iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第36部分

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　〃Richard　would　never　try　to　take　something　from　me；〃　Paul　says；　biting　at　a　nail。　〃We　must've　missed　something。〃
　A　hush　settles　in。　The　practice　room　is　warm；　and　when　we're　both　quiet　there's　no　sound　at　all；　besides　an　occasional　hum　from　down　the　hall；　where　Gershwin　has　been　replaced　by　a　Beethoven　sonata　that　rumbles　in　the　distance。　It　reminds　me　of　sitting　through　summer　storms　as　a　child。　The　power　is　out；　the　house　is　quiet；　and　nothing　can　be　heard　besides　the　roll　of　far…off　thunder。　My　mother　is　reading　to　me　by　candlelight…Bartholomew　Cubbins　or　an　illustrated　Sherlock　Holmes…and　the　only　thing　on　my　mind　is　how　the　best　stories　always　seem　to　be　about　men　in　funny　hats。
　〃I　think　it　was　Vincent　in　there；〃　Paul　says。　〃At　the　police　station　he　lied　about　his　relationship　with　Bill。　He　told　them　Bill　was　the　best　graduate　student　he'd　advised　in　years。〃
　We　both　know　Vincent；　Stein's　letter　said。　It's　fair　to　say　he　has　plans　of　his　own　for　anything　that　es　of　this。
　〃You　think　Taft　wants　it　for　himself？〃　I　ask。　〃He　hasn't　tried　to　publish　anything　on　the　Hypnerotomachia　in　years。〃
　〃This　isn't　about　publishing；　Tom。〃
　〃What's　it　about？〃
　Paul　stays　quiet　for　a　moment；　then　says；　〃You　heard　what　Vincent　said　tonight。　He's　never　admitted　before　that　Francesco　was　from　Rome。〃　Paul　looks　down　at　the　pedals　of　the　piano；　jutting　out　from　the　wooden　frame　like　tiny　gold　shoes。　〃He's　trying　to　take　this　away　from　me。〃
　〃Take　what　away　from　you？〃
　But　again　Paul　hesitates。　〃Never　mind。　Forget　it。〃
　〃What　if　it　was　Curry　in　the　museum？〃　I　offer；　when　he　turns　away。　The　letter　from　Stein　to　Curry　has　plicated　my　vision　of　the　man。　It　reminds　me　that　he　was　more　taken　with　the　Hypnerotomachia　than　any　of　them。
　〃He's　not　involved；　Tom。〃
　〃You　saw　how　he　acted　when　you　showed　him　the　diary。　Curry　still　thought　it　was　his。〃
　〃No。　I　know　him；　Tom。　Okay？　You　don't。〃
　〃What's　that　supposed　to　mean？〃
　〃You　never　trusted　Richard。　Even　when　he　tried　to　help　you。〃
　〃I　didn't　need　his　help。〃
　〃And　you　only　hate　Vincent　because　of　your　father。〃
　I　turn　to　him；　surprised。　〃He　drove　my　father　to…〃
　〃To　what？　Run　off　the　road？〃
　〃Drove　him　to　distraction。　What　the　hell's　wrong　with　you？〃
　〃He　wrote　a　book　review；　Tom。〃
　〃He　ruined　his　life。〃
　〃He　ruined　his　career。　There's　a　difference。〃
　〃Why　are　you　defending　him？〃
　〃I'm　not。　I'm　defending　Richard。　But　Vincent　never　did　anything　to　you。〃
　I'm　just　about　to　dig　into　Paul；　when　I　see　the　effect　our　conversation　is　having　on　him。　He　runs　the　base　of　his　palm　above　his　cheeks；　blotting　them。　For　a　second　I　can　only　see　headlights　on　the　road。　A　horn　is　blaring。
　〃Richard's　always　been　good　to　me；〃　Paul　is　saying。
　I　don't　remember　my　father　making　a　sound。　Not　once　during　that　drive；　not　even　when　we　skidded　off　the　road。
　〃You　don't　know　them；〃　he　says。　〃Either　of　them。〃
　I'm　not　sure　when　the　rain　began…while　we　were　driving　to　see　my　mother　at　the　book　show；　or　on　the　way　to　the　hospital　when　I　was　riding　in　the　ambulance。
