The Dumas Club: The Ninth Gate

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “Stop showing off, Corso,” said the girl, annoyed. “You’ve impressed her enough.”

  The woman arched an eyebrow and looked at the girl, as if seeing her for the first time. “Who’s she?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know. You haven’t seen her before?”

  “No. They mentioned a young woman, but not where she came from.”

  “Who mentioned her?” “A friend.”

  “Tall, dark, with a mustache and a scar on his face? And a split lip? Our good friend Rochefort! I’d really like to know where he is. Not far away, I hope. The two of you chose worthy characters, didn’t you?”

  At this, Liana Taillefer dug her blood-red nails into the bedcover as if it were Corso’s flesh, and her eyes glinted with fury. “Are the other characters in the novel any better?” There was disdain and an arrogance in the way Milady threw back her head and stared at them one after another. “Athos, a drunk. Porthos, an idiot. Aramis, a hypocritical conspirator...” “That’s one way of looking at it,” said Corso. “Shut up. What do you know?” She paused, jutting out her chin, her eyes fixed on Corso as if it was his turn now. “And as for d’Artagnan, he’s the worst of the lot. A swordsman? He has only four duels in The Three Musketeers. He wins one because Jussac is getting to his feet, another because Bernajoux, in a blind attack, impales himself on d’Artagnan’s sword. In his attack on the Englishmen all he does is disarm the baron. And it takes three thrusts to bring down the Comte de Wardes. As far as generosity goes—” she jerked her chin in La Ponte’s direction—”d’Artagnan is even more of a miser than your friend here. He buys his friends a drink for the first time in England, after the Monk affair. Thirty years later.”

  the other side of the river, the executioner raising his sword…

  “I see you’re an expert, although I should have guessed you would be. All those serials you claimed to hate so much... Congratulations. You played to perfection the part of the widow sick of her husband’s extravagances.”

  “I wasn’t pretending. Most of his stuff was mediocre — useless old paper. Like Enrique himself. My husband was a fool. He never knew how to read between the lines, or appreciate quality. He was one of those idiots who go around collecting postcards of monuments and understand nothing.”

  “Unlike you.”

  “Of course. Do you know which were the first two books I ever read? Little Women and The Three Musketeers. Each book, in a different way, made a deep impression.” “How moving.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You asked questions and I’m giving you answers. There are unsophisticated readers, like poor Enrique, and readers who go into things in more depth, looking beyond stereotypes: the brave d’Artagnan, chivalrous Athos, kind-hearted Porthos, faithful Aramis... It makes me laugh!” And her laughter actually did ring out, as dramatic and sinister as Milady’s. “Nobody has any idea. Do you know what my most enduring image is, the one I’ve always admired most? Of the woman fighting alone, faithful to an idea of herself and to the man she’s chosen as her master, relying only on herself, igno-miniously murdered by four heroes who are no more than cardboard cutouts. And what about her long-lost son, an orphan, who appears twenty years later!” She bowed her head, somber, and there was so much hatred in her eyes that Corso almost took a step back. “I can picture the engraving as if it were in front of me now—the river at night, the four scoundrels kneeling in prayer but without mercy. And on the other side of the river, the executioner raising his sword above the woman’s bare neck...”

  A flash of lightning suddenly cast its brutal light across her distorted face—the delicate white flesh of her neck, her eyes full of the tragic scene she described as vividly as if she had experienced it herself. Then the windowpanes shook as the thunder rumbled.

  “Bastards,” she whispered, absorbed, and Corso didn’t know whether she meant him and his companions, or d’Artagnan and his friends.

  The girl rummaged in her rucksack and pulled out The Three Musketeers. Like a neutral spectator she searched for a page. When she found it, she threw the book on the bed without a word. It was the engraving described by Liana Taillefer.

  “Picta iacet Virtus,” murmured Corso, shivering at the scene’s similarity to the eighth illustration in The Nine Doors.

  The woman calmed down at the sight of the engraving. She arched an eyebrow, cold and imperious once again.

