iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第40章

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ide　but　glassy　and　fragile…looking　from　within。　Its　atrium　curves　like　a　river　through　the　music　library　and　classrooms　on　the　ground　floor；　rising　three　stories　to　skylights　above。　The　wind　howls　jealously　around　it。　Paul　unlocks　the　entrance　to　the　building　with　his　ID　card；　holding　the　door　as　I　pass　through。
　〃Which　way？〃　he　asks。
　I　lead　him　to　the　nearest　staircase。　Gil　and　I　have　been　here　twice　since　the　building　was　opened；　both　times　after　drinks　on　a　slow　Saturday　night。　His　father's　second　wife　insisted　that　Gil　learn　to　play　something　by　Duke　Ellington；　the　same　way　my　father　insisted　that　I　learn　something　by　Arcangelo　Corelli；　and　between　us　we　have　eight　years　of　lessons　and　almost　nothing　to　show　for　it。　Thumping　our　bottles　on　the　top　of　an　old　baby　grand；　Gil　would　bungle　〃　'A'　Train；〃　I　would　butcher　〃La　Follia；〃　and　we　would　pretend　to　keep　a　beat　that　neither　of　us　had　ever　learned。
　Paul　and　I　pad　down　the　basement　hallway；　to　find　that　only　one　piano　is　still　at　work。　Someone　in　a　distant　practice　room　is　playing　〃Rhapsody　in　Blue。〃　We　slip　into　a　small；　soundproof　studio；　and　Paul　edges　behind　the　upright　piano；　taking　a　seat　on　the　stool。　He　looks　at　the　keys　of　the　piano；　mysterious　as　puter　keys　to　him；　and　doesn't　touch　them。　The　overhead　light　sputters　for　a　second；　then　goes　dead。　It's　just　as　well。
　〃I　can't　believe　it；〃　he　says　finally；　taking　a　deep　breath。
　〃Why　would　they　do　it？〃　I　ask。
　Paul　runs　his　index　finger　across　a　key；　scratching　at　the　ebony。　When　he　seems　not　to　hear　the　question；　I　repeat　myself。
　〃What　do　you　want　me　to　say；　Tom？〃
　〃Maybe　this　is　why　Stein　wanted　to　help　in　the　first　place。〃
　〃When？　Tonight　with　the　diary？〃
　〃Months　ago。〃
　〃You　mean；　when　you　stopped　working　on　the　Hypnerotomachia？〃
　The　chronology　is　a　jab；　a　reminder　that　Stein's　involvement　traces　ultimately　back　to　me。
　〃You　think　this　is　my　fault？〃
　〃No；〃　Paul　says　quietly。　〃Of　course　not。〃
　But　the　accusation　hangs　in　the　air。　The　map　of　Rome；　like　the　diary；　has　reminded　me　of　what　I　left　behind；　how　much　progress　we　made　before　I　left；　how　much　I　enjoyed　it。　I　look　at　my　hands；　curled　up　in　my　lap。　It　was　my　father　who　said　I　had　lazy　hands。　Five　years　of　lessons　hadn't　produced　a　single　presentable　Corelli　sonata；　that's　when　he　started　pushing　basketball　instead。
　The　strong　take　from　the　weak；　Thomas；　but　the　smart　take　from　the　strong。
　〃What　about　the　note　to　Curry？〃　I　say；　fixing　on　the　back　of　the　piano。　The　wood　is　unvarnished　and　raw　along　the　entire　side；　where　the　upright　is　supposed　to　face　a　wall。　It　strikes　me　as　a　strange　economy；　like　a　professor　who　doesn't　brush　the　back　of　his　hair　because　he　can't　see　it　in　the　mirror。　My　father　used　to　do　that。　It　was　a　defect　of　perspective；　I　always　thought…the　mistake　of　someone　who　could　only　see　the　world　one　way。　His　students　must　have　noticed　it　as　often　as　I　did。　Every　time　he　turned　his　back　on　them。
　〃Richard　would　never　try　to　take　something　from　me；〃　Paul　says；　biting　at　a　nail。　〃We　must've　missed　something。〃
　A　hush　settles　in。　The　practice　room　is　warm；　and　when　we're　both　quiet　there's　no　sound　at　all；　besides　an　occasional　hum　from　down　the　hall；　where　Gershwin　has　been　replaced　by　a　Beethoven　sonata　that　rumbles　in　the　distance。　It　reminds　me　of　sitting　through　summer　storms　as　a　child。　The　power　is　out；　the　house　is　quiet；　and　nothing　can　be　heard　besides　the　roll　of　far…off　thunder。　My　mother　is　reading　to　me　by　candlelight…Bartholomew　Cubbins　or　an　illustrated　Sherlock　Holmes…and　the　only　thing　on　my　mind　is　how　the　best　stories　always　seem　to　be　about　men　in　funny　hats。
　〃I　think　it　was　Vincent　in　there；〃　Paul　says。　〃At　the　police　station　he　lied　about　his　relationship　with　Bill。　He　told　them　Bill　was　the　best　graduate　student　he'd　advised　in　years。〃
　We　both　know　Vincent；　Stein's　letter　said。　It's　fair　to　say　he　has　plans　of　his　own　for　anything　that　es　of　this。
　〃You　think　Taft　wants　it　for　himself？〃　I　ask。　〃He　hasn't　tried　to　publish　anything　on　the　Hypnerotomachia　in　years。〃
