The Club Dumas

by Alonso Del Puerto, possibly 1482...” He adjusted his glasses and looked at his friend. “What do you think?” “Sounds good to me. But they’re a bit jumpy.” “They should take a Valium.”

It was early evening. There was very little room at the bar, and they were pressed shoulder to shoulder, surrounded by cig­arette smoke and the murmur of conversation, trying not to get their elbows in the puddles of beer on the counter.

“Apparently,” continued La Ponte, “the Persiles is a first edition. The binding’s signed by Trautz-Bauzonnet.” Corso shook his head. “By Hardy. Morocco leather.” “Even better. Anyway I swore I had nothing to do with it. You know I have an aversion to lawsuits.” “But not to your thirty percent.”

La Ponte raised his hand with dignity. “Stop right there. Don’t confuse business with pleasure, Corso. Our beautiful friendship is one thing, food for my children is quite another.”

“You don’t have any children.”

La Ponte looked at him mischievously. “Give me time. I’m still young.”

He was short, good-looking, neat, and something of a dandy. His hair was thinning on top. He smoothed it down with his hand, checking to see how it looked in the bar’s mirror. Then he cast a practiced eye around the room, checking out the ladies. He was always on the lookout, and always liked to use short sentences in conversation. His father, a very cultured bookseller, had taught him to write by dictating to him texts by Azorin. Hardly anyone reads Azorin anymore, but La Ponte still con­structed his sentences like Azorin. With lots of full stops. It gave him a certain aplomb when it came to seducing female customers in the back room of his bookshop in the Calle Mayor, where he kept his erotic classics.

“Anyway,” he added, “I have some unfinished business with Armengol & Sons. Rather delicate, but I could make a quick profit.”

“You have business with me too,” said Corso over his beer. “You’re the only poor bookseller I work with. And you’re going to be the one who sells those books.”

“All right, all right,” said La Ponte equably. “You know I’m a practical man. A despicable pragmatist.”

“Yes.”

“Imagine this was a Western. As your friend, I’d take a bullet for you, but only in the shoulder.”

“At the very most,” said Corso.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” La Ponte was looking around distractedly. “I already have a buyer for the Persiles.”

“Then get me another beer. An advance on your commission.

They were old friends. They both loved frothy beer and, in its glazed earthenware bottle, Bols gin. But above all they loved antiquarian books and the auctions held in old Madrid auction rooms. They had met many years earlier, when Corso was rooting around in bookshops that specialized in Spanish authors. A client of his was looking for a bogus copy of Celestina that was supposed to predate the known 1499 edition. La Ponte didn’t have the book and hadn’t even heard of it, but he did have an edition of Julio Ollero’s Dictionary of Rare and Im­probable Books in which it was mentioned. They chatted about books and realized that they had a lot in common. La Ponte closed his shop, and they sealed their friendship by drinking all there was to drink in Makarova’s bar while swapping an­ecdotes about Melville. La Ponte had been brought up on tales of the Pequod and the escapades of Azorin. “Call me Ishmael,” he said as he drained his third Bols in one swallow. And Corso called him Ishmael, quoting from memory and in his honor the episode of the forging of Ahab’s harpoon: “Three punctures were made in the heathen flesh, and the White JVhale’s barbs were then tempered.”

They duly drank a toast. By then La Ponte was no longer watching the girls coming in and out of the bar. He swore eternal friendship to Corso. Despite his militant cynicism and his occupation as a rapacious seller of old books, underneath he was a naive man. So he was unaware that his new friend with the crooked glasses was discreetly outflanking him: Corso had glanced over his shelves and spotted a few books he planned to make an offer for. But La Ponte, with his pale, curly beard, the gentle look of seaman Billy Budd with daydreams of a frus­trated whale hunter, had awakened Corso’s sympathy. La Ponte could even recite the names of all the crew of the Pequod; Ahab, Stubb, Starbuck, Flask, Perth, Parsee, Queequeg, Tasthego, Daggoo... Or the names of all the ships mentioned in Moby-Dick: the Goney, the Town-Ho, the Jeroboam, the Jungfrau, the Rose-bud, the Batchelor, the Delight, the Rachel... And, proof of proof, he even knew what ambergris was. They talked of books and whales. And so that night the Brotherhood of Nan-tucket Harpooneers was founded, with Flavio La Ponte as chair­man, Lucas Corso as treasurer. They were the only two members and had Makarova’s tolerant patronage. She gave them their last round on the house and ended up sharing an­other bottle of gin with them.

