pdouglas.thecodex-第69部分

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od　mother　and　didn't　have　me　for　a　father；　messing　you　up。〃
　Borabay　was　about　to　say　something；　but　Broadbent　raised　his　hand。　〃Can't　a　man　give　a　deathbed　speech　around　here　without　being　interrupted？　Borabay；　your　brothers　will　help　you　get　to　America　and　get　citizenship。　Once　there　you'll　bee　more　American　than　the　natives；　I　have　no　doubt。〃
　〃Yes；　Father。〃
　Broadbent　sighed　and　cast　an　eye　on　Sally。　〃Tom；　this　is　the　woman　I　never　met　but　wished　I　had。　You'd　be　a　fool　to　let　her　slip　away。〃
　〃I'm　not　a　fish；〃　said　Sally　sharply。
　〃Ah！　That's　just　what　I　mean！　A　little　prickly；　perhaps；　but　an　amazing　woman。〃
　〃You're　right；　Father。〃
　Broadbent　paused；　breathing　heavily。　It　was　an　effort　now　to　talk；　the　sweat　stood　out　on　his　brow。
　〃I　am　about　to　write　my　last　will　and　testament。　I　want　each　one　of　you　to　choose　one　thing　from　the　collection　in　that　cave。　The　rest；　if　you　can　get　it　out　of　the　country；　I'd　like　to　donate　to　whatever　museum　or　museums　you　choose。　We'll　go　from　oldest　to　youngest。　Borabay；　you　start。〃
　Borabay　said；　〃I　choose　last。　What　I　want　is　not　in　cave。〃
　Broadbent　nodded。　〃All　right。　Philip？　As　if　I　couldn't　guess。〃　His　eyes　strayed　to　the　Madonna。　〃The　Lippi　is　yours。〃
　Philip　tried　to　say　something　but　could　not。
　〃And　now：　Vernon？〃
　There　was　a　silence；　and　then　Vernon　said；　〃I'd　like　the　Monet。〃
　〃I　thought　that's　what　you'd　say。　I　imagine　you　could　get　fifty　million　or　more　for　it。　And　I　hope　you　do　sell　it。　But　Vernon；　please；　no　foundations。　Don't　give　any　money　away。　When　you　finally　find　what　you're　looking　for；　maybe　then　you'll　have　the　wisdom　to　give　a　little　bit　of　your　money　away；　a　little　bit。〃
　〃Thank　you；　Father。〃
　〃I'm　also　going　to　send　you　back　with　a　bagful　of　gems　and　coins　so　I　can　pay　Uncle　Sam。〃
　〃All　right。〃
　〃And　now；　Tom；　it's　your　turn。　What's　your　pick？〃
　Tom　glanced　at　Sally。　〃We'd　like　the　Codex。〃
　Broadbent　nodded。　〃Interesting　choice。　It's　yours。　And　now；　Borabay；　last　but　not　least。　What　is　this　mysterious　thing　you　want　that　isn't　in　the　cave？〃
　Borabay　came　over　to　the　bed　and　whispered　in　Broadbent's　ear。
　The　old　man　nodded。　〃Excellent。　Consider　it　done。〃　He　flourished　his　pen。　His　face　was　beaded　with　sweat；　his　breathing　rapid　and　shallow。　Tom　could　see　he　did　not　have　much　lucid　time　left。　And　he　knew　what　death　from　sepsis　was　like。
　〃Now；〃　he　said；　〃give　me　ten　minutes　by　myself　to　make　out　my　last　will　and　testament；　and　then　we　will　gather　witnesses　and　execute　it。〃
　
　85
　
　Tom　stood　with　his　brothers　and　Sally　in　a　cathedrallike　grove　of　trees；　watching　the　great　funeral　procession　winding　up　the　trail　toward　the　tomb；　which　had　been　freshly　chiseled　in　the　limestone　cliffs　far　above　the　village。　It　was　an　amazing　sight。　Maxwell　Broadbent's　body　came　at　the　head　of　the　procession；　borne　upon　a　litter　by　four　warriors。　It　had　been　embalmed　using　an　ancient　Mayan　process。　During　the　funeral　ceremony　the　new　chief　of　the　village　had　transformed　the　corpse　into　El　Dorado；　the　Gilded　One　of　Indian　legend…the　way　the　Maya　had　once　buried　their　emperors。　They　had　smeared　the　body　with　honey　and　then　sprinkled　it　with　gold　dust；　coating　it　pletely；　to　metamorphose　it　into　the　immortal　form　it　would　take　in　the　afterlife。
