The Club Dumas

He looked around, bewildered, like a sleepwalker who has just been jolted awake. He suddenly seemed infinitely tired, after a long ordeal. He lifted a finger, requesting a minute to think, then limped over to a corner of the room. Some fifty books were lined up there on a faded French rug. Corso could just make out that the rug depicted Alexander’s victory over Darius.

“Did you know,” asked Fargas, pointing at the scene on the Gobelin, “that Alexander used his rival’s treasure chest to store Homer’s books?” He nodded, pleased, looking at the Mace­donian’s threadbare profile. “He was a fellow book collector. A good man.”

Corso didn’t give a damn about Alexander the Great’s lit­erary tastes. He knelt and read the titles printed on some of the spines and front edges. They were all ancient treatises on magic, alchemy, and demonology. Les trois livres de I’Art, De­structor omnium rerum, Disertazioni sopra le apparizioni de’ spiriti e diavoli, De origine, moribus et rebus gestis Satanae...

“What do you think?” asked Fargas.

“Not bad.”

The book collector laughed wearily. He got down on the rug beside Corso and went over the books mechanically, making sure that none of them had moved by a millimeter since he last checked them.

“Not bad at all. You’re right. At least ten of them are ex­tremely rare. I inherited all this part of the collection from my grandfather. He was a devotee of the hermetic arts and astrol­ogy, and he was a Mason. Look. This is a classic, the Infernal Dictionary by Collin de Plancy, a first edition dating from 1842. And this is the 1571 printing of the Compendi del secreti, by Leonardo Fioravanti.... That strange duodecimo there is the second edition of the Book of Wonders.” He opened another book and showed Corso an engraving. “Look at Isis.... And do you know what this is?”

“Yes, of course. The Oedipus Aegiptiacus by Atanasius Kircher.”

“Correct. The 1652 Borne edition.” Fargas put the book back and picked up another one. Corso recognized the Venetian bind­ing: the black leather with five raised bands and a pentacle but no title on the cover. “Here’s the one you’re looking for, De Umbrarum Regni Novem Portis. The nine doors of the kingdom of shadows.” x

Corso shivered in spite of himself. On the outside at least the book was identical to the one he had in his canvas bag. Fargas handed him the book, and Corso stood up as he leafed through it. They looked identical, or almost. The leather on the back of Fargas’s copy was slightly worn, and there was an old mark left by a label that had been added and then removed. The rest was in the same immaculate condition as Varo Borja’s copy, even engraving number VIIII, which was intact.

“It’s complete and in good condition,” said Fargas, correctly interpreting the look on Corso’s face. “It’s been out in the world for three and a half centuries, but when you open it, it looks as fresh as the day it came off the press. As if the printer made a pact with the devil.”

“Maybe he did,” said Corso.

“I wouldn’t mind knowing the magic formula. My soul in exchange for keeping all this.” The book collector made a sweeping gesture that took in the desolate room, the rows of books on the floor.

“You could try it,” said Corso pointing at The Nine Doors. “They say the formula is in there.”

“I never believed all that nonsense. Although maybe now would be a good time to start. Don’t you think? You have a saying in Spain: If all is lost, we may as well jump in the river.”

“Is the book in order? Have you noticed anything strange about it?”

“Nothing whatsoever. There are no pages missing. And the engravings are all there, nine of them, plus the title page. Just as it was when my grandfather bought it at the turn of the century. It matches the description in the catalogues, and it’s identical to the other two copies, the Ungern in Paris and the Terral-Coy.”

“It’s no longer Terral-Coy. It’s now in the Varo Borja col­lection in Toledo.”

Corso saw that Fargas’s expression had become suspicious, alert.

“Varo Borja, you say?” He was about to add something, but changed his mind. “His collection is remarkable. And very well known.” He paced aimlessly, looking again at the books lined up on the rug. “Varo Borja ...,” he repeated thoughtfully. “A specialist in demonology, isn’t he? A very rich book collector. He’s been after that Nine Doors you’ve got there for years. He’s always been prepared to pay any price.... I didn’t know that he’d managed to find a copy. And you work for him.” “Occasionally,” admitted Corso.

Fargas nodded a couple of times, looking puzzled. “Strange that he should send you. After all...”

He broke off and let his sentence hang. He was looking at Corso’s bag. “You brought the book with you? Could I see it?”

They went up to the table and Corso laid his copy next to Fargas’s. As he did so, he could hear the old man’s agitated breathing. His face looked ecstatic again.

“Look at them closely,” he whispered, as if afraid of waking something that slept between their pages. “They’re perfect, beautiful. And identical. Two of the only three copies that es­caped the flames, brought together for the first time since they were parted three hundred and fifty years ago....” His hands were trembling again. He rubbed his wrists to slow the blood coursing through them. “Look at the errata on page 72, and the split s here, in the fourth line of page 87.... The same paper, identical printing. Isn’t it a wonder?”

“Yes.” Corso cleared his throat. “I’d like to stay awhile. Have a thorough look at them.”

Fargas gave him a piercing look. He seemed to hesitate.

“As you wish,” he said at last. “But if you have the Terral-Coy copy, there’s no doubt as to its authenticity.” He looked at Corso with curiosity, trying to read his mind. “Varo Borja must know that.”

“I suppose he must.” Corso gave his best neutral smile. “But I’m getting paid to make sure.” He kept smiling. They were coming to the difficult part. “By the way, speaking of money, I was told to make you an offer.”

The book collector’s curiosity turned to suspicion. “What kind of offer?”

“Financial. And substantial.” Corso laid his hand on the sec­ond copy. “You could solve your money problems for some time.”

“Would it be Varo Borja paying?”

“It could be.”

Fargas stroked his chin. “He already has one of the books. Does he want all three of them?”

The man might have been a little insane, but he was no fool. Corso gestured vaguely, not wanting to commit himself. Perhaps. One of those things collectors get into their heads. But if Fargas sold the book, he would be able to keep the Virgil. “You don’t understand,” said Fargas. But Corso understood only too well. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with the old man.

“Forget it,” he said. “It was just a thought.” “I don’t sell at random. I choose the books. I thought I’d made that clear.”

The veins on the back of his tensed hands were knotted. He was becoming irritated, so Corso spent the next few minutes in placatory mode. The offer was a secondary matter, a mere for­mality. What he really wanted, he said, was to make a com­parative study of both books. At last, to his relief, Fargas nodded in agreement.

“I don’t see any problem with that,” he said, his mistrust receding. It was obvious that he liked Corso. If he hadn’t, things would have gone quite differently. “Although I can’t offer you many creature comforts here....”

He led him down a bare passage to another, smaller room, which had a dilapidated piano in one corner, a table with an old bronze candelabrum covered with wax drips, and a couple of rickety chairs.

“At least it’s quiet here,” said Fargas. “And all the window-panes are intact.”

He snapped his fingers, as if he’d forgotten something. He disappeared for a moment and returned holding the rest of the bottle of brandy.

“So Varo Borja finally managed to get hold of it,” he re­peated. He smiled to himself, as if at some thought that obvi­ously caused him great satisfaction. Then he put the bottle and glass on the floor, at a safe distance from the two copies of The

Nine Doors. Like an attentive host he looked around to make sure that everything was in order, then said ironically, before leaving, “Make yourself at home.”

Corso poured the rest of the brandy into the glass. He took out his notes and set to work. He had drawn three boxes on a sheet of paper. Each box contained a number and name:

Page after page, he jotted down any difference between book number one and book number two, however