iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第14部分

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kstore　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　after　was　about　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　Time　passed；　worlds　diverged。　Taft；　carried　by　the　momentum　of　those　early　years；　was　offered　a　permanent　fellowship　at　the　prestigious　Institute　for　Advanced　Study；　where　Einstein　had　worked　while　living　near　Princeton。　It　was　an　honor　my　father　surely　envied；　and　one　that　freed　Taft　from　all　the　obligations　of　a　college　professor：　other　than　agreeing　to　advise　Bill　Stein　and　Paul；　the　old　bear　never　suffered　another　student　or　taught　another　class。　Curry　took　a　prominent　job　at　Skinner's　Auction　House　in　Boston；　and　rose　on　toward　professional　success。　In　the　Columbus　bookshop　where　my　father　learned　to　walk；　three　new　children　kept　him　occupied　enough　to　forget；　for　a　while；　that　his　experience　in　New　York　had　left　a　permanent　impression。　All　three　men；　wedged　from　each　other　by　pride　and　circumstance；　found　surrogates　for　the　Hypnerotomachia；　ersatz　love　affairs　to　stand　in　for　a　quest　left　inplete。　The　generational　clock　ground　out　another　revolution；　and　time　turned　friends　to　strangers。　Francesco　Colonna；　who　kept　the　key　that　wound　the　watch；　must　have　thought　his　secret　safe。
　
　Chapter　7
　
　〃Which　way？〃　I　ask　Paul　as　the　library　fades　behind　us。
　〃Toward　the　art　museum；〃　he　says；　hunched　over　to　keep　the　bundle　of　cloths　dry。
　To　get　there　we　pass　Murray…Dodge；　a　stony　blister　of　a　building　in　the　thick　of　north　campus。　Inside；　a　student　theater　pany　is　performing　Tom　Stoppard's　Arcadia；　the　last　play　Charlie　had　to　read　in　English　151w；　and　the　first　one　he　and　I　will　see　together。　We　have　tickets　to　Sunday　night's　show。　Bubbling　over　the　cauldronlike　walls　of　the　stage　es　the　voice　of　Thomasina；　the　thirteen…year…old　prodigy　of　the　play；　who　reminded　me　of　Paul　the　first　time　I　read　it。
　If　you　could　stop　every　atom　in　its　position　and　direction；　she　is　saying；　and　if　your　mind　could　prehend　all　the　actions　thus　suspended；　then　if　you　were　really；　really　good　at　algebra　you　could　write　the　formula　for　all　the　future。
　Yes；　stammers　her　tutor；　who　is　exhausted　by　the　engine　of　her　mind。　Yes；　as　far　as　I　know；　you　are　the　first　person　to　have　thought　of　this。
　From　a　distance；　the　front　entrance　to　the　art　museum　appears　to　be　open；　a　small　miracle　on　a　holiday　night。　The　museum　curators　are　a　strange　lot；　half　of　them　mousy　as　librarians；　the　other　half　moody　as　artists；　and　I　get　the　impression　most　would　rather　let　kindergartners　fingerpaint　on　the　Monets　than　let　an　undergrad　into　the　museum　when　it　wasn't　strictly　necessary。
　McCormick　Hall；　home　of　the　art　history　department；　sits　slightly　in　front　of　the　museum　proper；　the　wall　of　its　entrance　paneled　in　glass。　As　we　approach；　security　guards　eye　us　through　the　fishbowl。　Like　one　of　the　avant…garde　exhibits　Katie　took　me　to　see；　which　I　never　understood；　they　have　all　the　trappings　of　being　real；　but　are　perfectly；　silently　motionless。　A　sign　on　the　door　says　MEETING　OF　PRINCETON　ART　MUSEUM　TRUSTEES。　In　smaller　letters　it　adds：　Museum　Closed　to　Public。　I　hesitate；　but　Paul　barges　in。
