iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第8部分

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e　Bob　Dylan　of　the　1790s。
　That　was　my　father's　way：　to　erase　the　line　in　history　beyond　which　everything　seems　stuffy　and　arcane。　Instead　of　timelines　and　great　men；　history　to　him　was　ideas　and　books。　He　followed　McBee's　advice　for　two　more　years　at　Princeton；　and　after　graduating　he　followed　it　all　the　way　back　west　to　the　University　of　Chicago　for　a　Ph。D。　on　Renaissance　Italy。　A　year　of　fellowship　work　in　New　York　ensued；　until　Ohio　State　offered　him　a　tenure…track　position　teaching　quattrocento　history；　and　he　leapt　at　the　chance　to　go　home。　My　mother；　an　accountant　whose　tastes　ran　to　Shelley　and　Blake；　took　up　the　bookselling　business　in　Columbus　after　my　grandfather　retired；　and　between　the　two　of　them　I　was　raised　in　the　fold　of　bibliophiles；　the　way　some　children　are　raised　in　religion。
　At　the　age　of　four　I　was　traveling　to　book　conferences　with　my　mother。　By　six　I　knew　the　difference　between　parchment　and　vellum　better　than　I　knew　a　Fleer　from　a　Topps。　Before　my　tenth　birthday　I　had　handled　some　half…dozen　copies　of　the　printing　world's　masterpiece；　the　Gutenberg　Bible。　But　I　can't　even　remember　a　time　in　my　life　when　I　didn't　know　which　book　was　the　Bible　of　our　own　little　faith：　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　〃It's　the　last　great　Renaissance　mystery；　Thomas；〃　my　father　would　lecture　me；　the　same　way　McBee　must　have　lectured　him。　〃But　no　one　has　e　even　close　to　solving　it。〃
　He　was　right：　no　one　had。　Of　course；　it　wasn't　until　decades　after　the　book　was　published　that　anyone　realized　it　needed　solving。　That　was　when　a　scholar　made　a　strange　discovery。　When　the　first　letters　of　every　chapter　in　the　Hypnerotomachia　are　strung　together；　they　form　an　acrostic　in　Latin：　Poliam　Frater　Franciscus　Columna　Peramavit；　which　means　〃Brother　Francesco　Colonna　loved　Polia　tremendously。〃　Since　Polia　was　the　name　of　the　woman　Poliphilo　searches　for；　other　scholars　finally　started　to　ask　who　the　author　of　the　Hypnerotomachia　really　was。　The　book　itself　doesn't　say；　and　even　Aldus；　the　printer；　never　knew。　But　from　that　point　on；　it　became　mon　to　suppose　that　the　author　was　an　Italian　friar　named　Francesco　Colonna。　In　a　small　group　of　professional　researchers；　particularly　those　inspired　by　McBee；　it　also　became　mon　to　suppose　that　the　acrostic　was　only　a　hint　of　the　secrets　that　lay　within　the　book。　That　group's　quest　was　to　discover　the　rest。
　My　father's　claim　to　fame　in　all　this　was　a　document　he　found　during　the　summer　I　turned　fifteen。　That　year…the　year　before　the　car　accident…he　brought　me　with　him　on　a　research　trip　to　a　monastery　in　southern　Germany；　then　later　to　the　Vatican　libraries。　We　were　sharing　an　Italian　studio　apartment　with　two　rollaway　beds　and　a　prehistoric　stereo　system；　and　each　morning　for　five　weeks；　with　the　precision　of　a　medieval　punishment；　he　chose　a　new　Corelli　masterwork　from　the　pilations　he'd　brought；　then　woke　me　to　the　sound　of　violins　and　harpsichords　at　exactly　half…past　seven；　reminding　me　that　research　waited　for　no　man。
