He was a short, greasy little man. His skin was dark and shiny, as if it had just been varnished, and his thick, wiry mustache was roughly trimmed. He would have been an honest policeman, even a good policeman, if he didn't have to feed five children, a wife, and a retired father who secretly stole his cigarettes. His wife was a mulatto and twenty years ago had been very beautiful. Pinto brought her back from Mozambique at the time of independence, when Maputo was called Lourenco Marques and he himself was a decorated sergeant in the paratroops, a slight, brave man. During the course of some of the deals Pinto and Corso did from time to time, Corso had seen Pinto's wife—eyes ringed with fatigue, large, flaccid breasts, in old slippers, and her hair tied with a red scarf—in the hallway to their house that smelled of dirty kids and boiled vegetables.
The policeman came straight into the lounge, looking at the girl out of the corner of his eye as he passed her, and sank into the armchair opposite Corso. He was out of breath, as if he'd just walked all the way from Lisbon.
"Who's the girl?"
"Nobody important," answered Corso. "She's Spanish. A tourist."
Pinto nodded. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trouser legs. It was something he often did. He sweated abundantly, and his shirt collars always had a dark ring where they touched his skin.
"I have a bit of a problem," said Corso.
Pinto's grin widened. No problem is insoluble, his expression said. Not as long as you and I still get along. "I'm sure we'll figure something out," he answered.
It was Corso's turn to smile. He'd met Amilcar Pinto four years ago. Some stolen books had appeared on stands at the Ladra Book Fair—a bad business. Corso came to Lisbon to identify them, Pinto made a couple of arrests, and en route back to their owner a few very valuable books disappeared forever. To celebrate the beginning of a fruitful friendship, Corso and Pinto got drunk together in the fados bars of the Barrio Alto. The former paratroop sergeant reminisced about his time in the colonies, told how he'd nearly had his balls blown off at the battle of Gorongosa. The two men ended up singing "Grandola Vila Morena" at the top of their voices on Santa Luzia. Illuminated by the moon, the district of Alfama lay at their feet with the Tagus beyond it, wide and gleaming like a sheet of silver. The dark shapes of boats, moving very slowly, headed out toward the Belem tower and the Atlantic.
A waiter brought Pinto the coffee he had ordered. Corso said nothing until the waiter left.
"It's about a book."
The policeman bent over the little low table and put sugar in his coffee.
"It's always about a book," he said gravely.
"This one's special."
"Which one isn't?"
Corso smiled a sharp, metallic smile. "The owner doesn't want to sell."
"That's bad." Pinto drank some coffee, savoring it. "Commerce is a good thing. Goods moving, coming and going. It generates wealth, makes money for the middlemen..." He put the cup down and wiped his hands on his trousers. "Products have to circulate. It's the law of the market, of life. Not selling should be banned: it's almost a crime."
"I agree," said Corso. "We should do something about it."
Pinto leaned back in his chair. Calm and confident, he looked at Corso expectantly. Once, after an ambush in the mato in Mozambique, he had fled, carrying a dying officer ten kilometers through the jungle. At dawn he felt the lieutenant die, but didn't want to leave him behind. So he went on, the corpse over his shoulders, until he reached the base. The lieutenant was very young, and Pinto thought that the man's mother would like to have him buried back in Portugal. They gave him a medal for it. Now Pinto's children played about the house with his old tarnished medals.
"Maybe you know the man: Victor Fargas."
The policeman nodded. "The Fargases are a very old, very respectable family," he said. "In the past they had a lot of influence, but no more."
Corso handed him a sealed envelope. "This is all the information you need: owner, book, and location."
"I know the house." Pinto licked his upper lip, wetting his mustache. "Very unwise, keeping valuable books there. Any unscrupulous individual might get in." He looked at Corso as if saddened by the irresponsibility of Victor Fargas. "I can think of one, a petty thief from Chiado who owes me a favor."
Corso shook some invisible dust from his clothes. It had nothing to do with him. Not in the operational stage, anyway.
