iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第70部分

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with　a　brighter　palette　than　the　rest　of　the　scene。　In　the　dusty　desert；　it　was　radiant。　This　man　before　me；　I　hadn't　thought　of　in　years。　It　was　Joseph；　now　a　great　official　in　Egypt；　rewarded　by　the　pharaoh　for　interpreting　dreams。　Joseph；　revealing　himself　to　his　brothers　who　came　to　buy　grain；　the　very　brothers　who　left　him　for　dead　so　many　years　before。　Joseph；　restored　to　his　coat　of　many　colors。
　On　the　bases　of　the　statuary　had　been　painted　three　inscriptions。　The　first　read：　CRESCEBAT　AUTEM　COTIDIE　FAMES　IN　OMNI　TERRA　APERUITQUE　IOSEPH　UNIVERSA　HORREA。　There　was　famine　all　over　the　world。　Then　Joseph　opened　the　granaries。　Then：　FESTINAVITQUE　QUIA　MOTA　FUERANT　VISCERA　EIUS　SUPER　FRATRE　SUO　ET　ERUMPEBANT　LACRIMAE　ET　INTROIENS　CUBICULUM　FLEVIT。　Joseph　hurried　out；　so　strong　was　the　affection　he　felt　for　his　brother　that　he　wanted　to　cry。　On　the　base　of　the　third　statue　was　simply　a　printed　signature。　SANDRO　DI　MARIANO…better　known　by　the　nickname　his　older　brother　gave　him：　〃little　barrel；〃　or　Botticelli。　By　the　date　below　his　name；　the　canvas　was　over　five　hundred　years　old。
　I　stared　at　it；　this　relic　that　only　one　other　pair　of　hands　had　touched　since　the　day　it　was　sealed　below　ground。　Beautiful　in　a　way　that　no　humanist　could　resist；　with　its　pagan　statuary　that　Savonarola　could　never　abide。　Here　it　was；　nearly　destroyed　by　age；　but　somehow　still　intact；　still　vibrant　beneath　the　soot。　Alive；　after　all　this　time。
　I　laid　it　on　the　table　when　my　hands　became　too　unsteady　to　hold　it；　and　I　reached　into　the　tube　again；　looking　for　something　I'd　missed。　A　letter；　a　note；　even　just　a　symbol。　But　it　was　empty。　The　handwriting　on　the　outside；　spelling　out　my　address　with　such　care。　But　nothing　else。　Only　postmarks　and　a　routing　code　in　the　corner。
　Then　that　routing　code　caught　my　eye：　39…055…210185…GEN4519。　There　was　a　pattern　to　it；　like　the　logic　of　a　riddle。　It　formed　an　exchange；　a　phone　number　overseas。
　At　the　dark　end　of　a　bookshelf　I　found　a　volume　someone　had　given　me　for　Christmas　years　ago；　an　almanac；　with　its　catalogs　of　temperatures　and　dates　and　zip　codes；　suddenly　useful。　Toward　the　back　was　a　list　of　foreign　prefixes。
　39；　the　country　code　for　Italy。
　055；　the　area　code　for　Florence。
　I　stared　at　the　rest　of　the　numbers；　beginning　to　feel　the　return　of　my　pulse；　the　old　drumming　in　my　ears。　21　01　85；　a　local　phone　number。　GEN4519；　possibly　a　room　number；　an　extension。　He　was　at　a　hotel；　in　an　apartment。
　There　was　famine　all　over　the　world。　Then　Joseph　opened　the　granaries。
　I　looked　back　at　the　painting；　then　over　at　the　mailing　tube。
　GEN4519。
　Joseph　hurried　out；　so　strong　was　the　affection　he　felt　for　his　brother　that　he　wanted　to　cry。
　GEN4519。　GEN45：19。
　In　the　home　I'd　made；　it　was　easier　to　find　an　almanac　than　a　Bible。　I　had　to　rummage　through　old　boxes　in　my　attic　before　ing　across　the　Bible　that　Charlie　claimed　to　have　left　behind　accidentally　after　his　last　visit。　He　thought　he　might　be　able　to　share　his　faith　with　me；　the　certainties　that　came　with　it。　Indefatigable　Charlie；　hopeful　to　the　end。