　I　would　rise　to　find　him　shaving　over　the　sink；　or　ironing　his　shirts；　or　counting　the　bills　in　his　wallet；　always　humming　along　with　the　recording。　Short　as　he　was；　he　tended　to　every　inch　of　his　appearance；　plucking　strands　of　gray　from　his　thick　brown　hair　the　way　florists　cull　limp　petals　from　roses。　There　was　an　internal　vitality　he　was　trying　to　preserve；　a　vivaciousness　he　thought　was　diminished　by　the　crow's…feet　at　the　corners　of　his　eyes；　by　the　thinking　man's　wrinkles　across　his　forehead；　and　whenever　my　imagination　was　dulled　by　the　endless　shelves　of　books　where　we　spent　our　days；　he　was　always　quick　to　sympathize。　At　lunchtime　we　would　take　to　the　streets　for　fresh　pastries　and　gelato；　every　evening　he　would　bring　me　into　town　for　sight…seeing。　One　night　in　Rome；　he　led　me　on　a　tour　of　the　city's　fountains；　telling　me　to　toss　a　lucky　penny　into　each　one。
　〃One　for　Sarah　and　Kristen；〃　he　said　at　the　Barcaccia。　〃To　help　mend　their　broken　hearts。〃
　My　sisters　had　each　been　in　a　painful　breakup　just　before　we　left。　My　father；　who　never　took　much　to　their　boyfriends；　considered　it　a　blessing　in　disguise。
　〃One　for　your　mother；〃　he　said　at　the　Fontana　del　Tritone。　〃For　putting　up　with　me。〃
　When　my　father's　request　for　university　funding　had　fallen　through；　my　mother　kept　the　bookstore　open　on　Sundays　to　help　pay　for　our　trip。
　〃And　one　for　us；〃　he　said　at　the　Quattro　Fiumi。　〃May　we　find　what　we're　looking　for。〃
　What　we　were　looking　for；　I　never　really　knew…at　least；　not　until　we　stumbled　onto　it。　All　I　knew　was　that　my　father　believed　scholarship　on　the　Hypnerotomachia　had　reached　a　dead　end；　mainly　because　everyone　was　missing　the　forest　for　the　trees。　Thumping　his　fist　on　the　dinner　table；　he　would　insist　that　the　scholars　who　disagreed　with　him　had　their　heads　in　the　sand。　The　book　itself　was　too　difficult　to　understand　from　within；　he　said；　a　better　approach　was　to　search　for　documents　that　hinted　at　who　the　author　really　was；　and　why　he'd　written　it。
　In　reality；　my　father　alienated　many　people　with　his　narrow　vision　of　the　truth。　If　it　hadn't　been　for　the　discovery　we　made　that　summer；　my　family　might　soon　have　found　itself　relying　entirely　on　the　bookstore　for　its　livelihood。　Instead；　Lady　Fortune　smiled　on　my　father；　hardly　a　year　before　she　took　his　life。
　On　the　third…floor　branch　of　one　of　the　Vatican　libraries；　in　a　recessed　aisle　of　bookshelves　that　even　the　monkish　dusters　had　not　dusted；　as　we　stood　back…to…back　searching　for　the　clue　he'd　been　pursuing　for　years；　my　father　found　a　letter　inserted　between　the　pages　of　a　thick　family　history。　Dated　two　years　before　the　Hypnerotomachia　was　published；　it　was　addressed　to　a　confessor　at　a　local　church；　and　it　told　the　story　of　a　high…ranking　Roman　scion。　His　name　was　Francesco　Colonna。
