“What if the missing pages are illustrations?” “It makes no difference. If we had access to the original engraving, of course, the technique for making a copy would be easier. In this case, the fact that the engravings are all woodcuts, which have lighter lines than copperplate or dry-point, means that we can produce an almost perfect piece of work.”
“Suppose the original engraving no longer exists.” “That’s not a problem either. If we know of it-from references, we can imitate it. If not, we can invent it. After studying the technique used for the book’s other engravings, of course. Any good draftsman could do it.” “What about printing it?”
“As you know, a woodcut is an engraving in relief. A cube of wood is cut with the grain and covered with a white background. The picture is drawn on top. Then the wood is carved and the ink applied on the crests, or ridges, so that it can be transferred onto paper. When reproducing woodcuts, there are two options. One is to make a copy of the drawing, preferably in resin. The alternative, if you have a good engraver, is to make another real woodcut, with the same techniques that were used to produce the original engravings, and to print directly from that. In my case, as I have a good engraver in my brother, I would hand print it from a woodcut. Wherever possible, art should imitate art.”
“You get better results,” added Pablo.
Corso looked at him conspiratorially.
“As with the Sorbonne’s Speculum,”
“Maybe. The creator or creators of that piece of work may have thought like us.... Don’t you think, Pablo?”
“They must have been romantics,” agreed his brother with a faint smile.
“Yes, they must.” Corso pointed at the book. “So, what’s your verdict?”
“I would say that it’s original,” answered Pedro Ceniza without hesitation. “Even we wouldn’t be able to produce such perfect results. Look, the quality of the paper, stains on the pages, identical tones and variations in the ink, and the typography... It’s possible that some forged pages may have been inserted, but I think it improbable. If it is a forgery, the only explanation is that the forgery must have been done around the same time. How many known copies are there? Three? I assume you have considered the possibility that all three are forgeries.”
“Yes, I have. What about the woodcuts?”
“They’re definitely very strange. All those symbols ... But they do date from the time. The degree of impression on the plates is identical. The ink, the shades of the paper... Maybe the key lies not in how or when they were printed but in their contents. I’m sorry we haven’t made much progress.”
“You’re wrong.” Corso prepared to close the book. “We’ve made a lot of progress.”
Pedro Ceniza stopped him. “There’s one more thing... I’m sure you’ve noticed them yourself. The printer’s marks.”
Corso looked at him, confused. “I don’t know what you mean.
“The tiny signatures at the foot of each illustration. Show him, Pablo.”
The younger brother wiped his hands on his overalls, as if to wipe off sweat. Then, moving closer to The Nine Doors, he showed Corso some of the pages through a magnifying glass.
“Each engraving,” he explained, “has the usual abbreviations: Inv. for invenit, with the signature of the original artist, and Sculp, for sculpsit, the engraver.... Look. In seven of the nine woodcuts, the abbreviation A. TORCH appears as both sculp. and inv. Obviously the printer himself drew and engraved seven of the illustrations. But in the other two, he is named only as sculp. That means that he only engraved them. Someone else created the drawings, someone else was the inv. Someone with the initials L.F.”
Pedro Ceniza nodded in approval at his brother’s explanation and lit yet another cigarette. “Not bad, eh?” He started to cough amid the smoke. He watched for Corso’s reaction, a malicious glint in his astute, mouselike eyes. “That printer might have been the one burned at the stake, but he wasn’t the only one involved.”
“No,” agreed his brother, “somebody helped light the fire at his feet.”
THE SAME DAY, CORSO had a visit from Liana Taillefer. The widow arrived unannounced, at that hour which is neither afternoon nor evening, when Corso, dressed in a faded cotton shirt and old corduroys, was standing by the west-facing window, watching the sunset turn the city rooftops red and ochre. Maybe it wasn’t a good moment; maybe much of what happened later might have been avoided had she turned up at a different time of day. We’ll never know. What we do know is that Corso was looking out the window, his eyes growing mistier as he emptied his glass of gin. The doorbell rang, and Liana Taillefer—blond, impressively tall, in an English raincoat, tailored suit, and black stockings—appeared on the doorstep. Her hair was gathered into a bun beneath a tobacco-colored, wide-brimmed hat elegantly tilted to one side. The hat suited her very well. She was a beautiful woman. She knew it and expected everyone to notice.
