The Club Dumas

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  "It doesn't matter," she answered. "You'd be better off wondering where the book has gone."

  "What book?"

  She looked at him again but said nothing. He felt incredibly stupid.

  "You know too much," he told the girl. "Even more than I do."

  Again she shrugged. She was looking at Corso's watch.

  "You don't have much time."

  "I don't give a damn how much time I have."

  "That's up to you. But there's a flight from Lisbon to Paris in five hours, from Portela Airport. We can just make it."

  God. Corso shivered under his coat, horrified. She sounded like an efficient secretary, schedule book in hand, listing her boss's appointments for the day. He opened his mouth to complain. And so young with those disturbing eyes. Damned little witch.

  "Why should I leave now?"

  "Because the police might arrive."

  "I don't have anything to hide."

  The girl smiled indefinably, as if she had just heard a funny but very old joke. Then she put her rucksack on her back and waved good-bye.

  "I'll bring you cigarettes in prison. Though they don't sell your brand here in Portugal."

  She went out into the garden without a backward glance at the room. Corso was about to go after her and stop her. Then he saw something in the fireplace.

  After a moment of disbelief, he went over to it. Very slowly, so that things might return to normal. But when he reached the fireplace and leaned on the mantelpiece, he saw that the damage was irreversible. In the brief interval between last night and this morning, a minute period of time compared to their centuries-old contents, the antiquarian bibliographies had gone out of date. There now remained not three known copies of The Nine Doors, but only two. The third, or what was left of it, was still smoldering among the embers.

  He knelt, taking care not to touch anything. The binding, no doubt because of the leather covering, was less damaged than the pages inside. Two of the five raised bands on the spine were intact, and the pentacle was only half burned. But the pages had been almost entirely consumed by the flames. There were only a few charred edges, with fragments of print. Corso held his hand over the still-warm remains.

  He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, but didn't light it. He remembered how the logs had been piled up in the fireplace the night before. Judging by the ashes—the burned logs lay underneath the ashes of the book, nobody had raked over the embers—the fire had gone out with the book on top. He remembered seeing enough logs piled there to last about four or five hours. And the warm ashes indicated that the fire had gone out about the same number of hours ago. This made a total of eight to ten hours. Somebody must have lit the fire between ten o'clock and midnight, and then put the book in. And whoever had done so hadn't hung around afterward to rake over the embers.

  Corso wrapped in old newspaper what remains he could save from the fireplace. The page fragments were stiff and brittle, so it took him some time. As he did this, he noticed that the pages and cover had burned separately. Whoever had thrown them into the fire had torn them apart so that they would burn more efficiently.

  Once he retrieved all the pieces, he paused to glance around the room. The Virgil and the Agricola were where Fargas had put them. The De re metalica lined up with the others on the rug—and the Virgil on the table, just as Fargas had left it when, with the tone of a priest performing a ritual sacrifice, he had uttered the words "I think I'll sell this one...." There was a sheet of paper between its pages. Corso opened the book. It was a handwritten receipt, unfinished.

  Victor Coutinho Fargas, Identity Card No. 3554712, address: Quinta da Soledade, Carretera de Colares, km 4, Sintra. Received with thanks the sum of 800,000 escudos for the work in my possession, "Virgil. Opera nunc recens accuratissime castigata ... Venezia, Giunta, 1544." (Essling 61. Sander 7671.) Folio, 10.587, lc, 113 woodcuts. Complete and in good condition.

  The buyer...

  There was no name or signature. The receipt had never been completed. Corso put the paper back and shut the book. Then he went to the room where he'd spent the previous afternoon, to make sure he'd left no trace, no papers with his handwriting, or anything like that. He also removed his cigarette butts from the ashtray and put them in his pocket, wrapped in another piece of newspaper. He looked around for a little while longer. His steps echoed through the empty house. No sign of the owner.

  As he again passed the books on the floor, he stopped, tempted. It would have been so easy—a couple of conveniently small Elzevirs attracted his attention. But Corso was a sensible man. It would only complicate matters if things got nasty. So, with a sigh, he bade farewell to the Fargas collection.

