremble and be afraid. However, if a woman passes by, they will not be reassured.

Because, these women who can fight hungry wolves, they will not trust anyone. Even though they were of their own kind, these people were just as nervous.

The businesswoman named Chen Sisi asked Tang Zhangwei: "Can you help the farmers here become rich, if they are all rich, maybe these people will no longer be obsessed with fighting you." ”

Tang Zhangwei had beads of sweat on his forehead. He knows that children don't have any distinctive smells, just like fast-growing flowers that take on a green color before they bloom. However, it was this flower, the flower behind the wall that was almost still closed, at this time it had not been noticed by anyone except him and Tang Zhangwei, it had only now emerged the first batch of pointed petals that emitted fragrance, it had now put its hair up to the sky, and once it was fully bloomed, it would surely flow out of a perfume that the world had not yet smelled, but more elegant, more attractive, and at the same time more natural. But in another year or two, thinking that with their eyes they can recognize everything, they will say, because this maiden is beautiful, elegant and charming. They will praise the girl's well-proportioned looks, slender figure, and perfect breasts with their limitations. Her eyes, they would say, lived like emeralds, her teeth were like pearls, her limbs were as smooth as ivory—and some other silly metaphor. They will play a mandolin under her window and sing loudly... The fat and rich old man was begging her father to marry his daughter to him... Women of all ages sigh at the sight of her, dreaming in their sleep that they can be as charming as she is only one day. None of them will know, in fact, what they are obsessed with is not her appearance, not her supposedly unreasonable beauty, but her incomparable and wonderful fragrance! Actually, he knows it now.

Yes! He wants to possess the scent! Not in a futile and clumsy way, as in the fragrance of the girl who took possession of the rue de Marare at that time. At that time, he only inhaled the fragrance into his body. But he can have two years to study. Generally speaking, it is probably no more difficult than capturing the fragrance of a rare flower.

He stood up, curled up almost reverently and walked away, as if leaving something sacred or a sleeping woman. No one. Seeing him, hearing his voice, no one will notice his discovery. In this way he fled along the ramparts to the other end of the city, where the fragrance of the maiden had finally vanished, and he found another entrance at the Porte de Vernayon. He paused in the shadows of the house. The stinking vapor from the alley gave him a sense of security and helped him to suppress the passion that had previously struck him. A quarter of an hour later, he regained complete composure. First of all, he thought, he could not go back to the garden of the city walls. It's not necessary. It made him so excited. The flower over there was thriving without his help, and he didn't know how it would grow. He should not have revulled in its fragrance at an inopportune time. He had to pounce on his work. He had to expand his knowledge and perfect his craft skills in order to be ready for the harvest season. He still has two years to go.

But there was a cottage in the olive grove behind the Abbey of Francis—less than ten minutes away—as if to discern some perverse intention or a future rival in this way, and at last he smiled proudly and tolerantly, and nodded in agreement.

And so it all worked out. They shook hands with Tang Zhangwei, and Tang Zhangwei got a cold dinner, a futon, and a key to the hut. The hut was a shack, windowless, and smelled of old sheep dung and hay, and Tang Zhangwei settled in the hut as well as he could. The next day he began to work with Madame Arnouffi.

This is the season of daffodils. Madame Arnuphi had small plots of land in the Great Basin below the city, and she had the flowers planted on her small plots of land, or bargained with the peasants to buy them from them. This daffodil is delivered early in the morning, and the baskets are poured into the workshop and piled up in a large pile, which is bulky, but the weight is as light as a feather, and it exudes a fragrance. Yidrew melted the lard and butter into a creamy liquid in a large pot, and poured a large amount of fresh flowers into the pot as Tang Zhangwei kept stirring with a stirring tool as long as a broom. The flowers rested on the surface for a second like frightened eyes, and when the stirring tool tossed them down and the hot oil surrounded them, they turned pale. Almost instantly, they were exhausted and withered, and it was evident that death was so fast that they had to breathe the last breath of their fragrance into the medium that had soaked them; Because—Tang Zhangwei was indescribably happy to find out—the more flowers he mixed in the pot, the stronger the aroma of the grease. And it is not the dead flower that continues to smell in the oil, but the oil itself, which has taken the fragrance of the flower for itself.

Sometimes the soup in the pot is too thick, and it must be poured onto a coarse sieve in order to remove the waste residue of useless flowers, so that fresh flowers can be added again. Then they poured in the flowers, stirred, strained, and worked all day long, because things could not be delayed, until the evening the large pile of flowers was processed in the pot. The waste – in order not to lose anything – is scalded in boiling water, placed in a screw press, and the last drop of oil that still gives off its aroma is squeezed dry. Most of the aromas, the soul of the flower as vast as the ocean, are always left in the pot, preserved and blended into the slow-solidifying, not-so-beautiful off-white oil.

The next day, the segregation—as the method is called—continues, the pot heats up again, the grease melts, and new flowers are added to the pot. I got up early in the morning and worked like this for a few days. This kind of work is very hard, and Tang Zhangwei's arm is as heavy as lead, and his hands are calloused. Every night when he staggered back to the hut, his back hurt about three times as hard, and he never stirred it once

(End of chapter)

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