　〃I　found　this　book　review　once　of　Vincent's　first　major　work；〃　Paul　continues。　〃A　clipping　in　his　house；　from　the　early　seventies；　back　when　he　was　a　hotshot　at　Columbia…before　he　came　to　the　Institute　and　his　career　fell　apart。　It　was　glowing；　the　kind　of　thing　professors　dream　about。　At　the　end　it　said；　'Vincent　Taft　has　already　begun　his　next　project：　a　definitive　history　of　the　Italian　Renaissance。　To　judge　from　his　existing　work；　it　will　be　a　magnum　opus　indeed；　the　sort　of　rare　acplishment　in　which　the　writing　of　history　bees　the　making　of　history。'　I　remember　that；　word　for　word。　I　found　it　spring　of　sophomore　year；　before　I　really　knew　him。　That　was　the　first　time　I　started　to　understand　who　he　was。〃
　A　book　review。　Like　the　one　he　sent　my　father；　just　to　be　sure　he'd　seen　it。　The　Belladonna　Hoax；　by　Vincent　Taft。
　〃He　was　a　star；　Tom。　You　know　that。　He　had　more　going　on　upstairs　than　most　of　the　faculty　here　bined。　But　he　lost　it。　He　didn't　burn　out；　he　just　lost　it。〃
　The　words　are　gathering　momentum；　crowding　into　the　air　as　if　a　balance　can　be　struck　between　the　silence　outside　him　and　the　pressure　within。　I　feel　like　I'm　swimming；　flailing　as　the　tide　pulls　me　out。　Paul　begins　to　talk　about　Taft　and　Curry　again；　and　I　tell　myself　they're　just　characters　in　another　book；　men　in　hats；　figments　of　the　blackout　imagination。　But　the　more　he　talks；　the　more　I　begin　to　see　them　the　way　he　does。
　　
　In　the　aftermath　of　the　debacle　surrounding　the　portmaster's　diary；　Taft　moved　from　Manhattan　into　a　white　clapboard　house　at　the　Institute；　a　mile　southwest　of　the　Princeton　campus。　Maybe　it　was　the　solitude　that　got　to　him；　the　absence　of　colleagues　to　wrestle　with；　but　within　months；　rumors　of　his　drinking　began　to　circulate　through　the　academic　munity。　The　definitive　history　he'd　planned　quietly　expired。　His　passion；　his　mand　of　his　gift；　seemed　to　crumble。
　Three　years　later；　on　the　occasion　of　his　next　publication…a　thin　volume　on　the　role　of　hieroglyphics　in　Renaissance　art…it　became　clear　that　Taft's　career　had　stalled。　Seven　years　after　that；　when　his　next　article　was　published　in　a　minor　journal；　a　reviewer　called　his　decline　a　tragedy。　According　to　Paul；　the　loss　of　what　Taft　had　with　Curry　and　my　father　continued　to　haunt　him。　In　the　twenty…five　years　that　elapsed　between　his　arrival　at　the　Institute　and　his　meeting　with　Paul；　Vincent　Taft　published　only　four　times；　preferring　to　pass　his　time　writing　criticism　of　other　scholars'　work；　especially　my　father's。　Not　once　did　he　recover　the　fiery　genius　of　his　youth。
　It　was　Paul's　arrival　at　his　doorstep　during　the　spring　of　our　freshman　year　that　must've　brought　the　Hypnerotomachia　back　into　his　life。　Once　Taft　and　Stein　began　assisting　in　the　thesis　work；　Paul　told　me　of　startling　flashes　of　brilliance　in　his　mentor。　Many　nights　the　old　bear　toiled　furiously　alongside　him；　reciting　long　passages　from　obscure　primary　texts　when　Paul　couldn't　find　them　in　the　library。