  He went out through the French window into the garden to look for the girl, dragging his feet through the leaves. He found her sitting on a short flight of steps that led to the pond. He could hear the water trickling from the chubby angel's mouth onto the greenish surface covered with floating plants. She was staring, engrossed, at the pond. Only the sound of his steps interrupted her contemplation and made her turn her head.

  Corso put his canvas bag on the bottom step and sat down next to her. He lit the cigarette he'd had in his mouth for some time. He inhaled, his head to one side, and threw away the match. He turned to the girl.

  "Now tell me everything."

  Still staring at the pond, she gently shook her head. Not abruptly or unpleasantly. On the contrary, the movement of her head, her chin, and the corners of her mouth was sweet and thoughtful, as if Corso's presence, the sad, neglected garden, and the sound of the water were all peculiarly moving. She looked incredibly young. Almost defenseless. And very tired.

  "We have to go," she said so low that Corso scarcely heard her. "To Paris."

  "First tell me what your link is with Fargas. With all of this."

  She shook her head again, in silence. Corso blew out some smoke. The air was so damp that the smoke floated in front of him for a moment before gradually disappearing. He looked at the girl.

  "Do you know Rochefort?"

  "Rochefort?"

  "Whatever his name is. He's dark, with a scar. He was lurking around here last night." As he spoke, Corso was aware of how silly it all was. He ended with an incredulous grimace, doubting his own memories. "I even spoke to him."

  The girl again shook her head, still staring at the pond.

  "I don't know him."

  "What are you doing here, then?"

  "I'm looking after you."

  Corso stared at the tips of his shoes, rubbing his numb hands. The tinkle of the water in the pond was beginning to get on his nerves. He took a last drag on his cigarette. It was about to burn his lips and tasted bitter.

  "You're mad, girl."

  He threw away the butt, stared at the smoke fading before his eyes.

  "Completely mad," he added.

  She still said nothing. After a moment, Corso brought out his flask of gin and took a long swig, without offering her any. He looked at her again.

  "Where's Fargas?"

  She took a moment to answer, still absorbed, lost. At last she indicated with her chin. "Over there."

  Corso followed the direction of her gaze. In the pond, beneath the thread of water from the mouth of the mutilated angel with empty eyes, he saw the vague outline of a man floating facedown among the water lilies and dead leaves.

  IX. THE BOOKSELLER ON THE RUE BONAPARTE

  "My friend," Athos said gravely, "remember that the

  dead are the only ones whom one does not risk

  meeting again on this earth."

  —A. Dumas, THE THREE MUSKETEERS

  Lucas Corso ordered a second gin and settled back comfortably in the wicker chair. It was pleasant in the sun. He was sitting on the terrace of the Café Atlas on the Rue de Buci, in a rectangle of light that framed the tables. It was one of those cold, luminous mornings when the left bank of the Seine crawls with people: disoriented Japanese, Anglo-Saxons in sneakers with metro tickets ma
rking their place in a Hemingway novel, ladies with baskets full of lettuces and baguettes, and slender gallery owners who've had their noses fixed, all heading for a café during their lunch break. An attractive young woman was looking in the window of a luxury charcuterie, on the arm of a middle-aged, well-dressed man who might have been an antique dealer or scoundrel, or both. There was also a Harley Davidson with all its shiny chrome a bad-tempered fox terrier tied up at the door of an expensive wine shop a young man with braids playing the flute outside a boutique And at the table next to Corso's a couple of very elegant Africans kissing on the mouth in a leisurely way as if they had all the time in the world and as if the arms race, AIDS, and the hole in the ozone layer were all insignificant on that sunny Parisian morning.

  He saw her at the end of the Rue Mazarin, turning the corner toward the café where he waited. With her boyish looks, her duffel coat open over her jeans, her eyes like two points of light against her suntan, visible from a distance in the crowd, in the street overflowing with dazzling sunlight. Devilishly pretty, La Ponte would no doubt have said, clearing his throat and turning his best side—where his beard was a little thicker and curlier—to her. But Corso wasn't La Ponte, so he didn't say or think anything. He just gave a hostile glance at the waiter, who was putting a glass of gin on his table—"Pas d'Bols, m'sieu"—and handed him the exact amount on the bill—"Service compris, young man"—before looking back at the approaching girl. As far as love went, Nikon had left him a hole in the stomach the size of a clipful of bullets. That was enough love. Nor was Corso sure whether he had, now or ever, a good profile. And he was damned if he cared, anyway.

