The Club Dumas

Bor}a, irritated, looked to see where Corso’s tiny hangnail had landed. At last he gave up. “In that case,” he said, “you’ll take good note and follow my instructions.” “Which are?” “All in good time.”

“No. I think you should give me your instructions now.” He saw the book dealer hesitate for a second. In a corner of his brain, where his hunter’s instinct lay, something didn’t feel quite right. An almost imperceptible jarring sound, like a badly tuned machine.

“We’ll decide things,” said Borja, “as we go along.” “What’s there to decide?” Corso was beginning to feel irri­tated. “One of the books is in a private collection and the other is in a public foundation. Neither is for sale. That’s as far as things can go. My part in this and your ambitions end there. As I said, whether they’re forgeries or not, once I’ve done my job, you pay me and that’s it.”

Much too simple, said the book dealer’s half-smile.

“That depends.”

“That’s what worries me... You have something up your

sleeve, don’t you?”

Borja raised his hand slightly, contemplating its reflection in the polished surface of his desk. Then he slowly lowered it, until the hand met its reflection. Corso watched the wide, hairy hand, the huge gold signet ring on the little finger. He was all too familiar with that hand. He’d seen it sign checks on non­existent accounts, add emphasis to complete lies, shake the hands of people who were being betrayed. Corso could still hear the jarring sound, warning him. Suddenly he felt strangely tired. He was no longer sure he wanted the job.

“I’m not sure I want this job,” he said aloud.

Borja must have realized Corso meant it, because his manner changed. He sat motionless, his chin resting on his hands, the light from the window burnishing his perfectly tanned bald head. He seemed to be weighing things as he stared intently at Corso.

“Did I ever tell you why I became a book dealer?”

“No. And I really don’t give a damn.”

Borja laughed theatrically to show he was prepared to be magnanimous and take Corso’s rudeness. Corso could safely vent his bad temper, for the moment.

“I pay you to listen to whatever I want to tell you.”

“You haven’t paid me yet, this time.”

Borja took a checkbook from one of the drawers and put it on the desk, while Corso looked around. This was the moment to say “So long” or stay put and wait. It was also the moment to be offered a drink, but Borja wasn’t that kind of host. Corso shrugged, feeling the flask of gin in his pocket. It was absurd. He knew perfectly well he wouldn’t leave, whether or not he liked what Borja was about to propose. And Borja knew it. Borja wrote out a figure, signed and tore out the check, then pushed it toward Corso.

Without touching it, Corso glanced at it. “You’ve convinced me,” he said with a sigh. “I’m listening.”

The book dealer didn’t even allow himself a look of triumph. Just a brief nod, cold and confident, as if he had just made some insignificant deal.

“I got into this business by chance,” he began. “One day I found myself penniless, with my great-uncle’s library as my sole inheritance... About two thousand books, of which only about a hundred were of any value. But among them were a first-edition Don Quixote, a couple of eighteenth-century Psalters, and one of the only four known copies of Champfleuri by Geoffroy Tory.... What do you think?”

“You were lucky.”

“You can say that again,” agreed Borja in an even, confident tone. He didn’t have the smugness of so many successful peo­ple when they talk about themselves. “In those days I knew nothing about collectors of rare books, but I grasped the essen­tial fact: they’re willing to pay a lot of money for the real thing.... I learned terms I’d never heard of before, like colo­phon, dented chisel, golden mean, fanfare binding. And while I was becoming interested in the business, I discovered some­thing else: some books are for selling and others are for keeping. Becoming a book collector is like joining a religion: it’s for life.” “Very moving. So now tell me what I and your Nine Doors have to do with your taking vows.”

“You asked me what I’d do if you discovered that my copy was a forgery. Well, let me make this clear: it is a forgery.” “How do you know?” “I am absolutely certain of it.”

Corso grimaced, showing what he thought of absolute cer­tainty in matters of rare books. “In Mateu’s Universal Bibliog­raphy and in the Terral-Coy catalogue it’s listed as authentic.” “Yes,” said Borja. “Though there’s a small error in Mateu: it states that there are eight illustrations, when there are nine of them.... But formal authenticity means little. According to the bibliographies, the Fargas and Ungern copies are also au­thentic.”

“Maybe all three are.”

Borja shook his head. “That’s not possible. The records of Torchia’s trial leave no doubt: only one copy was saved.” He smiled mysteriously. “I have other proof.”

“Such as?”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

“Then why do you need me?”