The Club Dumas

art should imitate art.”

“You get better results,” added Pablo.

Corso looked at him conspiratorially.

“As with the Sorbonne’s Speculum,”

“Maybe. The creator or creators of that piece of work may have thought like us.... Don’t you think, Pablo?”

“They must have been romantics,” agreed his brother with a faint smile.

“Yes, they must.” Corso pointed at the book. “So, what’s your verdict?”

“I would say that it’s original,” answered Pedro Ceniza without hesitation. “Even we wouldn’t be able to produce such perfect results. Look, the quality of the paper, stains on the pages, identical tones and variations in the ink, and the typography... It’s possible that some forged pages may have been inserted, but I think it improbable. If it is a forgery, the only explanation is that the forgery must have been done around the same time. How many known copies are there? Three? I assume you have considered the possibility that all three are forgeries.”

“Yes, I have. What about the woodcuts?”

“They’re definitely very strange. All those symbols ... But they do date from the time. The degree of impression on the plates is identical. The ink, the shades of the paper... Maybe the key lies not in how or when they were printed but in their contents. I’m sorry we haven’t made much progress.”

“You’re wrong.” Corso prepared to close the book. “We’ve made a lot of progress.”

Pedro Ceniza stopped him. “There’s one more thing... I’m sure you’ve noticed them yourself. The printer’s marks.”

Corso looked at him, confused. “I don’t know what you mean.

“The tiny signatures at the foot of each illustration. Show him, Pablo.”

The younger brother wiped his hands on his overalls, as if to wipe off sweat. Then, moving closer to The Nine Doors, he showed Corso some of the pages through a magnifying glass.

“Each engraving,” he explained, “has the usual abbrevia­tions: Inv. for invenit, with the signature of the original artist, and Sculp, for sculpsit, the engraver.... Look. In seven of the nine woodcuts, the abbreviation A. TORCH appears as both sculp. and inv. Obviously the printer himself drew and engraved seven of the illustrations. But in the other two, he is named only as sculp. That means that he only engraved them. Someone else created the drawings, someone else was the inv. Someone with the initials L.F.”

Pedro Ceniza nodded in approval at his brother’s explanation and lit yet another cigarette. “Not bad, eh?” He started to cough amid the smoke. He watched for Corso’s reaction, a malicious glint in his astute, mouselike eyes. “That printer might have been the one burned at the stake, but he wasn’t the only one involved.”

“No,” agreed his brother, “somebody helped light the fire at his feet.”

the same DAY, CORSO had a visit from Liana Taillefer. The widow arrived unannounced, at that hour which is neither afternoon nor evening, when Corso, dressed in a faded cotton shirt and old corduroys, was standing by the west-facing win­dow, watching the sunset turn the city rooftops red and ochre. Maybe it wasn’t a good moment; maybe much of what hap­pened later might have been avoided had she turned up at a different time of day. We’ll never know. What we do know is that Corso was looking out the window, his eyes growing mistier as he emptied his glass of gin. The doorbell rang, and Liana Taillefer—blond, impressively tall, in an English raincoat, tai­lored suit, and black stockings—appeared on the doorstep. Her hair was gathered into a bun beneath a tobacco-colored, wide-brimmed hat elegantly tilted to one side. The hat suited her very well. She was a beautiful woman. She knew it and ex­pected everyone to notice.

“To what do I owe the honor?” asked Corso. It was a stupid question, but at that hour and with all the Bols in him, he couldn’t be expected to shine in conversation. Liana Taillefer had already stepped into the room. She was standing at the desk where the folder with the Dumas manuscript lay next to his computer and box of diskettes.

“Are you still working on this?”

“Of course.”

She lifted her gaze from “The Anjou Wine” and glanced around calmly at the books covering the walls and piled up all over the room. Corso knew she was looking for photographs, mementos, clues to the personality of the occupant. She arched an arrogant eyebrow, irritated at not finding any. At last she saw the saber of the Old Guard.

“Do you collect swords?”

This was a logical inference. Of an inductive nature. At least, Corso thought with relief, Liana Taillefer’s ability to smooth over embarrassing situations didn’t match her appearance. Un­less she was teasing him. He smiled warily, feeling cornered.

“I collect that one. It’s called a saber.”

She nodded, expressionless. Impossible to tell whether she was simple or a good actress.

“A family heirloom?”

“An acquisition,” lied Corso. “I thought it would look nice on the wall. Books on their own can get a bit boring.”

“How come you have no pictures or photographs?”

“There’s no one I particularly want to remember.” He thought of the photograph in the silver frame, the late Taillefer in an apron carving the suckling pig. “In your case it’s different, of course.”

She looked at him intently, perhaps trying to decide how rude his comment had been. There was steel in her blue eyes, steel so cold that it chilled you. She paced the room, stopping to look at some of his books, at the view from the window, then returned to the desk. She ran a blood-red fingernail over the folder with the Dumas manuscript. Maybe she was expect­ing Corso to say something, but he remained silent. He waited patiently. If she was after something—and it was pretty obvi­ous that she was—he’d let her do all the work. He wasn’t going to make it easier for her. “May I sit down?”

The slightly husky voice. The echo of a heavy night, thought Corso again. He stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, waiting. Liana Taillefer took off her hat and raincoat. She looked around with her interminable slowness and chose an old sofa. She went over to it and sat down slowly, her skirt riding up high. She crossed her legs with an effect that anyone, even Corso with half a gin less in him, would have found dev­astating.

“I’ve come on business.”

That was plain. She must be after something, to put on such a display. Corso had as much self-esteem as the next person, but he was no fool.

“Fine,” he said. “Have you had dinner with Flavio La Ponte yet?”

No reaction. For a few seconds she continued looking at him, unperturbed, with the same air of contemptuous confidence.

“Not yet,” she answered at last, without anger. “I wanted to see you first.”

“Well, here I am.”

Liana Taillefer leaned back a little more against the sofa. One of her hands was resting on a split in the shabby leather upholstery, where the horsehair stuffing poked through.

“You work for money,” she said.

“I do.”

“You sell yourself to the highest bidder.”

“Sometimes.” Corso showed one of his eyeteeth. He was on his own territory, so he could allow himself his friendly rabbit expression. “Generally what I do is hire myself out. Like Humphrey Bogart in the movies. Or like a whore.”

For a widow who’d spent her schooldays doing needlework, Liana Taillefer didn’t seem shocked by his language.

“I want to offer you a job.”

“How nice. Everybody’s offering me jobs these days.”

“I’ll pay you well.”

“Wonderful. They all want to pay me well too.”