iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第11部分

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h　without　a　sound　and　pats　at　the　pocket　of　his　old　leather　jacket。　〃I　get　these　phone　calls。　Pick　up　。　。　。　click。　Pick　up　。　。　。　click。　First　at　my　apartment；　now　at　my　office。〃　He　shakes　his　head。　〃Never　mind。　Down　to　business。　I　found　something。〃　He　glances　at　Paul　nervously。　〃Maybe　what　you　need；　maybe　not。　I　don't　know。　But　I　think　it'll　help　you　finish。〃
　From　inside　his　jacket　he　pulls　out　something　roughly　the　size　of　a　brick；　wrapped　in　layers　of　cloth。　Placing　it　gently　on　the　table；　he　begins　to　unwrap　it。　It's　a　quirk　of　Stein's　I've　noticed　before；　that　his　hands　twitch　until　they　have　a　book　between　them。　The　same　thing　happens　now：　as　he　unravels　the　cloth；　his　movements　bee　more　controlled。　Inside　the　swaddling　is　a　worn　volume；　hardly　more　than　a　hundred　pages。　It　smells　of　something　briny。
　〃What　collection　is　it　from？〃　I　ask；　seeing　no　title　on　the　spine。
　〃No　collection；〃　he　says。　〃New　York。　An　antiquarian　shop。　I　found　it。〃
　Paul　is　silent。　Slowly　he　extends　a　hand　toward　the　book。　The　animal…hide　binding　is　crude　and　cracked；　stitched　together　with　leather　twine。　The　pages　are　hand…cut。　A　frontier　artifact；　maybe。　A　book　kept　by　a　pioneer。
　〃It　must　be　a　hundred　years　old；〃　I　say；　when　Stein　doesn't　offer　any　details。　〃A　hundred　and　fifty。〃
　An　irritated　look　crosses　Stein's　face；　as　if　a　dog　has　just　fouled　his　carpet。　〃Wrong；〃　he　says。　〃Wrong。〃　It　dawns　on　me　that　I'm　the　dog。　〃Five　hundred　years。〃
　I　focus　back　on　the　book。
　〃From　Genoa；〃　Bill　continues；　focusing　on　Paul。　〃Smell　it。〃
　Paul　is　silent。　He　pulls　an　unsharpened　pencil　from　his　pocket；　turns　it　backward；　and　gently　opens　the　cover　using　the　soft　nub　of　the　eraser。　Bill　has　bookmarked　a　page　with　a　silk　ribbon。
　〃Careful；〃　Stein　says；　splaying　his　hands　out　above　the　book。　His　nails　are　bitten　to　the　quick。　〃Don't　leave　marks。　I　have　it　on　loan。〃　He　hesitates。　〃I　have　to　return　it　when　I'm　done。〃
　〃Who　had　this？〃　Paul　asks。
　〃The　Argosy　Book　Store；〃　Bill　repeats。　〃In　New　York。　It's　what　you　needed；　isn't　it？　We　can　finish　now。〃
　Paul　doesn't　seem　to　notice　the　pronouns　changing　in　Stein's　language。
　〃What　is　it？〃　I　say　more　assertively。
　〃It's　the　diary　of　the　portmaster　from　Genoa；〃　Paul　says。　His　voice　is　quiet；　his　eyes　circling　the　script　on　each　page。
　I'm　stunned。　〃Richard　Curry's　diary？〃
　Paul　nods。　Curry　was　working　on　an　ancient　Genoese　manuscript　thirty　years　ago；　which　he　claimed　would　unlock　the　Hypnerotomachia。　Shortly　after　he　told　Taft　about　the　book；　it　was　stolen　from　his　apartment。　Curry　insisted　Taft　had　stolen　it。　Whatever　the　truth　was；　Paul　and　I　had　accepted　from　the　beginning　that　the　book　was　lost　to　us。　We'd　gone　about　our　work　without　it。　Now；　with　Paul　pushing　to　finish　his　thesis；　the　diary　could　be　invaluable。
　〃Richard　told　me　there　were　references　to　Francesco　Colonna　in　here；〃　Paul　says。　〃Francesco　was　waiting　for　a　ship　to　e　into　port。　The　portmaster　made　daily　entries　about　him　and　his　men。　Where　they　stayed；　what　they　did。〃
