iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第19部分

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d　at　the　reviewers；　but　it　was　Macintyre　who　became　such　a　laughingstock　that　the　university　pruned　him　from　the　departmental　ranks　at　the　next　tenure　review。　Taft　later　admitted　that　he　was　just　getting　even　with　Macintyre's　father；　a　Renaissance　historian　who'd　given　one　of　Taft's　own　books　a　mixed　review。
　〃Vincent　told　me　a　story　once；〃　Paul　continues；　voice　growing　quieter。　〃About　a　kid　he　knew　growing　up；　named　Rodge　Lang。　Kids　at　school　called　him　Epp。　One　day　a　stray　dog　followed　Epp　home　from　school。　Epp　ran；　but　the　dog　kept　following　him。　Epp　threw　part　of　his　lunch　to　the　dog；　but　the　dog　wouldn't　leave　him　alone。　Finally　he　tried　to　scare　the　animal　off　with　a　stick；　but　the　dog　just　kept　following。
　〃After　a　few　miles；　Epp　started　to　wonder。　He　led　the　dog　through　a　briar　patch。　The　dog　followed。　He　threw　a　rock　at　the　dog；　but　the　dog　wouldn't　back　away。　Finally　Epp　kicked　the　dog。　The　dog　didn't　run　off。　Epp　kicked　it　again；　and　again。　The　dog　wouldn't　move。　Epp　kicked　the　dog　until　it　was　dead。　Then　he　picked　it　up　and　brought　it　to　his　favorite　tree；　and　buried　it　there。〃
　I'm　almost　too　stunned　to　answer。　〃What　the　hell's　the　moral　of　that？〃
　〃According　to　Vincent；　that's　when　Epp　knew　he'd　found　a　loyal　dog。〃
　A　silence　unfolds。
　〃Was　that　Taft's　idea　of　a　joke？〃
　Paul　shakes　his　head。　〃Vincent　told　me　a　lot　of　stories　about　Epp。　They're　all　like　that。〃
　〃Jesus。　Why？〃
　〃I　think　they're　supposed　to　be　some　kind　of　parable。〃
　〃Parables　he　made　up？〃
　〃I　don't　know。〃　Paul　hesitates。　〃But　Rodge　Epp　Lang　also　happens　to　be　an　anagram。　A　rearrangement　of　the　letters　in　'doppelganger。'　〃
　I　feel　sick。　〃Do　you　think　Taft　did　those　things？〃
　〃To　the　dog？　Who　knows。　He　might've。　But　his　point　was　that　he　and　I　have　the　same　relationship。　I'm　the　dog。〃
　〃So　why　the　hell　are　you　still　working　with　him？〃
　Paul　begins　fidgeting　with　the　bread　again。　〃I　made　a　decision。　Staying　with　Vincent　was　the　only　way　I　could　finish　my　thesis。　I'm　telling　you；　Tom；　I'm　convinced　this　is　even　bigger　than　we　thought。　Francesco's　crypt　is　this　close。　No　one　has　made　a　find　like　this　in　years。　And　after　your　father；　no　one　had　done　more　work　on　the　Hypnerotomachia　than　Vincent。　I　needed　him。〃　Paul　throws　the　crust　onto　his　plate。　〃And　he　knew　it。〃
　Gil　arrives　in　the　doorway。　〃I'm　done　upstairs；〃　he　says；　as　if　we've　been　waiting　for　him　to　finish。　〃We　can　go　now。〃
　Paul　seems　glad　to　end　the　conversation。　Taft's　behavior　is　a　reproach　to　him。　I　rise　and　begin　to　bus　my　plates。
　〃Don't　worry　about　those；〃　Gil　says；　waving　me　off。　〃They'll　send　someone　down。〃
　Paul　wipes　his　hands　together　briskly。　Strings　of　the　bread　roll　up　on　his　palms；　and　he　sloughs　them　like　old　skin。　We　both　follow　Gil　out　of　the　club。
　　
　The　snow　is　ing　down　much　harder　than　before；　so　thick　that　I　feel　I'm　watching　the　world　through　patches　of　static。　As　Gil　navigates　the　Saab　westward；　approaching　the　auditorium；　I　look　in　the　side　mirror　at　Paul；　wondering　how　long　he's　been　keeping　all　this　to　himself。　We　pass　between　streetlights　in　the　dark；　and　for　short　pulses　of　time　I　can't　see　him　at　all。　His　face　is　just　a　shadow。
