iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第57部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　of　the　diary。〃
　〃Did　you　get　it　back？〃
　He　shakes　his　head。　〃All　I　got　was　a　handful　of　Vincent's　old　handwritten　notes。〃
　〃So　what　are　you　going　to　do？〃　I　ask。
　Paul　begins　reaching　for　something　else　under　the　desk。　〃I'm　at　Vincent's　mercy。〃
　〃How　much　have　you　told　him？〃
　When　his　hands　return　to　view；　they're　empty。　Losing　patience；　he　moves　his　chair　backward　and　lowers　himself　to　his　knees。　〃He　doesn't　know　any　details　about　the　crypt。　Only　that　it　exists。〃
　I　notice　faint　tracks　across　the　floor；　ruts　that　trace　quarter…circles　back　to　the　metal　legs　of　the　desk。
　〃Last　night　I　started　making　a　map　of　everything　Francesco　said　about　it　in　the　second　half　of　the　Hypnerotomachia。　The　location；　the　dimensions；　the　landmarks。　I　knew　Vincent　might　e　looking　for　what　I'd　found；　so　I　put　the　map　where　I　used　to　keep　the　best　work　I　did　in　here。〃
　There's　a　clink　of　metal　against　metal；　and　from　the　far　corner　of　the　desk　bottom；　Paul　produces　a　screwdriver。　The　long　swatch　of　tape　that　secured　it　to　the　underside　dangles　like　a　weed　in　his　hand。　He　peels　the　tape　off；　then　swivels　the　desk　toward　us。　The　front　legs　slide　along　the　grooves　in　the　tile　floor；　and　suddenly　the　ventilation　duct　es　into　view。　Four　screws　hold　the　grille　to　the　wall。　The　paint　has　been　chipped　on　all　of　them。
　Paul　begins　unscrewing　the　grille。　One　corner　at　a　time；　the　vent　es　undone。　When　he　reaches　into　the　duct；　then　removes　his　hand；　he's　holding　an　envelope　stuffed　with　papers。　My　first　instinct　is　to　look　out　the　window　of　the　carrel；　to　see　if　anyone's　watching　us。　Now　I　understand　the　sheet　of　black　paper　that　covers　it。
　Paul　opens　the　envelope。　First　he　pulls　out　a　pair　of　photographs；　each　one　worn　from　handling。　The　first　is　of　Paul　and　Richard　Curry　in　Italy。　They　are　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　Piazza　della　Signoria　in　Florence；　directly　in　front　of　the　Fountain　of　Neptune。　Blurred　in　the　background　is　a　copy　of　Michelangelo's　David。　Paul　is　wearing　shorts　and　a　backpack；　Richard　Curry　is　wearing　a　suit；　but　his　tie　is　loose　and　his　collar　is　unbuttoned。　Both　of　them　are　smiling。
　The　second　picture　is　of　the　four　of　us；　from　sophomore　year。　Paul　is　kneeling　in　the　middle　of　the　photo；　wearing　a　borrowed　tie　and　holding　up　a　medal。　The　rest　of　us　are　standing　around　him；　with　two　professors　in　the　background；　looking　amused。　Paul　has　just　won　the　annual　essay　contest　of　the　Princeton　Francophile　Society。　We　three　have　shown　up　as　figures　from　French　history　to　support　him。　I　am　Robespierre；　Gil　is　Napoleon；　and　Charlie；　in　a　huge　hoop　dress　we　found　at　a　costume　store；　is　Marie　Antoinette。
　Paul　seems　to　make　nothing　of　the　pictures；　placing　them　gently　on　the　desk　as　if　he's　used　to　seeing　them。　Now　he　empties　the　rest　of　the　envelope。　What　I　mistook　for　a　stack　of　papers　is　actually　a　single　large　sheet；　folded　over　several　times　to　fit　inside。
　〃This　is　it；〃　he　says；　unwrapping　it　on　the　surface　of　the　desk。
