The Club Dumas

“Where did you learn to do that kind of thing?”

“What kind of thing?”

“I saw you, by the water.” Corso moved his hands in a clumsy imitation of her movement. “Giving him what he de­served.”

She smiled gently and stood up, brushing the back of her jeans.

“I once wrestled with an angel. He won, but I learned a few things.”

With her bloody nose she looked impossibly young. She put the bag over her shoulder and held out her hand to help him. He was surprised by her firm grip. -When he stood up, all his bones ached.

“I thought angels fought with lances and swords.”

She was sniffing, holding her head back to stop the blood. She looked at him sideways, annoyed.

“You’ve looked at too many Diirer engravings, Corso. And see where that’s got you.”

they returned to the hotel via the Pont Neuf and the passageway along the Louvre, without any more incidents. By the light of a street lamp he saw that the girl was still bleeding. He took his handkerchief from his pocket, but when he tried to help her, she took it from him and held it to her nose herself. She walked, absorbed in her own thoughts. Corso glanced at her long, bare neck and perfect profile, her matte skin in the hazy light from the lamps of the Louvre. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. She walked with the bag on her shoulder, her head slightly forward, which made her look determined, stubborn. Occasionally, when they turned a dark corner, her eyes darted, and she put the hand holding the handkerchief down by her side, walking tense and alert. Under the archways of the Rue de Rivoli, where there was more light, she seemed to relax. When her nose stopped bleeding, she re­turned his handkerchief stained with dry blood. Her mood im­proved. She didn’t seem to find it so reprehensible that he let himself be caught like a fool. She put her hand on his shoulder a couple of times, as if they were two old friends returning from a walk. It was a spontaneous, natural gesture. But maybe she was also tired and needed support. Corso, his head clearing with the walk, found it pleasant at first. Then it began to trou­ble him. The feel of her hand on his shoulder awakened a strange feeling in him, not entirely disagreeable but unex­pected. He felt tender, like the soft center of a candy.

gruber was ON DUTY that evening. He allowed himself a brief, inquisitive glance at the pair—Corso in his damp, dirty coat, his glasses cracked, the girl with her face stained with blood—but otherwise remained expressionless. He raised an eyebrow courteously and nodded, indicating that he was at Cor-so’s disposal, but Corso gestured that he didn’t need anything. Gruber handed him a sealed envelope and both room keys. They stepped into the elevator, and Corso was about to open the envelope when he saw that the girl’s nose was bleeding again. He put the message in his pocket and gave her his hand­kerchief again. The elevator stopped at her floor. Corso said she should call a doctor, but the girl shook her head and got out of the elevator. After a moment of hesitation, he followed her. She had dripped some blood on the carpet. In the room, he made her sit on the bed, then went to the bathroom and soaked a towel in water.

“Hold this against your neck and lean your head back.” She obeyed without a word. All the energy she’d shown down by the river seemed to have evaporated. Maybe because of the nosebleed. He took off her coat and shoes and lay her on the bed, putting the pillow under her back. Like an ex­hausted little girl, she let him. Before turning off all the lights except for the one in the bathroom, Corso looked around. Other than a toothbrush, toothpaste, and shampoo above the wash­basin, the only belongings he could see were her duffel coat, the rucksack open on the sofa, the postcards bought the day before with The Three Musketeers, a gray sweater, a couple of T-shirts, and a pair of white panties drying on the radiator. He looked at the girl, embarrassed. He wasn’t sure whether he ought to sit on the edge of the bed or elsewhere. His feeling from the Hue de Rivoli was still there in his stomach. He couldn’t leave. Not until she felt better. In the end he decided to remain standing. He had his hands in his coat pockets, and with one of them he could feel the empty flask of gin. He glanced greedily at the liquor cabinet, its hotel seal still unbro­ken. He was dying for a drink.

“You were great down there by the river,” he said. “I haven’t thanked you.”

She smiled sleepily. But her eyes, with pupils dilated in the darkness, followed Corso’s every move. “What’s going on?” he asked.

She looked back at him with irony, implying that his ques­tion was absurd.

“They obviously want something you have.” “The Dumas manuscript? Or The Nine Doors?” The girl sighed. None of this is terribly important, she seemed to be saying.

“You’re clever, Corso,” she said at last. “By now you should have a theory.”

“I have too many. What I don’t have is any proof.”