“To what do I owe the honor?” asked Corso. It was a stupid question, but at that hour and with all the Bols in him, he couldn’t be expected to shine in conversation. Liana Taillefer had already stepped into the room. She was standing at the desk where the folder with the Dumas manuscript lay next to his computer and box of diskettes.
“Are you still working on this?”
“Of course.”
She lifted her gaze from “The Anjou Wine” and glanced around calmly at the books covering the walls and piled up all over the room. Corso knew she was looking for photographs, mementos, clues to the personality of the occupant. She arched an arrogant eyebrow, irritated at not finding any. At last she saw the saber of the Old Guard.
“Do you collect swords?”
This was a logical inference. Of an inductive nature. At least, Corso thought with relief, Liana Taillefer’s ability to smooth over embarrassing situations didn’t match her appearance. Unless she was teasing him. He smiled warily, feeling cornered.
“I collect that one. It’s called a saber.”
She nodded, expressionless. Impossible to tell whether she was simple or a good actress.
“A family heirloom?”
“An acquisition,” lied Corso. “I thought it would look nice on the wall. Books on their own can get a bit boring.”
“How come you have no pictures or photographs?”
“There’s no one I particularly want to remember.” He thought of the photograph in the silver frame, the late Taillefer in an apron carving the suckling pig. “In your case it’s different, of course.”
She looked at him intently, perhaps trying to decide how rude his comment had been. There was steel in her blue eyes, steel so cold that it chilled you. She paced the room, stopping to look at some of his books, at the view from the window, then returned to the desk. She ran a blood-red fingernail over the folder with the Dumas manuscript. Maybe she was expecting Corso to say something, but he remained silent. He waited patiently. If she was after something—and it was pretty obvious that she was—he’d let her do all the work. He wasn’t going to make it easier for her. “May I sit down?”
The slightly husky voice. The echo of a heavy night, thought Corso again. He stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, waiting. Liana Taillefer took off her hat and raincoat. She looked around with her interminable slowness and chose an old sofa. She went over to it and sat down slowly, her skirt riding up high. She crossed her legs with an effect that anyone, even Corso with half a gin less in him, would have found devastating.
“I’ve come on business.”
That was plain. She must be after something, to put on such a display. Corso had as much self-esteem as the next person, but he was no fool.
“Fine,” he said. “Have you had dinner with Flavio La Ponte yet?”
No reaction. For a few seconds she continued looking at him, unperturbed, with the same air of contemptuous confidence.
“Not yet,” she answered at last, without anger. “I wanted to see you first.”
“Well, here I am.”
Li
ana Taillefer leaned back a little more against the sofa. One of her hands was resting on a split in the shabby leather upholstery, where the horsehair stuffing poked through.
“You work for money,” she said.
“I do.”
“You sell yourself to the highest bidder.”
“Sometimes.” Corso showed one of his eyeteeth. He was on his own territory, so he could allow himself his friendly rabbit expression. “Generally what I do is hire myself out. Like Humphrey Bogart in the movies. Or like a whore.”
For a widow who’d spent her schooldays doing needlework, Liana Taillefer didn’t seem shocked by his language.
“I want to offer you a job.”
“How nice. Everybody’s offering me jobs these days.”
“I’ll pay you well.”
“Wonderful. They all want to pay me well too.”
She pulled at some of the horsehair poking from the sofa arm and twisted it absentmindedly around her index finger.
“What are you charging your friend La Ponte?”
“Flavio? Nothing. You couldn’t get a penny out of him.”
“Why are you working for him, then?”
“As you put it yourself, he’s my friend.”
“Friend,” she repeated thoughtfully. “It sounds strange to hear you say that word,” she said. A slight smile, with curious disdain. “Do you have girlfriends as well?”
