The Club Dumas

La Ponte agreed gloomily, as if he didn’t want to be re­minded. But then he suddenly brightened. A slightly dazed expression showed through his beard. If you tried hard, you could take it for a smile.

“By the way, guess who called.”

“Milady.”

“Almost. Liana Taillefer.”

Corso looked at his friend wearily. Then he picked up his glass and emptied it in one long gulp. “You know what, Flavio?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Some­times it seems that I’ve read this book before.”

La Ponte was frowning again.

“She wants ‘The Anjou Wine’ back,” he explained. “Just as it is, without authentification or anything...” He took a drink, then smiled uncertainly at Corso. “Strange, isn’t it, this sudden interest?”

“What did you tell her?”

La Ponte raised his eyebrows. “That it wasn’t in my hands. That you have the manuscript and I’ve signed a contract with you.”

“That’s a lie. We haven’t signed anything.”

“Of course it’s a lie. But this way I put everything on you if things get nasty. And it doesn’t mean I can’t consider any offers. I’m going to have dinner with the lovely widow one evening. To discuss business. I’m the daring harpooner.”

“You’re not a harpooner. You’re a dirty, lying bastard.”

“Yes. England made me, as that pious old goody-goody Graham Greene would have said. At school my nickname was Wasn’t Me.... Did I ever tell you how I passed Math?” He raised his eyebrows again, tenderly nostalgic at the memory. “I’m a born liar.”

“Well, be careful with Liana Taillefer.”

“Why?” La Ponte was admiring himself in the bar mirror. He smiled lewdly. “I’ve had the hots for that woman ever since I started taking serials over to her husband. She’s got a lot of class.”

“Yes,” admitted Corso, “a lot of middle class.”

“What do you have against her?”

“There’s something funny going on.”

“That’s fine by me, if it involves a beautiful blonde.”

Corso tapped his finger against the knot of his tie. “Listen, idiot. In mysteries the friend always dies. Don’t you see? This is a mystery and you’re my friend.” He winked at him for emphasis. “So you’ll be bumped off.”

Obstinately clinging to his dreams of the widow, La Ponte wouldn’t be intimidated. “Oh, come on. I’ve never hit the jack­pot before. Anyway I told you where I intend to take the bullet: in the shoulder.”

“I’m serious. Taillefer’s dead.”

“He committed suicide.”

“Who knows? More people could die.”

“Well, you go and die, you bastard, ruining my fun.”

The rest of the evening consisted of variations on the same theme. They left after five or six more drinks and agreed to speak on the phone once Corso got to Portugal. La Ponte, rather unsteady on his feet, left without paying, but he did give Corso Rochefort’s cigar butt. “Now you have a pair,” he told him.

 VI. OF APOCRYPHA AND INTERPOLATIONS

Chance? Permit me to laugh, by God. That is an explanation

that would satisfy only an imbecile.

—M. Zevaco, los pardellanes

CENIZA  BROS.

BOOKBINDING  AND  RESTORATION

The wooden sign, cracked, faded with age and mildew, hung in a window thick with dust. The Ceniza brothers’ workshop was on the mezzanine floor of an old four-story building, shored up at the back, on a shady street in the old quarter of Madrid.

Lucas Corso rang the bell twice, but nobody answered. He looked at his watch, leaned against the wall, and prepared him­self for a wait. He knew the habits of Pedro and Pablo Ceniza well. At that hour they would be a few streets away, at the marble counter of La Taurina, draining half a liter of wine for their breakfast and discussing books and bullfighting. Both grumpy bachelors and fond of their drink, they were insep­arable.