The Club Dumas

four years of prudently self-imposed exile in Brazil and Paraguay.

“I have something to show you.”

He had an abrupt manner, bordering on rudeness, which he cultivated carefully. Corso watched him walk over to a small glass cabinet. Borja opened it with a tiny key on a gold chain pulled from his pocket. He had no public premises, apart from a stand reserved at the major international fairs, and his cata­logue never included more than a few dozen titles. He would follow the trail of a rare book to any corner of the world, fight hard and dirty to obtain it, and then sell it, profiting from the vagaries of the market. On his payroll at any one time he had collectors, curators, engravers, printers, and suppliers like Lucas Corso.

“What do you think?”

Corso took the book as carefully as if he were being handed a newborn baby. It was an old volume bound in brown leather, decorated in gold, and in excellent condition.

“La Hypnerotomachia di Poliphilo by Colonna,” he said. “You managed to get hold of it at last.”

“Three days ago. Venice, 1545. In casa dijiglivoli di Aldo. One hundred and seventy woodcuts. Do you think that Swiss you mentioned would still be interested?”

“I suppose so. Is the book complete?”

“Of course. All but four of the woodcuts in this edition are reprints from the 1499 edition.”

“My client really wanted a first edition, but I’ll try to con­vince him a second edition is good enough. Five years ago, at the Monaco auction, a copy slipped through his fingers.” “Well, you have the option on this one.” “Give me a couple of weeks to get in touch with him.” “I’d prefer to deal directly.” Borja smiled like a shark after a swimmer. “Of course you’d still get your commission, at the usual rate.”

“No way. The Swiss is my client.”

Borja smiled sarcastically. “You don’t trust anyone, do you? I can picture you as a baby, testing your mother’s milk before you’d suck.”

“And you’d sell your mother’s milk, wouldn’t you?”

Borja stared pointedly at Corso, who at that instant didn’t look at all like a friendly rabbit. More like a wolf baring his fangs.

“You know what I like about you, Corso? The easy way you fall into the part of a mercenary, with all the demagogues and charlatans out there. You’re like one of those lean and hungry men Julius Caesar was so afraid of.... Do you sleep well at night?”

“Like a log.”

“I’m sure you don’t. I’d wager a couple of Gothic manu­scripts that you’re the type who spends a long time staring into the darkness ... Can I tell you something? I distrust thin men who are willing and enthusiastic. I only use well-paid merce­naries, rootless, straightforward types. I’m suspicious of anyone who’s tied to a homeland, family, or cause.”

The book dealer put the Poliphilo back in the cabinet and gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Sometimes I wonder if a man like you can have friends. Do you have any friends, Corso?”

“Go to hell.” Corso said it with an impeccably cold tone.

Borja smiled slowly and deliberately. He didn’t seem offended.

“You’re right. Your friendship doesn’t interest me in the least. I buy your loyalty instead. It’s more solid and lasting that way. Isn’t that right? The professional pride of a man meeting his contract even though the king who employed him has fled, the battle is lost, and there is no hope of salvation....”

His expression was teasing, provocative, as he waited for Corso’s reaction. But Corso just gestured impatiently, tapping his watch. “You can write down the rest and mail it to me,” he said. “I’m not paid to laugh at your little jokes.”

Borja seemed to think this over. Then he nodded, though still mockingly. “Once again, you’re right, Corso. Let’s get back to business....” He looked around. “Do you remember the Treatise on the Art of Fencing by Astarloa?”

“Yes. A very rare 1870 edition. I got a copy for you a couple of months ago.”

“I’ve now been asked for Acactemie de I’epee by the same client. Maybe one you’re acquainted with?”

“I’m not sure if you mean the client or the book. Your talk is so convoluted, you’re clear as mud sometimes.”

Borja shot him a hostile look. “We don’t all possess your clear, concise prose, Corso. I was referring to the book.”

“It’s a seventeenth-century Elzevir. Large format, with en­gravings. Considered the most beautiful treatise on fencing. And the most valuable.”

“The buyer is prepared to pay any price.”

“Then I’ll have to find it.”

Borja sat down again in his armchair before the window with a panoramic view of the ancient city. He crossed his legs, looking pleased with himself, his thumbs hooked in his vest pockets. Business was obviously going well. Very few of his high-powered European colleagues could afford such a view. But Corso wasn’t impressed. Men like Borja depended on men like him, and they both knew it.

He adjusted his crooked glasses and stared at the book dealer. “What do we do about the Poliphilo, then?”

Borja hesitated between antagonism and greed. He glanced at the cabinet and then at Corso.

“All right,” he said halfheartedly, “you make the deal with the Swiss.”

Corso nodded without showing any satisfaction at his small victory. The Swiss didn’t exist, but that was his business. It wouldn’t be hard to find a buyer for a book like that.

“Let’s talk about the Nine Doors” he said. The dealer’s face grew more animated.

“Yes. Will you take the job?”

Corso was biting a hangnail on his thumb. He gently spat it out onto the spotless desk.

“Let’s suppose for a moment that your copy is a forgery. And that one of the others is the authentic one. Or that neither of them is. That all three are forgeries.”

Bor}a, irritated, looked to see where Corso’s tiny hangnail had landed. At last he gave up. “In that case,” he said, “you’ll take good note and follow my instructions.” “Which are?” “All in good time.”

“No. I think you should give me your instructions now.” He saw the book dealer hesitate for a second. In a corner of his brain, where his hunter’s instinct lay, something didn’t feel quite right. An almost imperceptible jarring sound, like a badly tuned machine.

“We’ll decide things,” said Borja, “as we go along.” “What’s there to decide?” Corso was beginning to feel irri­tated. “One of the books is in a private collection and the other is in a public foundation. Neither is for sale. That’s as far as things can go. My part in this and your ambitions end there. As I said, whether they’re forgeries or not, once I’ve done my job, you pay me and that’s it.”

Much too simple, said the book dealer’s half-smile.

“That depends.”

“That’s what worries me... You have something up your

sleeve, don’t you?”

Borja raised his hand slightly, contemplating its reflection in the polished surface of his desk. Then he slowly lowered it, until the hand met its reflection. Corso watched the wide, hairy hand, the huge gold signet ring on the little finger. He was all too familiar with that hand. He’d seen it sign checks on non­existent accounts, add emphasis to complete lies, shake the hands of people who were being betrayed. Corso could still hear the jarring sound, warning him. Suddenly he felt strangely tired. He was no longer sure he wanted the job.

“I’m not sure I want this job,” he said aloud.

Borja must have realized Corso meant it, because his manner changed. He sat motionless, his chin resting on his hands, the light from the window burnishing his perfectly tanned bald head. He seemed to be weighing things as he stared intently at Corso.

“Did I ever tell you why I became a book dealer?”

“No. And I really don’t give a damn.”