He got up from the bed slowly, so as not to wake the ghost sleeping by his side, listening for the sound of her breathing. Sometimes he almost heard it. "You're as dead as your books, Corso. You've never loved anyone." That was the first and last time she'd used his surname. The first and last time she'd refused him her body, before leaving him for good. In search of the child he'd never wanted.
He opened the window and felt the cold damp night as rain splashed against his face. He took one last puff of his cigarette and then dropped it into the shadows, a red dot fading into the darkness, the curve of its fall broken, or hidden.
That night, it was raining on other landscapes too. On the footprints Nikon left behind. On the fields of Waterloo, great-great-grandfather Corso and his comrades. On the red-and-black tomb of Julien Sorel, guillotined for believing that with Bonaparte's death the bronze statues lay dying on old forgotten paths. A stupid mistake. Lucas Corso knew better than anyone that an itinerant, clearheaded soldier could still choose his battlefield and get his wages, standing guard alongside ghosts of paper and leather, amidst the hangover from a thousand failures.
III. MEN OF WORDS AND MEN OF ACTION
"The dead do not speak."
"They speak if God wishes it," retorted Lagardère.
The secretary's heels clicked loudly on the polished wood floor. Lucas Corso followed her down the long corridor—pale cream walls, hidden lighting, ambient music—until they came to a heavy oak door. He obeyed her sign to wait there a moment. Then, when she moved aside with a perfunctory smile, he went into the office. Varo Borja was sitting in a black leather reclining chair, between half a ton of mahogany and a window with a magnificent panoramic view of Toledo: ancient ochre rooftops, the Gothic spire of the cathedral silhouetted against a clean blue sky, and in the background the large gray mass of the Alcazar palace.
"Do sit down, Corso. How are you?"
"Fine."
"You've had to wait."
It wasn't an apology but a statement of fact. Corso frowned. "Don't worry. Only forty-five minutes this time."
Varo Borja didn't even bother to smile as Corso sat down in the armchair reserved for visitors. The desk was completely clear except for a complicated, high-tech telephone and intercom system. The book dealer's face was reflected in the desk surface, together with the view from the window as a backdrop. Varo Borja was about fifty. He was bald, with a tan acquired on a sun bed, and he looked respectable, which was far from the truth. He had sharp, darting little eyes. He hid his excessive girth beneath tight-fitting, exuberantly patterned vests and custom-made jackets. He was some sort of marquis, and his checkered past included a police record, a scandal over fraud, and four years of prudently self-imposed exile in Brazil and Paraguay.
"I have something to show you."
He had an abrupt manner, bordering on rudeness, which he cultivated carefully. Corso watched him walk over to a small glass cabinet. Borja opened it with a tiny key on a gold chain pulled from his pocket. He had no public premises, apart from a stand reserved at the major international fairs, and his catalogue never included more than a few dozen titles. He would follow the trail of a rare book to any corner of the world, fight hard and dirty to obtain it, and then sell it, profiting from the vagaries of the market. On his payroll at any one time he had collectors, curators, engravers, printers, and suppliers like Lucas Corso.
"What do you think?"
Corso took the book as carefully as if he were being handed a newborn baby. It was an old volume bound in brown leather, decorated in gold, and in excellent condition.
"La Hypnerotomachia di Poliphilo by Colonna," he said. "You managed to get hold of it at last."
"Three days ago. Venice, 1545. In casa di figlivoli di Aldo. One hundred and seventy woodcuts. Do you think that Swiss you mentioned would still be interested?"
"I suppose so. Is the book complete?"
"Of course. All but four of the woodcuts in this edition are reprints from the 1499 edition."
"My client really wanted a first edition, but I'll try to convince him a second edition is good enough. Five years ago, at the Monaco auction, a copy slipped through his fingers."
"Well, you have the option on this one."
"Give me a couple of weeks to get in touch with him."
"I'd prefer to deal directly." Borja smiled like a shark after a swimmer. "Of course you'd still get your commission, at the usual rate."
"No way. The Swiss is my client."
Borja smiled sarcastically. "You don't trust anyone, do you? I can picture you as a baby, testing your mother's milk before you'd suck."
"And you'd sell your mother's milk, wouldn't you?"
Borja stared pointedly at Corso, who at that instant didn't look at all like a friendly rabbit. More like a wolf baring his fangs.
"You know what I like about you, Corso? The easy way you fall into the part of a mercenary, with all the demagogues and charlatans out there. You're like one of those lean and hungry men Julius Caesar was so afraid of.... Do you sleep well at night?"
"Like a log."
"I'm sure you don't. I'd wager a couple of Gothic manuscripts that you're the type who spends a long time staring into the darkness ... Can I tell you something? I distrust thin men who are willing and enthusiastic. I only use well-paid mercenaries, rootless, straightforward types. I'm suspicious of anyone who's tied to a homeland, family, or cause."
The book dealer put the Poliphilo back in the cabinet and gave a dry, humorless laugh. "Sometimes I wonder if a man like you can have friends. Do you have any friends, Corso?"
"Go to hell." Corso said it with an impeccably cold tone. Borja smiled slowly and deliberately. He didn't seem offended.
"You're right. Your friendship doesn't interest me in the least. I buy your loyalty instead. It's more solid and lasting that way. Isn't that right? The professional pride of a man meeting his contract even though the king who employed him has fled, the battle is lost, and there is no hope of salvation...."
His expression was teasing, provocative, as he waited for Corso's reaction. But Corso just gestured impatiently, tapping his watch. "You can write down the rest and mail it to me," he said. "I'm not paid to laugh at your little jokes."
Borja seemed to think this over. Then he nodded, though still mockingly. "Once again, you're right, Corso. Let's get back to business...." He looked around. "Do you remember the Treatise on the Art of Fencing by Astarloa?"
"Yes. A very rare 1870 edition. I got a copy for you a couple of months ago."
"I've now been asked for Académie de l'epée by the same client. Maybe one you're acquainted with?"
"I'm not sure if you mean the client or the book. Your talk is so convoluted, you're clear as mud sometimes."
Borja shot him a hostile look. "We don't all possess your clear, concise prose, Corso. I was referring to the book."
"It's a seventeenth-century Elzevir. Large format, with engravings. Considered the most beautiful treatise on fencing. And the most valuable."