　There；　in　tiny　detail；　is　a　hand…drawn　topological　map。　Elevation　lines　run　in　uneven　circles；　with　rough　directional　markings　in　a　faint　grid。　Near　the　middle；　written　in　red；　is　an　angular　object　shaped　like　a　cross。　According　to　the　scale　in　the　corner；　it's　roughly　the　size　of　a　dormitory。
　〃Is　that　it？〃　I　ask。
　He　nods。
　It's　enormous。　For　a　second　both　of　us　sit　in　silence；　trying　to　absorb　it。
　〃What　are　you　going　to　do　with　the　map？〃　I　ask；　now　that　the　carrel　is　bare。
　Paul　opens　his　hand。　The　four　small　screws　to　the　ventilation　duct　roll　like　seeds　in　his　palm。　〃Put　it　somewhere　safe。〃
　〃Back　in　the　wall？〃
　〃No。〃
　He　leans　down　to　screw　the　face　of　the　duct　back　in；　and　looks　as　if　a　calm　has　settled　over　him。　When　he　rises　and　begins　to　pull　the　sheets　of　paper　from　the　wall；　one　after　another　the　messages　disappear。　Kings　and　monsters；　ancient　names；　notes　he　never　meant　anyone　else　to　see。
　〃So　what　are　you　going　to　do　with　it？〃　I　say；　still　looking　at　the　map。
　He　crumples　the　other　sheets　in　his　hand。　The　walls　are　white　again。　After　sitting　down；　and　folding　the　map　along　its　creases；　he　says　very　evenly；　〃I'm　giving　it　to　you。〃
　〃What？〃
　Paul　puts　the　map　into　the　envelope　and　hands　it　to　me。　He　keeps　the　pictures　for　himself。
　〃I　promised　you'd　be　the　first　to　know。　You　deserve　to　be。〃
　He　says　it　as　if　he's　just　keeping　his　word。
　〃What　do　you　want　me　to　do　with　it？〃
　He　smiles。　〃Don't　lose　it。〃
　〃What　if　Taft　es　looking　for　it？〃
　〃That's　the　idea。　If　he　does；　he'll　e　looking　for　me。〃　Paul　pauses　before　speaking　again。　〃And　besides；　I　want　you　to　get　used　to　having　it　around。〃
　〃Why？〃
　He　sits　back。　〃Because　I　want　us　to　work　together。　I　want　us　to　find　Francesco's　crypt　together。〃
　Finally　I　understand。　〃Next　year。〃
　He　nods。　〃In　Chicago。　And　Rome。〃
　The　vent　whirs　one　last　time；　whispering　through　the　grille。
　〃This　is　yours〃　is　all　I　can　think　to　say。　〃Your　thesis。　You　finished　it。〃
　〃This　is　so　much　bigger　than　a　thesis；　Tom。〃
　〃It's　much　bigger　than　a　Ph。D。　dissertation　too。〃
　〃Exactly。〃
　Now　I　hear　it　in　his　voice。　This　is　just　the　beginning。
　〃I　don't　want　to　do　this　alone；〃　he　says。
　〃What　can　I　do？〃
　He　smiles。　〃Just　keep　the　map　for　now。　Let　it　burn　a　hole　in　your　pocket　for　a　while。〃
　It　unnerves　me；　how　light　the　envelope　is；　the　impermanence　of　what　I'm　holding。　It　seems　to　argue　against　the　reality　of　all　of　this；　that　the　wisdom　of　the　Hypnerotomachia　can　sit　in　the　fold　of　my　palm。
　〃e　on；〃　he　says　finally；　glancing　down　at　his　watch。　〃Let's　go　home。　We　need　to　pick　up　some　things　for　Charlie。〃
　He　takes　down　the　last　remnant　of　his　work　with　one　final　swoop　of　his　arm。　There　is　no　more　trace　in　the　carrel　of　Paul；　or　of　Colonna；　or　of　the　long　trail　of　ideas　connecting　them　over　five　hundred　years。　The　sheet　of　black　paper　on　the　window　is　gone。
　
　Chapter　24
　
　The　last　question　the　recruiter　from　Daedalus　asked　during　my　job　interview　was　a　riddle：　If　a　frog　falls　down　a　fifty…foot　well　and　has　to　climb　his　way　out；　making　three　feet　of　progress　every　day；　but　slipping　back　two　feet　every　night；　in　how　many　days　will　he　escape？