  “It’s true,” she admitted. “You can’t tell me that d’Artagnan symbolizes virtue. He’s just an opportunist. And don’t mention his skills as a seducer. In the entire novel he conquers only three women, and two of them through deceit. His great love is a little bourgeoise with big feet, lady-in-waiting to the queen. The other is an English maid of whom he ignominiously takes advantage.” Liana Taillefer’s laughter rang out like an insult. “And what about his love life in Twenty Years After) Living with the landlady of a guesthouse to save himself the rent... What fine conquests! Maids, landladies, and servants!”

  “But d’Artagnan does seduce Milady,” Corso pointed out mischievously.

  A flash of anger again cracked the ice in Liana Taillefer’s eyes. If looks could kill, Corso would have died at her feet that instant.

  “He doesn’t seduce her,” answered the woman. “The bastard crawls into her bed by deceit, passing himself off as another man.” Her manner was cold again. “You and he would have made a good pair.”

  La Ponte was listening attentively. One could almost hear his brain working. He frowned.. “You don’t mean to say that you two ...”

  He turned to the girl for help. He was always the last to find out what was going on. But she remained impassive, watching as if none of this had anything to do with her.

  “I’m an idiot,” concluded La Ponte. He went to the window and started banging his head against the frame.

  Liana Taillefer gave him a contemptuous look, then said to Corso, “Did you have to bring him?”

  La Ponte was repeating, “I’m an idiot,” banging his head hard.

  “He thought he was Athos,” Corso explained. “Aramis, rather. Fatuous and conceited. Did you know he admires his shadow on the wall while he’s making love?” “I don’t believe it.” “I assure you he does.”

  La Ponte forgot about the window. “We’ve gone off the subject,” he said, red in the face.

  “True,” said Corso. “We were talking about virtue, Milady. You were giving us lessons on the subject with regard to d’Artagnan and his friends.”

  “And why not? Why should a bunch of show-offs who use women, accept money from them, and think only of getting ahead and making their fortune be more virtuous than Milady, who is intelligent and courageous, who chooses to work for Richelieu and serve him faithfully, and risk her life for him?” “And commit murder for him.”

  “You said it yourself a moment ago—the internal logic of the narrative.”

  “Internal? It depends on your point of view. Your husband’s murder happened outside the novel, not in it. His death was real.”

  “You’re mad, Corso. Nobody murdered Enrique. He hanged himself.”

  “And I suppose Victor Fargas drowned himself? And Baroness Ungern got carried away with the microwave last night, did she?”

  Liana Taillefer turned to La Ponte and the girl, waiting for someone to confirm what she’d just heard. She looked disconcerted for the first time since they’d come in through the window.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “About the nine correct engravings,” said Corso, “from The Nine Doors of the Kingdom of Shadows.”

  The sound of a clock striking could be heard outside the closed window, through the wind and rain. Almost simultaneously a clock inside the building, downstairs, struck eleven times.

  “I see there are more madmen in this affair,” said Liana Taillefer. She was watching the door. There had been a noise behind it as the final chime struck. A glint of triumph flashed in her eyes.

  “Careful,” whispered La Ponte with a start. Corso knew wh
at was going to happen. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl stand up straight, tense and alert, and he felt a rush of adrenaline.

  They all looked at the door handle. It was turning very slowly, as in the movies.

  “GOOD EVENING,” SAID ROCHEFORT.

  He was wearing a raincoat buttoned to the neck, shiny with rain. His dark eyes shone intensely beneath his felt hat. The pale zigzag of the scar stood out against his dark face. The bushy black mustache accentuated his southern looks. He stood motionless at the door for some fifteen seconds, his hands in his coat pockets, a puddle forming around his shoes. Nobody said a word.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” said Liana Taillefer at last. Rochefort nodded briefly but didn’t answer. Still sitting on the bed, she pointed at Corso. “They were becoming impertinent.”

  “Not too much, I hope,” said Rochefort. His voice, as Corso remembered it from the Sintra road, was pleasant, educated, and had no definite accent. He didn’t move from the doorway, his eyes fixed on Corso, as if La Ponte and the girl didn’t exist. His lower lip still looked swollen, with traces of Mercuro-chrome, two stitches holding the recent wound together. Souvenir from the banks of the river Seine, thought Corso malevolently. He looked with interest to see the girl’s reaction. But after her initial surprise, she had resumed the role of detached spectator.

