In the first place, Corso had now solved the problem of the differences between eight of the nine engravings. Book number three differed from the other two copies in engravings I, III, and VI. In engraving I, the walled city with the horseman riding toward it had only three towers, not four. In engraving III, there was an arrow in the archer’s quiver, while in the Toledo and Sintra copies the quiver was empty. And in engraving VI, the hanged man hung by his right foot, but the figures in books one and two hung by their left. He could now fill in the comparative table he’d started in Sintra.
ENGRAVINGS
I
II
III
mi
V
VI
VII
VIII
VIIII
One
Four
Left
No
No
Sand
Left
White
No
No
towers
hand
arrow
exit
down
foot
board
halo
diff.
Two
Four
Right
No
Exit
Sand
Left
Black
Halo
No
towers
hand
arrow
up
foot
board
diff.
Three
Three
Right
Arrow
No
Sand
Right
White
No
No
towers
hand
exit
up
foot
board
halo
diff.
In other words, although the engravings appeared identical, one of the three was always different, with the exception of engraving VIIII. Moreover, the differences were distributed over the three books. But the apparently arbitrary distribution acquired meaning when one examined the differences alongside those between the printer’s marks for the signatures of inventor (the original creator of the pictures) and sculptor (the artist who made the engravings), A. T. and L. F.
printer’s marks for signatures
I
II
III
mi
V
VI
VII
VIII
VIIII
One
AT(s)
at(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
lf(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(S)
AT(i)
LF(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
LF(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
Two
at(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
LF(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
LF(i)
LF(i)
AT(i)
Three
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(S)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
AT(s)
LF(i)
AT(i)
LF(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
LF(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
AT(i)
If he superimposed the two tables, he found a coincidence: in each of the engravings that differed from the other two, the initials of the inventor were also different. This meant that Aristide Torchia, as sculptor, had made all the woodcuts for the prints in the book. But he was identified as inventor of the original drawings in only nineteen of the twenty-seven engravings contained in the three books combined. The other eight, distributed over the three copies—two engravings in book one, three in book two, and three in book three—had been created by somebody else, somebody with the initials L. F. Phonetically very close to the name Lucifer.
Towers. Hand. Arrow. Exit from the labyrinth. Sand. Hanged man’s foot. Board. Halo. This was where the errors lay. Eight differences, eight correct engravings, no doubt copied from the original, the obscure
Corso sipped his gin and looked out at the darkness over the Seine, beyond the streetlights that lit up part of the quayside and threw deep shadows beneath the bare trees. He didn’t feel euphoric at his victory, nor even simply satisfied at finishing a difficult job. He knew the mood well: the cold, lucid calm when he finally got hold of a book he’d been chasing for a long time. When he managed to cut in front of a competitor, nail a book after a delicate negotiation, or dig up a gem in a pile of old papers and rubbish. He remembered Nikon in another time an place sticking labels on videotapes, sitting on the floor by the television, rocking gently in time to the music—Audrey Hepburn in love with a journalist in Rome—keeping her big dark eyes fixed on him, eyes that constantly expressed her wonder at life. By then, they already hinted at the hardness and reproach, premonitions of the loneliness closing in like an inexorable, fixed-interest debt. The hunter with his prey, Nikon had whispered, amazed at her discovery, because maybe she was seeing him like that for the first time. Corso recovering his breath, like a hostile wolf rejecting his prize after a long chase. A predator feeling no hunger or passion, no horror at the sight of blood or flesh. Having no aim other than the hunt itself. You’re as dead as your prey, Lucas Corso. Like the dry, brittle paper that has become your flag. Dusty corpses that you don’t love either, that don’t even belong to you, and that you don’t give a damn about.