　It's　difficult　to　re…create　my　father's　excitement　when　he　saw　the　name。　The　wire…frame　glasses　he　wore；　which　slunk　down　his　nose　the　longer　he　read；　magnified　his　eyes　just　enough　to　make　them　the　measure　of　his　curiosity；　the　first　and　last　thing　most　people　ever　remembered　about　him。　At　that　moment；　as　he　sized　up　what　he'd　found；　all　the　light　in　the　room　seemed　to　converge　inside　those　eyes。　The　letter　he　held　was　written　in　a　clumsy　hand；　in　broken　Tuscan；　as　if　by　a　man　who　was　not　accustomed　to　that　language；　or　to　the　act　of　writing。　It　rambled　on　and　on；　sometimes　directed　at　no　one　in　particular；　sometimes　directed　at　God。　The　author　apologized　for　not　writing　in　Latin　or　in　Greek；　which　were　unknown　to　him。　Then；　at　last；　he　apologized　for　what　he　had　done。
　Forgive　me；　Holy　Father；　for　I　have　killed　two　men。　It　was　my　own　hand　that　struck　the　blow；　but　the　design　was　never　mine。　It　was　Master　Francesco　Colonna　who　bid　me　do　it。　Judge　us　both　with　mercy。
　The　letter　claimed　that　the　murders　were　part　of　an　intricate　plan；　one　that　no　man　as　simple　as　the　author　himself　could　have　contrived。　The　two　victims　were　men　Colonna　suspected　of　treachery；　and　at　his　direction　they　were　sent　on　an　unusual　mission。　They　were　given　a　letter　to　deliver　to　a　church　outside　the　walls　of　Rome；　where　a　third　man　would　be　waiting　to　receive　it。　Under　pain　of　death　the　two　men　were　not　to　look　at　the　letter；　not　to　lose　it；　not　to　so　much　as　touch　it　with　an　ungloved　hand。　So　began　the　story　of　the　simple　Roman　mason　who　slew　the　messengers　at　San　Lorenzo。
　　
　The　discovery　my　father　and　I　made　that　summer　came　to　be　known；　in　academic　circles；　as　the　Belladonna　Document。　My　father　felt　sure　it　would　revive　his　reputation　in　the　scholarly　munity；　and　within　six　months　he　published　a　small　book　under　that　title　suggesting　the　letter's　connection　to　the　Hypnerotomachia。　The　book　was　dedicated　to　me。　In　it；　he　argued　that　the　Francesco　Colonna　who'd　written　the　Hypnerotomachia　was　not　the　Venetian　monk；　as　most　professors　believed；　but　instead　the　Roman　aristocrat　mentioned　in　our　letter。　To　bolster　this　claim；　he　added　an　appendix　including　all　known　records　on　the　lives　of　both　the　Venetian　monk；　whom　he　called　the　Pretender；　and　of　the　Roman　Colonna；　so　that　readers　could　pare。　The　appendix　alone　made　believers　of　both　Paul　and　me。
　The　details　are　straightforward。　The　monastery　in　Venice　where　the　false　Francesco　lived　was　an　unthinkable　place　for　a　philosopher…author；　most　of　the　time；　to　hear　my　father　tell　it；　the　place　was　an　unholy　cocktail　of　loud　music；　hard　drinking；　and　lurid　sexual　escapades。　When　Pope　Clement　VII　attempted　to　force　restraint　on　the　brethren　there；　they　replied　that　they　would　sooner　bee　Lutherans　than　accept　discipline。　Even　in　such　an　environment；　the　Pretender's　biography　reads　like　a　rap　sheet。　In　1477　he　was　exiled　from　the　monastery　for　unnamed　violations。　Four　years　later　he　returned；　only　to　mit　a　separate　crime；　for　which　he　was　almost　defrocked。　In　1516　he　pled　no　contest　to　rape　and　was　banished　for　life。　Undeterred；　he　returned　again；　and　was　exiled　again；　this　time　for　a　scandal　involving　a　jeweler。　Mercifully；　death　took　him　in　1527。　The　Venetian　Francesco　Colonna…accused　thief；　confessed　rapist；　lifelong　Dominican…was　ninety…three　years　old。
　The　Roman　Francesco；　on　the　other　hand；　appeared　to　be　a　model　of　every　scholarly　virtue。　According　to　my　father；　he　was　t