The Club Dumas

VI. OF APOCRYPHA AND INTERPOLATIONS

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.

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.

"True," admitted Corso. "Nor was there any proof in the case of the Chaucer, allegedly bound by Marius Michel, listed in the catalogue for the Manoukian collection. Or for that copy of Baron Bielke's Polyglot Bible with three missing pages you replaced so perfectly that even today experts don't dispute its authenticity...."

Pedro Ceniza lifted a yellowed hand with long nails. "I'd like to say a little about that, Mr. Corso. It's one thing to forge books for profit, quite another to do it out of love for one's art, creating something for the satisfaction provided by that very act of creation, or, as in most cases, of re-creation." The bookbinder blinked a few times, then smiled mischievously. His small, mouselike eyes shone as he looked at The Nine Doors again. "Although I don't recall having had a hand in the works you've just described as admirable, and I'm sure my brother doesn't either."

"I called them perfect."

"Did you? Well, never mind." Putting his cigarette in his mouth and sucking in his cheeks, he took a long drag. "But whoever the person or persons responsible, you can be sure that he or they derived a great deal of enjoyment from it, a degree of personal satisfaction that money can't buy...."

"Sine pecunia," added his brother.

Pedro Ceniza blew cigarette smoke through his nose and half-open mouth. He continued: "Let's take the Speculum, for instance, which the Sorbonne bought in the belief that it was authentic. The paper, typography, printing, and binding alone must have cost those you call forgers five times more than any money they might have made. People just don't understand.... What would be more satisfying to a painter with the talent of a Velazquez and the skill to imitate his works: making money or seeing one of his own paintings hanging in the Prado between Las Meninas and Vulcan's Forge?"

Corso agreed. For eight years, the Ceniza brothers' Speculum had been one of the most valuable books owned by the University of Paris. It was discovered to be a forgery not by experts but due to a chance indiscretion by a middleman.

"Do the police still bother you?"

"Rarely. You must remember that the business of the Sorbonne erupted in France between the buyer and the intermediaries. True, our name was linked to the affair, but nothing was ever proved." Pedro Ceniza smiled his crooked smile again, as if sorry that there had been no proof. "We have a good relationship with the police. They even come to see us sometimes when they need to identify a stolen book." He waved his cigarette in his brother's direction. "There's no one as good as Pablo when it comes to erasing traces of library stamps, or removing bookplates and marks of origin. But sometimes they want him to work his way backward through the process. You know how it is: live and let live."

"What do you think of The Nine Doors?"

The older Ceniza looked at his brother, then at the book. He shook his head. "Nothing drew our attention while we were working on it. The paper and ink are as they should be. Even at first glance, you notice that sort of thing."

"We notice them," corrected his brother.

"What's your opinion now?"

Pedro Ceniza took a last puff of his cigarette, which was now a tiny stub between his fingers. He dropped it on the floor between his feet, where it burned itself out. The linoleum was covered with cigarette burns.

"Seventeenth-century Venetian binding, in good condition..." The brothers leaned over the book, but only the elder touched the pages with his pale, cold hands. They looked like a pair of taxidermists working out the best way to stuff a corpse with straw. "The leather is black morocco, with gold rosettes imitating flowers."

"Somewhat sober for Venice," added Pablo Ceniza.

His brother agreed, with another coughing fit.

"The artist kept it restrained. No doubt the subject matter..." He looked at Corso. "Have you tested the core of the binding? Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century books bound in leather or hide sometimes contain surprises. The board inside was made of separate sheets assembled with paste and pressed. Sometimes people used proofs of the same book, or earlier editions. Some discovered bindings are now more valuable than the texts they cover." He pointed to papers on the table. "There's an example there. Tell him about it, Pablo."

"Papal bulls of the Holy Crusade, dated 1485." The brother smiled equivocally. He might have been talking about pornographic material rather than a pile of old papers. "Bound with boards from sixteenth-century memorials of no value."

Pedro Ceniza meanwhile was examining The Nine Doors. "The binding seems to be in order," he said. "It all fits. Odd book, isn't it? The five raised bands on the spine, no title, and this strange pentacle on the cover. Torchia, Venice 1666. He might have bound it himself. A beautiful piece of work."

