“I’m not sure I want this job,” he said aloud.
Borja must have realized Corso meant it, because his manner changed. He sat motionless, his chin resting on his hands, the light from the window burnishing his perfectly tanned bald head. He seemed to be weighing things as he stared intently at Corso.
“Did I ever tell you why I became a book dealer?”
“No. And I really don’t give a damn.”
Borja laughed theatrically to show he was prepared to be magnanimous and take Corso’s rudeness. Corso could safely vent his bad temper, for the moment.
“I pay you to listen to whatever I want to tell you.”
“You haven’t paid me yet, this time.”
Borja took a checkbook from one of the drawers and put it on the desk, while Corso looked around. This was the moment to say “So long” or stay put and wait. It was also the moment to be offered a drink, but Borja wasn’t that kind of host. Corso shrugged, feeling the flask of gin in his pocket. It was absurd. He knew perfectly well he wouldn’t leave, whether or not he liked what Borja was about to propose. And Borja knew it. Borja wrote out a figure, signed and tore out the check, then pushed it toward Corso.
Without touching it, Corso glanced at it. “You’ve convinced me,” he said with a sigh. “I’m listening.”
The book dealer didn’t even allow himself a look of triumph. Just a brief nod, cold and confident, as if he had just made some insignificant deal.
“I got into this business by chance,” he began. “One day I found myself penniless, with my great-uncle’s library as my sole inheritance... About two thousand books, of which only about a hundred were of any value. But among them were a first-edition Don Quixote, a couple of eighteenth-century Psalters, and one of the only four known copies of Champfleuri by Geoffroy Tory.... What do you think?”
“You were lucky.”
“You can say that again,” agreed Borja in an even, confident tone. He didn’t have the smugness of so many successful people when they talk about themselves. “In those days I knew nothing about collectors of rare books, but I grasped the essential fact: they’re willing to pay a lot of money for the real thing.... I learned terms I’d never heard of before, like colophon, dented chisel, golden mean, fanfare binding. And while I was becoming interested in the business, I discovered something else: some books are for selling and others are for keeping. Becoming a book collector is like joining a religion: it’s for life.” “Very moving. So now tell me what I and your Nine Doors have to do with your taking vows.”
“You asked me what I’d do if you discovered that my copy was a forgery. Well, let me make this clear: it is a forgery.” “How do you know?” “I am absolutely certain of it.”
Corso grimaced, showing what he thought of absolute certainty in matters of rare books. “In Mateu’s Universal Bibliography and in the Terral-Coy catalogue it’s listed as authentic.” “Yes,” said Borja. “Though there’s a small error in Mateu: it states that there are eight illustrations, when there are nine of them.... But formal authenticity means little. According to the bibliographies, the Fargas and Ungern copies are also authentic.”
“Maybe all three are.”
Borja shook his head. “That’s not possible. The records of Torchia’s trial leave no doubt: only one copy was saved.” He smiled mysteriously. “I have other proof.”
“Such as?”
“It doesn’t concern you.”
“Then why do you need me?”
Borja pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Come with me.”
“I’ve already told you,” Corso said, shaking his head, “I’m not remotely interested in this.”
“You’re lying. You’re burning with curiosity. You’d do the job for free.”
He took the check and put it in his vest pocket. Then he lead Corso up a spiral staircase to the floor above. Borja’s office was at the back of his house. The house was a huge medieval building in the old part of the city, and he’d paid a fortune for it. He took Corso along a corridor leading to the hall and main entrance; they stopped at a door that opened with a modern security keypad. It was a large room with a black marble floor, a beamed ceiling, and ancient iron bars at the windows. There was a desk, leather armchairs, and a large stone fireplace. All the walls were covered with glass cabinets full of books and with prints in beautiful frames. Some of them by Holbein and Diirer, Corso noted.
“Nice room,” he said. He’d never been here before. “But I thought you kept your books in the storeroom in the basement...”