  He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. The street was a series of vague outlines, of shapes with blurred faces. One stood out and became clearer as it drew nearer, although it never grew completely sharp: short hair, long legs, and white sneakers acquired definition as he focused on her with difficulty. She sat down in the empty chair.

  "I found the shop. It's a couple of blocks away."

  He put his glasses back on and looked at her without answering. They had traveled together from Lisbon, leaving Sintra for the airport posthaste, as old Dumas would have said. Twenty minutes before departure, Corso phoned Amilcar Pinto to tell him that Fargas's torment as a book collector was over and that the plan was canceled. Pinto would still be paid the sum agreed, for his trouble. Apart from being surprised—the call had woken him—Pinto reacted fairly well. All he said was, "I don't know what you're talking about, Corso, you and I didn't see each other last night in Sintra." But he promised he'd make some discreet inquiries into Fargas's death. After he heard about it officially, of course. For the time being, he knew nothing and didn't want to, and as for the autopsy, Corso should hope that the forensic report would give the cause of death as suicide. Just in case, Pinto would pass the description of the individual with the scar on to the relevant departments as a possible suspect. He'd keep in touch by phone. He urged Corso not to come back to Portugal for a while. "Oh, and one last thing," added Pinto as the departure of the Paris flight was being announced. Next time, before he thought of involving a friend in murder, Corso should think twice. Corso hurriedly protested his innocence as the phone swallowed his last escudo. Yeah, yeah, said Pinto, that's what they all say.

  The girl was waiting in the departure lounge. Corso, still dazed and in no condition to tie up loose ends (there were loose ends all over the place), was surprised to see that she had been extremely efficient and managed to get them two plane tickets without any difficulty. "I just inherited some money" was her answer when, seeing that she had paid for both, he made an ironic remark about the limited funds she supposedly had. Afterward, during the two-hour flight from Lisbon to Paris, she refused to answer any of his questions. All in good time, she repeated, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, as if sneaking a glance, before she became absorbed in the trails of condensation left by the plane in the cold air. Then she fell asleep, or pretended to, resting her head on his shoulder. Corso could tell from her breathing that she was awake. It was a convenient way of avoiding questions that she wasn't prepared, or allowed, to answer.

  Anyone else in his situation would have insisted on answers, would have shaken her out of her pretense. But Corso was a well-trained, patient wolf, with the instincts and reflexes of a hunter. After all, the girl was his only real lead in this unreal, novelistic, ridiculous situation. In addition, at this point in the script he had fully assumed the role of reader-protagonist that someone, whoever was tying the knots on the back of the rug, on the underside of the plot, seemed to be offering him with a wink that could be either contemptuous or conspiratorial, he couldn't tell which.

  "Somebody's setting me up," Corso said out loud, nine thousand meters above the Bay of Biscay. He looked at the girl, but she didn't move. Annoyed by her silence, he moved his shoulder away. Her head lolled for a moment. Then she sighed and made herself comfortable again, this time leaning against the window.

  "Of course they are," she said at last, sleepily, scornfully, her eyes still closed. "Any idiot could see that."

  "What happened to Fargas?"

  "You saw yourself," she said after a moment. "He drowned."

  "Who did it?"

  She turned her head slowly, from side to side, then looked out of the window. She slid her hand, slender, tan, with short unpamted nails, slowly across the armrest. She stopped at the edge, as if her fingers had come up against an invisible object.

  "It doesn't matter."

  Corso grimaced. He looked as if he was about to laugh, but instead showed his teeth.

  "It does to me. It matters a lot."

  The girl shrugged. They weren't concerned about the same things, she seemed to imply. They didn't have the same priorities.

  Corso persisted. "What's your part in all this?"

  "I already told you. To take care of you."