"What about the paper?"

"That's just like you, Mr. Corso. A good question." The bookbinder licked his lips as if trying to warm them. He listened carefully to the sound of the pages as he flicked them, just as Corso had done at Varo Borja's. "Excellent paper. Nothing like the cellulose they use nowadays. Do you know the average lifespan of a book printed today? Tell him, Pablo."

"Sixty years," said the brother bitterly, as if it were Corso's fault. "Sixty miserable years."

Pedro was searching among the tools on the table. At last he found a special high-magnification lens and held it up to the book.

"A century from now," he murmured as he lifted a page and examined it against the light, closing one eye, "almost all the contents of today's libraries will have disappeared. But these books, printed two hundred or even five hundred years ago, will remain intact. We have the books, and the world, that we deserve.... Isn't that so, Pablo?"

"Lousy books printed on lousy paper."

Pedro Ceniza nodded in agreement. He was examining the book now through the lens. "That's right. Cellulose paper turns yellow and brittle as a wafer, and cracks irreparably. It ages and dies."

"Not the case here," said Corso, pointing at the book.

The bookbinder held a page against the light.

"Rag-content paper, which is as it should be. Good paper handmade from rags, it'll withstand both the passage of time and human stupidity.... No, I tell a lie. It's linen. Authentic linen paper." He put down the lens and looked at his brother. "How strange, it's not Venetian paper. It's thick, spongy, fibrous. Could it be Spanish?"

"From Valencia," said his brother. "Jativa linen."

"That's right. One of the best in Europe at the time. The printer could have got hold of an imported batch.... He really did things properly."

"He was very conscientious," said Corso, "and it cost him his life."

"Risks of the trade." Pedro accepted the crushed cigarette Corso offered him. He lit it immediately, coughing. "As you know yourself, it's difficult to fool anyone about paper. The ream used would have had to be blank, from the same time, and even then there would be differences: the sheets go brown, the inks fade and change over time.... Of course, the added pages can be stained, or darkened by being washed in tea. Any restoration work, or addition of missing pages should leave the book all of a piece. It's these small details that count. Don't they, Pablo? Always the damned details "

"What's your diagnosis?"

"So far, we have established that the binding is seventeenth century. That doesn't mean that the pages match this binding and not another. But let's assume they do. As for the paper, it seems similar to other batches whose origin has been authenticated."

"Right. The binding and paper are authentic. Let's look at the text and illustrations."

"Now, that's more complicated. We can approach the typography from two different angles. One: we can assume that the book is authentic. The owner, however, denies this, and according to you he has ways of knowing. So authenticity is possible but not very probable. Let's assume that it's a forgery and work out the possibilities. On the one hand, the entire text might be a forgery, a fabrication, printed on paper dating from the time and bound using boards from the time. This is unlikely. Or, to be more precise, not very convincing. The cost of such a book would be enormous.... On the other hand, and this is reasonable, the forgery might have been made shortly after the first edition of the book. I mean that it was reprinted with alterations, disguised to resemble the first edition, some ten or twenty years after this date of 1666 that appears in the frontispiece. But to what end?"

"It was a banned book," Pablo Ceniza pointed out.

"It's possible," agreed Corso. "Somebody who had access to the equipment—the plates and types—used by Aristide Torchia might have been able to print the book again."

The elder brother had picked up a pencil and was scribbling on the back of a printed sheet. "That would be one explanation," he said. "But there are other alternatives that seem more plausible. Imagine, for instance, that most of the book's pages are authentic but that some were missing, either torn out or lost, and that somebody replaced those missing pages using paper that dates from the time, good printing techniques, and a lot of patience. In that case, there are two further possibilities: one is that the added pages are reproductions of those from a complete copy. Another is that, in the absence of the original to reproduce or copy, the contents of the pages were invented." The bookbinder showed Corso what he had been writing. "It would be a true case of forgery, as illustrated by this diagram."

While Corso and Pablo were looking at the paper, Pedro again leafed through The Nine Doors.