Corso looked at her legs unhurriedly, from ankles to thighs. Shamelessly.
“I have memories of some. The memory of you tonight might not be bad.”
She took the crude remark without blinking. Maybe, Corso thought, she hadn’t understood it.
“Name a price,” she said coldly. “I want my husband’s manuscript.”
Things were looking good. Corso went and sat in an armchair opposite Liana Taillefer. From there he could get a better view. She had taken off her shoes and was resting her feet on the rug.
“You didn’t seem that interested last time.”
“I’ve thought it over. That manuscript has...”
“Sentimental value?” mocked Corso.
“Something like that.” Her voice now sounded defiant. “But not in the way you think.”
“What would you be prepared to do to get it?”
“I’ve told you. Pay you.”
Corso leered. “You offend me. I’m a professional.”
“You’re a professional mercenary, Mr. Corso. And mercenaries change sides. I’ve read books too, you know.”
“I have as much money as I need.”
“I’m not talking about money.”
She was lying back on the sofa, and with one bare foot she stroked the instep of the other. Corso pictured her toenails painted red under the black stockings. As she moved, her skirt rode up, giving a glimpse of white flesh above the black garters, where all mysteries are reduced to one, which is as old as time itself. Corso looked up with difficulty. Her ice-blue eyes were still on him.
He took off his glasses before getting up and going to the sofa. Liana Taillefer followed him impassively with her eyes, even when he was right in front of her, so close that their knees touched. Then she put out her hand and placed her fingers with their red lacquered nails precisely on the zipper of his corduroy trousers. Her smile was contemptuous and self-assured as Corso at last leaned over her and lifted her skirt up to her waist.
IT WAS A MUTUAL assault rather than a sharing. A settling of scores there on the sofa. A crude, hard struggle between adults, with the appropriate moans at the right moment, a few muttered curses, and the woman’s nails digging mercilessly into Corso’s back. And it happened in barely any space, without their taking off their clothes. Her skirt was up over her strong, wide hips, which he gripped as the studs on her garter belt pressed into his groin. He never even saw her breasts, although he did manage to touch them a couple of times, dense, warm, abundant flesh beneath the jacket, silk shirt, and bra. In the heat of the fray, Liana Taillefer didn’t have time to remove them. And now there they were, the two of them, still tangled in each other, among a mess of crumpled clothes, and breathless, like two exhausted wrestlers. Corso was wondering how to extricate himself.
“Who’s Rochefort?” he asked.
She looked at him from a few inches away. The setting sun threw reddish glints across her face. The hairpins had fallen out of her bun, and her blond hair was spread untidily over the leather sofa. She looked relaxed for the first time.
“It doesn’t matter,” she answered, “now that I’m getting the manuscript back.”
Corso kissed her disordered cleavage, bidding farewell to its contents. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be kissing it again for some time.
“What manuscript?” he said, and saw her expression harden / instantly. Her body went rigid under his.
“The Anjou Wine.” For the first time there was a hint of anxiety in her voice. “You’re going to return it to me, aren’t you, Mr. Corso?”
Corso noted the return to a formal mode of address. He vaguely remembered having been on first-name terms during the skirmish.
“I never said that.”
“I thought...”
“You thought wrong.”
Her steely blue eyes flashed with anger. She sat up, furious, pushing him away abruptly with her hips.
“Bastard!”
Corso, who was about to laugh and make a couple of cynical jokes, felt himself pushed back violently. He fell to his knees. As he struggled to his feet, fastening his belt, he saw Liana
Taillefer stand up, pale and terrifying, unconcerned by her disheveled clothes, her magnificent thighs still exposed. She slapped him so hard, his left ear vibrated like a drum.
“Pig!”
Corso staggered from the blow. Stunned, he was like a boxer searching for something to stop him from falling into the ropes. Liana Taillefer crossed his field of vision, but he didn’t pay her much attention because of the agonizing pain in his ear. He was staring stupidly at the saber from Waterloo when he heard the sound of breaking glass. He saw her again against the reddish light from the window. She had pulled her skirt down. In one hand she held the manuscript and in the other the neck of a broken bottle. Its edge was aimed at Corso’s throat.
