But the mountain that grew most, as if powered by inner volcanic forces, was the one of books that could be sold, which, apart from calming a neurotic Yoyi, worried by the quantity of books the Count considered unsaleable, brought a metallic glint to the eyes of that young man, transformed momentarily into a scavenging hawk.
While they checked the books, constantly surprised by dates and places of publication, caressed gnarled leather or original board spines, lingered occasionally to admire engravings or hand-painted illustrations, Conde felt the sharp pain from the previous day’s hunch return, warning he’d yet to uncover all the surprises that were undoubtedly awaiting him in some corner of that sanctuary. Nonetheless, he couldn’t avoid the uncomfortable truth: that he was introducing chaos into a universe of paper that, for more than forty years, had safely orbited beyond the wrath of time and history, thanks to a simple pledge that had been honoured with iron determination.
When another set of coveted books passed through his hands – as he fingered like a delicate child the now fragile, profusely illustrated volumes of the Picturesque Stroll Around the Island of Cuba, printed in 1841 and 1842 – he tried to persuade himself they might herald other surprising encounters, and wondered if his hunch related to the palpable possibility he was going to scale the heights all specialists in the trade dreamed of: the discovery of the unimaginable. Perhaps among those volumes lurked one that pre-dated The General Tariff for the Price of Medicines, the flimsy pamphlet published by Carlos Habre in Havana in 1723 and considered to be the first-born child of Cuban typography; might he find slumbering there with one eye half open the original parchment manuscripts to prove that the Gaelic writings of the mythical Ossian were awesomely genuine?; or the gold plaques etched with hieroglyphics of the Book of the Mormons, never seen by anyone after Joseph Smith found and translated them – with indispensable divine help – only for an angel to pick them up and return them immediately to heaven, according to every account? Or The Mirror of Patience that had never been described, let alone touched, although it supposedly marked the birth of poetry on Cuban themes in 1608? Its appearance would end once and for all the debate raging over the clever forgery or authenticity of an epic poem peopled with satyrs, fauns, wood folk, pure, limpid, frolicking naiads and napeas, enjoying life between Cuban streams and forests despite the island’s perennial heat waves.
Conde’s emotional exhaustion got the better of Yoyi’s entrepreneurial energies, and they called it a day at three p.m., after counting out two hundred and eighteen saleable books, some of which could fetch juicy prices, nearly all printed in Cuba, Mexico or Spain between the end of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth.
“Those go back on the shelves,” the Count told Dionisio, pointing to the most valuable volumes. “We’ll take these. Is that all right by you?”
“I don’t have a problem with any of that. What do we do with the ones you say shouldn’t be sold?” he asked, gazing at the mountain of fantastic books the Count was returning to one corner of the empty shelves.
“You decide… It would make sense to try to sell them to the National Library. They all have a heritage value. The Library doesn’t pay very much, but…”
“But, man, I think…” Pigeon couldn’t repress a reaction his partner quickly nipped in the bud.
“It’s not open to debate, Yoyi,” and he added, for Dionisio’s benefit, “I already told you, you must decide. Most of those books are worth $500, others over a thousand and some several thousand.” He watched the sickly pallor spread over Dionisio’s face and, pre-empting a heart attack, added, “If you like, when we finish today, talk to him,” and he pointed at Yoyi. “But I won’t be part of that deal. My only condition is that, if you’re not going to do a deal with the National Library or a museum, do it with Yoyi. He’ll pay you best. I can assure you of that.”
Excited by these figures, Dionisio Ferrero coughed, sweated, reflected, trembled, hesitated and looked at Yoyi, who welcomed his look with an angelic, understanding smile.
“I knew they could be quite valuable, but really never imagined they might fetch those prices. Naturally, if I’d had any inkling, I’d have…” Dionisio smiled, happy at the dazzling prospect of a better future. “So how much will you give me for the ones you have separated out?”
“We’ll have to do our sums,” Pigeon interjected hastily. “Can you leave us alone for a few minutes so we can tot up?”
“Yes, of course… I’ll go and make some coffee. Some cold water as well?”
When Dionisio went out, the Count looked at his colleague and received the murderous look he anticipated and deserved.
“I’ll kill you one of these days. I swear I will. How the hell can you be such a bastard? And to cap it all you tell him there are books worth over a thousand dollars…”
“I erred on the conservative side, Yoyi. What do you reckon for the thirteen volumes of La Sagra? And the first editions of Las Casas and the Inca Garcilaso? Got any idea what they’d pay out in Miami for the Picturesque Stroll?...”
“That’s piss low, man. It’s not as if you live in Miami or there are any buyers around here who’d pay over a thousand dollars for one of those books.”
“That’s your problem.”
“Well, it ought to be yours as well. You realize that with two or three of those little books you could buy a year’s supply of whisky and not that gut-rotting local brew you buy from Blakamán and the Vikingo.”
“If you want to get plastered, anything will do… Come on, let’s do our sums…”
It took them half an hour to value the books, and that included drinking two coffees. At the Count’s insistence, they agreed a price they deemed satisfactory for all concerned. While Conde sat back on the sofa, Yoyi Pigeon preferred to stand next to the stained-glass windows, like a boxer waiting in the neutral corner for the count to stop or for the go-ahead to resume the fight. The Ferreros flopped down on their armchairs and Conde noticed their pathetic nervous tics, and reflected that hunger and principles, poverty and dignity, scarcity and pride are difficult pairings to reconcile.
“Let’s see then,” he said. “Today we picked out two hundred and eighteen books… Some will sell for a very good price, but we’ll have to work hard to get a good price for others. We’re looking at twelve, fifteen dollars, although it won’t be easy, and others might make two or three… If we go by the thirty percent rule, my colleague and I have decided to offer you a flat price: three dollars a book.”
Amalia and Dionisio glanced at each other. Were they hoping for more? Had they got too fond of the good life? Yoyi Pigeon sensed they were suspicious and, armed with a calculator, walked over.
“Let’s see then… 218 books, at three dollars apiece… makes 654 greenbacks… Six, five five, rounded up. At twenty-six pesos to the dollar…” he paused theatrically, knowing full well it would clear away any doubts, and underscoring the point, he pretended he too was surprised. “Hell! Seventeen thousand pesos! I can tell you, no buyer will give you that much, because selling books has got difficult recently… What’s more: what you’ve got in there will sort your problems for the rest of your lives…”
Conde knew the undernourished legs, stomachs and brains of Amalia and Dionisio Ferrero must be quaking at the sound of such figures, as his own had quaked that afternoon when he’d imagined himself as the happy owner of ten or twelve thousand pesos, which would pay his bills for half a year if properly eked out… They’d only been through a seventh or eighth of the library, too, and his hunch still throbbed, telling him that something extraordinary, something beyond his grasp would happen in that room. Would this deal really leave him a rich man, thanks to the discovery of incunabula whose magnetic pull – in monetary terms – not even he and his moral sense could resist?