Each morning Grenouille stands behind his rickety wooden table piled high with mangos next to the entrance of the tin roofed marché. He shouts and glares at the women who avert their gaze and ignore his calls rather than look him in the face. He is a short, squat man. His eyes bulge and his broad, black forehead glistens with sweat giving him a startled, amphibious expression. The large, purple goiter on the left side of his neck pulses wildly as he shakes his fists at the passing shoppers, their white hands clutching money filled purses that they open for him only as a last resort.
No one knows his actual name. Years ago, some English women dubbed him "The Frogman." Their French speaking cooks and houseboys quickly began using the nickname and soon the tough little street-boys in their gray rags laughed at him and taunted him by croaking as he passed. Although he chased the young hooligans and threw rocks at them and finally caught one of them and gave him a sound beating, the unfortunate moniker stuck. Now he is simply called Grenouille.
From his table Grenouille watches expatriate wives coming and going in their Peugeots and Mercedes. He watched them and their light skinned children as they scurry out of the fierce equatorial sun and into the air conditioned Patisserie Deluxe for cafe au lait and pain au chocolat. He watches them lug their locally made shopping baskets, filled with imported pates and cheeses and meats and wines, out of the double front doors of Score Supermarche. He watches them as they threaded their way up and down the rows of fishmongers and produce venders, stopping to bargain for food or flowers, to grimace at the stench of garbage that hangs heavy in the fly-thick air. As Grenouille watches the shoppers, the street-boys watch the women's cars - sometimes for money, other times for fun.
It's getting late. The morning sun is directly overhead and most of the venders have left their tables in the marché to walk towards their homes in la cite. The plaza storekeepers pull the metal shutters over plate glass windows to lock their establishments against thieves and the mid-day sun. Suddenly a dark blue Mercedes speeds up the main street, its tires squealing and screeching as it rounds the corner before coming to a halt near the marché.
Grenouille watches as the blonde woman rolls up the car's windows part way and gives instructions to her young daughter sitting on the front seat next to her. He watches as the woman climbs out of the car and turns to reach into the back seat for her shopping basket. As she turns towards him she slams the heavy door behind her. When the street boys approach the woman and ask to guard her car, Grenouille watches her wave them off and look in another direction, in the same dismissive way that she always deals with him. Then she strides across the plaza and brushes past him into the dusky interior of the marché, no doubt hoping to find someone still inside who could sell her what she wants.
Grenouille knows he will be the woman's last chance for fresh produce today so he doesn't bother to speak as she passes. Instead he busies himself by rearranging the mangos on the table in front of him, rubbing his thumbs over their smooth skin, caressing them with his fingers, inhaling their intoxicating scent, guessing how many francs he could get the woman to pay for the red, ripe fruit. Then a sound makes him look towards the street.
The outside of the dark blue Mercedes teems with street-boys. Over the hood, across the roof, down the trunk they swarm. As they thrust their grimy hands through the half-open windows, groping for the blond girl-child, grinding against each other, the car begins to sway. A mass of arms and legs flail and thump, tearing away bits of a brightly colored dress; hands grab for soft flesh, tender tissue.
Madame, Madame! Grenouille shouts at the woman in the marché. But rather than acknowledge his calls, she continues bargaining for eggs.