Instinctively he raised his arm and stepped back. The danger had brought him back to his senses and made the adrenaline pump. He pushed aside the hand with the bottle and punched her in the neck. It left her winded, stopping her dead. The following scene was somewhat calmer. Corso picked the mdn-uscript and broken bottle off the floor. Liana Taillefer was once again sitting on the sofa, her tousled hair hanging over her face. She was holding a hand to her neck, breathing with difficulty between sobs of fury.
“They’ll kill you for this, Corso,” she said at last. The sun had now set beyond the city, and the corners of the room were filling with shadow. Ashamed, he switched on the light and held out her coat and hat before calling for a taxi. He avoided her eyes. Then, as he listened to her steps receding down the stairs, he stood for a moment by the window, watching the dark roofs in the brightness of the rising moon.
“They’ll kill you for this, Corso.”
He poured himself a large glass of gin. He couldn’t rid himself of Liana Taillefer’s expression once she realized she’d been tricked. Eyes as deadly as a dagger, a rictus of vengeful fury. And she meant it, she really had wanted to kill him. Once again the memories stirred, gradually filling his mind. This time, though, he needed no effort to relive them. The image was sharp, and he knew exactly where it came from. The facsimile edition of The Three Musketeers was on his desk. He opened it and searched for the scene. Page 129. There, among overturned furniture, leaping from the bed, dagger in hand like a furious demon, Milady throws herself at d’Artagnan, who retreats, terrified, in his shirt, keeping her at bay with the tip of his sword.
VII. BOOK NUMBER ONE
AND BOOK NUMBER TWO
The truth is that the devil is very cunning.
The truth i
s that he is not always as ugly as they say.
—J. Gazette, THE DEVIL IN LOVE
With only a few minutes to go before the departure of the express train to Lisbon, he saw the girl. Corso was on the platform, about to mount the steps to his carriage—COMPANHIA INTERNACIONAL DE CARRUAGEMS-CAMAS—when he bumped into her in a group of other passengers heading toward the first-class carriages. She was carrying, a small rucksack and wearing the same blue duffel coat, but he didn’t recognize her at first. He only felt that there was something familiar about her green eyes, so light they seemed transparent, and her very short hair. He continued to watch her for a moment, until she disappeared two carriages farther down. The whistle blew. As he climbed onto the train and the guard shut the door behind him, Corso remembered the scene: the girl sitting at one end of the table at the gathering of Boris Balkan and his circle in the cafe.
He walked along the corridor to his compartment. The station lights streamed past with increasing speed outside the windows, and the train clattered rhythmically. Moving around the cramped compartment with difficulty, he hung up his coat and jacket before sitting down on the bunk, his canvas bag beside him. In it, together with The Nine Doors and the folder with the Dumas manuscript, was a book by Les Cases, the Memoirs of Saint Helena:
Friday, 14 July 1816. The Emperor has been unwell all night...
He lit a cigarette. Occasionally, when lights from the window strobed across his face, he would glance out before returning to the tale of Napoleon’s slow agony and the wiliness of his „ English jailer, Sir Hudson Lowe. He frowned as he read, and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. From time to time he stopped and stared for a moment at his own reflection in the window, and he made a face. Even now, he felt indignant at the way the victors had condemned the fallen titan to a miserable end, having him cling to a rock in the middle of the Atlantic. Strange, going over the historical events and his earlier feelings about them from his present, clearheaded perspective. How far away he seemed, that other Lucas Corso who reverently admired the Waterloo veteran’s saber; the boy absorbing the family myths with aggressive enthusiasm, the precocious Bonapartist and avid reader of books with engravings of the glorious campaigns, names that echoed like drumrolls for a charge: Wagram, Jena, Smolensk, Marengo... The boy wide-eyed with wonder had long ceased to exist; a hazy ghost of him sometimes appeared in Corso’s memory, between the pages of a book, in a smell or a sound, or through a dark window with the rain from another country beating against it, outside in the night.