　〃That　was　the　summer　Richard　funded　my　trip　to　Italy；〃　Paul　says；　rubbing　a　palm　against　the　edge　of　the　piano　stool。　〃We　were　so　excited。　Even　Vincent。　He　and　Richard　still　weren't　speaking；　but　they　knew　I　was　on　to　something。　I　was　starting　to　figure　things　out。
　〃I　was　staying　in　a　flat　Richard　owned；　the　entire　top　floor　of　an　old　Renaissance　palace。　It　was　amazing；　just　gorgeous。　There　were　paintings　on　the　walls；　paintings　on　the　ceilings；　paintings　everywhere。　In　niches；　above　staircases。　Tintorettos；　Carraccis；　Peruginos。　It　was　like　heaven；　Tom。　Just　breathtaking；　it　was　so　beautiful。　And　he　would　wake　up　in　the　morning　and　say；　all　businesslike；　'Paul；　I　need　to　get　some　work　done　today。'　Then　we'd　get　to　talking；　and　half　an　hour　later　he　would　pull　off　his　tie　and　say；　'To　hell　with　it。　Let's　take　the　day　off。'　We　would　end　up　walking　through　the　piazzas　and　just　talking。　The　two　of　us；　walking　and　talking　for　hours。
　〃That's　when　he　started　telling　me　about　his　days　at　Princeton。　About　Ivy；　and　all　of　these　adventures　he'd　had；　these　crazy　things　he'd　done；　these　people　he'd　known。　Your　father；　most　of　all。　It　was　so　alive；　so　vivid。　I　mean；　it　was　unlike　everything　Princeton　has　ever　been　to　me。　I　was　just　pletely　mesmerized。　It　was　like　living　a　dream；　a　perfect　dream。　Richard　even　called　it　that。　The　whole　time　we　were　in　Italy；　he　seemed　to　be　walking　on　clouds。　He'd　started　seeing　a　sculptor　from　Venice；　and　was　talking　about　proposing　to　her　one　day。　I　thought　he　might　even　try　to　reconcile　with　Vincent　after　that　summer。〃
　〃But　they　never　did。〃
　〃No。　When　we　got　back　to　the　States；　everything　reverted。　He　and　Vincent　never　spoke。　The　woman　he'd　been　seeing　broke　it　off。　Richard　started　ing　back　to　campus；　trying　to　remember　the　fire　he'd　had　when　he　and　your　father　studied　with　McBee。　Since　then；　he's　been　living　more　and　more　in　the　past。　Vincent　tried　to　get　me　to　stay　away　from　him；　but　this　year　it's　Vincent　I've　been　staying　away　from；　trying　to　avoid　the　Institute；　trying　to　work　at　Ivy　whenever　I　could。　I　didn't　want　to　tell　him　what　we　found　until　I　had　to。
　〃That's　when　Vincent　started　forcing　me　to　show　him　my　conclusions；　asking　for　weekly　progress　reports。　Maybe　he　thought　it　was　his　only　shot　at　getting　the　Hypnerotomachia　back。〃　Paul　runs　a　hand　through　his　hair。　〃I　should've　known　better。　I　should've　written　a　B…grade　thesis；　then　gotten　the　hell　out　of　here。　It　is　the　greatest　houses　and　the　tallest　trees　that　the　gods　bring　low　with　bolts　and　thunder。　For　the　gods　love　to　thwart　whatever　is　greater　than　the　rest。　They　do　not　suffer　pride　in　anyone　but　themselves。　Herodotus　wrote　that。　I　must've　read　those　lines　fifty　times　and　never　gave　them　a　second　thought。　It　was　Vincent　who　pointed　them　out　to　me。　He　knew　what　they　meant。〃
　〃You　don't　believe　that。〃
　〃I　don't　know　what　I　believe　anymore。　I　should've　been　watching　Vincent　and　Bill　more　closely。　If　I　hadn't　been　paying　so　much　attention　to　myself；　I　could've　seen　this　ing。〃
　I　stare　at　the　light　beneath　the　door。　The　piano　down　the　hall　has　fallen　silent。
　Paul　rises　and　begins　moving　toward　the　entrance。　〃Let's　get　out　of　here；〃　he　says。
　
　Chapter　15
　
　We　har