by Giles Milton
‘Stop her!’ shouted Father Seraphim in a voice that was loud enough to wake the dead. ‘You must not open that box. In the name of all that is holy, I command you to keep it closed.’
‘It is too late,’ said Elizabeth, who had already positioned her fingernails under the rim of the lid. ‘There’s no going back. I only hope that the nose will at long last give us an answer.’
There was a snapping noise as the lid popped off and fell to the floor. And at precisely the same moment, a new and extremely pungent smell seeped through the crypt.
‘Oh, my God!’ exclaimed Edward. ‘Can it really be?’
And as he inhaled deeply, the thick, goaty scent of touloumotyri filled his nostrils. He sniffed again and allowed the odoriferous smell to work its way deep into the inner recesses of his nose.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said with a dreamy smile. ‘Just as it should be. A spring cheese, of that there’s no doubt. You can smell the wild meadows. And I do believe it’s’ – sniff, sniff – ‘from the village of Dhimitsana, in the Peloponnese.’ He was lost now – half in a trance. In his mind’s eye, he saw goats and hill villages and fields of red wild poppies.
‘How did you get it? Where did you buy it? Oh, Elizabeth, I want this cheese for Trencoms. I want it more than anything in the world.’
As Edward’s thoughts hot-footed themselves back to the family shop, he felt a renewed wave of giddiness wash through his head. His eyes filled with mist and his knees shook uncontrollably. And before he had time to clutch onto a pillar for support, or even sit himself down, he swooned, fainted and collapsed to the floor. Unconscious but deliriously happy, his nose seemed to twitch a few more times before a radiant smile could be seen spreading across his face.
‘I think,’ said Elizabeth to Father Seraphim, ‘that my husband’s nose has made up its mind. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we ought to be heading for home.’