Borja stopped at his side. “These are mine. They’re not for sale. Some people collect chivalric or romantic novels. Some search for Don Quixotes or uncut volumes.... All the books you see here have the same central character: the devil.”
“Can I have a look?”
“That’s why I brought you here.”
Corso took a few steps forward. The books had ancient bindings, from the leather-covered boards of the incunabula to the morocco leather decorated with plaques and rosettes. His scuffed shoes squeaked on the marble floor as he stopped in front of one of the cabinets and leaned over to examine its contents: De spectris et apparitionibus by Juan Rivio, Summa diabolica by Benedicto Casiano, La haine de Satan by Pierre Crespet, the Steganography of Abbot Tritemius, De Consum-matione saeculi by St. Pontius ... They were all extremely rare and valuable books, most of which Corso knew only from bibliographical references.
“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?” said Borja, watching Corso closely. “There’s nothing like that sheen, the gold on leather, behind glass.... Not to mention the treasures these books contain: centuries of study, of wisdom. Answers to the secrets of the universe and the heart of man.” He raised his arms slightly and let them drop, giving up the attempt to express in words his pride at owning them all. “I know people who would kill for a collection like this.”
Corso nodded without taking his eyes off the books. “You, for instance,” he said. “Although you wouldn’t do it yourself. You’d get somebody to do the killing for you.”
Borja laughed contemptuously. “That’s one of the advantages of having money—you can hire henchmen to do your dirty work. And remain pure yourself.”
Corso looked at the book dealer. “That’s a matter of opinion,” he said. He seemed to ponder the matter. “I despise people who don’t get their hands dirty. The pure ones.”
“I don’t care what you despise, so let’s get down to serious matters.”
Borja took a few steps past the cabinets, each containing about a hundred volumes. “Ars Diavoli...” He opened the one nearest to him and ran his finger over the spines of the books, almost in a caress. “You’ll never see such a collection anywhere else. These are the rarest, most choice books. It took me years to build up this collection, but I was still lacking the prize piece.”
He took out one of the books, a folio bound in black leather, in the Venetian style, with no title on the outside but with five raised bands on the spine and a golden pentacle on the front cover. Corso took it and opened it carefully. The first printed page, the title page, was in Latin: DE UMBRARUM REGNI NOVEM PORTIS, The book of the nine doors of the kingdom of shadows. Then came the printer’s mark, place, name, and date: Fenetiae, apud Aristidem Torchiam. M..DC.LX.VI. Cum superiorum pri-vilegio veniaque. With the privilege and permission of the superiors.
Borja was watching to see Corso’s reaction.
“One can always tell a book lover,” he said, “by the way he handles a book.”
“I’m not a book lover.”
“True. But sometimes you make one forget that you have the manners of a mercenary. When it comes to books, certain gestures can be reassuring. The way some people touch them is criminal.”
Corso turned more pages. All the text was in Latin, printed in handsome type on thick, quality paper that had withstood the passage of time. There were nine splendid full-page engravings, showing scenes of a medieval appearance. He paused ov
er one of them, at random. It was numbered with a Latin V, together with one Hebrew and one Greek letter or numeral. At the foot, one word which was incomplete or in code: “FR.ST.A.” A man who looked like a merchant was counting out a sack of gold in front of a closed door, unaware of the skeleton behind him holding an hourglass in one hand and a pitchfork in the other.
“What do you think?” asked Borja.
“You told me it was a forgery, but this doesn’t look like one. Have you examined it thoroughly?”
“I’ve gone over the whole thing, down to the last comma, with a magnifying glass. I’ve had plenty of time. I bought it six months ago, when the heirs of Gualterio Terral decided to sell his collection.”
The book hunter turned more pages. The engravings were beautiful, of a simple, mysterious elegance. In another one, a young girl was about to be beheaded by an executioner in armor, his sword raised.