　Behind　their　father's　litter　came　a　long　procession　of　Indians　carrying　grave　goods　for　the　tomb…baskets　of　dried　fruits　and　vegetables；　nuts；　ollas　of　oil　and　water；　then　a　slew　of　traditional　Mayan　artifacts　such　as　jade　statues；　painted　pots；　beaten　gold　dishes　and　jugs；　weapons；　quivers　full　of　arrows；　nets；　spears；　everything　that　Maxwell　Broadbent　might　need　in　the　afterlife。
　After　that；　hobbling　around　the　bend；　came　an　Indian　carrying　a　painting　by　Picasso　of　a　naked　woman　with　three　eyes；　a　square　head；　and　horns；　followed　by　the　massive　Pontormo　scene　of　the　Annunciation；　carried　by　two　sweating　Indians；　then　the　Bronzino　portrait　of　Bia　de'　Medici；　a　pair　of　Roman　statues；　a　few　more　Picassos；　a　Braque；　two　Modiglianis；　a　Cézanne；　more　statues…twentieth…century　grave　goods。　The　bizarre　procession　wound　its　way　up　the　hillside　and　into　the　grove。
　And　finally　came　the　band；　if　that's　what　you　could　call　it：　a　group　of　men　playing　gourd　flutes；　blowing　long　wooden　trumpets；　and　beating　sticks…with　one　young　boy　bringing　up　the　rear；　banging　with　all　his　might　a　shabby；　Western…style　bass　drum。
　Tom　felt　a　great　mixture　of　sadness　and　catharsis。　It　was　the　passing　of　an　era。　His　father　was　dead。　It　was　the　last　good…bye　to　his　childhood。　Passing　before　his　eyes　were　the　things　he　knew　and　loved；　the　things　he　had　grown　up　with。　They　were　the　things　his　father　loved；　too。　As　the　procession　went　into　the　tomb　darkness　swallowed　it　all；　men　and　grave　goods　alike…and　then　the　men　emerged；　blinking　and　empty…handed。　There　his　father's　collection　would　be　shut　up；　safe；　dry；　guarded　and　protected　until　the　day　when　he　and　his　brothers　could　return　and　claim　what　was　theirs。　The　Mayan　treasures；　of　course；　would　stay　in　the　tomb　forever；　to　ensure　that　Maxwell　Broadbent　lived　a　fine　and　happy　life　in　the　afterworld。　But　the　Western　treasures　belonged　to　them；　held　in　safekeeping　by　the　Tara　tribe。　It　was　a　funeral　to　end　all　funerals。　Only　the　Mayan　emperors　had　been　buried　like　this；　and　not　for　at　least　a　thousand　years。
　Three　days　after　signing　his　last　will　and　testament；　Maxwell　Broadbent　passed　away。　He　had　had　only　one　more　day　of　lucidity　before　he　sank　into　delirium；　a；　and　death。　No　death　was　pretty；　Tom　thought；　but　this　one　had　had　a　certain　nobility　to　it；　if　one　could　use　that　word。
　It　wasn't　so　much　the　death　but　the　last　lucid　day　of　his　father's　life　that　Tom　would　never　forget。　The　four　sons　had　stayed　with　him。　They　hadn't　talked　much；　and　when　they　did　it　was　of　minor　things…little　memories；　stories；　forgotten　places；　laughs　they'd　had；　people　long　gone。　And　yet　that　day　of　small　talk　had　been　more　valuable　than　all　the　decades　of　important　talk　about　the　big　things；　the　lectures；　father…to…son　exhortations；　the　advice　and　philosophizing　and　dinnertime　discussions。　After　a　lifetime　at　cross…purposes；　Maxwell　finally　understood　them　and　they　understood　him。　And　they　could　merely　chat　for　the　pleasure　of　it。　It　was　as　simple；　and　as　profound；　as　that。