　The　fact　is；　Paul　has　always　kept　secrets　from　us。　For　years　he　hid　the　truth　about　his　childhood；　the　details　of　his　parochial　school　nightmare。　Now　he's　been　hiding　the　truth　about　his　relationship　with　Taft。　Close　as　he　and　I　are；　there's　a　certain　distance　now；　a　feeling　that　while　we　have　a　lot　in　mon；　good　fences　still　make　good　neighbors。　Leonardo　wrote　that　a　painter　should　begin　every　canvas　with　a　wash　of　black；　because　all　things　in　nature　are　dark　except　where　exposed　by　the　light。　Most　painters　do　the　opposite；　starting　with　a　whitewash　and　adding　the　shadows　last。　But　Paul；　who　knows　Leonardo　so　well　you'd　think　the　old　man　slept　in　our　bottom　bunk；　understands　the　value　of　starting　with　the　shadows。　The　only　things　people　can　ever　know　about　you　are　the　ones　you　let　them　see。
　I　might　not　have　grasped　this　very　well；　except　that　an　interesting　thing　happened　on　campus　just　a　few　years　before　we　arrived；　which　caught　both　Paul's　attention　and　mine。　A　twenty…nine…year…old　bicycle　thief　named　James　Hogue　got　into　Princeton　by　claiming　to　be　someone　he　wasn't：　an　eighteen…year…old　ranch　hand　from　Utah。　Hogue　said　he'd　taught　himself　Plato　under　the　stars；　and　trained　himself　to　run　a　mile　in　just　over　four　minutes。　When　the　track　team　flew　him　out　to　campus　for　a　recruiting　trip；　he　said　it　was　the　first　time　he'd　slept　indoors　in　a　decade。　The　admissions　office　was　so　captivated　that　it　accepted　him　on　the　spot。　When　he　deferred　for　a　year；　no　one　gave　it　a　second　thought。　Hogue　said　he　was　tending　to　his　sick　mother　in　Switzerland；　in　fact；　he　was　serving　a　term　in　prison。
　What　made　the　hoax　so　intriguing　was　that；　while　roughly　half　of　it　was　an　outrageous　lie；　the　other　half　was　more　or　less　true。　Hogue　was　as　good　a　runner　as　he　let　on；　and　for　two　years　at　Princeton　he　was　a　star　on　the　track　team。　He　was　also　a　star　in　the　classroom；　shouldering　a　course　load　you　couldn't　pay　me　to　take；　and　getting　straight　A's　to　boot。　He　was　even　so　charming　that　Ivy　tapped　him　for　membership　in　the　spring　of　his　sophomore　year。　It　almost　seems　a　shame　that　his　career　ended　the　way　it　did。　By　sheer　accident　a　spectator　at　a　track　meet　recognized　him　from　a　previous　life。　When　word　spread；　Princeton　conducted　an　investigation　and　had　him　arrested　in　the　middle　of　a　science　lab。　Charges　were　pressed；　and　Hogue　pled　guilty　to　fraud。　Within　a　matter　of　months　he　was　in　prison　again；　where　he　slowly　faded　back　into　obscurity。
　To　me　the　Hogue　story　was　the　news　event　of　that　summer；　the　only　thing　to　rival　it　was　my　discovery　that　Playboy　had　run　a　Women　of　the　Ivy　League　issue　the　previous　spring。　To　Paul；　though；　it　was　much　more。　As　someone　who　always　insisted　on　a　varnish　of　fiction　in　his　own　life；　pretending　he'd　eaten　well　when　he　hadn't；　or　pretending　not　to　own　a　puter　because　he　didn't　like　using　one；　Paul　could　identify　with　a　man　who　felt　bullied　by　the　truth。　One　of　the　only　advantages　of　ing　from　nothing；　as　James　Hogue　and　Paul　both　did；　is　having　the　freedom　to　reinvent　yourself。　In　fact；　the　better　I　got　to　know　Paul；　the　more　I　understood　it　was　less　a　freedom　than　a　kind　of　obligation。
