iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第15章

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ention。　When　Francesco's　ship　finally　did　e　to　port；　old　Genovese　could　hardly　believe　his　eyes。
　Why　would　a　nobleman　trouble　himself　over　such　a　trivial　little　bark；　he　wrote；　this　grubby　runt…duckling　of　a　boat？　What　could　it　be　carrying　that　a　man　of　quality　would　possibly　give　a　dirty　damn　about？
　And　when　he　learned　that　it　had　e　around　Gibraltar；　carrying　goods　from　the　north；　Genovese　was　nearly　apoplectic。　He　filled　his　little　book　with　filthy　swears；　saying　that　Colonna　was　a　syphilitic　madman；　and　that　only　a　dunce　or　a　lunatic　would　believe　that　anything　of　value　had　ever　e　from　a　place　like　Paris。
　According　to　Richard　Curry；　only　two　other　entries　referred　to　Colonna。　In　the　first；　Genovese　recorded　a　conversation　he　overheard　between　Colonna　and　a　Florentine　architect　who　was　the　Roman's　only　regular　visitor。　In　it；　Francesco　alluded　to　a　book　he　was　writing；　in　which　he　chronicled　the　turmoil　of　recent　days。　Genovese；　still　gripped　with　fear；　made　a　careful　note　of　it。
　The　second　entry；　made　three　days　later；　was　more　cryptic；　but　even　more　reminiscent　of　the　letter　I　found　with　my　father。　By　then；　Genovese　had　convinced　himself　that　Colonna　was　truly　mad。　The　Roman　refused　to　let　his　men　unload　the　ship　in　daylight；　insisting　that　the　freight　could　only　be　moved　safely　at　dusk。　Many　of　the　wooden　cargo　cases；　the　portmaster　observed；　were　light　enough　to　be　carried　by　a　woman　or　an　old　man；　and　he　taxed　himself　to　think　of　a　spice　or　metal　that　would　be　shipped　in　this　way。　Gradually　Genovese　began　to　suspect　that　Colonna's　associates…the　architect　and　a　pair　of　brothers；　also　from　Florence…were　henchmen　or　mercenaries　in　some　dark　plot。　When　a　rumor　seemed　to　confirm　his　fear；　he　feverishly　wrote　it　down。
　It　is　said　that　Antonio　and　the　thief　are　not　this　man's　first　victims；　but　that　Colonna　has　had　two　other　men　killed　at　his　whim。　I　do　not　know　who　they　are；　and　have　not　yet　heard　their　names　spoken；　but　I　am　sure　it　must　be　about　this　cargo　of　his。　They　learned　of　its　contents；　and　he　feared　their　betrayal。　I　am　convinced　of　it　now：　fear　is　the　thing　that　moves　this　man。　His　eyes　betray　him；　even　if　his　men　do　not。
　According　to　my　father；　Curry　made　less　of　the　second　entry　than　of　the　first；　which　he　believed　might　be　a　reference　to　the　writing　of　the　Hypnerotomachia。　If　true；　then　the　story　the　thief　had　discovered　among　Colonna's　belongings；　the　details　of　which　Genovese　never　bothered　to　record；　might　have　been　an　early　draft　of　the　manuscript。
　But　Taft；　who　by　then　was　pursuing　the　Hypnerotomachia　from　his　own　angles；　assembling　huge　catalogs　of　textual　references　into　a　concordance；　so　that　every　word　of　Colonna's　could　be　traced　to　its　origins；　failed　to　see　any　possible　relevance　to　the　chicken…scratch　notes　the　portmaster　claimed　to　see　Colonna　keeping。　Such　a　ridiculous　story；　he　said；　could　never　shed　light　on　the　profound　mystery　of　the　great　book。　He　quickly　treated　the　discovery　the　same　way　he'd　treated　every　other　book　he'd　read　on　the　subject：　as　kindling　for　the　fire。
　His　frustration；　I　think；　was　rooted　in　more　than　his　feelings　about　the　diary。　He　had　seen　the　balance　of　power　shift　against　him；　the　chemistry　of　his　work　with　Richard　Curry　depose　as　my　father　lured　Curry　into　new　approaches　and　alternative　possibilities。
　And　so　a　struggle　ensued；　a　battle　of　influence；　in　which　my　father　and　Vincent　Taft　conceived　the　hatred　for　each　other　that　would　last　until　the　end　of　my　father's　life。　Taft；　feeling　that　he　had　nothing　to　lose；　vilified　my　father's　work　in　an　attempt　to　win　Curry　back　to　his　side。　My　father；　feeling　that　Curry　was　withering　under　Taft's　pressure；　responded　in　kind。　In　one　month；　the　work　of　the　previous　ten　was　undone。　Whatever　progress　the　three　men　had　made　together　unraveled　into　separate　ownerships；　neither　Taft　nor　my　father　wanting　anything　to　do　with　what　the　other　had　contributed。