　Tom　smiled。　His　father　would　have　loved　his　funeral。　He　would　have　been　delighted　to　see　this　great　procession　through　the　forest；　the　giant　wooden　trumpets　bellowing；　the　drums　beating；　the　bamboo　flutes　playing；　the　women　and　men　alternating　singing　and　clapping。　A　great　tomb　had　been　freshly　cut　out　of　the　rock；　inaugurating　a　new　necropolis　for　the　Tara　tribe。　The　White　City　had　been　cut　off　by　the　burning　of　the　bridge；　leaving　six　of　Hauser's　mercenaries　behind。　During　the　six　weeks　the　new　tomb　was　being　built；　the　village　buzzed　daily　with　news　of　the　trapped　soldiers。　They　came　down　to　the　bridgehead　from　time　to　time；　firing　their　guns；　shouting；　pleading；　threatening。　As　the　days　and　weeks　passed　the　six　had　dwindled　to　four；　three；　and　two。　Now　there　was　one；　and　he　didn't　shout　or　wave　or　fire　his　gun　anymore。　He　just　stood　there；　a　small；　gaunt　figure；　saying　nothing；　waiting　for　death。　Tom　had　tried　to　convince　the　Tara　to　rescue　him；　but　the　Tara　were　adamant：　Only　the　gods　could　rebuild　the　bridge。　If　the　gods　wanted　to　save　him；　they　would。
　But　of　course　they　didn't。
　The　boom　of　the　bass　drum　brought　Tom's　thoughts　back　to　the　present　spectacle。　All　the　grave　goods　had　been　heaped　in　the　tomb；　and　now　it　was　time　to　close　it　up。　The　men　and　women　stood　in　the　forest；　singing　a　forlorn；　haunting　tune　while　a　priest　waved　a　bundle　of　sacred　herbs；　the　fragrant　smoke　drifting　past　them。　The　ceremony　went　on　until　the　sun　touched　the　western　horizon；　and　then　it　stopped。　The　chief　struck　the　end　of　the　wooden　key；　and　the　great　stone　door　of　the　tomb　slid　shut　with　a　sonorous　boom；　just　as　the　last　rays　vanished。
　All　was　silent。
　As　they　walked　back　to　the　village；　Tom　said；　〃I　only　wish　Father　had　been　able　to　see　that。〃
　Vernon　put　his　arm　around　him。　〃He　did；　Tom。　For　sure；　he　did。〃
　
　86
　
　Lewis　Skiba　sat　in　the　rocking　chair　on　the　crooked　porch　of　the　battenboard　cottage；　looking　out　over　the　lake。　The　hills　were　cloaked　in　autumnal　glory；　the　water　a　darkened　mirror　reflecting　the　curve　of　evening　sky。　It　was　exactly　as　he　remembered　it。　The　dock　ran　crookedly　into　the　water；　with　the　canoe　tied　up　at　the　end。　The　scent　of　warm　pine　needles　drifted　through　the　air。　A　loon　called　from　the　far　shore；　its　forlorn　cry　dying　among　the　hills；　and　it　was　answered　by　another　loon　at　an　immense　distance；　its　voice　as　faint　as　starlight。
　Skiba　took　a　sip　of　fresh　spring　water　and　rocked　back　slowly；　the　chair　and　porch　both　creaking　in　protest。　He　had　lost　everything。　He　had　presided　over　the　collapse　of　the　ninth　largest　pharmaceutical　pany　in　the　world。　He　had　watched　its　stock　drop　to　fifty　cents　before　trading　was　suspended　forever。　He　had　been　forced　into　filing　Chapter　11；　and　twenty　thousand　employees　saw　their　pension　funds　and　life　savings　vanish。　He　had　been　fired　by　the　board；　vilified　by　shareholders　and　congressional　mittees；　and　made　the　butt　of　late…night　television。