"I don't want to be in the area when it happens."
"Don't worry. You'll get your book and Mr. Fargas will be disturbed as little as possible. A broken windowpane at the most. It'll be a clean job. About payment..."
Corso pointed at the unopened envelope that Pinto was holding. "That's an advance, a quarter of the total. The rest on delivery."
"Fine. When are you leaving?"
"First thing tomorrow morning. I'll get in touch with you from Paris." Pinto was about to get up, but Corso stopped him. "There's something else. I need an identification. Tall man, about six feet, with a mustache and a scar on his face. Black hair, dark eyes. Slim. He's not Spanish or Portuguese. He's been lurking around here tonight."
"Is he dangerous?"
"I don't know. He followed me from Madrid."
Pinto was taking notes on the back of the envelope. "Does this have anything to do with our business?"
"I'm assuming it does. But I don't have any more information."
"I'll do what I can. I have friends at the police station here in Sintra. And I'll take a look at the files at central headquarters in Lisbon."
He stood up and put the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket. Corso caught a glimpse of a holstered revolver under his left arm.
"Why don't you stay for a drink?"
Pinto sighed and shook his head. "I'd like to, but three of the kids have the measles. They catch it off each other, the little swine." He said this with a tired smile. All the heroes in Corso's world were tired.
They went to the hotel entrance where Pinto had parked his old Citroen 2CV. As they shook hands, Corso mentioned Fargas again.
"Make sure that Fargas is disturbed as little as possible. This is just a burglary."
Pinto turned on the engine and the lights. He looked at Corso reproachfully through the open window. He seemed offended. "Please. You don't need to tell me again. I know what I'm doing."
AFTER PINTO LEFT, CORSO went up to his room to sort out his notes. He worked late into the night, his bed covered with papers and The Nine Doors open on his pillow. He felt extremely tired and thought a hot shower might help him relax. He was on his way to the bathroom when the phone rang. It was Varo Borja, wanting to know how he had got on with Fargas. Corso gave him a general idea of how things were going, including the discrepancies he had found in five of the nine engravings.
"By the way," he added, "our friend Fargas won't sell."
There was silence at the other end of the line. Borja seemed to be thinking, although there was no way of telling whether it was about the engravings or Fargas's refusal to sell. When he spoke again, his tone was extremely cautious.
"That seemed likely," he said, and Corso still wasn't sure which thing he was referring to. "Is there any way of getting around the problem?"
"There might be."
Borja was silent again. Corso counted five seconds by his watch.
"I'll leave it in your hands."
They didn't say much else after that. Corso didn't mention his conversation with Pinto, and Borja didn't inquire into how Corso was going to solve the "problem," as he had euphemistically put it. He only asked if Corso needed more money, and Corso said no. They agreed to talk again when Corso reached Pans.
Corso then dialed La Ponte's number, but there was no answer. The blue pages of the Dumas manuscript were still in their folder. He gathered his notes and the black leather-bound book with the pentacle on the cover. He put them back in his canvas bag and slipped it under the bed, tying the strap to one of the legs. That way, if anybody got into the room and tried to take it, he'd have
to wake Corso however soundly he was sleeping. Rather an awkward piece of luggage to carry around, he thought as he went to the bathroom to turn on the shower. And, for some reason, dangerous too.
He brushed his teeth. Then he undressed and dropped his clothes on the floor. The mirror was almost completely steamed over, but he could see his reflection, thin and hard like an emaciated wolf. Once again he felt a burst of anxiety from the distant past, swamping his mind in a painful wave. Like a string vibrating in his flesh and his memory. Nikon. He remembered her every time he undid his belt. She'd always insisted on undoing it for him, as if it was a ritual. He shut his eyes and saw her sitting on the edge of the bed in front of him, slipping his trousers and then his underpants down very slowly, savoring the moment with a conspiratorial, tender smile. Relax, Lucas Corso. Once she'd taken a photo of him secretly, while he was sleeping. He was facedown with a vertical crease on his brow and his cheek darkened by stubble. It made his face look thinner and emphasized the tense, bitter lines at the corners of his half-open mouth. He looked like an exhausted wolf, suspicious and tormented in the deserted snow plain of the pillow. He didn't like the photograph. He'd found it by chance, in the fixing tray in the bathroom that Nikon used as a darkroom. He'd torn it and the negative into little pieces. She'd never mentioned it.
