The Club Dumas

These were weighty arguments, and Corso had to admit that there could be uncomfortable developments. La Ponte added that there were other clues: strange clients wanting to purchase the Dumas manuscript at any price, mysterious phone calls in the night...

Corso sat up, interested. “You’re getting calls in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, but they don’t say anything. There’s a moment or two of silence, and then they hang up.”

While La Ponte was recounting his misfortunes, Corso felt the canvas bag he had retrieved moments earlier. Makarova had kept it under the counter all day, between boxes of bottles and barrels of beer.

“I don’t know what to do,” ended La Ponte tragically.

“Why don’t you sell the manuscript and have done with it? Things are getting out of hand.”

La Ponte shook his head and ordered another gin. A double.

“I promised Enrique Taillefer that the manuscript would go on public sale.”

“Taillefer’s dead. And anyway, you’ve never kept a promise in your life.”

La Ponte agreed gloomily, as if he didn’t want to be re­minded. But then he suddenly brightened. A slightly dazed expression showed through his beard. If you tried hard, you could take it for a smile.

“By the way, guess who called.”

“Milady.”

“Almost. Liana Taillefer.”

Corso looked at his friend wearily. Then he picked up his glass and emptied it in one long gulp. “You know what, Flavio?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Some­times it seems that I’ve read this book before.”

La Ponte was frowning again.

“She wants ‘The Anjou Wine’ back,” he explained. “Just as it is, without authentification or anything...” He took a drink, then smiled uncertainly at Corso. “Strange, isn’t it, this sudden interest?”

“What did you tell her?”

La Ponte raised his eyebrows. “That it wasn’t in my hands. That you have the manuscript and I’ve signed a contract with you.”

“That’s a lie. We haven’t signed anything.”

“Of course it’s a lie. But this way I put everything on you if things get nasty. And it doesn’t mean I can’t consider any offers. I’m going to have dinner with the lovely widow one evening. To discuss business. I’m the daring harpooner.”

“You’re not a harpooner. You’re a dirty, lying bastard.”

“Yes. England made me, as that pious old goody-goody Graham Greene would have said. At school my nickname was Wasn’t Me.... Did I ever tell you how I passed Math?” He raised his eyebrows again, tenderly nostalgic at the memory. “I’m a born liar.”

“Well, be careful with Liana Taillefer.”

“Why?” La Ponte was admiring himself in the bar mirror. He smiled lewdly. “I’ve had the hots for that woman ever since I started taking serials over to her husband. She’s got a lot of class.”

“Yes,” admitted Corso, “a lot of middle class.”

“What do you have against her?”

“There’s something funny going on.”

“That’s fine by me, if it involves a beautiful blonde.”

Corso tapped his finger against the knot of his tie. “Listen, idiot. In mysteries the friend always dies. Don’t you see? This is a mystery and you’re my friend.” He winked at him for emphasis. “So you’ll be bumped off.”

Obstinately clinging to his dreams of the widow, La Ponte wouldn’t be intimidated. “Oh, come on. I’ve never hit the jack­pot before. Anyway I told you where I intend to take the bullet: in the shoulder.”

“I’m serious. Taillefer’s dead.”

“He committed suicide.”

“Who knows? More people could die.”

“Well, you go and die, you bastard, ruining my fun.”

The rest of the evening consisted of variations on the same theme. They left after five or six more drinks and agreed to speak on the phone once Corso got to Portugal. La Ponte, rather unsteady on his feet, left without paying, but he did give Corso Rochefort’s cigar butt. “Now you have a pair,” he told him.

 VI. OF APOCRYPHA AND INTERPOLATIONS

Chance? Permit me to laugh, by God. That is an explanation

that would satisfy only an imbecile.

—M. Zevaco, los pardellanes

CENIZA  BROS.

BOOKBINDING  AND  RESTORATION

The wooden sign, cracked, faded with age and mildew, hung in a window thick with dust. The Ceniza brothers’ workshop was on the mezzanine floor of an old four-story building, shored up at the back, on a shady street in the old quarter of Madrid.

Lucas Corso rang the bell twice, but nobody answered. He looked at his watch, leaned against the wall, and prepared him­self for a wait. He knew the habits of Pedro and Pablo Ceniza well. At that hour they would be a few streets away, at the marble counter of La Taurina, draining half a liter of wine for their breakfast and discussing books and bullfighting. Both grumpy bachelors and fond of their drink, they were insep­arable.

They arrived ten minutes later, side by side, their gray over­alls floating like shrouds on their skinny frames. Stooped from a lifetime spent hunched over their press and stamping tools, stitching pages together and gilding leather, they were both under fifty, but you could easily have believed they were ten years older. Their cheeks were sunken, their hands and eyes worn out by their painstaking craft, and their skin was faded, as if the parchment they worked with had transmitted its pale, cold quality to them. The resemblance between the two broth­ers was extraordinary. They had the same large nose, identical ears stuck to their skulls, and sparse hair combed straight back. The only noticeable differences between them were that Pablo, the younger of the two, was taller and quieter and that Pedro was frequently racked by the hoarse rattling cough of a heavy smoker, his hands shaking as he lit one cigarette after another. “It’s been a long time, Mr. Corso. How nice to see you.” They led him up stairs that were worn with use, to a door that creaked as it opened, and switched on the light to reveal their motley workshop. An ancient printing press presided. Next to this was a zinc-topped table covered with tools, half-stitched or already backed gatherings, guillotines, dyed skins, bottles of glue, tooled designs, and other equipment. There were books everywhere: large piles of them, bound in morocco, shagreen, or vellum, packets of them ready for dispatch or only half ready, books without boards or with limp covers. Ancient tomes dam­aged by worms or mildew sat on benches and shelves, waiting to be restored. The room smelled of paper, glue, and new leather. Corso breathed it in with pleasure. Then he took the book out of his bag and laid it on the table. “I’d like your opinion on this.”

It wasn’t the first time. Slowly, even cautiously, Pedro and Pablo Ceniza moved closer. As usual, the older of the two broth­ers spoke first. “The Nine Doors.” He touched the book without moving it. His bony, nicotine-stained fingers seemed to be strok­ing living skin. “Beautiful. A very valuable book.”

His eyes were gray, like a mouse. Gray overalls, gray hair, gray eyes, just like his surname, ceniza meaning ash. He looked at the book greedily.

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“Yes. Less than a year ago, when Claymore asked us to clean twenty books from the library of Mr. Gualterio Terral.”

“What condition was it in when you got it?”

“Excellent. Mr. Terral knew how to look after his books. Almost all of them came to us in good condition, except for a Teixeira, which we had to do quite a bit of work on. The rest, including this one, needed only a little cleaning.”

“It’s a forgery,” said Corso bluntly. “Or so I’m told.”