　〃Take　it　for　a　day；〃　Bill　says；　interrupting。　He　stands　up　and　moves　toward　the　door。　〃Make　a　copy　if　you　need　to。　A　hand　copy。　Whatever　will　help　finish　the　work。　But　I　need　it　back。〃
　Paul's　concentration　breaks。　〃You're　leaving？〃
　〃I　have　to　go。〃
　〃We'll　see　you　at　Vincent's　lecture？〃
　〃Lecture？〃　Stein　stops。　〃No。　I　can't。〃
　It's　making　me　nervous；　just　watching　how　twitchy　he　is。
　〃I'll　be　in　my　office；〃　he　continues；　wrapping　a　red　tartan　scarf　around　his　neck。　〃Remember；　I　need　it　back。〃
　〃Sure；〃　Paul　says；　drawing　the　little　bundle　closer　to　him。　〃I'll　go　through　it　tonight。　I　can　make　notes。〃
　〃And　don't　tell　Vincent；〃　Stein　adds；　zipping　up　his　coat。　〃Just　between　us。〃
　〃I'll　have　it　back　for　you　tomorrow；〃　Paul　tells　him。　〃My　deadline　is　midnight。〃
　〃Tomorrow；　then；〃　Stein　says；　flicking　the　scarf　behind　him　and　slinking　off。　His　exits　always　seem　dramatic；　being　so　abrupt。　In　a　few　lanky　strides　he's　crossed　the　threshold　where　Mrs。　Lockhart　presides；　and　is　gone。　The　ancient　librarian　places　a　wilted　palm　on　a　frayed　copy　of　Victor　Hugo；　stroking　the　neck　of　an　old　boyfriend。
　〃Mrs。　Lockhart；〃　es　Bill's　voice；　fading　from　a　place　we　can't　see。　〃Good…bye。〃
　　
　〃It's　really　the　diary？〃　I　ask　as　soon　as　he's　gone。
　〃Just　listen；〃　Paul　says。
　He　refocuses　on　the　little　book　and　begins　reading　out　loud。　The　translation　proceeds　haltingly　at　first；　Paul　struggling　with　the　Ligurian　dialect；　the　language　of　Columbus's　Genoa；　fused　with　stray　French…sounding　words。　But　gradually　his　pace　improves。
　〃High　seas　last　night。　One　ship　。　。　。　broken　on　the　shore。　Sharks　washed　up；　one　very　large。　French　sailors　go　to　the　brothels。　A　Moorish　。　。　。　corsair？　。　。　。　seen　in　close　waters。〃
　He　turns　several　pages；　reading　at　random。
　〃Fine　day。　Maria　is　recovering。　Her　urine　is　improving；　the　doctor　says。　Expensive　quack！　The　。　。　。　herbalist　。　。　。　says　he　will　treat　her　for　half　the　price。　And　twice　as　quickly！〃　Paul　pauses；　staring　at　the　page。　〃Bat　dung；〃　he　continues；　〃will　cure　anything。〃
　I　interrupt。　〃What　does　this　have　to　do　with　the　Hypnerotomachia？〃
　But　he　keeps　shuttling　through　the　pages。
　〃A　Venetian　captain　drank　too　much　last　night　and　began　boasting。　Our　weakness　at　Fornovo。　The　old　defeat　at　Portofino。　The　men　brought　him　to　the　。　。　。　shipyard　。　。　。　and　strung　him　from　a　tall　mast。　He　is　still　hanging　there　this　morning。〃
　Before　I　can　repeat　my　question；　Paul's　eyes　go　wide。
　〃The　same　man　from　Rome　came　again　last　night；〃　he　reads。　〃Dressed　more　richly　than　a　duke。　No　one　knows　his　business　here。　Why　has　he　e？　I　ask　others。　Those　who　know　anything　will　not　speak。　A　ship　of　his　is　ing　to　port；　the　rumor　goes。　He　has　e　to　see　that　it　arrives　safely。〃
　I　sit　forward　in　my　chair。　Paul　flips　the　page　and　continues。
　〃What　is　of　such　importance　that　a　man　like　this　es　to　see　it？　What　cargo？　Women；　says　the　drunkard　Barbo。　Turk　slaves；　a　harem。　But　I　have　seen　this　man；　called　Master　Colonna　by　his　servants；　Brother　Colonna　by　his　friends：　he　is　a　gentleman。　And　I　have　seen　what　is　in　his　eyes。　It　is　not　desire。　It　is　fear。　He　looks　like　a　wolf　that　has　seen　a　tiger。〃