　〃This　isn't　about　publishing；　Tom。〃
　〃What's　it　about？〃
　Paul　stays　quiet　for　a　moment；　then　says；　〃You　heard　what　Vincent　said　tonight。　He's　never　admitted　before　that　Francesco　was　from　Rome。〃　Paul　looks　down　at　the　pedals　of　the　piano；　jutting　out　from　the　wooden　frame　like　tiny　gold　shoes。　〃He's　trying　to　take　this　away　from　me。〃
　〃Take　what　away　from　you？〃
　But　again　Paul　hesitates。　〃Never　mind。　Forget　it。〃
　〃What　if　it　was　Curry　in　the　museum？〃　I　offer；　when　he　turns　away。　The　letter　from　Stein　to　Curry　has　plicated　my　vision　of　the　man。　It　reminds　me　that　he　was　more　taken　with　the　Hypnerotomachia　than　any　of　them。
　〃He's　not　involved；　Tom。〃
　〃You　saw　how　he　acted　when　you　showed　him　the　diary。　Curry　still　thought　it　was　his。〃
　〃No。　I　know　him；　Tom。　Okay？　You　don't。〃
　〃What's　that　supposed　to　mean？〃
　〃You　never　trusted　Richard。　Even　when　he　tried　to　help　you。〃
　〃I　didn't　need　his　help。〃
　〃And　you　only　hate　Vincent　because　of　your　father。〃
　I　turn　to　him；　surprised。　〃He　drove　my　father　to…〃
　〃To　what？　Run　off　the　road？〃
　〃Drove　him　to　distraction。　What　the　hell's　wrong　with　you？〃
　〃He　wrote　a　book　review；　Tom。〃
　〃He　ruined　his　life。〃
　〃He　ruined　his　career。　There's　a　difference。〃
　〃Why　are　you　defending　him？〃
　〃I'm　not。　I'm　defending　Richard。　But　Vincent　never　did　anything　to　you。〃
　I'm　just　about　to　dig　into　Paul；　when　I　see　the　effect　our　conversation　is　having　on　him。　He　runs　the　base　of　his　palm　above　his　cheeks；　blotting　them。　For　a　second　I　can　only　see　headlights　on　the　road。　A　horn　is　blaring。
　〃Richard's　always　been　good　to　me；〃　Paul　is　saying。
　I　don't　remember　my　father　making　a　sound。　Not　once　during　that　drive；　not　even　when　we　skidded　off　the　road。
　〃You　don't　know　them；〃　he　says。　〃Either　of　them。〃
　I'm　not　sure　when　the　rain　began…while　we　were　driving　to　see　my　mother　at　the　book　show；　or　on　the　way　to　the　hospital　when　I　was　riding　in　the　ambulance。
　〃I　found　this　book　review　once　of　Vincent's　first　major　work；〃　Paul　continues。　〃A　clipping　in　his　house；　from　the　early　seventies；　back　when　he　was　a　hotshot　at　Columbia…before　he　came　to　the　Institute　and　his　career　fell　apart。　It　was　glowing；　the　kind　of　thing　professors　dream　about。　At　the　end　it　said；　'Vincent　Taft　has　already　begun　his　next　project：　a　definitive　history　of　the　Italian　Renaissance。　To　judge　from　his　existing　work；　it　will　be　a　magnum　opus　indeed；　the　sort　of　rare　acplishment　in　which　the　writing　of　history　bees　the　making　of　history。'　I　remember　that；　word　for　word。　I　found　it　spring　of　sophomore　year；　before　I　really　knew　him。　That　was　the　first　time　I　started　to　understand　who　he　was。〃
　A　book　review。　Like　the　one　he　sent　my　father；　just　to　be　sure　he'd　seen　it。　The　Belladonna　Hoax；　by　Vincent　Taft。
　〃He　was　a　star；　Tom。　You　know　that。　He　had　more　going　on　upstairs　than　most　of　the　faculty　here　bined。　But　he　lost　it。　He　didn't　burn　out；　he　just　lost　it。〃
　The　words　are　gathering　momentum；　crowding　into　the　air　as　if　a　balance　can　be　struck　between　the　silence　outside　him　and　the　pressure　within。　I　feel　like　I'm　swimming；　flailing　as　the　tide　pulls　me　out。　Paul　begins　to　talk　about　Taft　and　Curry　again；　and　I　tell　myself　they're　just　characters　in　another　book；　men　in　hats；　figments　of　the　blackout　imagination。　But　the　more　he　talks；　the　more　I　begin　to　see　them　the　way　he　does。
　　
　In　the　aftermath　of　the　debacle　surrounding　the　portmaster's　diary；　Taft　moved　from　Manhattan　into　a　white　clapboard　house　at　the　Institute；　a　mile　southwest　of　the　Princeton　campus。　Maybe　it　was　the　solitude　that　got　to　him；　the　absence　of　colleagues　to　wrestle　with；　but　within　months；　rumors　of　his　drinking　began　to　circulate　through　the　academic　munity。　The　definitive　history　he'd　planned　quietly　expired。　His　passion；　his　mand　of　his　gift；　seemed　to　crumble。
　Three　years　later；　on　the　occasion　of　his　next　publication…a　thin　volume　on　the　role　of　hieroglyphics　in　Renaissance　art…it　became　clear　that　Taft's　career　had　stalled。　Seven　years　after　that；　when　his　next　article　was　published　in　a　minor　journal；　a　reviewer　called　his　decline　a　tragedy。　According　to　Paul；　the　loss　of　what　Taf