"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 h
imself.
"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. [>]. 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.
VII. BOOK NUMBER ONE AND BOOK NUMBER TWO
The truth is that the devil is very cunning.
The truth is that he is not always as ugly as they say.
—J. Cazotte, THE DEVIL IN LOVE
With only a few minutes to go before the departure of the express train to Lisbon, he saw the girl. Corso was on the platform, about to mount the steps to his carriage—COMPANHIA INTERNACIONAL DE CARRUAGEMSCAMAS—when he bumped into her in a group of other passengers heading toward the first-class carriages. She was carrying a small rucksack and wearing the same blue duffel coat, but he didn't recognize her at first. He only felt that there was something familiar about her green eyes, so light they seemed transparent, and her very short hair. He continued to watch her for a moment, until she disappeared two carriages farther down. The whistle blew. As he climbed onto the train and the guard shut the door behind him, Corso remembered the scene: the girl sitting at one end of the table at the gathering of Boris Balkan and his circle in the café.
He walked along the corridor to his compartment. The station lights streamed past with increasing speed outside the windows, and the tram clattered rhythmically. Moving around the cramped compartment with difficulty, he hung up his coat and jacket before sitting down on the bunk, his canvas bag beside him. In it, together with The Nine Doors and the folder with the Dumas manuscript, was a book by Les Cases, the Memoirs of Saint Helena:
Friday, 14 July 1816. The Emperor has been unwell all night...
He lit a cigarette. Occasionally, when lights from the window strobed across his face, he would glance out before returning to the tale of Napoleon's slow agony and the wiliness of his English jailer, Sir Hudson Lowe. He frowned as he read, and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. From time to time he stopped and stared for a moment at his own reflection in the window, and he made a face. Even now, he felt indignant at the way the victors had condemned the fallen titan to a miserable end, having him cling to a rock in the middle of the Atlantic. Strange, going over the historical events and his earlier feelings about them from his present clearheaded perspective How far away he seemed that other Lucas Corso who reverently admired the Waterloo veteran's saber' the boy absorbing the family myths with aggressive enthusiasm the precocious Bonapartist and avid reader of books with engravings of the glorious campaigns names that echoed like drumrolls for a charge Wagram Jena Smolensk Marengo The boy wide eyed with wonder had long ceased to exist; a hazy ghost of him eye sometimes appeared in Corso's memory, between the pages of a book, in a smell or a sound, or through a dark window with the rain from another country beating against it, outside in the night.
The conductor passed the door, ringing his bell. Half an hour till the restaurant car closed. Corso shut the book. He put on his jacket, slung the canvas bag over his shoulder, and left the compartment. At the end of the corridor, from the door, a cold draft blew through the passageway leading to the next sleeper. He felt the thundering beneath his feet as he crossed into the section of first-class carriages. He let a couple of passengers go by and then looked into the nearest compartment, which was only half full. The girl was there, by the door, wearing a sweater and jeans, her bare feet resting on the seat opposite. As Corso passed, she looked up from her book and their eyes met. He was about to nod briefly in her direction, but when she showed no sign of recognition, he stopped himself. She must have sensed something, because she looked at him with curiosity. But by then he was continuing down the corridor.
He ate his dinner, rocked by the swaying of the train, and had time for a coffee and a gin before they closed for the evening. The moon, in shades of raw silk, was rising. Telephone poles rushed past in the darkened plain, fleeting frames for a sequence of stills from a badly adjusted movie projector.
He was on his way back to his compartment when he saw the girl in the corridor of the first-class carriage. She had opened the window, and the cold night air was blowing against her face. As he came up to her, he turned sideways so he could get past. She turned toward him.
"I know you," she said.
Close up, her green eyes seemed even lighter, like liquid crystal, and luminous against her suntanned skin. It was only March, and with her hair parted like a boy's, her tan made her look unusual, sporty, pleasantly ambiguous. She was tall, slim, and supple. And very young.
"Yes," said Corso, pausin
g a moment. "A few days ago, at the café."
She smiled. Another contrast, this time of white teeth against brown skin. Her mouth was big and well defined. A pretty girl, Flavio La Ponte would have said, stroking his curly beard.
"You were the one asking about d'Artagnan."
The cold air from the window blew her hair. She was still barefoot. Her white sneakers were on the floor by her empty seat. He instinctively glanced at the book lying there: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. A cheap paperback, he noticed. The Mexican edition, published by Porrua.
"You'll catch cold," he said.
Still smiling, the girl shook her head, but she turned the handle and shut the window. Corso; about to go on his way, paused to find a cigarette. He did it as he always did, taking one directly from his pocket and putting it in his mouth, when he realized she was watching him.
"Do you smoke?" he asked hesitantly, stopping his hand halfway.
"Sometimes."
He put the cigarette in his mouth and took out another one. It was dark tobacco, without a filter, and as crushed as all the packs he usually carried with him. The girl took it. She looked to see the brand. Then she leaned over for Corso to light it, after his own, with the last match in the box.
"It's strong," she said, breathing out her first mouthful of smoke, but then made none of the fuss he expected. She held the cigarette in an unusual way, between forefinger and thumb, with the ember outward. "Are you in this carriage?"
"No, in the next one."
"You're lucky to have a sleeper." She tapped her jeans pocket, indicating a nonexistent wallet. "I wish I could. Luckily the compartment's half empty."
"Are you a student?"
"Sort of."
The train thundered into a tunnel. The girl turned then, as if the darkness outside drew her attention. Tense and alert, she leaned against her own reflection in the window. She seemed to be expecting something in the noisy rush of air. Then, when the train emerged into the open and small lights again punctuated the night like brush strokes as the train passed, she smiled, distant.