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29
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Mort arrived at the Fargas house by taxi. The house of the man who owned another of the copies of 'The Nine Gates'. The house of the man who could get Mort on the right track.
He walked up to the front gate and stood by it, unsure of the whole thing. Finally, he pushed open the gate, which made a loud squeak. He looked past and saw a long driveway leading up to the house. As he walked up the drive and to the house, Mort looked at his surroundings.
Dead leaves littered the driveway. Along the sides of the drive, there were crumbling statues, some of which had toppled over onto the long neglected, weed-infested lawn. Mort's footsteps were the only sound. Near the house stood a dried-up, dilapidated fountain. The water of the pond under it was dark, coated with dead leaves and water lilies. The Quinta Fargas was a gloomy, four-square, 18th century mansion.
Mort walked up the steps and tugged the old-fashioned bellpull. A slow, muffled jingling noise sounded when he pulled. A sad noise, indeed.
Mort waited, glanced at his watch. He heard footsteps approach from inside, then the sound of the door being unlocked. Finally, the door opened to reveal Victor Fargas, an old, tall man, porting a drooping white mustache. "Si?" Fargas asked, his voice hinted with a Portuguese accent.
"Mort Corso, Mr. Fargas," Mort introduced.
"Corso, ah yes. Please come in," Fargas said, standing out of the way for Mort to come inside. Fargas lead the way through two reception rooms, once imposing but now entirely bare and empty. Mort observed the patches on the walls that indicated the former location of paintings, curtains, pieces of furniture, etc.
"Home, sweet home!" Fargas said, enthusiastically. He showed Mort into a large evenly furnished drawing room. "You won't say no to a brandy, I take it?" Fargas asked.
"Thank you very much."
Fargas went over to a side table and poured some liquor into two fancy glasses.
Mort, in the meantime, was busy studying the room. At the far end stood a huge open fireplace. There were two mismatching armchairs, a table, some candlesticks, and a violin case. The room was not totally up to par.
Fargas came back over with the glasses. Mort put his bag down and took one from him. "Thanks."
He looked at the glasses admiringly, "What Handsome glasses," he remarked.
Fargas sighed. "These are the only ones I have left."
Mort looked around the room once more. "Must have been a beautiful place," Mort said.
"It was... but old families are like ancient civilizations: they wither and die," Fargas explained.
They both toasted their glasses and drank. Fargas gestured for Mort to follow him. Mort followed Fargas into the next room. This room was equally up to par with the other.
Mort looked down. There were books in the room. The books were neatly stacked on the floor in a long row stretching out across almost the entire length of the room.
Fargas pointed down at his collection. "There they are, eight hundred and thirty-four of them. A pity you didn't see them in better times, in their bookcases. I used to have five thousand. These are the survivors," Fargas explained, somewhat saddened by the harsh truth.
Mort bent down over some books and ran his fingers caressing over one. "So this is the Fargas collection? Not quite as I imagined it," Mort said. And it was every bit the truth.
"C'est la vie, my friend. But I keep them in perfect condition, safe from damp, light, heat and rats. I dust and air them every day." Fargas explained. There was a way about his voice that showed that his life was pretty much meaningless and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.
"What happened to the rest?" Mort asked, curiously.
Fargas let out a long breath before speaking. "Sacrificed in a good cause. I had to sell them to
preserve the others. Five or six books a year. Almost all the proceeds go to the state in taxes," Fargas explained, sadly.
Mort surveyed the books, fascinated.
"Well. What do you think?" Fargas asked.
"Not bad," Mort said.
"Not bad indeed. These I will never sell. At least ten of them are exceedingly rare. Look, Plancy's 'Dictionary of Hell', first edition, 1842, Leonardo Fioravanti's 'Compendi di Secreti' of 1571... But this is what interests you, no?" Fargas asked, picking up a black book with a gold pentacle on the cover.
At last! The second copy of 'The Nine Gates'.
Fargas held it out to Mort. He took it carefully and got to his feet.
"And there it is, in perfect condition. it has traveled the world for three-and-a-half centuries, yet it might have been printed yesterday."
Mort took the book over to a window. Fargas followed. "Is it in order? You haven't detected anything unusual?" Mort asked.
"Unusual? No. The text is complete, the engravings too. Nine plus the title page, just as the catalogs state - just like the Kessler in Paris and the Milner in New York," Fargas explained.
"Yes... Well It isn't the Milner anymore. He sold his copy to Boris Balkan," Mort explained.
"Hmm. I've never heard of a Balkan," Fargas said. He reflected for a moment, shook his head and stared at the floor. Suddenly he looked up. "It's strange he should have sent you here though, if he already had...," Fargas broke off as If something had just occurred to him.
He pointed to Mort's bag. "You have it with you? May I see it?" Fargas asked, anxiously.
Mort fetched the book out of his bag, and they walked over to a table. Fargas placed the two copies side by side, and bent over them.
"Ahh.. Superb. Beautiful. Identical. Two of the only three that escaped the flames, reunited for the first time in over three centuries," Fargas said, amazed.
Fargas turned the pages of each book in turn. "Look at this slight imperfection here," Fargas said, pointing to a part of the book.
Mort bent over closer and looked. "The damaged 'S'. The same type, same impression," Fargas said, referring to an area of the book which had a damaged 'S'.
Mort looked from one book to another. Sure enough, both 'S''s were damaged in the exact same way.
Fargas turned both copies over onto their backs, to reveal that one of the copies had a faint brown marking on it. "Incredible. You see? If it weren't for this slight discoloration on the back of my copy, one couldn't tell them apart," Fargas said, pointing.
"If it's all right with you, I'd like to stay awhile and study them in detail," Mort asked, slightly nervous that the man would tell him no.
"What are you looking for, Mr. Corso?" Fargas asked, curiously.
"I'm not quite sure," Mort said, sadly.
Fargas' expression turned somewhat sad. "Some books are dangerous, you know, Mr. Corso. Not to be opened with impunity," Fargas said.
Mort's expression turned equally sad. "Very true."