one and took out a volume bound in dark leather.
“Like all great writers of fables,” I went on, “Dumas was a liar. Countess Dash, who knew him well, says in her memoirs that any apocryphal anecdote he told was received as the historical truth. Take Cardinal Richelieu: he was the greatest man of his time, but once the treacherous Dumas had finished with him, the image left to us was that of a sinister villain....” I turned to Corso, holding the book. “Do you know this? It was written by Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras, a musketeer who lived in the late seventeenth century. They’re the memoirs of the real d’Artagnan, Charles de Batz-Castelmore, Comte d’Artagnan. He was a Gascon, born in 1615, and was indeed a musketeer. Although he lived in Mazarin’s time, not Richelieu’s. He died in 1673 during the siege of Maastricht, when, like his fictional namesake, he was about to be awarded the marshal’s staff.... So you see, Dumas’s raping did indeed produce beautiful offspring. An obscure flesh-and-blood Gascon, forgotten by History, transformed into a legendary giant by the novelist’s genius.”
Corso sat and listened. When I handed him the book, he leafed through it carefully, with great interest. He turned the pages slowly, barely brushing them with his fingertips, only touching the very edge. From time to time he paused over a name or a chapter heading. Behind his spectacles his eyes worked sure and fast. He stopped once to write in his notebook:
“You said it: he was a trickster.”
“Yes,” I agreed, sitting down again. “But a genius. While some would simply have plagiarized, he created a fictional world that still endures today... ‘Man does not steal, he conquers,’ he often said. ‘Every province he seizes becomes an annex of his empire: he imposes laws, peoples it with themes and characters, casting his shadow over it.’ What else is literary creation? For Dumas, the history of France was a rich source of material. His was an extraordinary trick: he’d leave the frame alone but alter the picture, mercilessly plundering the treasure that was offered to him. He turned central characters into minor ones, humble secondary characters became protagonists, and he wrote pages about events that took up only two lines in the historical chronicles. The pact of friendship between d’Artagnan and his companions never existed, one of the reasons being that half of them didn’t even know each other. Nor was there a Comte de la Fere. Or, rather, there were several of them, though none called Athos. But Athos did exist. He was Armand de Sillegue, Lord of Athos, and he was killed in a duel before d’Artagnan ever joined the king’s musketeers. Aramis was Henri d’Aramitz, a squire and lay priest in the seneschalship of Oloron, who enrolled in the musketeers under his uncle’s command in 1640. He ended his days on his estate, with a wife and four children. As for Porthos ...”
“Don’t tell me there was a Porthos too.”
“Yes. His name was Isaac de Portau and he must have known Aramis, because he joined the musketeers just three years after him, in 1643. According to the chronicles, he died prematurely, from a disease, at war, or in a duel like Athos.”
Corso drummed his fingers on d’Artagnan’s
“Correct. But her name wasn’t Anne de Breuil, and she wasn’t the Duchess de Winter. Nor did she have a fleur-de-lis tattooed on her shoulder. But she
Corso was staring at me intently. He wasn’t the type to be easily surprised, particularly when it came to books, but he seemed impressed. Later, when I came to know him better, I wondered whether his admiration was sincere or just another of his professional wiles. Now that it’s all over, I think I know: I was one more source of information, and Corso was trying to get as much out of me as possible.
“This is all very interesting,” he said.
“If you go to Paris, Replinger can tell you much more than I can.” I looked at the manuscript on the table. “Though I’m not sure it’s worth the price of a trip ... What would this chapter fetch on the market?”
He started chewing his pencil again and looked doubtful. “Not much. I’m really after something else.”
I gave a sad conspiratorial smile. Among my few possessions I have an Ibarra edition of
“I know what you mean,” I said warmly.
Corso made a resigned gesture. He bared his rodent teeth in a bitter smile. “Unless the Japanese get fed up with Van Gogh and Picasso,” he suggested, “and start investing in rare books.”
I shuddered. “God help us if that ever happens.”
“Speak for yourself.” He looked at me sardonically through his crooked glasses. “I plan to make a fortune.”
He put his notebook away and stood up, the strap of his canvas bag over his shoulder. I couldn’t help wondering about his falsely placid appearance, with his steel-rimmed glasses sitting unsteadily on his nose. I found out later that he lived alone, surrounded by books, both his own and other people’s, and that as well as being a hired hunter of books he was an expert on Napoleon’s battles. He could set out on a board, from memory, the exact positions of troops on the eve of Waterloo. A detail from his family, slightly strange, and I found out about it only much later. I have to admit that from this description Corso doesn’t sound very appealing. And yet, if I keep to the strict accuracy with which I am narrating this story, I must add that his awkward appearance, the very clumsiness that seemed— and I don’t know how he managed it—vulnerable and caustic, ingenuous and aggressive at the same time, made him both attractive to women and sympathetic to men. But the positive feeling was quickly dispelled, as when you touch your pocket and realize that your wallet has just been stolen.
Corso picked up his manuscript, and I saw him to the door. He shook my hand in the hallway, where portraits of Stendhal, Conrad, and Valle-Inclan looked out severely at an atrocious print that the building’s residents’ association had decided to hang on the landing a few months earlier, much against my wishes.
Only then did I dare ask him: “I confess I’m intrigued as to where you found it.”
He hesitated before answering, weighing the pros and cons. I had received him in a friendly manner, so he was in my debt. Also he might need my help again.
“Maybe you know him,” he answered at last. “My client bought the manuscript from a certain Taillefer.”
I allowed myself a look of moderate surprise. “Enrique Taillefer? The publisher?”
He was gazing absently around the hallway. At last he nodded. “The same.”
We both fell silent. Corso shrugged, and I knew why. The reason could be found in the pages of any newspaper: Enrique Taillefer had been dead a week. He had been found hanged in his house, the cord of his silk robe around his neck, his feet dangling in empty space over an open book and a porcelain vase smashed to pieces.
Some time later, when it was all over, Corso agreed to tell me the rest of the story. So I can now give a fairly accurate picture of a chain of events that I didn’t witness, events that led to the fatal denouement and the solution to the mystery surrounding the Club Dumas. Thanks to what Corso told me I can now tell you, like Doctor Watson, that the following scene took place in Makarova’s bar an hour after our meeting:
Flavio La Ponte came in shaking off the rain, leaned on the bar next to Corso, and ordered a beer while he caught his breath. Then he looked back at the street, aggressive but triumphant, as if he had just come through sniper fire. It was raining with biblical force.
“The firm of Armengol & Sons, Antiquarian Books and Bibliographical Curiosities, intends to sue you,” he said. He had a ring of froth on his curly blond beard, around his mouth. “Their solicitor just telephoned.”
“What are they accusing me of?” asked Corso. “Cheating a little old lady and plundering her library. They swear the deal was theirs.”
“Well, they should have got up early, as I did.” “That’s what I said, but they’re still furious. When they went to pick up the books, the
“I know what it’s called.” Corso smiled malevolently. “And Armengol & Sons know it too.”
“You’re being unnecessarily cruel,” said La Ponte impartially. “But what they’re most sore about is the
“How could I leave it there? Latin glossary by Diaz de Montalvo, no typographical details but printed in Seville
