iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第69部分

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he　was　probably　the　sort　of　man　to　give　them　an　honest　answer。
　I　suppose；　then；　looking　back　on　it；　that　the　only　way　I　can　explain　why　I　became　an　English　major　after　having　lost　my　faith　in　books…why　I　had　such　a　sense　of　possibility　working　on　Colonna's　book　after　rejecting　my　father's　love　of　it…is　that　I　was　looking　for　those　pieces　I　thought　my　father　must　have　left　me；　the　ones　that　could　piece　him　back　together。　For　as　long　as　I　knew　Paul；　for　the　duration　of　our　research　on　the　Hypnerotomachia；　the　answer　almost　seemed　to　be　in　my　grasp。　For　as　long　as　we　worked　together；　there　was　always　hope　I　might　eventually　understand。
　When　that　hope　fled；　I　honored　my　contract　and　became　a　software　analyst。　The　job　I　got　by　solving　a　riddle；　I　took　because　I'd　failed　to　solve　another。　Time　in　Texas　passed　more　quickly　than　I　can　account　for。　The　heat　of　summer　there　reminded　me　of　nothing　I'd　known　before；　so　I　stayed。　Katie　and　I　wrote　almost　weekly　during　her　last　two　years　at　Princeton；　letters　I　began　to　wait　for　in　the　mail；　even　as　they　became　less　frequent。　The　last　time　I　saw　her　was　during　a　trip　to　New　York　to　celebrate　my　twenty…sixth　birthday。　By　the　end　of　it；　I　think　even　Charlie　could　sense　that　time　had　e　between　Katie　and　me。　As　we　walked　through　Prospect　Park　in　the　autumn　sun；　near　the　Brooklyn　gallery　where　Katie　worked；　I　began　to　understand　that　the　things　we　once　cherished　had　remained　behind　us　at　Princeton；　and　that　the　future　had　failed　to　replace　them　with　a　vision　of　things　yet　to　e。　Katie；　I　knew；　had　been　hoping　to　begin　something　new　that　weekend；　to　chart　a　new　course　by　a　new　set　of　stars。　But　the　possibility　of　rebirth；　which　had　buoyed　my　father　for　so　long；　and　preserved　his　faith　in　his　son；　was　an　article　of　faith　I'd　slowly　e　to　doubt。　After　that　weekend；　I　began　to　fall　out　of　Katie's　life　entirely。　Shortly　afterward；　she　called　me　at　work　for　the　last　time。　She　knew　the　problem　lay　on　my　end　of　things；　that　mine　were　the　letters　that　had　bee　shorter　and　more　distant。　Her　voice　brought　back　an　ache　I　hadn't　expected。　She　told　me　I　wouldn't　be　hearing　from　her　again　until　I　figured　out　for　myself　where　we　stood。　Finally；　she　gave　me　her　number　at　a　new　gallery；　and　told　me　to　call　when　things　were　different。
　　
　Things　were　never　different。　Not　for　me；　anyway。　It　wasn't　long　before　my　mother's　new　bookstore　prospered；　and　she　called　me　back　to　run　the　one　in　Columbus。　I　told　her　it　was　too　difficult　to　leave　Texas；　now　that　I　had　roots。　My　sisters　visited　me；　and　Charlie　with　his　family　once；　each　leaving　with　advice　on　how　I　could　get　myself　out　of　this　slump；　how　I　could　get　past　this；　whatever　it　was。　The　truth　is；　I've　just　been　watching　things　change　around　me。　The　faces　are　younger　every　year；　but　I　see　the　same　formulations　in　all　of　them；　reissued　like　money；　new　priests　in　old　denominations。　I　remember　that　in　the　economics　class　I　took　with　Brooks；　we　were　taught　that　a　single　dollar；　circulated　long　enough；　could　buy　everything　in　the　world…as　if　merce　were　a　candle　that　could　never　burn　itself　out。　But　I　see　that　same　dollar　now　in　every　exchange。　The　goods　it　buys；　I　no　longer　need。　Most　days；　they　hardly　seem　like　goods　at　all。
　It　was　Paul　who　weathered　time's　passage　the　best。　He　always　remained　at　my　side；　twenty…two　and　brilliant；　like　an　incorruptible　Dorian　Gray。　I　believe　it　was　when　my　engagement　to　an　assistant　professor　at　the　University　of　Texas　began　to　collapse…a　woman　who　reminded　me；　I　see　now；　of　my　father　and　mother　and　Katie　all　at　once…that　I　took　to　calling　Charlie　every　week；　and　thinking　of　Paul　more　and　more。　I　wonder　if　he　wasn't　right　to　go　out　as　he　did。　Striving。　Young。　While　we；　like　Richard　Curry；　suffered　the　depredations　of　age；　the　disappointments　of　a　promising　youth。　Death　is　the　only　escape　from　time；　it　seems　to　me　now。　Maybe　Paul　knew　he　was　beating　it　all　along：　past；　present；　and　any　distinction　in　between。　Even　now；　he　seems　to　be　leading　me　toward　the　most　important　conclusions　of　my　life。　I　still　consider　him　my　closest　friend。
　
　Chapter　30
　
　Maybe；　then；　I'd　made　my　decision　before　I　ever　received　this　package　in　the　mail。　Maybe　the　package　was　only　the　accelerant；　like　the　alcohol　Parker　spilled　on　the　club　floor　that　night。　Not　even　thirty；　and　I　feel　like　an　old　man。　The　eve　of　our　fifth　reunion；　and　fifty　years　seem　to　have　gone　by。
