The Club Dumas

“One is never alone with a book nearby, don’t you agree?” I said, to be conversational. “Every page reminds us of a day that has passed and makes us relive the emotions that filled it. Happy hours underlined in red pencil, dark ones in black... Where was I, then? What prince called me his friend, what beggar called me his brother?” I hesitated, searching for another phrase to round off the idea.

“What son of a bitch called you his buddy?” suggested Corso.

I looked at him reprovingly. The wet blanket insisted on bringing down the tone. “No need to be unpleasant.”

“I’ll do what I please. Your Eminence.”

“I detect sarcasm,” I said, offended. “From that I deduce that you have given in to prejudice, Mr. Corso. It was Dumas who made Richelieu a villain when he wasn’t one, and falsified reality for literary expediency. I thought I’d explained that at our last meeting at the cafe in Madrid.”

“A dirty trick,” said Corso, not specifying whether he meant Dumas or me.

I raised a finger, ready to state my case. “A legitimate de­vice,” I objected, “inspired by the shrewdness and genius of the greatest novelist who ever lived. And yet...” I smiled bitterly. “Sainte-Beuve respected him but didn’t accept him as a man of letters. His friend, Victor Hugo, praised his capacity for dra­matic action, but nothing more. Prolific, long-winded, they said. With little style. They accused him of not delving into the anxieties of human beings, of lacking subtlety.... Lacking sub­tlety!” I touched the volumes of The Three Musketeers lined up on the shelf. “I agree with our good father Stevenson— there is no paean to friendship as long, eventful, or beautiful. In Twenty Years After, when the protagonists reappear, they are distanced at first. They are now men of mature years, selfish, with all the pettiness that life imposes. They even belong to opposing camps. Aramis and d’Artagnan lie and dissemble, Porthos fears being asked for money.... When they agree to meet at the Place Royale, they come armed and almost fight. And in England, when Athos’s imprudence puts them all in danger, d’Artagnan refuses to shake his hand. In The Vicomte de Bragelonne, with the mystery of the iron mask, Aramis and Porthos stand against their old comrades. This happens because they’re alive, because they’re human, full of contradictions. But always, at the moment of truth, friendship wins out. A great thing, friendship! Do you have friends, Corso?”

“That’s a good question.”

“For me, Porthos in the cave at Locmaria has always em­bodied friendship: the giant struggling beneath a rock to save his friends ... Do you remember his last words?”

“It’s too heavy?”

“Exactly!”

I confess I felt almost moved. Like the young man in a cloud of pipe smoke described by Captain Marlow, Corso was one of us. But he was also a bitter, stubborn man determined not to feel.

“You’re Liana Taillefer’s lover,” he said.

“Yes,” I admitted, reluctantly leaving thoughts of good Porthos aside. “Isn’t she a splendid woman? With her own par­ticular obsessions... Beautiful and loyal, like Milady in the novel. It’s strange. There are characters in literature who have a life of their own, familiar to millions of people who haven’t even read the books in which they appear. In English literature there are three: Sherlock Holmes, Romeo, and Robinson Crusoe. In Spanish, two: Don Quixote and Don Juan. And in French literature there is one: d’Artagnan. But you see that I...”

“Let’s not go off on a tangent again, Balkan.”

“I’m not. I was about to add the name of Milady to d’Artagnan’s. An extraordinary woman. Like Liana, in her own way. Her husband never measured up to her.”

“Do you mean Athos?”

“No, I mean poor old Enrique Taillefer.”

“Was that why you murdered him?”

My amazement must have looked sincere. It was sincere. “Enrique murdered? Don’t be ridiculous. He hanged himself. He committed suicide. I should imagine that, with his way of looking at the world, he thought it a heroic gesture. Very regrettable.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Suit yourself. But his death was the starting point for this entire story and, indirectly, the reason you are here.”

“Explain it to me then. Nice and slowly.”

He had certainly earned it. As I said earlier, Corso was one of us, although he didn’t know it. And anyway—I looked at the clock—it was almost twelve.

“Do you have ‘The Anjou Wine’ with you?”

He looked at me alertly, trying to guess my intentions. Then I saw him give in. Reluctantly, he took the folder from under his coat, then hid it again.

“Excellent,” I said. “And now follow me.”

He must have been expecting a secret passage leading from the library, some sort of diabolical trap. I saw him put his hand in his pocket for the knife.

“You won’t be needing that,” I assured him.