“I doubt that the heirs would have sold a forgery,” said Corso when he’d finished examining it. “They have too much money, and they don’t give a damn about books. The catalogue for the collection even had to be drawn up by Claymore’s auctioneers... And I knew old Terral. He would never have accepted a book that had been tampered with or forged.”
“I agree,” said Borja. “And he inherited The Nine Doors from his father-in-law, Don Lisardo Coy, a book collector with impeccable credentials.”
“And he,” said Corso as he placed the book on the desk and pulled out his notebook from his coat pocket, “bought it from an Italian, Domenico Chiara, whose family, according to the Weiss catalogue, had owned it since 1817....”
Borja nodded, pleased. “I see you’ve gone into the matter in some depth.”
“Of course I have.” Corso looked at him as if he’d just said something very stupid. “It’s my job.”
Borja made a placating gesture. “I don’t doubt Terral and his heirs’ good faith,” he clarified. “Nor did I say that the book wasn’t old.”
“You said it was a forgery.”
“Maybe forgery isn’t the word.”
“Well, what is it then? The book belongs to the right era.” Corso picked it up again and flicked his thumb against the edge of the pages, listening. “Even the paper sounds right.”
“There’s something in it that doesn’t sound right. And I don’t mean the paper.”
“Maybe the prints.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“I would have expected copperplates. By 1666 nobody was using woodcuts.”
“Don’t forget that this was an unusual edition. The engravings are reproductions of other, older prints, supposedly discovered or seen by the printer.”
“The Delomelanicon... Do you really believe that?”
“You don’t care what I believe. But the book’s nine original engravings aren’t attributed to just anybody. Legend has it that Lucifer, after being defeated and thrown out of heaven, devised the magic formula to be used by his followers: the authoritative handbook of the shadows. A terrible book kept in secret, burned many times, sold for huge sums by the few privileged to own it... These illustrations are really satanic hieroglyphs. Interpreted with the aid of the text and the appropriate knowledge, they can be used to summon the prince of darkness.”
Corso nodded with exaggerated gravity. “I can think of better ways to sell one’s soul.”
“Please don’t joke, this is more serious than it seems.... Do you know what Delomelanicon means?”
“I think so. It comes from the Greek: delo, meaning to summon. And melas: black, dark.”
Borja’s laugh was high-pitched. He said in a tone of approval: “I forgot that you’re an educated mercenary. You’re right: to summon the shadows, or illuminate them... The prophet Daniel, Hippocrates, Flavius Josephus, Albertus Magnus, and Leon III all mention this wonderful book. People have been writing only for the last six thousand years, but the Delomelanicon is reputed to be three times that old. The first direct mention of it is in the Turis papyrus, written thirty-three centuries ago. Then, between 1 B.C. and the second year of our era, it is quoted several times in the Corpus Hermeticum. According to the Asclemandres, the book enables one to ‘face the Light.’ And in an incomplete inventory of the library at Alexandria, before it was destroyed for the third and last time in the year 646, there is a specific reference to the nine magic enigmas it contains.... We don’t know if there was one copy or several, or if any copies survived the burning of the library.... Since then, its trail has disappeared and reappeared throughout history, through fires, wars, and disasters.”
Corso looked doubtful. “That’s always the case. All magic books have the same pedigree: from Thoth to Nicholas Flamel.... Once, a client of mine who was fascinated by alchemy asked me to find him the bibliography quoted by Fulcanelli and his followers. I couldn’t convince him that half the books didn’t exist.”
“Well, this one did exist. It must have, for the Holy Office to list it in its Index. Don’t you think?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Lawyers who don’t believe their clients are innocent still get them acquitted.”
“That’s the case here. I’m hiring you not because you believe but because you’re good.”
Corso turned more pages of the book. Another engraving, numbered I, showed a walled city on a hill. A strange unarmed horseman was riding toward the city, his finger to his lips requesting complicity or silence. The caption read: NEM. PERV.T QUI N.N LEG. CERT.RIT.