　Imagine；　Paul　said　to　me　once；　that　the　present　is　simply　a　reflection　of　the　future。　Imagine　that　we　spend　our　whole　lives　staring　into　a　mirror　with　the　future　at　our　backs；　seeing　it　only　in　the　reflection　of　what　is　here　and　now。　Some　of　us　would　begin　to　believe　that　we　could　see　tomorrow　better　by　turning　around　to　look　at　it　directly。　But　those　who　did；　without　even　realizing　it；　would've　lost　the　key　to　the　perspective　they　once　had。　For　the　one　thing　they　would　never　be　able　to　see　in　it　was　themselves。　By　turning　their　backs　on　the　mirror；　they　would　bee　the　one　element　of　the　future　their　eyes　could　never　find。
　At　the　time；　I　thought　Paul　was　parroting　wisdom　he'd　gotten　from　Taft；　which　Taft　had　stolen　from　some　Greek　philosopher；　the　idea　that　we　spend　our　lives　backing　into　the　future。　What　I　couldn't　see；　because　I　was　turned　the　wrong　way；　was　that　Paul　meant　it　for　me；　about　me。　For　years　I've　been　determined　to　get　on　with　my　life　by　doggedly　hunting　down　the　future。　It　was　what　everyone　told　me　I　should　do；　to　forget　the　past；　to　look　forward；　and　in　the　end　I　did　it　better　than　anyone　might've　expected。　When　I　arrived；　though；　I　began　to　imagine　that　I　knew　exactly　what　my　father　felt；　that　I　could　identify　with　the　way　things　seemed　to　turn　against　him　with　no　explanation。
　The　fact　is；　I　don't　know　the　first　thing　about　it。　I　turn　around　now；　toward　the　present；　and　find　that　I've　had　nothing　like　the　disappointments　he　experienced。　In　a　business　I　knew　nothing　about；　which　never　captured　my　heart；　I've　done　well　for　myself。　My　superiors　marvel　that；　after　being　the　last　man　out　of　the　office　for　five　years；　I　have　never　taken　a　single　day　off。　Not　knowing　any　better；　they　mistake　it　for　devotion。
　Seeing　that　now；　and　paring　it　to　the　way　my　father　never　did　anything　he　didn't　love；　I　e　to　a　certain　understanding。　I　don't　know　him　any　better　than　I　ever　did；　but　I　know　something　about　the　position　I've　taken　all　these　years；　turning　to　stare　at　the　future。　It's　a　blind　way　to　face　life；　a　stance　that　lets　the　world　pass　you　by；　just　as　you　think　you're　ing　to　grips　with　it。
　Tonight；　long　after　leaving　the　office；　I　quit　my　job　in　Texas。　I　watched　the　sun　go　down　over　Austin；　realizing　it　had　never　once　snowed　in　all　my　time　here；　not　in　April；　not　even　in　midwinter。　I've　almost　forgotten　what　it　feels　like　to　crawl　into　a　bed　so　cold；　you　wished　there　was　someone　else　in　it。　Texas　is　so　hot；　it　helps　you　believe　you're　better　off　sleeping　alone。
　The　package　was　waiting　at　my　house　when　I　came　back　from　work　today。　A　little　brown　mailing　tube　propped　against　my　door；　so　unexpectedly　light；　I　thought　it　might　be　empty。　There　was　nothing　on　the　outside　but　my　house　number　and　postal　code；　no　return　address；　only　a　handwritten　routing　number　in　the　left　corner。　I　remembered　a　poster　Charlie　said　he　was　sending　me；　an　Eakins　painting　of　a　lone　rower　on　the　Schuylkill　River。　He'd　been　trying　to　convince　me　to　move　closer　to　Philadelphia；　trying　to　convince　me　that　it　was　the　right　city　for　a　man　like　me。　His　son　should　see　more　of　his　godfather；　he　said。　Charlie　thought　I　was　slipping　away。
　So　I　cracked　the　tube　open；　saving　it　for　after　the　regular　mail；　the　credit　card　offers　and　sweepstakes　notifications　and　nothing　that　resembled　a　letter　from　Katie。　In　the　glow　of　the　television；　the　barrel　seemed　hollow；　no　poster　from　Charlie；　no　message。　Only　when　I　stuck　my　finger　inside　did　I　feel　something　thin　curled　around　the　circumference。　One　side　of　it　felt　glossy；　the　other　side　ragged。　I　pulled　it　out　less　gently　than　I　should　have；　considering　what　it　was。
　Bottled　inside　the　little　package　was　an　oil　painting。　I　rolled　it　open；　wondering　for　a　second　if　Charlie　had　outdone　himself　and　bought　me　an　original。　But　when　I　saw　the　image　on　the　canvas；　I　knew　better。　The　style　was　much　older　than　nineteenth…century　American；　much　older　than　any　century　American。　The　subject　was　religious。　It　was　European；　from　the　first　true　age　of　painting。
　It　is　difficult　to　explain　the　feeling　of　holding　the　past　in　your　hands。　The　smell　of　that　canvas　was　stronger　and　more　plex　than　anything　in　Texas；　where　even　wine　and　money　are　young。　There　was　a　trace　of　the　same　smell　at　Princeton；　possibly　at　Ivy；　certainly　in　the　oldest　rooms　of　Nassau　Hall。　But　the　odor　was　much　more　concentrated　here；　in　this　tiny　cylinder；　the　smell　of　age；　hardy　and　thick。
　The　canvas　was　dark　with　grime；　but　slowly　I　made　out　the　subject。　In　the　background　stood　the　statuary　of　ancient　Egypt；　obelisks　and　hieroglyphs　and　unfamiliar　monuments。　In　the　foreground　was　a　single　man；　to　whom　others　had　e　in　submission。　Seeing　a　hint　of　pigment；　I　looked　more　closely。　The　man's　robe　was　painted　with　a　brighter　palette　than　the　rest　of　the　scene。　In　the　dusty　desert；　it　was　radiant。　This　man　be