Dumas Club

Author: [Spanish] Arturo Pérez-Reverte
Translator: Chen Huiying
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-08-01
Features: The Dumas Club was written by the renowned Spanish prolific author Arturo Pérez-Reverte. It tells the story of Lucas Corso, a bookseller who specializes in finding rare antiquarian books for collectors, who encounters various eerie and sinister events while investigating the authenticity of a Dumas manuscript. The narrative revolves around four main themes: truth and falsehood, the devil, betrayal, and women, themes that are almost encompassed by most Western classic literature: The Count of Monte Cristo, The Three Musketeers, and even Sherlock Holmes, as well as the Hebrew Bible and Greek mythology. The book blends real historical figures and fictional central characters, creating a mix of truth and falsehood, where the unreal reveals the real. The book was adapted into a film in 1999, which was a sensation in Europe and America.
Excerpt: A Sinister Scene from History
Author: [Spanish] Arturo Pérez-Reverte
Dear readers, prepare yourselves for what is to come—A Sinister Scene from History—as quoted from Eugène Sue’s Paris Secrets.
I am Boris Bacon, the translator of The Secret History of the Palma Palace. Beyond that, my book reviews have appeared in major newspapers and magazines across half of Europe, I teach summer courses on modern writers at universities, and I have published works on 19th-century popular fiction. Nothing particularly special, especially in an era where a simple suicide is forced into a murder case, with bookshelves overflowing with novels written by figures like Roger Cloyd, the kind of psychologist who writes about the psyche of a killer. It’s truly amazing how so many people prefer to publish a colorful story of over 200 pages rather than live their own lives.
{1} Let’s get to the point! Lucas Corso came to see me, his arm carrying a copy of Wine of the Angevin. He is a bookseller who specializes in finding rare books for collectors, a "book hunter" who profits from books. This means he possesses exceptional literary talent, wit, patience, luck, and an extraordinary memory, allowing him to recall exactly where in the dusty corners of old shops a book that will make him a fortune lies. His clients are carefully selected: twenty-nine book dealers from Milan, Paris, London, Barcelona, and Lausanne. These dealers only sell books listed in catalogs, never take risks on investments, and never buy more than fifty books at a time. Their tastes are as refined as those of the aristocracy: they insist on fine goatskin rather than ordinary sheepskin for antique books, and extra margins of three centimeters, all of which cost millions of dollars. Like the Chacal Goodberg, these piranha-like creatures of the antique market, blood-sucking leeches who buy cheap and sell dear, would sell their ancestors for a first edition book. Then, in a reception room with leather chairs, they entertain their guests and show them Lake Domo or Lake Costanza. They never dirty their hands, nor do they have a guilty conscience. Only someone like Corso could achieve such a feat.
He lowered a canvas bag from his shoulder and placed it on the ground beside his unpolished Oxford leather shoes. Then he fixed his gaze on the portrait of Rafael Sabatini, placed on my desk alongside the fountain pen I used to edit manuscripts. This gesture pleased me, as few visitors notice it—people are too familiar with it. I secretly observed him as he sat down, half-smiling: a young, innocent rabbit—those lovable characters often seen in cartoons. After a while, I realized he could also smile like a gaunt, ruthless wolf, performing appropriate actions depending on the occasion. But that was much later. At the time, I had no doubts about him, so I casually remarked, "He’s naturally a joker." I quoted the book while pointing at the portrait, "And he was born to think the world is mad." I watched him slowly shake his head, accompanied by a calm yet firm gesture, which instantly gave me the urge to agree with his differing opinion—even though later, after so many events, that urge still lingered.
He pulled a cigarette without a filter from somewhere in his bag. It was crumpled, just like his old coat and flannel pants. He rotated the cigarette with his fingers, staring at me through the distorted wire-rimmed glasses on his nose. His hair was streaked with gray, falling loosely over his forehead. His other hand was in his pocket, as if secretly gripping a gun. The two pockets of his coat looked like bottomless pits, twisted and deformed by a stack of books, catalogs, and papers (I later learned there was even a small bottle of Pernod brandy inside).
"And that’s his only legacy," he continued, quoting the book effortlessly, lounging into the armchair with a lazy smile. "Honestly, I prefer the bloodthirsty captain." I solemnly raised my pen in the air to emphasize my point: "You’re mistaken. The Scaramouche to Sabatini is like The Three Musketeers to Dumas. ‘He’s naturally a joker.’ No other book’s opening line can match this."
"Perhaps," he agreed after a moment of thought, then spread a manuscript in the folder on the table. "You just mentioned Dumas." He pushed the folder toward me, showing me the pages one by one. Each page was written on only one side in French, and there were two types of paper: one white, already yellowed with age; the other light blue, with fine grid lines, equally old and faded. The handwriting on the two types of paper was different. The blue pages were written in black ink, with smaller, sharper strokes. This part of the manuscript should be annotations for the main text. The total manuscript had fifteen pages, eleven of which were blue.
"This is rare!" I looked up at Corso, who was observing me with a calm gaze, alternating between me and the manuscript. "Where did you find this?" He scratched his eyebrows. Clearly, he was calculating how much information he could extract from me, and in doing so, how much he needed to reveal himself. His calculation led to the third expression—the innocent little rabbit. Corso was no pushover.
"Right there, from a customer of a customer!" he replied.
"Oh, I see." He paused, speaking very cautiously. This was not only to prevent future problems but also a sign of cunning. And we both knew it.
"Of course," he added, "if you really want to know, I can tell you their names." I told him not to, which seemed to reassure him slightly. He put away his glasses and asked for my opinion on the manuscript in his hands. I didn’t answer immediately, just flipped through the pages until the page. The header was written in large, bold letters: Wine of the Angevin.