　Charlie's　answer　was　that　he　never　escapes；　because　a　frog　that　falls　fifty　feet　doesn't　get　back　up。　Paul's　answer　had　something　to　do　with　an　ancient　philosopher　who　died　by　walking　into　a　well　while　staring　up　at　the　stars。　Gil's　answer　was　that　he'd　never　heard　of　a　frog　climbing　wells；　and　what　did　all　this　have　to　do　with　developing　software　in　Texas；　anyway？
　The　right　answer；　I　think；　is　that　it　takes　the　frog　forty…eight　days；　or　two　days　less　than　you　might　expect。　The　trick　is　realizing　that　the　frog　climbs　one　foot　per　day　after　all　is　said　and　done…but　on　the　forty…eighth　day；　he　climbs　three　feet　and　reaches　the　top　of　the　well　before　he　can　slide　back　again。
　I　don't　know　what　makes　me　think　of　that　just　now。　Maybe　this　is　the　sort　of　moment　when　riddles　have　an　afterglow　of　their　own；　a　wisdom　that　illuminates　the　edges　of　experience　when　nothing　else　can。　In　a　world　where　half　of　the　villagers　always　lie　and　half　of　them　always　tell　the　truth；　where　the　hare　never　catches　the　tortoise　because　the　distance　between　them　shrinks　by　a　never…collapsing　infinity　of　halves；　where　the　fox　can　never　be　left　on　the　same　bank　of　the　river　as　the　hen；　or　the　hen　on　the　same　bank　as　the　grain；　because　with　perfect　regularity　the　one　will　consume　the　other；　and　nothing　you　can　do　will　prevent　it：　in　that　world；　everything　is　sensible　but　the　premise。　A　riddle　is　a　castle　built　on　air；　perfectly　habitable　if　you　don't　look　down。　The　grand　impossibility　of　what　Paul　has　told　me…that　an　ancient　rivalry　between　a　monk　and　a　humanist　has　left　a　crypt　of　treasures　beneath　a　forgotten　forest…rests　on　the　much　more　basic　impossibility　that　a　book　like　the　Hypnerotomachia；　written　in　code；　impenetrable；　ignored　by　scholars　for　five　centuries；　could　exist。　It　couldn't；　yet　it's　as　real　to　me　as　I　am　to　myself。　And　if　I　accept　its　existence；　then　the　foundation　is　set；　and　the　impossible　castle　can　be　built。　The　rest　is　just　mortar　and　stones。
　When　the　elevator　doors　open；　and　the　library　lobby　seems　weightless　in　the　wintry　light；　it　feels　like　we've　emerged　from　a　tunnel。　Every　time　I　think　of　that　Daedalus　riddle；　I　imagine　the　frog's　surprise　when；　for　the　first　time；　on　his　last　day；　three　steps　forward　are　not　followed　by　two　steps　back。　There　is　a　suddenness　at　the　top　of　the　well；　an　unexpected　quickening　of　the　journey　at　its　end；　that　I　feel　now。　The　riddle　I've　known　since　I　was　a　child…the　riddle　of　the　Hypnerotomachia…has　been　solved　in　less　than　a　day。
　We　click　through　the　turnstile　at　the　library's　front　border；　and　the　nip　of　the　wind　returns　beneath　the　entrance。　Paul　presses　the　door　open；　and　I　tighten　my　coat　around　me。　There　is　snow　everywhere；　no　stones　or　walls　or　shadows；　only　brilliant　tornadoes　of　white。　All　around　me　is　Chicago　and　Texas；　graduation；　Dod　and　home。　Here　I　am；　suddenly；　above　ground。
　　
　We　start　south。　On　the　way　back　to　the　dorm；　a　Dumpster　has　been　overturned。　Little　nests　of　garbage　poke　up　from　mounds　of　snow；　and　the　squirrels　are　at　them　already；　pulling　out　apple　cores　and　near…empty　bottles　of　lotion；　passing　e