  Not taking his eyes off Corso, Rochefort asked Milady, “How did they get here?”

  Milady gestured vaguely. “They’re smart.” A quick look at La Ponte. “One of them, anyway.”

  Rochefort nodded. His eyes half-closed, he seemed to be analyzing the situation. “This complicates things,” he said. He took off his hat and threw it on the bed.

  Liana Taillefer smoothed down her skirt and stood up with a sigh of agreement. Corso half turned toward her, tense and hesitant. Then Rochefort took his hand out of his coat pocket, and Corso deduced that the man was left-handed. The discovery didn’t do him much good—the left hand held a snub-nosed revolver, small and dark blue, almost black. Meanwhile, Liana Taillefer went over to La Ponte and took the Dumas manuscript from his hands.

  “Now call me a whore again.” She was so close, she could have spat in his face. “If you have the guts.”

  La Ponte didn’t. He was a born survivor. His intrepid-harpooner act was reserved for moments of alcohol-induced euphoria. “I was just passing through,” he said placatingly, wanting to wash his hands of the whole business.

  “What would I do without you, Flavio?” said Corso, resigned. La Ponte looked injured. “You’re being unfair,” he said, and went and stood by the girl, which must have seemed to him the safest place in the room. “From a certain point of view, this is your adventure, Corso. And what’s death to a guy like you? Nothing. A formality. Anyway, you’re getting paid a fortune. And life is basically unpleasant.” Looking down the barrel of Rochefort’s revolver, he put his arm around the girl’s shoulder and gave a melancholy sigh. “I hope nothing happens to you. But if it does, it’ll be harder for us: we have to go on living.” “Traitor.”

  La Ponte looked saddened. “My friend, I’ll ignore that last remark. You’re overwrought.”

  “Of course I’m overwrought, you sewer rat.”

  “I’ll ignore that too.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “I get the message, old buddy. Friendship is made up of little touches like that.”

  “Nice to see you’ve kept your team spirit,” said Milady caustically.

  Corso was thinking fast, even though there was nothing he could do. No amount of thinking could get the gun out of Rochefort’s hand, although it wasn’t pointing at anyone in particular. Rochefort seemed rather halfhearted, as if just showing the gun was all that was needed to get the desired effect. But however intense Corso’s desire to settle a few scores with the man with the scar, he didn’t possess the technical skill to do so. With La Ponte not in the running, the girl was his only hope of shifting the balance of power. But unless she was an extremely accomplished actress, he couldn’t hope for anything on that flank. Irene Adler had shaken herself free of La Ponte’s arm and sat down on the window ledge, from where she observed them all with inexplicable indifference. She seemed determined to stay out of it.

  Liana Taillefer went over to Rochefort, holding the Dumas manuscript, delighted to have retrieved it so quickly. Corso found it strange that she showed no similar interest in The Nine Doors, which still lay inside the canvas bag at the foot of the bed.

  “What do we do now?” he heard her whisper to Rochefort. To Corso’s surprise, Rochefort looked unsure. He moved the revolver from side to side, as if he not knowing where to point it. Exchanging a long and meaningful look with Milady, he took his right hand out of his pocket and passed it over his face, hesitant. “We can’t leave them here,” he said. “We can’t take them with us either,” she said. He nodded slowly. Judging by his renewed grip on the revolver, his indecision vanished. Corso felt his abdominal muscles tense as Rochefort aimed the gun at him. He tried to make some sort of syntactically coherent protest, but all he managed was an indistinct, guttural sound.

  “You’re not going to kill him, are you?” asked La Ponte.

  “Flavio,” Corso managed to say in spite of the dryness in his mouth. “If I get out of this, I swear I’ll smash your face in. Completely.”

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “Better help your mother get off the streets.”

  “OK, OK, I’ll shut up.”