　〃Richard；〃　he　calls　out　into　the　main　hall。
　A　handful　of　patrons　turn　to　gawk；　but　no　familiar　faces。　Canvases　punctuate　the　walls　of　the　main　floor；　windows　of　color　in　this　dreary　white　house。　Reconstructed　Greek　vases　sit　on　waist…high　pillars　in　a　nearby　room。
　〃Richard；〃　Paul　repeats；　louder　now。
　Curry's　bald　head　turns　on　its　long；　thick　neck。　He　is　tall　and　wiry；　wearing　a　tailored　pinstripe　suit　with　a　red　tie。　When　he　sees　Paul　walking　toward　him；　the　man's　dark　eyes　are　all　affection。　Curry's　wife　died　more　than　ten　years　ago；　childless；　and　he　now　looks　on　Paul　as　his　only　son。
　〃Boys；〃　he　says　warmly；　extending　his　arms；　as　if　we　are　half　our　ages。　He　turns　to　Paul。　〃I　didn't　expect　to　see　you　so　soon。　I　thought　you　wouldn't　be　done　until　later。　What　a　nice　surprise。〃　His　fingers　are　tickling　his　cuff　links；　his　eyes　full　of　pleasure。　He　reaches　over　to　shake　Paul's　outstretched　hand。
　〃How　have　you　been？〃
　We　both　smile。　The　energy　in　Curry's　voice　belies　his　age；　but　in　other　ways　the　hounds　of　time　are　closing　in。　Since　I　last　saw　him；　only　six　months　ago；　signs　of　stiffness　have　crept　into　his　movements；　and　the　faintest　hollow　has　formed　behind　the　flesh　of　his　face。　Richard　Curry　is　the　owner　of　a　large　auction　house　in　New　York　now；　and　the　trustee　of　museums　much　bigger　than　this　one…but　according　to　Paul；　after　the　Hypnerotomachia　disappeared　from　his　life；　the　career　that　replaced　it　never　became　more　than　a　sideline；　a　campaign　to　forget　what　came　before。　No　one　seemed　more　surprised　by　his　success；　and　less　impressed　by　it；　than　Curry　himself。
　〃Ah；〃　he　says　now；　turning　as　if　to　introduce　us　to　someone。　〃Have　you　seen　the　paintings？〃
　Behind　him　is　a　canvas　I've　never　noticed　before。　Looking　around；　I　realize　the　art　on　the　walls　is　not　what's　usually　here。
　〃These　aren't　from　the　university　collections；〃　Paul　says。
　Curry　smiles。　〃No；　not　at　all。　Each　of　the　trustees　brought　something　for　tonight。　We　made　a　bet　to　see　which　one　of　us　could　put　the　most　paintings　on　loan　to　the　museum。〃
　Curry；　the　old　football　player；　still　has　a　residue　in　his　speech　of　wagers　and　gambles　and　gentlemen's　bets。
　〃Who　won？〃　I　ask。
　〃The　art　museum；〃　he　says；　deflecting　the　question。　〃Princeton　profits　when　we　strive。〃
　In　the　silence　that　follows；　he　scans　the　faces　of　the　patrons　who　haven't　fled　the　great　hall　after　our　interruption。
　〃I　was　going　to　show　you　this　after　the　trustees'　meeting；〃　he　says　to　Paul；　〃but　there's　no　reason　not　to　do　it　now。〃
　He　gestures　for　us　to　follow　him；　and　begins　walking　toward　a　room　to　the　left。　I　glance　at　Paul；　wondering　what　he　means；　but　Paul　seems　not　to　know。
　〃George　Carter；　Sr。；　brought　these　two　。　。　。〃　Curry　says；　showing　us　the　artwork　along　the　way。　Two　small　prints　by　Dürer　sit　in　frames　so　old　they　have　the　texture　of　driftwood。　〃And　the　Wolgemut　on　the　far　side。〃　He　points　across　the　floor。　〃The　Philip　Murrays　brought　those　two　very　nice　Mannerists。〃
　Curry　leads　us　into　a　second　room；　where　late…twentieth…century　art　has　been