"I am inclined to think," he added after a moment, once he had their attention again, "that if some pages were interpolated, it was done either around the time of the original edition, or now, in our time. We can discount the time between the two, because such a perfect reproduction of an ancient work has become possible only very recently."

Corso handed back the diagram and asked, "Imagine you were faced with a book that had pages missing. And you wanted to complete it using modern techniques. How would you go about it?"

The Ceniza brothers sighed deeply in unison, professionally relishing the prospect. They were now both staring intently at The Nine Doors.

"Let us suppose," Pedro said, "that this hundred-and-sixty-eight-page book has page 100 missing. Pages 100 and 99, since one sheet has two sides. And we want to replace it. The trick is to locate a twin."

"A twin?"

"As we say in the trade," said Pablo, "another complete copy."

"Or at least a copy where the two pages we need to duplicate are intact. It would also be advisable to compare the twin with our incomplete copy, to see if the depths of the type impressions in the paper are different or if the letters have worn differently. As you know yourself, types were moveable then and could easily wear down or be damaged. So with manual printing, the first and last copy of the same print run could vary greatly. They might have crooked or broken letters, hold the ink differently, things like that. Examining such variations allows you to add or remove imperfections on an interpolated page so that the page matches the rest of the book. We would then proceed with photomechanical reproduction and produce a plastic photolith. And from that we would obtain a polymer or a zinc."

"A plate in relief," said Corso, "made of resin or metal."

"Exactly. However perfect the reproduction technique, we would never get the relief, the mark on paper typical of old printing methods that used inked wood or metal. So the entire page has to be reproduced using a moldable material—resin or metal. Such a plate creates very similar effects to printing with the kind of movable lead types used in 1666. We put the plate on the press and print the page manually, as was done four centuries ago ... using paper that dates from the same time, of course, or treated both before and after with artificial aging methods. The composition of the ink must be thoroughly researched. The page is treated with chemical agents so that it matches the other pages. And there you are, the crime is carried out."

"But suppose the original sheet doesn't exist. Suppose there's no model from which to copy the two missing pages."

The Ceniza brothers both smiled confidently.

"That," said Pedro, "makes it even more interesting."

"Research and imagination," added Pablo.

"And daring, of course, Mr. Corso. Suppose Pablo and I have that copy of The Nine Doors with pages missing. The other one hundred sixty-six pages provide us with a catalogue of all the letters and symbols used by the printer. We take samples until we have obtained an entire alphabet. We reproduce the alphabet on photographic paper, which is easier to handle, and then multiply each letter by the number of times it appears on the page. The ideal, the artistic flourish, would be to reproduce the types in molten lead, as ancient printers used to do. Unfortunately this is too complicated and expensive. We make do with modern techniques. We divide up the letters with a blade into loose types, and Pablo, who has a steadier hand, composes the two pages on a template, line by line, just as a compositor would have done in the seventeenth century. From that we produce another proof on paper and eliminate any joins or imperfections in the letters, or we add faults similar to those found in the letters of the original text. Then all we need do is make a negative. From the negative you get a reproduction in relief, and there you have your printing plate."

"What if the missing pages are illustrations?"

"It makes no difference. If we had access to the original engraving, of course, the technique for making a copy would be easier. In this case, the fact that the engravings are all woodcuts, which have lighter lines than copperplate or dry-point, means that we can produce an almost perfect piece of work."

"Suppose the original engraving no longer exists."

"That's not a problem either. If we know of it from references, we can imitate it. If not, we can invent it. After studying the technique used for the book's other engravings, of course. Any good draftsman could do it."

"What about printing it?"

"As you know, a woodcut is an engraving in relief. A cube of wood is cut with the gram and covered with a white background. The picture is drawn on top. Then the wood is carved and the ink applied on the crests, or ridges, so that it can be transferred onto paper. When reproducing woodcuts, there are two options. One is to make a copy of the drawing, preferably in resin. The alternative, if you have a good engraver, is to make another real woodcut, with the same techniques that were used to produce the original engravings, and to print directly from that. In my case, as I have a good engraver in my brother, I would hand print it from a woodcut. Wherever possible, art should imitate art."

"You get better results," added Pablo.