“It’s in an abbreviated but decipherable code,” explained Borja, watching him. “Nemo pervenit gui non legitime certaverit”
“Only he who has fought according to the rules will prevail?”
“That’s about it. For the moment it’s the only one of the nine captions that we can decipher with any certainty. An almost identical one appears in the works of Roger Bacon, a specialist in demonology, cryptography, and magic. Bacon claimed to own a Delomelanicon that had belonged to King Solomon, containing the key to terrible mysteries. The book was made of rolls of parchment with illustrations. It was burned in 1350 by personal order of Pope Innocent VI, who declared: ‘It contains a method to summon devils.’ In Venice three centuries later, Aristide Torchia decided to print it with the original illustrations.”
“They’re too good,” objected Corso. “They can’t be the originals: they’d be in an older style.”
“I agree. Torchia must have updated them.”
Another engraving, number III, showed a bridge with gate towers spanning a river. Corso looked up and saw that Borja was smiling mysteriously, like an alchemist confident of what is cooking in his crucible.
“There’s one last connection,” said the book dealer. “Giordano Bruno, martyr of rationalism, mathematician, and champion of the theory that the Earth rotates around the sun ...” He waved his hand contemptuously, as if all this was trivial. “But that was only part of his work. He wrote sixty-one books, and magic played an important role in them. Bruno makes specific reference to the Delomelanicon, even using the Greek words delo and melas, and he adds: ‘On the path of men who want to know, there are nine secret doors.’ He goes on to describe the methods for making the Light shine once more. ‘Sic luceat Lux,’he writes, which is actually the motto”—Borja showed Corso the printer’s mark: a tree split by lighting, a snake, and a motto—”that Aristide Torchia used on the frontispiece of The Nine Doors.... What do you think of that?”
“It’s all well and good. But it all comes to the same. You can make a text mean anything, especially if it’s old and full of ambiguities.”
“Or precautions. Giordano Bruno forgot the golden rule for survival: Scire, tacere. To know and keep silent. Apparently he knew the right things, but he talked too much. And there are more coincidences: Bruno was arrested in Venice, declared an obdurate heretic, and burned alive in Rome at Campo dei Fiori in February 1600. The same journey, the same places, and the same dates that marked Aristide Torchia’s path to execution sixty-seven years later: he was arr
ested in Venice, tortured in Rome, and burned at Campo dei Fiori in February 1667. By then very few people were being burned at the stake, and yet he was.”
“I’m impressed,” said Corso, who wasn’t in the least.
Borja tutted reprovingly.
“Sometimes I wonder if you believe in anything.”
Corso seemed to consider that for a moment, then shrugged. “A long time ago, I did believe in something. But I was young and cruel then. Now I’m forty-five: I’m old and cruel.”
“I am too. But there are things I still believe in. Things that make my heart beat faster.”
“Like money?”
“Don’t make fun of me. Money is the key that opens the door to man’s dark secrets. And it pays for your services. And grants me the only thing in the world I respect: these books.” He took a few steps along the cabinets full of books. “They are mirrors in the image of those who wrote them. They reflect their concerns, questions, desires, life, death ... They’re living beings: you have to know how to feed them, protect them...”
“And use them.”
“Sometimes.”
“But this one doesn’t work.”
“No.”
“You’ve tried it.”
It was a statement, not a question. Borja looked at Corso with hostility. “Don’t be absurd. Let’s just say I’m certain it’s a forgery, and leave it at that. Which is why I need to compare it to the other copies.”
“I still say it doesn’t have to be a forgery. Books often differ even if they’re part of the same edition. No two books are the same really. From birth they all have distinguishing details. And each book lives a different life: it can lose pages, or have them added or replaced, or acquire a new binding.... Over the years two books printed on the same press can end up looking entirely different. That might have happened to this one.”
The Dumas Club: The Ninth Gate Page 6
