by Lazlo Ferran
***
It didn’t take me long to reach a decision on ‘De Secretis Scientia Occultis’. I was seriously wealthy by now although most of the money was wrapped up in the antiques business but it was my business and there was no reason I should not start to enjoy what I had worked so hard to build up. Also, getting involved in the intriguing world of black-market deals for rare arcane books was too much to resist. A few days after our meeting I telephoned Henry.
“Henry, I have the money and I want to bid for this page. What do we do now?”
“Excellent dear boy. How much?”
“I have 100,000 Francs – just over 9,000 Guineas but I don’t want to bid above 8,000 to start with.”
“No. We will start at 7,000 but I am sure it will end up more. Leave it with me!”
We drove towards Paris in my Citroën. In the driving rain around Troyes the radio reception became so bad I turned it off and listened to Henry talking – when he wasn’t rustling the map.
“Typical French car, this Citroën; strange looking, but when all is said, it is well made.” He tapped the dash with the head of his stick which he insisted on keeping between his legs as we drove.
I was feeling cramp in my legs as we had driven all morning and into the early afternoon. We hadn’t even stopped for food, Henry passing me egg and ham or cheese sandwiches as I drove.
Shortly after passing through a little village called Vatry Henry called out, “Right at the next turning.”
“Are you sure? We are in the middle of nowhere.”
“Not nowhere dear boy; near to a beautiful rare manuscript!” His eyes shone as I glanced at him. The wipers were working overtime and I peered out into the watery gloom for the turning.
“There! I see it.” We slowed and I turned the car onto a gravel track and stopped. “The instructions said to wait here, didn’t they?”
“Um hm.”
Just at that moment through a break in the clouds, the sun burst forth and the rain slowed revealing a beautiful rainbow arching across the gentle landscape before us. France had never looked more beautiful to me. We were in the Marne region of France, East of Paris and a major wine-growing region. Many of the fields we had passed had been vineyards but the fields here were green and fallow.
A figure in raincoat and galoshes appeared ahead of us and pointed behind him. I started the car and passed him, the car steadily crunching the loose stoned beneath its wheels.
“Wind down the window, Henry.”
“Do you want a lift?” I called to the man.
“No, sir. It is only one hundred metres.” The man spoke in English but with a heavy German accent, I thought.
“This looks dodgy Henry. What do you think?”
“Not what I was expecting. This dealer has a good reputation though. I wouldn’t worry too much. Probably just wants privacy.”
Roughly one hundred yards on, I saw a sky-blue caravan beside the track and since there was no other possible meeting place I stopped the car there. I helped Henry out. The clouds were already scurrying away leaving blue sky in their place and colours and smells that seemed even more vivid in the afterglow of the rain.
Parked next to the caravan was a beautiful silver Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. A splash of mud on its gleaming wing was an affront, like a smudge of lipstick on a fashionably decadent model in a photo shoot.
The door to the caravan swung open and a black-jacketed arm with black leather gloves held it open while we climbed the three mini-steps to enter.
“Velcome Gentlemen! Sit down! Sit down!” This voice also sounded German but I couldn’t yet make out the shape of its owner as there were no lights on. I could make out a small, thin table supported by one spindly leg with a briefcase on it and then, against the window behind it I started to make out the dealer. He had something like a trilby hat on and dark glasses. His pin-striped suit, although very expensive and probably Saville Row, struggled to contain any part of his massive frame, which I guessed to be all of twenty five stones. He also wore black kid-leather gloves and a white cane rested against the seat, to his right. He seemed to be blind.
“Champagne, Gentlemen?”
“That would be very nice,” said Henry, lowering himself very carefully onto the stool indicated for him in front of the table. I sat on mine, next to him. I thought, and I guessed Henry thought too, that we must look quite comical perched on such fragile stools at such a fragile table.
“André. Pour please.” said the large man.
The black-suited and gloved André, who must really have been a bodyguard, produced a silver tray from somewhere. The tray had three filled flutes of Champagne Bollinger, nestled beside the opened bottle on it. The champagne was delicious. André’s piercing blue eyes looked bored but he was polite.
Suddenly the whole caravan started rocking from side to side gently and a might roar and whistle filled the air. A train rushed by somewhere nearby and I knew we must be right alongside a railway line.
“Now, Gentlemen. Let me show you something.” A mantle of thick, silver hair flowed from under the hat of our host as he opened the case. I still could not clearly see his face. “Please use the gloves.”
Two pairs of white archivist’s gloves lay on top of the document and Henry and I both put on a pair each. Henry then lifted up the single, brownish top leaf with cursive Latin script on it. He held it close to his glasses. To my surprise the document had not be torn or even carefully cut from a book but unstitched, and it consisted of four, full pages of a book, with the stitch holes clearly showing down the middle seam. I managed to conceal my delight and surprise, and noticed that Henry did the same.
“Oh yes. It’s beautiful.”
“You read Latin Sir?”
“Yes. But the buyer does not.”
“Ah.” I think he smiled at me, judging by the curling of his lips. “Please, if you can read it, do not talk to each other from now on about the content. Once you have approved it, Monsieur de Silva, your friend will propose a price.”
I guessed he was nervous; we were simply after the content and once we had deduced this we wouldn’t want to buy. I kept quiet with difficulty until, I guessed, Henry must have read at least one paragraph. “Well? Henry. Is it what we are looking for?”
“Hm.” He seemed miles away. “Oh yes. Yes dear boy. It is genuine as far as I can tell. The ink looks authentic and the vellum. It talks about what we are interested in.”
“Alright,” I said. “I am prepared to make you an offer. 7,500 Guineas.”
“Well that would be fine Mr er?” Neither of us answered him. “That would be fine if I didn’t know how interested you are in this.” He was relishing this and I knew he would want to go a lot higher. I decided to try a gambit of my own.
“Well if the man who wanted to buy this was also hoping to, one day, buy the whole document, then he would be a fool to offer over what he could afford for the first few sheets.”
The man laughed. “Touché!”
Henry smiled at me. He had noticed not only my ploy, but that I had already learned from him to use the word document, as a sign of respect, rather than ‘book’. A book was an object, a document was a historical record, something much more vital.
“Point taken Sir. But I do believe you are prepared to offer a little more.”
“8,200.”
“Um. A serious offer. But I would have to leave now if that was your limit. André. Would you?” He pointed to the document and André took it gently from Henry, placed it back in the case and closed it. Henry looked a little flustered.
“Really, I cannot go much higher. But 8,400 I think is a very fair offer.”
“André. Another glass of Champagne for us all.” He sipped his and considered the offer. He took so long, I almost offered him more but managed to stop myself.
“Are you serious about the rest of the document, sir?”
“Yes. I would at least like to see it.”
“How do you know I have it?”
> “I don’t. Do you?”
“I have access to it. A buyer who was to offer 8,500 for a single leaf would secure a viewing, say within a week?”
Now I smiled. He was probably now exploring how much he could get for the whole document. I waited for a very long time, considering this.
“8,500 it is then. And an appointment within one week?”
“Done, Sir.”
I reached over to shake his hand but he pulled away. I knew then that he wasn’t blind.
The exchange took place with me carefully counting out the money without revealing how much I had left. Then with the precious document in its case tucked securely under my arm I helped Henry while he rose stiffly from the seat with the aid of his stick. We clambered awkwardly out of the caravan and walked back to the car. The second bodyguard watched us while we started the car, turned around, and drove off.