Corso looked at him conspiratorially.

"As with the Sorbonne's Speculum,"

"Maybe. The creator or creators of that piece of work may have thought like us.... Don't you think, Pablo?"

"They must have been romantics," agreed his brother with a faint smile.

"Yes, they must." Corso pointed at the book. "So, what's your verdict?"

"I would say that it's original," answered Pedro Ceniza without hesitation. "Even we wouldn't be able to produce such perfect results. Look, the quality of the paper, stains on the pages, identical tones and variations in the ink, and the typography ... It's possible that some forged pages may have been inserted, but I think it improbable. If it is a forgery, the only explanation is that the forgery must have been done around the same time. How many known copies are there? Three? I assume you have considered the possibility that all three are forgeries."

"Yes, I have. What about the woodcuts?"

"They're definitely very strange. All those symbols ... But they do date from the time. The degree of impression on the plates is identical. The ink, the shades of the paper ... Maybe the key lies not in how or when they were printed but in their contents. I'm sorry we haven't made much progress."

"You're wrong." Corso prepared to close the book. "We've made a lot of progress."

Pedro Ceniza stopped him. "There's one more thing ... I'm sure you've noticed them yourself. The printer's marks."

Corso looked at him, confused. "I don't know what you mean."

"The tiny signatures at the foot of each illustration. Show him, Pablo."

The younger brother wiped his hands on his overalls, as if to wipe off sweat. Then, moving closer to The Nine Doors, he showed Corso some of the pages through a magnifying glass.

"Each engraving," he explained, "has the usual abbreviations: Inv. for invenit, with the signature of the original artist, and Sculp, for sculpsit, the engraver.... Look. In seven of the nine woodcuts, the abbreviation A. TORCH appears as both sculp. and inv. Obviously the printer himself drew and engraved seven of the illustrations. But in the other two, he is named only as sculp. That means that he only engraved them. Someone else created the drawings, someone else was the inv. Someone with the initials L.F."

Pedro Ceniza nodded in approval at his brother's explanation and lit yet another cigarette. "Not bad, eh?" He started to cough amid the smoke. He watched for Corso's reaction, a malicious glint in his astute, mouselike eyes. "That printer might have been the one burned at the stake, but he wasn't the only one involved."

"No," agreed his brother, "somebody helped light the fire at his feet."

THE SAME DAY, CORSO had a visit from Liana Taillefer. The widow arrived unannounced, at that hour which is neither afternoon nor evening, when Corso, dressed in a faded cotton shirt and old corduroys, was standing by the west-facing window, watching the sunset turn the city rooftops red and ochre. Maybe it wasn't a good moment; maybe much of what happened later might have been avoided had she turned up at a different time of day. We'll never know. What we do know is that Corso was looking out the window, his eyes growing mistier as he emptied his glass of gin. The doorbell rang, and Liana Taillefer—blond, impressively tall, in an English raincoat, tailored suit, and black stockings—appeared on the doorstep. Her hair was gathered into a bun beneath a tobacco-colored, wide-brimmed hat elegantly tilted to one side. The hat suited her very well. She was a beautiful woman. She knew it and expected everyone to notice.

"To what do I owe the honor?" asked Corso. It was a stupid question, but at that hour and with all the Bols in him, he couldn't be expected to shine in conversation. Liana Taillefer had already stepped into the room. She was standing at the desk where the folder with the Dumas manuscript lay next to his computer and box of diskettes.

"Are you still working on this?"

"Of course."

She lifted her gaze from "The Anjou Wine" and glanced around calmly at the books covering the walls and piled up all over the room. Corso knew she was looking for photographs, mementos, clues to the personality of the occupant. She arched an arrogant eyebrow, irritated at not finding any. At last she saw the saber of the Old Guard.

"Do you collect swords?"

This was a logical inference. Of an inductive nature. At least, Corso thought with relief, Liana Taillefer's ability to smooth over embarrassing situations didn't match her appearance. Unless she was teasing him. He smiled warily, feeling cornered.

"I collect that one. It's called a saber."

She nodded, expressionless. Impossible to tell whether she was simple or a good actress.