　I　have　it　now；　in　front　of　me。　Genesis　45：19　es　at　the　conclusion　of　the　story　Botticelli　painted。　After　revealing　himself　to　his　brothers；　Joseph　bees　a　gift…giver；　just　like　his　father　before　him。　After　all　he　has　suffered；　he　says　he　will　take　his　brothers　back；　they　who　now　starve　in　Canaan；　and　let　them　share　in　the　bounty　of　his　Egypt。　And　I；　who　have　made　the　mistake　most　of　my　life　of　trying　to　leave　my　father　behind　me；　of　thinking　I　could　move　forward　by　keeping　him　in　the　past；　I　understand　perfectly。
　Get　your　father　and　e；　the　verse　says。　Never　mind　about　your　property；　for　the　best　of　all　Egypt　will　be　yours。
　I　pick　up　the　phone。
　Get　your　father　and　e；　I　think；　wondering　how　he　understood；　even　when　I　didn't。
　I　put　the　phone　back　down　and　reach　for　my　daybook；　to　copy　the　number　before　anything　can　happen　to　it。　In　those　lonely　pages；　the　new　H　of　Paul　Harris　and　the　old　M　of　Katie　Marchand　are　the　only　two　entries　on　the　spread。　It　feels　unnatural　to　add　a　name　now；　but　I　am　fighting　the　sensation　that　all　I　have　is　this　set　of　digits　on　the　mailing　tube；　a　single　chance　that　could　be　erased　by　the　simplest　mistake；　an　opportunity　that　could　bleed　into　nothing　beneath　a　single　drop　of　water。
　There　is　sweat　on　my　hands　as　I　lift　the　receiver　again；　hardly　aware　of　the　time　that　has　passed　as　I　sat　here；　trying　to　think　of　the　words　to　put　to　this。　Out　the　bay　window　of　my　bedroom；　in　the　glittering　Texas　night；　I　can　see　nothing　but　the　sky。
　Never　mind　about　your　property；　for　the　best　of　all　Egypt　will　be　yours。
　I　refresh　the　dial　tone　and　start　pushing　the　buttons　on　the　keypad。　A　number　I　never　thought　my　fingers　would　form；　a　voice　I　never　thought　I'd　hear　again。　There　is　a　distant　buzz；　the　ringing　of　a　telephone　in　another　time　zone。　Then；　after　the　fourth　ring；　a　voice。
　You've　reached　Katie　Marchand　at　Hudson　Gallery；　Manhattan。　Please　leave　a　message。
　Then　a　beep。
　〃Katie；〃　I　say；　into　the　hum　of　silence；　〃this　is　Tom。　It's　almost　midnight　here。　Texas　time。〃
　The　hush　of　the　other　end　is　haunting。　It　might　have　overwhelmed　me；　if　I　didn't　know　exactly　what　I　wanted　to　say。
　〃I'm　leaving　Austin　tomorrow　morning。　I'll　be　gone　for　a　while；　I'm　not　sure　how　long。〃
　There　is　a　photo　of　the　two　of　us　in　a　small　frame　on　my　desk。　We're　slightly　off…center；　both　holding　one　side　of　the　camera　and　pointing　it　toward　ourselves。　The　campus　chapel　is　behind　us；　stony　and　still；　Princeton　whispering　in　the　background　even　now。
　〃When　I　get　back　from　Florence；〃　I　tell　her；　the　sophomore　in　my　picture；　my　accidental　gift；　just　before　the　machine　in　New　York　cuts　off；　〃I　want　to　see　you。〃