When he stepped into the shower, the hot water scalded him. He let it run over his face, burning his eyelids. He put up with the pain, his jaw clenched and his muscles taut, suppressing the urge to howl with loneliness in the suffocating steam. For four years, one month, and twelve days, Nikon always got into the shower with him after they made love and soaped his back slowly, interminably. And often she put her arms around him, like a little girl in the ram. One day I'll leave without ever really knowing you. You'll remember my big, dark eyes. The reproachful silences. The moans of anxiety as I slept. The nightmares you couldn't save me from. You'll remember all this when I'm gone.
He rested his head against the dripping white tiles, in a steaming desert that seemed a kind of hell. Nobody had ever soaped his back before or since Nikon. Nobody. Ever.
After his shower he got into bed with the Memoirs of Saint Helena but managed to read only a couple of lines:
Returning to the subject of war, the Emperor continued: "The Spaniards en masse acted as a man of honor."
He frowned at Napoleon's praise, two centuries old. He remembered words he'd heard as a child, perhaps from one of his grandparents, or his father. "There's one thing we Spaniards do better than anyone else: appear in Goya's pictures." Men of honor, Bonaparte had said. Corso thought of Borja and his checkbook. Of La Ponte and widows' libraries plundered for a pittance. Of Nikon's ghost wandering in a lonely, white desert. Of himself, a hunter who worked for the highest bidder. These were different times.
He was still smiling, desperate and bitter, when he fell asleep.
***
WHEN HE WOKE, THE first thing he saw was the gray light of dawn through the window. Too early. Confused, he tried to find his watch on the bedside table when he realized that the phone was ringing. He dropped the receiver twice before managing to lodge it between his ear and the pillow.
"Hello?"
"This is your friend from last night. Remember? Irene Adler. I'm in the lobby. We have to talk. Now."
"What the hell..."
But she'd hung up. Cursing, Corso searched for his glasses. He threw back the sheets and pulled on his trousers, groggy and disconcerted. With sudden panic, he looked under the bed. The bag was still there, intact. He made an effort to focus on the things around him. Everything in the room was in order. It was outside that things were happening. He just had time to go to the bathroom and splash water on his face before she knocked at the door.
"Do you know what time it is?"
The girl was standing there in her blue duffel coat and with her rucksack on her back. Her eyes were even greener than Corso remembered.
"It's half past six in the morning," she said quietly. "And you have to get dressed right now."
"Have you gone crazy?"
"No." She came into the room without being asked and looked around critically. "We don't have much time."
"We?"
"You and I. Things have got rather complicated."
Corso snorted, angry. "It's too early for jokes."
"Don't be stupid." She wrinkled her nose with a grave expression. Despite her youth and boyishness, she looked different, older, and more self-assured. "I'm serious."
She put her rucksack on the unmade bed. Corso gave it back to her and showed her the door.
"Go to hell," he said.
She didn't move, just looked at him intently. "Listen." Her light eyes were very near, like liquid ice, so luminous against her tanned skin. "Do you know who Victor Fargas is?"
Corso caught sight of his own face in the mirror above the chest of drawers, beyond the girl's shoulder. He was open-mouthed, like an idiot.
"Of course I do."
It had taken him several seconds to answer, and he was still blinking, confused. She waited, not entirely satisfied with his response to her words. It was obvious that her mind was on other things.
"He's dead," she said.
She said it neutrally, as if she'd just told him that Fargas had coffee for breakfast or went to the dentist. Corso took a deep breath, trying to take in what she'd just said. "That's not possible. I was with him last night. He was fine."
