The Club Dumas

He sat facing the widow, still in his coat, his canvas bag on his knees. He held himself straight on the edge of the seat. Liana Taillefer’s large ice-blue eyes studied him from top to toe, determined to pigeonhole him in some known category of the male species. He was sure she’d find it difficult. He sub­mitted to her scrutiny, trying not to create any particular im­pression. He was familiar with the procedure, and he knew that at that moment he didn’t rate very high in the estimation of Enrique Taillefer’s widow. This limited the inspection to a kind of contemptuous curiosity. She’d kept him waiting for ten minutes, after he’d had a skirmish with a maid who’d taken him for a salesman and tried to slam the door in his face. But now the widow was glancing at the plastic folder that Corso had taken out of his bag, and the situation changed. As for him, he tried to hold Liana Taillefer’s gaze through his crooked glasses, avoiding the roaring reefs—to the south her legs and to the north her bust (exuberant was the word, he decided, having pondered the matter for some time), which was molded to devastating effect by her black angora sweater.

“It would be a great help,” he added at last, “if you could tell me whether you knew about this document.”

He handed her the folder, and as he did so accidentally brushed her hand with its long blood-red fingernails. Or maybe it was her hand that brushed his. Whichever, this slight contact showed that Corso’s prospects were looking more favorable. He adopted a suitably embarrassed expression, just enough to show her that bothering beautiful widows wasn’t his specialty. Her ice-blue eyes weren’t on the folder now, they were watching Corso with a flicker of interest.

“Why would I know about it?” asked the widow. Her voice was deep, slightly husky. The echo of a heavy night. She hadn’t looked inside the folder yet and was still watching Corso, as if she expected something else before examining the document and satisfying her curiosity. He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and assumed a serious expression. This was the formal introduction stage, so he kept his efficient “honest rabbit” smile for later.

“Until recently it belonged to your husband.” He paused a moment. “May his soul rest in peace.”

She nodded slowly, as if that explained it, and opened the folder. Corso was looking over her shoulder at the wall. There, between an adequate painting by Tapies and another with a signature he couldn’t make out, was a framed piece of child’s needlepoint depicting little colored flowers, signed and dated Liana Lasauca, school year 1970—71. Corso would have found it touching if flowers, embroidered birds, and little girls in bobby socks and blond pigtails had been the sort of thing that made his heart melt. But they weren’t. So he turned to another, smaller picture in a silver frame. It showed the late Enrique Taillefer, publisher, with a gold wine-sampling ladle around his neck, wearing a leather apron that made him look like a Mason. He was smiling at the camera and preparing to cut into a roast suckling pig. He held a plate in one hand and one of his pub­lishing successes in the other. He appeared placid, chubby, paunchy, and happy at the sight of the little animal laid out before him on the dish. Corso reflected that Taillefer’s prema­ture demise at least meant that he wouldn’t have to worry about high cholesterol and gout. Corso also wondered, with cold tech­nical curiosity, how Liana Taillefer had managed, while her husband was alive, when she needed an orgasm. With that thought he cast another quick glance at the widow’s bust and legs and decided he’d been right. She was too much a woman to be satisfied with suckling pig.

“This is that Dumas thing,” she said, and Corso sat up slightly, alert and clearheaded. Liana Taillefer was tapping one of her red nails on the plastic that protected the pages. “The famous chapter. Of course I know about it.” As she leaned her head forward, her hair fell over her face. Behind the blond curtain she observed her visitor suspiciously. “Why do you have it?”

“Your husband sold it. I’m trying to find out if it’s au­thentic.”

The widow shrugged. “As far as I know, it’s not a forgery.” She gave a long sigh and handed back the folder. “You say he sold it? That’s strange.” She thought a moment. “These papers meant a lot to Enrique.”

“Perhaps you can recall where he might have bought them.” “I couldn’t say. I think somebody gave them to him.” “Did he collect original manuscripts?” “As far as I know, this was the only one he ever had.” “Did he ever mention that he intended to sell it?” “No. This is the first I’ve heard about it. Who bought it?” “A bookseller who’s a client of mine. He’ll put it on the market once I give him a report on it.”