The Club Dumas

Nikon loved that kind of thing. Corso remembered how she would be moved, like a sentimental little girl, by a couple kiss­ing against a cloudy sky to the sound of violins and “The End” across the screen. Sometimes, munching on potato chips at the cinema or in front of the television, she’d lean on Corso’s shoul­der and cry quietly, gently, for a long time, her eyes fixed on the screen. It might be Paul Henreid singing the Marseillaise in Rick’s cafe; Rutger Hauer dying, head bowed, in the final shots of Blade Runner; John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara in front of the fireplace at Innisfree; Custer and Arthur Kennedy on the eve of Little Big Horn; O’Toole as Jim deceived by Gentleman Brown; Henry Fonda on his way to the O. K. Corral; or Marcello Mastroianni up to his waist in a pond at a spa retrieving a woman’s hat, waving to right and left, elegant, imperturbable, and in love with a pair of dark eyes. Nikon was happy crying over it all, and she was proud of her tears. It’s because I’m alive, she’d say afterward, laughing, her eyes still wet. Because I’m part of the rest of the world and I’m glad I am. Films are for everyone, collective, generous, with children cheering when the cavalry arrives. They’re even better on TV: two can watch and comment. But your books are selfish. Soli­tary. Some of them can’t even be read, they fall to bits if you open them. A person who’s interested only in books doesn’t need other people, and that frightens me. Nikon was eating the last potato chip and watching him intently, her lips parted, searching his face for signs of an illness that would soon man­ifest itself. Sometimes you frighten me.

Happy endings. Corso pressed a button on the remote, and the image disappeared from the screen. Now he was in Paris and Nikon was somewhere in Africa or the Balkans photograph­ing children with tragic eyes. Once, in a bar, he thought he caught sight of her on the news, in the chaotic shots of a bom­bardment. She was surrounded by terrified fleeing refugees, her hair in a plait, cameras around her neck and one at her eye, backed by smoke and flames. Nikon. Of all the universal lies she accepted unquestioningly, the happy ending was the most absurd. The hero and heroine lived happily ever after, and the ending seemed indisputable, definitive. No questions asked about how long love or happiness lasts in that “forever” that can be divided into lifetimes, years, months. Even days. Until the very end, their inevitable end, Nikon refused to accept that the hero might have drowned two weeks later when his boat struck a reef in the Southern Hebrides. Or that the heroine was run over by a car three months later. Or that maybe everything turned out differently, in a thousand different ways: one of them had an affair, one of them became bitter or bored, one of them wanted to back out. Maybe nights full of tears, silence, and loneliness followed that screen kiss. Maybe cancer killed him before he was forty. Maybe she lived on and died in an old folks’ home at the age of ninety. Maybe the handsome officer turned into a pathetic ruin, his wounds becoming hide­ous scars and his glorious battles forgotten by all. And maybe, old and defenseless, the hero and heroine suffered ordeals with­out the strength to fight or defend themselves, tossed this way and that by the storms of life, by stupidity, by cruelty, by the miserable human condition.

Sometimes you frighten me, Lucas Corso.

five MINUTES BEFORE eleven that night, he solved the mystery of the fire at Victor Fargas’s house. Although it didn’t make things any clearer. He looked at his watch as he stretched and yawned. Glancing again at the fragments spread out on the bedcover, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror next to the old postcard, which was stuck into the wooden frame, of the hussars outside Reims cathedral. He was disheveled, unshaven, and his glasses sat crookedly on his nose. He started to laugh, one of his bad-tempered, wolflike, twisted laughs reserved for special occasions. And this was one. All the fragments of The Nine Doors that he had managed to identify came from pages with text. No trace remained of the nine engravings or the frontispiece. There were two possibilities: ei­ther they had burned in the fire or—more likely, considering the torn-off cover—somebody had taken them before throwing the rest of the book into the flames. Whoever it was must have thought himself, or herself, very clever. Or themselves. Maybe, after the unexpected sighting of La Ponte and Liana Taillefer at the traffic light, he should get used to the third person plural. The question was whether the clues Corso was following were his opponent’s mistakes or tricks. In either case they were very elaborate.