"A family heirloom?"

"An acquisition," lied Corso. "I thought it would look nice on the wall. Books on their own can get a bit boring."

"How come you have no pictures or photographs?"

"There's no one I particularly want to remember." He thought of the photograph in the silver frame, the late Taillefer in an apron carving the suckling pig. "In your case it's different, of course."

She looked at him intently, perhaps trying to decide how rude his comment had been. There was steel in her blue eyes, steel so cold that it chilled you. She paced the room, stopping to look at some of his books, at the view from the window, then returned to the desk. She ran a blood-red fingernail over the folder with the Dumas manuscript. Maybe she was expecting Corso to say something, but he remained silent. He waited patiently. If she was after something—and it was pretty obvious that she was—he'd let her do all the work. He wasn't going to make it easier for her.

"May I sit down?"

The slightly husky voice. The echo of a heavy night, thought Corso again. He stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, waiting. Liana Taillefer took off her hat and raincoat. She looked around with her interminable slowness and chose an old sofa. She went over to it and sat down slowly, her skirt riding up high. She crossed her legs with an effect that anyone, even Corso with half a gin less in him, would have found devastating.

"I've come on business."

That was plain. She must be after something, to put on such a display. Corso had as much self-esteem as the next person, but he was no fool.

"Fine," he said. "Have you had dinner with Flavio La Ponte yet?"

No reaction. For a few seconds she continued looking at him, unperturbed, with the same air of contemptuous confidence.

"Not yet," she answered at last, without anger. "I wanted to see you first."

"Well, here I am."

Liana Taillefer leaned back a little more against the sofa. One of her hands was resting on a split in the shabby leather upholstery, where the horsehair stuffing poked through.

"You work for money," she said.

"I do."

"You sell yourself to the highest bidder."

"Sometimes." Corso showed one of his eyeteeth. He was on his own territory, so he could allow himself his friendly rabbit expression. "Generally what I do is hire myself out. Like Humphrey Bogart in the movies. Or like a whore."

For a widow who'd spent her schooldays doing needlework, Liana Taillefer didn't seem shocked by his language.

"I want to offer you a job."

"How nice. Everybody's offering me jobs these days."

"I'll pay you well."

"Wonderful. They all want to pay me well too."

She pulled at some of the horsehair poking from the sofa arm and twisted it absentmindedly around her index linger.

"What are you charging your friend La Ponte?"

"Flavio? Nothing. You couldn't get a penny out of him."

"Why are you working for him, then?"

"As you put it yourself, he's my friend."

"Friend," she repeated thoughtfully. "It sounds strange to hear you say that word," she said. A slight smile, with curious disdain. "Do you have girlfriends as well?"

Corso looked at her legs unhurriedly, from ankles to thighs. Shamelessly.

"I have memories of some. The memory of you tonight might not be bad."

She took the crude remark without blinking. Maybe, Corso thought, she hadn't understood it.

"Name a price," she said coldly. "I want my husband's manuscript."

Things were looking good. Corso went and sat in an armchair opposite Liana Taillefer. From there he could get a better view. She had taken off her shoes and was resting her feet on the rug.

"You didn't seem that interested last time."

"I've thought it over. That manuscript has..."

"Sentimental value?" mocked Corso.

"Something like that." Her voice now sounded defiant. "But not in the way you think."

"What would you be prepared to do to get it?"

"I've told you. Pay you."

Corso leered. "You offend me. I'm a professional."

"You're a professional mercenary, Mr. Corso. And mercenaries change sides. I've read books too, you know."

"I have as much money as I need."

"I'm not talking about money."

She was lying back on the sofa, and with one bare foot she stroked the instep of the other. Corso pictured her toenails painted red under the black stockings. As she moved, her skirt rode up, giving a glimpse of white flesh above the black garters, where all mysteries are reduced to one, which is as old as time itself. Corso looked up with difficulty. Her ice-blue eyes were still on him.

He took off his glasses before getting up and going to the sofa. Liana Taillefer followed him impassively with her eyes, even when he was right in front of her, so close that their knees touched. Then she put out her hand and placed her fingers with their red lacquered nails precisely on the zipper of his corduroy trousers. Her smile was contemptuous and self-assured as Corso at last leaned over her and lifted her skirt up to her waist.