　Then　I　place　the　receiver　back　in　its　cradle　and　stare　out　the　window　again。　There　will　be　bags　to　pack；　travel　agents　to　call；　new　pictures　to　take。　Even　as　I　begin　to　realize　the　magnitude　of　what　I'm　doing；　a　thought　occurs　to　me。　Somewhere　in　the　city　of　rebirth；　Paul　is　lifting　himself　out　of　bed；　staring　out　his　window；　and　waiting。　There　are　pigeons　cooing　on　rooftops；　cathedral　bells　tolling　from　towers　in　the　distance。　We　are　sitting　here；　continents　apart；　the　same　way　we　always　did：　at　the　edges　of　our　mattresses；　together。　On　the　ceilings　where　I　am　going　there　will　be　saints　and　gods　and　flights　of　angels。　Everywhere　I　walk　there　will　be　reminders　of　all　that　time　can't　touch。　My　heart　is　a　bird　in　a　cage；　ruffling　its　wings　with　the　ache　of　expectation。　In　Italy；　the　sun　is　rising。
　Authors'　Note
　
　The　identity　of　the　Hypnerotomachia's　author　has　remained　uncertain　for　over　five　hundred　years。　In　the　absence　of　definitive　proof　favoring　the　Roman　Francesco　Colonna　or　his　Venetian　namesake；　scholars　have　continued　to　grapple　with　the　strange　acrostic；　〃Poliam　Frater　Franciscus　Columna　Peramavit；〃　sometimes　citing　it　as　evidence　of　the　author's　mysterious　intent。
　Girolamo　Savonarola　（1452…1498）　was　both　respected　and　reviled　by　the　citizens　of　Florence　during　his　brief　tenure　as　the　city's　religious　leader。　Though　to　some　he　remains　a　symbol　of　spiritual　reform　against　the　excesses　of　his　time；　to　others　he　is　known　only　as　the　destroyer　of　countless　paintings；　sculptures；　and　manuscripts　in　the　bonfires　for　which　he　is　best　remembered。
　As　of　the　publication　of　The　Rule　of　Four；　no　connection　has　been　made　between　the　Hypnerotomachia　and　Savonarola。
　
　Richard　Curry　amends　Browning's　poem　〃Andrea　del　Sarto〃　to　suit　his　needs；　and　Tom；　remembering　Curry's　usage；　does　the　same。　Browning's　original　line　is：　〃I　do　what　many　dream　of；　all　their　lives〃　（emphasis　added）。　Tom　and　Paul　sometimes　refer　to　scholarly　books；　including　those　by　Braudel　and　Hartt；　by　shorthand　titles；　and　Paul；　in　his　enthusiastic　overview　of　Florence's　history；　indicates　that　Florentine　artists　and　intellectuals　spanning　several　centuries　were　living　〃at　the　same　time。〃　Tom　takes　the　liberty　of　shortening　the　official　name　of　Princeton　Battlefield　State　Park　to　Princeton　Battlefield　Park；　of　attributing　〃Take　the　'A'　Train〃　to　Duke　Ellington　instead　of　Billy　Strayhorn；　and　of　suggesting；　in　his　first　meeting　with　Katie；　that　the　name　of　poet　E。E。　Cummings　was　intended　to　appear　in　lowercase；　when　Cummings　himself　（in　this　respect；　at　least）　probably　preferred　conventional　capitalization。
　The　authors　take　responsibility　for　other　inventions　and　simplifications。　The　Nude　Olympics　traditionally　began　at　midnight…not　at　sunset；　as　The　Rule　of　Four　suggests。　Jonathan　Edwards　was　indeed　Princeton's　third　president；　and　died　as　described　in　this　novel；　but　he　did　not　initiate　the　Easter　ceremonies　described　here；　which　are　fully　invented。　Though　the　eating　clubs　on　Prospect　throw　many　formal　events　each　year；　the　particular　Ivy　ball　Tom　attends　is　fictional。　And　the　floor　plan　of　the　Ivy　Club；　like　those　of　a　few　other　locations　mentioned；　has　been　changed　to　suit　the　needs　of　the　story。
　Finally；　time　itself　has　taken　a　toll　on　some　of　the　Princeton　fixtures　so　familiar　to　Tom　and　his　friends。　Katie's　sophomore　class　was　the　last　to　run　naked　in　Holder　Courtyard　on　the　night　of　the　first　snowfall　（though　it　did　so　in　January；　not　in　April）：　the　university　ou