  “Yes, shut up,” said Rochefort. Keeping the revolver on Corso, he locked the door behind him and put the key in his coat pocket. What is there to lose, thought Corso, his pulse throbbing at his temples and wrists. The drums of Waterloo rolled somewhere in his memory, when, in the final moment of clarity before desperation set in, he found himself working out the distance between him and the gun and how long it would take him to cross it. He wondered when the first shot would be fired and where it would hit him. The chances of not being hit were minimal, but if he waited five seconds longer, he might have no chance at all. So the bugle sounded. The last charge with Ney at the head, the bravest of the brave, before the emperor’s weary eyes. Against Rochefort instead of the Scots Guards, but a bullet was still a bullet. This is ridiculous, he told himself just before he went into action. And he wondered if the bullet in his chest would be real or imaginary, wondered if he’d find himself floating in the void or in the Valhalla for fictional heroes. If only the luminous eyes he felt staring intently at his back—the emperor? The devil in love?—would be waiting for him in the darkness to guide him to the other side.

  Then Rochefort did something odd. He raised his free hand, as if to say, “Give me time,” and started to put the revolver back in his pocket. The movement lasted only a moment, and he aimed the gun at Corso once again, but without conviction. And Corso, his pulse racing, his muscles taut, about to leap blindly forward, held back, bewildered, realizing it wasn’t time for him to die.

  Stunned, he watched Rochefort cross the room, press the button for an outside line, then dial a long number. From where he stood, he could hear the sound of the phone ringing on the line and then a click.

  “I’ve got Corso here,” said Rochefort. He waited, still lazily pointing the gun at a vague point in space. He said yes twice, Then he listened, motionless, and muttered OK before finally hanging up.

  “He wants to see him,” he said to Milady. They both turned to look at Corso. Milady was annoyed, Rochefort anxious. “This is ridiculous,” she complained. “He wants to see him,” Rochefort said again. Milady shrugged, took a step, and angrily turned a few pages of “The Anjou Wine.”

  “As for us ...” La Ponte began.

  “You’re staying here,” said Rochefort, pointing the gun at him. He licked the wound on his lip. “The girl too.”

  In spite of his split lip he didn’t seem to bear her any grudge. Corso even thought he saw a gleam of curiosity as Rochefort looked at her. Rochefort then handed Liana Taillefer the
revolver. “Make sure they don’t get out.” “Why don’t you stay here?” “He wants me to take him. It’s safer.”

  Milady nodded sullenly. She’d obviously imagined herself playing a different part that evening. But like her fictional namesake, she was a disciplined hired assassin. In exchange for the weapon she gave Rochefort the Dumas manuscript. She scrutinized Corso. “I hope he doesn’t give you any trouble.” Rochefort smiled confidently. He took a large switchblade from his pocket and stared at it thoughtfully, as if he’d only just remembered it was there. His white teeth were bright against his dark, scarred face. “I don’t think he will,” he answered, putting back the knife unopened and gesturing to Corso

  in a way that was both friendly and sinister. He took his hat from the bed, turned the key in the lock, and motioned toward the corridor with an exaggerated bow, as if he were holding a large plumed hat.

  “His Eminence awaits, sir,” he said, and gave a short, dry laugh that perfectly befitted a skilled henchman.

  Before leaving the room, Corso looked at the girl. Milady was pointing the gun at her and La Ponte, but the girl had turned her back and was paying no attention. She was leaning against the window, looking out at the wind and rain, silhouetted against a night sky illuminated by flashes of lightning.

  THEY WENT OUT INTO the storm. Rochefort held the folder with the Dumas manuscript under his raincoat to protect it from the rain. He led Corso through narrow streets to the old part of town. Blasts of rain shook the branches of the trees and splashed noisily in the puddles and on the paving stones. Large drops poured through Corso’s hair and down his face. He turned up his collar. The town was in darkness, and there was not a soul to be seen. Only the brightness of the storm lit up the streets now and then, showing the medieval roofs, Roche-fort’s dark profile beneath his dripping hat, the shadows of the two men on the wet ground. The electrical discharges, like thunder from hell, struck the turbulent current of the Loire with a sound like the cracking of whips.