　Paul　stops；　staring　at　the　words。　Curry　has　repeated　the　last　phrase　to　him　many　times。　Even　I　recognize　it。　A　wolf　that　has　seen　a　tiger。
　The　cover　folds　shut　in　Paul's　hands；　the　tough　black　seed　in　its　husk　of　cloths。　A　salty　smell　has　thickened　the　air。
　〃Boys；〃　es　a　voice　from　nowhere。　〃Your　time　is　up。〃
　〃ing；　Mrs。　Lockhart。〃　Paul　starts　into　motion；　pulling　the　cloths　over　the　book　and　wrapping　it　tight。
　〃What　now？〃　I　ask。
　〃We've　got　to　show　this　to　Richard；〃　he　says；　putting　the　little　bundle　beneath　the　shirt　Katie　lent　him。
　〃Tonight？〃　I　say。
　As　we　find　our　way　out；　Mrs。　Lockhart　mumbles；　but　doesn't　look　up。
　〃Richard　needs　to　know　Bill　found　it；〃　Paul　says；　glancing　at　his　watch。
　〃Where　is　he？〃
　〃At　the　museum。　There's　an　event　tonight　for　museum　trustees。〃
　I　hesitate。　I'd　assumed　Richard　Curry　was　in　town　to　celebrate　the　pletion　of　Paul's　thesis。
　〃We're　celebrating　tomorrow；〃　he　says；　reading　my　expression。
　The　diary　peeks　out　from　under　his　shirt；　a　wink　of　black　leather　in　bandages。　From　above　us　es　an　echoing　voice；　almost　the　sound　of　laughter。
　〃Weh！　Steck　ich　in　dem　Kerker　noch？　Verfluchtes　dumpfes　Mauerloch；　Wo　selbst　das　liebe　Himmelslicht　Trüb　durch　gemalte　Scheiben　bricht！〃
　〃Goethe；〃　Paul　says　to　me。　〃She　always　closes　up　with　Faust。〃　Holding　the　door　on　the　way　out；　he　calls　back；　〃Good　night；　Mrs。　Lockhart。〃
　Her　voice　es　curling　through　the　mouth　of　the　library。
　〃Yes；〃　she　says。　〃A　good　night。〃
　
　Chapter　6
　
　From　what　I　pieced　together　between　my　father　and　Paul；　Vincent　Taft　and　Richard　Curry　met　in　New　York　in　their　twenties；　turning　up　at　the　same　party　one　night　in　uptown　Manhattan。　Taft　was　a　young　professor　at　Columbia；　a　thinner　version　of　his　later　self；　but　with　the　same　fire　in　his　belly　and　the　same　bearish　disposition。　The　author　of　two　books　in　the　brief　eighteen　months　since　he'd　finished　his　dissertation；　he　was　the　critics'　darling；　a　fashionable　intellectual　making　his　rounds　in　the　social　circles　of　choice。　Curry；　on　the　other　hand；　who'd　been　exempted　from　the　draft　for　a　heart　murmur；　was　just　beginning　his　career　in　the　art　world。　According　to　Paul；　he　was　cobbling　together　the　right　friendships；　slowly　building　a　reputation　in　the　fast　Manhattan　scene。
　Their　first　encounter　came　late　in　the　party　when　Taft；　who'd　grown　tipsy；　spilled　a　cocktail　on　the　athletic…looking　fellow　beside　him。　It　was　a　typical　accident；　Paul　told　me；　since　Taft　was　also　known　as　a　drunk　at　the　time。　At　first　Curry　took　little　offense…until　he　realized　Taft　didn't　intend　to　apologize。　Following　him　to　the　door；　Curry　began　to　demand　satisfaction；　but　Taft；　stumbling　toward　the　elevator；　ignored　him。　As　the　two　men　descended　ten　stories　it　was　Taft　who　did　the　talking；　hurling　a　barrage　of　insults　at　the　handsome　young　man；　bellowing；　as　he　staggered　toward　the　street　exit；　that　his　victim　was　〃poor；　nasty；　brutish；　and　short。〃
　To　his　imaginable　surprise；　the　young　man　smiled。
　〃Leviathan；〃　said　Curry；　who'd　written　a　junior　paper　on　Hobbes　while　at　Princet