Read Online The Nautical Chart by Arturo Pérez-Reverte - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Arturo Pérez-Reverte
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bone-colored shirt. Open at the neck. The silver chain still gleamed there, and he wondered what hung on that chain. If it was metal, he thought, it would be devilishly warm.
"I still don't know," he said, "if the atlas was for the museum or for you. The feet is that that auction was..."
He stopped short as he caught sight of the Urrutia. It was with other large-format books in the glass case. He easily recognized its leather cover and gold tooling.
"It was for the museum," she replied, and after a second added, "Naturally."
She followed Coy's eyes to the atlas. The light from the window outlined the contours of her freckled profile.
"And that's what you do? Acquire things?"
She bent forward slightly, her hair swinging. She was wearing a gray wool jacket, unbuttoned, a full dark skirt and flat-heeled black shoes, with black stockings that made her seem taller and more slender than she was. A well-bred girl, he mused, appreciating her in the natural light. Strong hands and a well-bred voice. Wholesome, proper, calm. At least in outward appearance, he thought, scanning those telltale fingernails.
"Yes, in a way that is my job," she agreed. "Check auction catalogues, oversee purchases of antiques, visit other museums, and travel when something interesting shows up. Then I make a report, and my superiors decide. The board provides limited funds for research and new acquisitions, and I try to see that the money is invested in the most appropriate way."
Coy grimaced. He remembered the hard-nosed duel in the Claymore auction gallery.
"Well, your friend the Dalmatian got his shot off before he went down. The Urrutia cost you an arm and a leg."
She sighed, sounding both fatalistic and amused, then nodded, turning up her palms to indicate she had blown her last penny. As she gestured, Coy again noted the unexpectedly masculine stainless-steel watch on her right wrist. Nothing more, no rings, no bracelets. She wasn't even wearing the small gold earrings he'd seen three days before in Barcelona.
"It did cost us. We don't usually spend that much___ Especially
since we already have a lot of eighteenth-century cartography in this museum."
"It's that important?"
Again she leaned forward from the edge of the table, and for a brief instant stayed like that, head down, before looking up with a different expression on her face. Once more the light played up the gold of her freckles, and it crossed Coy's mind that if he took just one step forward he might, perhaps, decipher the aroma of that enigmatic, speckled geography.
"It was printed in 1751 by the geographer and mariner Ignacio Urrutia Salcedo," she was explaining, "after five years of toil. It was the best aid for navigators until the appearance of Tofino's much more precise Atlas Hidrogrdfico in 1789. There are very few copies in good condition, and the Museo Naval didn't have one."
She opened the glass door of the case, took out the heavy volume, and opened it on the table. Coy moved closer. They studied it together, and at last he confirmed what he had thought from the moment he met her. Not a trace of cologne or perfume. Only the scent of clean, warm skin.
"It's a fine copy," she said. 'Among rare book dealers and antiquarians there are plenty of unscrupulous people, and when they find one of these they take it apart and sell the individual plates. But this one is intact."
She turned the large pages carefully, and the thick white paper, well preserved despite the two and a half centuries since it was printed, whispered between her fingers. Atlas Maritimo de las Costas de Espana, Coy read on the tide page, beautifully engraved with a seascape, a lion between columns bearing the legend Pitts Ultra, and various nautical instruments. Divided into sixteen spherical charts and twelve plans, from Bayonne in France to Cape Creus. The navigation charts and plans of ports were printed in large format and bound to facilitate their preservation and handling. The volume was open to
"I still don't know," he said, "if the atlas was for the museum or for you. The feet is that that auction was..."
He stopped short as he caught sight of the Urrutia. It was with other large-format books in the glass case. He easily recognized its leather cover and gold tooling.
"It was for the museum," she replied, and after a second added, "Naturally."
She followed Coy's eyes to the atlas. The light from the window outlined the contours of her freckled profile.
"And that's what you do? Acquire things?"
She bent forward slightly, her hair swinging. She was wearing a gray wool jacket, unbuttoned, a full dark skirt and flat-heeled black shoes, with black stockings that made her seem taller and more slender than she was. A well-bred girl, he mused, appreciating her in the natural light. Strong hands and a well-bred voice. Wholesome, proper, calm. At least in outward appearance, he thought, scanning those telltale fingernails.
"Yes, in a way that is my job," she agreed. "Check auction catalogues, oversee purchases of antiques, visit other museums, and travel when something interesting shows up. Then I make a report, and my superiors decide. The board provides limited funds for research and new acquisitions, and I try to see that the money is invested in the most appropriate way."
Coy grimaced. He remembered the hard-nosed duel in the Claymore auction gallery.
"Well, your friend the Dalmatian got his shot off before he went down. The Urrutia cost you an arm and a leg."
She sighed, sounding both fatalistic and amused, then nodded, turning up her palms to indicate she had blown her last penny. As she gestured, Coy again noted the unexpectedly masculine stainless-steel watch on her right wrist. Nothing more, no rings, no bracelets. She wasn't even wearing the small gold earrings he'd seen three days before in Barcelona.
"It did cost us. We don't usually spend that much___ Especially
since we already have a lot of eighteenth-century cartography in this museum."
"It's that important?"
Again she leaned forward from the edge of the table, and for a brief instant stayed like that, head down, before looking up with a different expression on her face. Once more the light played up the gold of her freckles, and it crossed Coy's mind that if he took just one step forward he might, perhaps, decipher the aroma of that enigmatic, speckled geography.
"It was printed in 1751 by the geographer and mariner Ignacio Urrutia Salcedo," she was explaining, "after five years of toil. It was the best aid for navigators until the appearance of Tofino's much more precise Atlas Hidrogrdfico in 1789. There are very few copies in good condition, and the Museo Naval didn't have one."
She opened the glass door of the case, took out the heavy volume, and opened it on the table. Coy moved closer. They studied it together, and at last he confirmed what he had thought from the moment he met her. Not a trace of cologne or perfume. Only the scent of clean, warm skin.
"It's a fine copy," she said. 'Among rare book dealers and antiquarians there are plenty of unscrupulous people, and when they find one of these they take it apart and sell the individual plates. But this one is intact."
She turned the large pages carefully, and the thick white paper, well preserved despite the two and a half centuries since it was printed, whispered between her fingers. Atlas Maritimo de las Costas de Espana, Coy read on the tide page, beautifully engraved with a seascape, a lion between columns bearing the legend Pitts Ultra, and various nautical instruments. Divided into sixteen spherical charts and twelve plans, from Bayonne in France to Cape Creus. The navigation charts and plans of ports were printed in large format and bound to facilitate their preservation and handling. The volume was open to
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