"Well, he's not now. He's not fine at all."
"How do you know?"
"I just do."
Corso shook his head, suspicious, and went to get a cigarette. En route he saw the flask of Bols, so he took a swig. The gin hitting his empty stomach made him shudder. He waited, forcing himself not to look at the girl until he'd inhaled his first puff of smoke. He wasn't at all happy with the part he was being forced to play this morning. Fie needed time to think.
"The café in Madrid, the train, last night, and now this morning here in Sintra..." He counted on the fingers of his left hand, his cigarette in his mouth, his eyes half closed because of the smoke. "That's a lot of coincidences, don't you think?"
She shook her head impatiently. "I thought you were smarter than that. Who said anything about coincidences?"
"Why are you following me?"
"I like you."
Corso didn't feel like laughing. He twisted his mouth. "That's ridiculous."
She looked at him for a time, thoughtfully.
"I suppose it is," she said at last. "You don't exactly look breathtaking, always in that old coat and those glasses."
"What is it, then?"
"Find another answer. Anything would do. But now get dressed, will you? We have to go to Fargas's house."
"We?"
"You and I. Before the police get there."
THE DEAD LEAVES CRACKLED beneath their feet as they pushed the iron gate and walked up the path lined with broken statues and empty pedestals. The gray morning light cast no shadows, and above the stone staircase the sundial still showed no time. POSTUMA NECAT. The last one kills, Corso read again. The girl had followed his gaze.
"Absolutely true," she said coldly and pushed the door. It was locked.
"Let's try the back," suggested Corso.
They went around the house, past the tiled fountain with the chubby stone angel, eyes empty and hands cut off, water still trickling from its mouth into the pond. Surprisingly composed, the girl—Irene Adler or whatever her name was—went ahead of Corso in her blue duffel coat, the rucksack on her back. She walked, her long supple legs in jeans, her stubborn head tilted forward with the determined air of someone who knows exactly where she is going. Unlike Corso. He had overcome his doubt and let the girl lead him. He was leaving the questions for later. Clearheaded after a quick shower, carrying in his canvas bag all that was important to him, he could think of nothing now but Victor Fargas's Nine Doors, book number two.
They got in without difficulty through the French window that led from t
he garden into the drawing room. On the ceiling, dagger aloft, Abraham was still watching over the books lined up on the floor. The house seemed deserted.
"Where's Fargas?" asked Corso.
The girl shrugged. "I have no idea."
"You said he was dead."
"He is." After glancing at her surroundings, at the bare walls and the books, she picked up the violin from the sideboard and looked at it curiously. "What I don't know is where he is."
"You're lying."
She placed the violin under her chin and plucked at the strings before putting it back in its case, unhappy with the sound. Then she looked at Corso.
"Oh ye of little faith."
She was smiling again, absently. To Corso her composure, incongruously mature, seemed both deep and frivolous. This young lady behaved according to a strange code of conduct, motivated by things that were more complex than her age and appearance let one suppose.
Suddenly, these thoughts—the girl, the strange events, even the supposed corpse of Victor Fargas—all left Corso's mind. On the threadbare rug that depicted the battle of Arbelas, between books on satamc arts and the occult, there was a gap. The Nine Doors was no longer there.
"Shit," he said.
He muttered it again as he knelt beside the row of books. His expert glance, accustomed to finding a book instantly, went back and forth without success. Black morocco, five raised bands, no title on the exterior, a pentacle on the cover. Umbrarum regni etc. He wasn't mistaken. A third of the mystery, exactly thirty-three point endless threes percent, had vanished.
"Shit."
It couldn't have been Pinto, he wouldn't have had time to organize anything. The girl was watching him as if waiting for him to do something interesting. Corso stood up.
"Who are you?"
It was the second time in less than twelve hours that he'd asked the question, but to two different people. Things were getting complicated far too quickly. For her part, the girl held his gaze, not reacting to the question. After a time she looked away into empty space. Or possibly at the books lined up on the floor.
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