  She turned and looked at him as directly as she had been evasive a moment ago. She slid her hand over the armrest again, as if to bridge the distance between her and him. She was altogether too near, so Corso moved away instinctively, embarrassed, uneasy. In the pit of his stomach, in Nikon's wake, obscure, disturbing things stirred. The emptiness and pain were returning. In the girl's eyes, silent eyes and without memory, he could see the reflection of ghosts from the past, he could feel them brush his skin.

  "Who sent you?"

  She lowered her lashes over her luminous eyes, and it was as if she had turned a page. There was nothing there anymore. The girl wrinkled her nose, irritated.

  "You're boring me, Corso."

  She turned to the window and looked at the view. The great expanse of blue flecked with tiny white threads was split in the distance by a yellow and ochre line. Land ho. France. Next stop, Paris. Or next chapter. To be continued in next week's issue. Ending, sword raised, a cliffhanger typical of all romantic serials. He thought of the Quinta da Soledade, the water trickling from the fountain, Fargas's body among the water lilies and dead leaves in the pond. He flushed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. With good reason he felt like a man on the run. Absurd. Rather than fleeing by choice, he was being forced to.

  He looked at the girl and tried to size up his situation with the necessary objectivity. Maybe he wasn't running away but toward something instead. Or maybe the mystery he was trying to escape was hidden in his own suitcase. "The Anjou Wine." The Nine Doors. Irene Adler. The flight attendant, with a trained, fatuous smile, said something as she passed. Corso looked at her without seeing her, absorbed in his own thoughts. If only he knew whether the end of the story was already written, or whether he himself was writing it as he went along, chapter by chapter.

  He didn't say another word to the girl. When they arrived at Orly, he ignored her, although he was aware of her walking behind him along the airport concourses. At passport control, after showing his identity card, he turned around to see what kind of document she had, but all he saw was a passport bound
in black leather without any markings. It must have been European, because she went through the gate for EC citizens. Outside, while Corso was climbing into a taxi, giving his usual address, the Louvre Concorde, she slipped into the seat beside him. They drove to the hotel in silence. She got out first and let him pay the fare. The driver didn't have any change, so Corso was slightly delayed. By the time he crossed the lobby, she had already checked in and was walking behind a porter who had her rucksack. She waved at Corso before she entered the elevator....

  "It's a very nice shop. Replinger, Booksellers, it says. Autographs and historical documents. And it's open."

  She gestured to the waiter that she didn't want to order and inclined her head toward Corso across the table, in the café on the Rue de Buci. Like a mirror her liquid eyes reflected the street, which itself was a reflection in the café window.

  "We could go there now."

  They had met again at breakfast, as Corso was reading the papers at one of the windows overlooking the Place du Palais Royal. She had said good morning and sat down at the table. Had devoured toast and croissants with a healthy appetite. Then looked at Corso, with a rim of milky coffee on her upper lip, like a little girl. "Where do we start?"

  So now there they were, two blocks from Achille Replinger's bookshop. The girl had offered to go and find it while Corso drank his first gin of the day. He had a feeling it wouldn't be the last.

  "We could go there now," she said again.

  Corso still hesitated. He'd seen her tanned skin in his dreams. He was holding her hand, crossing a deserted plain at dusk. Columns of smoke rose on the horizon, volcanoes about to erupt. Occasionally they passed a soldier with a grave face, his armor covered with dust, who stared at them in silence, the man as distant and cold as the sullen Trojans of Hades. The plain was darkening on the horizon, and the columns of smoke grew thicker. The impassive, ghostly faces of the dead warriors contained a warning. Corso wanted to get away. He pulled the girl along by the hand, anxious not to leave her behind, but the air was becoming thick and hot, stifling, dark. Their flight ended in an interminable fall, an agony in slow motion. The darkness burned like an oven. The only link with the outside was his hand holding on to to hers in an effort to continue. The last thing he felt was her hand, its grip fading, finally turn to ash. And in front of him, in the darkness enveloping the burning plain and his mind, white marks, traces as fleeting as lightning, picked out the ghostly contour of a skull. It wasn't pleasant to recall. To remove the taste of ash from his mouth and erase these horrors, Corso finished his glass of gin and looked at the girl. She was watching him, a disciplined collaborator waiting quietly for instructions. Serene, she simply accepted her strange part in the story. Her loyal expression was inexplicable.