“I’m going to Paris,” said Corso, watching the reflection of a fat woman putting coin after coin in a slot machine. It seemed as if the silly little tune and the colors, fruits, and bells would keep her there for all eternity, hypnotized and motionless but for her hand pushing the buttons. “To see about your ‘Anjou Wine.’ “

His friend wrinkled his nose and gave him a sideways glance. Paris meant more expense, complications. La Ponte was a stingy, small-time bookseller.

“You know I can’t afford it.”

Corso slowly emptied his glass. “Yes, you can.” He took out a few coins and paid his round. “I’m going about something else.”

“Oh yes?” said La Ponte, intrigued.

Makarova put two more beers on the counter. She was large, blond, in her forties, and had short hair and a ring in one ear, a souvenir of her time on a Russian trawler. She wore narrow trousers and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her shoulders. Her overdeveloped biceps weren’t the only masculine thing about her. She always had a lighted cigarette smoldering in the corner of her mouth. With her Baltic look and her way of moving, she looked like a fitter from a ball-bearing factory in Leningrad.

“I read that book,” she told Corso, rolling her r’s. As she spoke, ash from her cigarette dropped onto her damp shirt. “That tart Bovary. Poor little fool.”

“I’m so glad you grasped the heart of the matter.”

Makarova wiped down the counter with a cloth. At the other end of the bar Zizi was watching as she worked the till. She was the complete opposite of Makarova: much younger, slight, and terribly jealous. Sometimes, just before closing time, they would quarrel drunkenly and come to blows, the last few regulars watching. Once, with a black eye after one of these rows, Zizi upped and left, furious and vindictive. Makarova wept copiously into the beer until Zizi returned three days later. That night they closed early and left with their arms around each other’s waist, kissing in doorways like two teenagers in love. “He’s off to Paris,” La Ponte said, nodding in Corso’s direc­tion. “To see what he can pull out of the hat.”

Makarova collected the empty glasses and looked at Corso through the smoke of her cigarette. “He’s always up to some­thing,” she said in her flat, guttural tone.

Then she put the glasses in the sink and went to serve some other customers, swinging her broad shoulders. Corso was the only member of the opposite sex who escaped her contempt, and she would proclaim this when she didn’t charge him for a drink. Even Zizi looked upon him with a certain neutrality. Once, when Makarova was arrested for punching a policeman in the face during a gay rights march, Zizi had waited all night on a bench in the police station. Corso called all his contacts in the police, stayed with her, and supplied sandwiches and a bottle of gin. It all made La Ponte absurdly jealous.

“Why Paris?” he asked, though his mind was on other things. His left elbow had just prodded something deliciously soft. He was delighted to find that his neighbor at the bar was a young blonde with enormous breasts.

Corso took another gulp of beer. “I’m also going to Sintra, in Portugal.” He was still watching the fat woman at the slot machine. She’d run out of coins and was now getting change from Zizi. “On some business for Varo Borja.”

His friend made a whistling sound. Varo Borja, Spain’s lead­ing book dealer. His catalogue was small and select. He was also well known as a book lover to whom money was no object. Impressed, La Ponte asked for more beer and more information, with that greedy look that automatically clicked on when he heard the word book. Although he admitted to being a miser and a coward, he wasn’t an envious man,