　Curry；　through　it　all；　clung　to　Genovese's　diary。　It　mystified　him；　how　his　friends　had　let　petty　grudges　promise　their　focus。　He　possessed；　in　his　youth；　the　same　virtue　he　would　later　see　and　admire　in　Paul：　a　mitment　to　truth；　and　a　great　impatience　with　distraction。　Of　the　three　men；　I　think　it　was　Curry　who'd　fallen　hardest　for　Colonna's　book；　Curry　who　wanted　most　of　all　to　solve　it。　Maybe　because　my　father　and　Taft　were　still　university　men；　they　saw　something　academic　in　the　Hypnerotomachia。　They　knew　a　scholar's　life　could　be　spent　in　the　service　of　a　single　book；　and　it　dulled　their　sense　of　urgency。　Only　Richard　Curry；　the　art　dealer；　maintained　his　furious　pace。　He　must　have　sensed　his　future　even　then。　His　life　in　books　was　fleeting。
　　
　Not　one　but　two　events　brought　matters　to　a　head。　The　first　occurred　when　my　father　went　back　to　Columbus　to　clear　his　head。　Three　days　before　returning　to　New　York　he　stumbled；　quite　literally；　across　a　coed　from　Ohio　State。　She　and　her　Pi　Beta　Phi　sisters　were　in　the　midst　of　a　book　drive；　soliciting　donations　from　local　shops　as　part　of　a　yearly　charity　event；　and　at　the　door　to　my　grandfather's　bookstore　their　paths　crossed　before　either　of　them　realized　it。　In　a　feathery　explosion　of　pages　and　paperbacks；　my　mother　and　father　fell　to　the　floor；　and　the　needle　of　destiny　tightened　its　stitch　and　shuttled　on。
　By　the　time　he　arrived　back　in　Manhattan；　my　father　was　irretrievably　lost；　thunderstruck　by　his　encounter　with　the　long…haired；　azure…eyed　sorority　girl　who　called　him　Tiger　and　was　alluding　not　to　Princeton　but　to　Blake。　Even　before　meeting　her；　he　knew　that　he'd　had　enough　of　Taft。　He　also　knew　that　Richard　Curry　had　struck　out　on　a　path　of　his　own；　fixated　on　the　portmaster's　diary。　Now　the　call　of　home　nagged。　With　his　father　ailing；　and　with　a　woman　in　his　one　true　port；　my　father　returned　to　Manhattan　only　to　gather　his　belongings　and　say　good…bye。　His　years　on　the　East　Coast；　which　had　begun　so　promisingly　at　Princeton　with　Richard　Curry；　were　drawing　to　a　close。
　When　he　arrived　at　their　weekly　meeting　place；　though；　prepared　to　deliver　the　news；　my　father　found　himself　in　the　wake　of　another　bombshell。　During　his　absence；　Taft　and　Curry　had　argued　the　first　night；　and　fought　physically　the　next。　The　old　football　captain　proved　no　match　for　bear…size　Vincent　Taft；　who　took　one　swing　at　the　younger　man　and　broke　his　nose。　Then；　on　the　evening　before　my　father　returned；　Curry　left　his　apartment；　eyes　black　and　nose　bandaged；　to　have　dinner　with　a　woman　from　his　gallery。　When　he　returned　to　the　apartment　that　night；　documents　from　the　auction　house；　along　with　all　of　his　Hypnerotomachia　research；　were　gone。　His　most　carefully　guarded　possession；　the　portmaster's　diary；　had　vanished　with　them。
　Curry　was　quick　with　accusations；　but　Taft　denied　each　one。　The　police；　citing　a　string　of　local　burglaries；　took　little　interest　in　the　disappearance　of　a　few　old　books。　But　my　father；　arriving　in　the　middle　of　it　all；　sided　instantly　with　Curry。　Both　of　them　told　Taft　that　they　wanted　nothing　more　to　do　with　him；　my　father　then　explained　that　he　had　a　ticket　for　Columbus　in　the　morning；　and　that　he　intended　not　to　return。　He　and　Richard　Curry　spoke　their　farewells　even　as　Taft　looked　silently　on。
　So　ended　the　formative　period　in　my　father's　life；　the　single　year　that　set　in　motion　all　the　clockwork　of　his　future　identity。　Thinking　back　on　it；　I　wonder　if　it　isn't　the　same　for　all　of　us。　Adulthood　is　a　glacier　encroaching　quietly　on　youth。　When　it　arrives；　the　stamp　of　childhood　suddenly　freezes；　capturing　us　for　good　in　the　image　of　our　last　act；　the　pose　we　struck　when　the　ice　of　age　set　in。　The　three　dimensions　of　Patrick　Sullivan；　when　the　cold　began　to　claim　him；　were　husband；　father；　and　scholar。　They　defined　him　until　the　end。
　After　the　theft　of　the　portmaster's　diary；　Taft　vanished　from　the　story　of　my　father's　life；　only　to　resurface　as　the　gadfly　of　his　career；　biting　from　behind　the　scholar's　veil。　Curry　would　not　be　in　touch　with　my　father　for　more　than　three　years；　until　the　occasion　of　my　parents'　wedding。　The　letter　he　wrote　then　was　an　uneasy　thing；　dwelling　mainly　in　the　shadow　of　darker　days。　The　first　few　words　offered　his　congratulations　to　the　bride　and　groom；　everything　aft