The Club Dumas

They arrived ten minutes later, side by side, their gray over­alls floating like shrouds on their skinny frames. Stooped from a lifetime spent hunched over their press and stamping tools, stitching pages together and gilding leather, they were both under fifty, but you could easily have believed they were ten years older. Their cheeks were sunken, their hands and eyes worn out by their painstaking craft, and their skin was faded, as if the parchment they worked with had transmitted its pale, cold quality to them. The resemblance between the two broth­ers was extraordinary. They had the same large nose, identical ears stuck to their skulls, and sparse hair combed straight back. The only noticeable differences between them were that Pablo, the younger of the two, was taller and quieter and that Pedro was frequently racked by the hoarse rattling cough of a heavy smoker, his hands shaking as he lit one cigarette after another. “It’s been a long time, Mr. Corso. How nice to see you.” They led him up stairs that were worn with use, to a door that creaked as it opened, and switched on the light to reveal their motley workshop. An ancient printing press presided. Next to this was a zinc-topped table covered with tools, half-stitched or already backed gatherings, guillotines, dyed skins, bottles of glue, tooled designs, and other equipment. There were books everywhere: large piles of them, bound in morocco, shagreen, or vellum, packets of them ready for dispatch or only half ready, books without boards or with limp covers. Ancient tomes dam­aged by worms or mildew sat on benches and shelves, waiting to be restored. The room smelled of paper, glue, and new leather. Corso breathed it in with pleasure. Then he took the book out of his bag and laid it on the table. “I’d like your opinion on this.”

It wasn’t the first time. Slowly, even cautiously, Pedro and Pablo Ceniza moved closer. As usual, the older of the two broth­ers spoke first. “The Nine Doors.” He touched the book without moving it. His bony, nicotine-stained fingers seemed to be strok­ing living skin. “Beautiful. A very valuable book.”

His eyes were gray, like a mouse. Gray overalls, gray hair, gray eyes, just like his surname, ceniza meaning ash. He looked at the book greedily.

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“Yes. Less than a year ago, when Claymore asked us to clean twenty books from the library of Mr. Gualterio Terral.”

“What condition was it in when you got it?”

“Excellent. Mr. Terral knew how to look after his books. Almost all of them came to us in good condition, except for a Teixeira, which we had to do quite a bit of work on. The rest, including this one, needed only a little cleaning.”

“It’s a forgery,” said Corso bluntly. “Or so I’m told.”

The two brothers looked at each other.

“Forgeries ...,” muttered the older of the two. “People speak too lightly of forged books.”

“Much too lightly,” echoed his brother.

“Even you, Mr. Corso. And that comes as a surprise. It isn’t worth forging a book, it’s too much effort to be profitable: I mean a high-quality forgery, not a facsimile for fooling igno­ramuses.”

Corso made a gesture as if pleading for clemency. “I didn’t say that the entire book was a forgery, only part of it. Pages from complete copies can be interpolated into books.that have one or several pages missing.”

“Of course, that’s a basic trick of the trade. But adding a photocopy or facsimile doesn’t give the same results as com­pleting a book with pages according to ...” He half-turned to his brother but still looked at Corso. “Tell him, Pablo.”

“According to all the rules of our art,” added the younger Ceniza.

Corso gave them a conspiratorial look. A rabbit sharing half a carrot. “That could be the case with this book,” he said.

“Who says so?”

“The owner. Who is no ignoramus, by the way.”

Pedro Ceniza shrugged his narrow shoulders and lit a ciga­rette with the previous one. As he took his first drag, he was shaken by a dry cough. But he continued smoking, unperturbed.

“Do you have access to an authentic copy, to compare them?”

“No, but I soon will. That’s why I want your opinion first.” “It’s a valuable book, and ours is not an exact science.” He turned again to his brother. “Isn’t that so, Pablo?” “It’s an art,” insisted his brother.

“Yes. We wouldn’t want to disappoint you, Mr. Corso.” “I’m sure you won’t. You know what you’re talking about.

After all, you were able to forge a Speculum Vitae from the only known copy and have it listed as an original in one of the best catalogues in Europe.”

They both smiled sourly at exactly the same time. Si and Am, thought Corso, a cunning pair of cats who’ve just been stroked.

“It was never proved to be our work,” said Pedro Ceniza at last. He was rubbing his hands, looking at the book out of the corner of his eye.

“No, never,” repeated his brother sadly. They seemed sorry not to have gone to prison in return for public recognition.