　Still；　seeing　what　became　of　Hogue；　Paul　had　to　rethink　the　line　between　reinventing　himself　and　fooling　everyone　else。　Beginning　the　day　he　arrived　at　Princeton；　he　walked　that　line　very　carefully；　keeping　secrets　rather　than　telling　lies。　An　old　fear　returns　to　me　when　I　consider　that。　My　father；　who　understood　the　way　the　Hypnerotomachia　had　seduced　him；　once　pared　the　book　to　an　affair　with　a　woman。　It　makes　you　lie；　he　said；　even　to　yourself。　Paul's　thesis　may　be　exactly　that　lie：　after　four　years　with　Taft；　Paul　has　danced　and　danced　for　the　book；　left　his　bed　and　lost　sleep　for　the　book；　and　for　all　his　sweat；　the　book　has　given　up　very　little。
　Looking　back　in　the　mirror　again；　I　can　see　him　watching　the　snow。　There　is　a　blank　look　in　his　eyes　and　his　face　seems　pale。　In　the　distance　a　traffic　light　is　flashing　yellow。　My　father　taught　me　something　else　without　ever　saying　a　word：　never　invest　yourself　in　anything　so　deeply　that　its　failure　could　cost　you　your　happiness。　Paul　would　sell　his　last　cow　for　a　handful　of　magical　beans。　Only　now　is　he　beginning　to　wonder　if　the　beanstalk　will　grow。
　
　Chapter　9
　
　I　think　it　was　my　mother　who　told　me　that　a　good　friend　stands　in　harm's　way　for　you　the　second　you　ask…but　a　great　friend　does　it　without　being　asked　at　all。　There　are　so　few　times　in　a　person's　life　when　a　single　great　friend　es　around　that　it　almost　seems　unnatural　when　three　e　around　all　at　once。
　The　four　of　us　met　on　a　cool　night　during　the　fall　of　our　freshman　year。　Paul　and　I　were　already　spending　much　of　our　time　together；　and　Charlie…who'd　introduced　himself　on　the　first　day　of　school　by　barging　into　Paul's　room　and　offering　to　help　him　unpack…was　living　in　a　single　room　down　the　hall。　Thinking　nothing　could　be　worse　than　being　alone；　Charlie　was　always　on　the　prowl　for　new　friends。
　Paul　immediately　had　misgivings　about　this　wild；　imposing　character　who　never　stopped　pounding　at　his　door　with　new　adventures　in　mind。　Something　about　Charlie's　athletic　build　seemed　to　conjure　a　spell　of　fear　in　him；　as　if　he'd　been　tortured　by　a　bully　of　that　description　as　a　child。　For　my　part；　I　was　surprised　that　Charlie　hadn't　gotten　tired　of　us；　sedate　as　we　were。　Most　of　that　first　semester；　I　was　convinced　that　he　would　abandon　us　for　panions　more　like　himself。　I　pegged　him　for　a　wealthy　minority　jock…the　kind　who　had　a　neurosurgeon　mother　and　an　executive　father；　who　eased　through　a　regional　prep　school　with　more　tutors　than　trouble；　and　who　arrived　at　Princeton　with　nothing　particular　in　mind　except　to　have　some　fun　and　graduate　in　the　solid　middle　of　the　class。
　That　all　seems　funny　now。　The　truth　was；　Charlie　grew　up　in　the　heart　of　Philadelphia；　riding　with　the　volunteer　ambulance　squad　through　the　worst　crime　districts　in　the　city。　He　was　a　middle…class　kid　from　a　public　school；　whose　father　was　a　regional　sales　rep　for　an　East　Coast　chemical　manufacturer；　and　whose