IT WAS A MUTUAL assault rather than a sharing. A settling of scores there on the sofa. A crude, hard struggle between adults, with the appropriate moans at the right moment, a few muttered curses, and the woman's nails digging mercilessly into Corso's back. And it happened in barely any space, without their taking off their clothes. Her skirt was up over her strong, wide hips, which he gripped as the studs on her garter belt pressed into his groin. He never even saw her breasts, although he did manage to touch them a couple of times, dense, warm, abundant flesh beneath the jacket, silk shirt, and bra. In the heat of the fray, Liana Taillefer didn't have time to remove them. And now there they were, the two of them, still tangled in each other, among a mess of crumpled clothes, and breathless, like two exhausted wrestlers. Corso was wondering how to extricate himself.

"Who's Rochefort?" he asked.

She looked at him from a few inches away. The setting sun threw reddish glints across her face. The hairpins had fallen out of her bun, and her blond hair was spread untidily over the leather sofa. She looked relaxed for the first time.

"It doesn't matter," she answered, "now that I'm getting the manuscript back."

Corso kissed her disordered cleavage, bidding farewell to its contents. He had a feeling he wouldn't be kissing it again for some time.

"What manuscript?" he said, and saw her expression harden instantly. Her body went rigid under his.

"The Anjou Wine." For the first time there was a hint of anxiety in her voice. "You're going to return it to me, aren't you, Mr. Corso?"

Corso noted the return to a formal mode of address. He vaguely remembered having been on first-name terms during the skirmish.

"I never said that."

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong."

Her steely blue eyes flashed with anger. She sat up, furious, pushing him away abruptly with her hips.

"Bastard!"

Corso, who was about to laugh and make a couple of cynical jokes, felt himself pushed back violently. He fell to his knees. As he struggled to his feet, fastening his belt, he saw Liana Taillefer stand up, pale and terrifying, unconcerned by her disheveled clothes, her magnificent thighs still exposed. She slapped him so hard, his left ear vibrated like a drum.

"Pig!"

Corso staggered from the blow. Stunned, he was like a boxer searching for something to stop him from falling into the ropes. Liana Taillefer crossed his field of vision, but he didn't pay her much attention because of the agonizing pain in his ear. He was staring stupidly at the saber from Waterloo when he heard the sound of breaking glass. He saw her again against the reddish light from the window. She had pulled her skirt down. In one hand she held the manuscript and in the other the neck of a broken bottle. Its edge was aimed at Corso's throat.

Instinctively he raised his arm and stepped back. The danger had brought him back to his senses and made the adrenaline pump. He pushed aside the hand with the bottle and punched her in the neck. It left her winded, stopping her dead. The following scene was somewhat calmer. Corso picked the manuscript and broken bottle off the floor. Liana Taillefer was once again sitting on the sofa, her tousled hair hanging over her face. She was holding a hand to her neck, breathing with difficulty between sobs of fury.

"They'll kill you for this, Corso," she said at last. The sun had now set beyond the city, and the corners of the room were filling with shadow. Ashamed, he switched on the light and held out her coat and hat before calling for a taxi. He avoided her eyes. Then, as he listened to her steps receding down the stairs, he stood for a moment by the window, watching the dark roofs in the brightness of the rising moon.

"They'll kill you for this, Corso."

He poured himself a large glass of gin. He couldn't rid himself of Liana Taillefer's expression once she realized she'd been tricked. Eyes as deadly as a dagger, a rictus of vengeful fury. And she meant it, she really had wanted to kill him. Once again the memories stirred, gradually filling his mind. This time, though, he needed no effort to relive them. The image was sharp, and he knew exactly where it came from. The facsimile edition of The Three Musketeers was on his desk. He opened it and searched for the scene. Page 129. There, among overturned furniture, leaping from the bed, dagger in hand like a furious demon, Milady throws herself at d'Artagnan, who retreats, terrified, in his shirt, keeping her at bay with the tip of his sword.

...keeping her at bay with the tip of his sword.