iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第18部分

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her　flight　of　stairs　into　the　basement　of　the　club。　Paul　leads　me　through　the　hall　toward　the　President's　Room。　Gil　is　supposed　to　have　sole　access　to　the　room；　but　when　Paul　worried　about　having　less　and　less　privacy　at　his　library　carrel　while　trying　to　finish　his　thesis；　Gil　promised　him　a　copy　of　the　key；　hoping　to　lure　him　back　to　the　club。　Paul　had　found　little　to　remend　Ivy　by　then；　work…obsessed　as　he　was。　But　the　President's　Room；　large　and　quiet　and　accessible　to　Paul　directly　through　the　steam　tunnels；　was　a　blessing　he　couldn't　refuse。　Others　protested　that　Gil　had　made　a　hostel　of　the　club's　most　exclusive　room；　but　Paul　defused　all　controversy　by　arriving　at　the　room　almost　always　through　the　tunnels。　It　seemed　to　bother　the　offended　parties　less　when　they　didn't　have　to　see　him　e　and　go。
　As　we　arrive　in　front　of　the　door；　Paul　pops　the　lock　open　with　his　key。　Shuffling　in　behind　him；　I'm　caught　by　surprise。　It's　been　weeks　since　I've　seen　the　place。　The　first　thing　I　remember　is　how　cold　it　is。　Here；　in　what　is　effectively　the　club's　cellar；　temperatures　hover　unfortably　close　to　freezing。　Exclusive　or　no；　the　room　looks　like　it's　been　hit　by　a　hurricane　of　letters。　Books　have　settled　on　every　surface　like　mounds　of　debris：　the　shelves　of　Ivy's　moldering　European　and　American　classics　are　almost　obscured　by　Paul's　reference　books；　historical　journals；　nautical　maps；　and　stray　blueprint　designs。
　He　closes　the　door　behind　us。　Beside　the　desk　is　a　handsome　fireplace；　and　the　clutter　of　papers　is　so　heavy　here　that　some　of　the　titles　are　bleeding　onto　the　hearth。　Still；　when　Paul　scans　the　room；　he　seems　pleased；　everything　is　as　he　left　it。　He　walks　over　and　picks　up　The　Poetry　of　Michelangelo　from　the　floor；　brushes　some　paint　chips　off　the　cover；　and　places　it　carefully　on　his　desk。　Finding　a　long　wooden　match　atop　the　mantel；　he　strikes　the　head　and　reaches　down　into　the　fireplace；　where　a　blue　flame　breathes　life　into　old　newsprint　weighted　with　logs。
　〃You've　done　a　lot；〃　I　tell　him；　looking　at　one　of　the　more　detailed　blueprints　unraveled　across　his　desk。
　He　frowns。　〃That's　nothing。　I've　made　a　dozen　like　that；　and　they're　probably　all　wrong。　I　do　it　when　I　feel　like　giving　up。〃
　What　I'm　looking　at　is　a　drawing　of　a　building　Paul　invented。　The　edifice　is　stitched　together　from　the　ruins　of　buildings　mentioned　in　the　Hypnerotomachia　：　broken　arches　have　been　restored；　riddled　foundations　are　strong　again；　columns　and　capitals；　once　shattered；　now　find　themselves　repaired。　There　is　an　entire　pile　of　blueprints　beneath　it；　each　one　assembled　the　same　way　from　the　odds　and　ends　of　Colonna's　imagination；　each　one　different。　Paul　has　created　a　landscape　to　live　in　down　here；　an　Italy　of　his　own。　On　the　walls　are　taped　other　sketches；　some　hidden　by　notes　he　has　affixed　over　them。　In　each　one　the　lines　are　studiously　architectural；　measured　in　units　I　don't　understand。　A　puter　could　have　produced　all　of　them；　the　proportions　are　so　perfect；　the　script　is　so　careful。　But　Paul；　who　claims　to　be　suspicious　of　puters；　has　actually　never　been　able　to　afford　his　own；　and　politely　refused　Curry's　offer　to　buy　him　one。　Everything　here　has　been　drawn　by　hand。
　〃What　are　they　supposed　to　be？〃　I　ask。
　〃The　building　Francesco　is　designing。〃
　I'd　almost　forgotten　Paul's　habit　of　referring　to　Colonna　in　the　present　tense；　always　using　the　man's　first　name。
　〃What　building？〃
　〃Francesco's　crypt。　The　first　half　of　the　Hypnerotomachia　says　he's　designing　it。　Remember？〃
　〃Of　course。　You　think　it　looks　like　these？〃　I　ask；　gesturing　at　the　drawings。
　〃I　don't　know。　But　I'm　going　to　find　out。〃
　〃How？〃　Then　I　remember　what　Curry　said　at　the　museum。　〃Is　that　what　the　surveyors　are　for？　You're　going　to　exhume　it？〃
　〃Maybe。〃
　〃So　you　found　out　why　Colonna　built　it？〃
　This　was　the　pivotal　question　we　came　to；　just　as　our　work　together　ended。　The　text　of　the　Hypnerotomachia　alluded　mysteriously　to　a　crypt　Colonna　was　constructing；　but　Paul　and　I　could　never　agree　about　its　nature。　Paul　envisioned　it　as　a　Renaissance　sarcophagus　for　the　Colonna　family；　possibly　intended　to　rival　papal　tombs　of　the　kind　Michelangelo　designed　around　the　same　period。　Trying　harder　to　connect　the　crypt　to　The　Belladonna　Document；　I　imagined　the　crypt　as　a　final　resting　place　for　Colonna's　victims；　a　theory　that　went　further　toward　explaining　the　Hypnerotomachia's　great　secrecy　about　the　design。　The　fact　that　Colonna　never　fully　described　the　building；　or　where　it　could　be　found；　remained　the　major　gap　in　Paul's　work　at　the　moment　I　left。
　Before　he　can　answer　my　question；　a　knock　es　at　the　door。
　〃You　moved；〃　Gil　says；　entering　with　the　club　steward。
　He　stops　short；　sizing　up　Paul's　room　like　a　man　peering　into　a　women's　bathroom；　sheepish　but　intrigued。　The　steward　places　two　settings　in　cloth　napkins　on　a　table；　finding　patches　of　space　between　the　books。　Between　them；　they're　carrying　two　plates　of　Ivy　Club　china；　a　pitcher　of　water；　and　a　basket　of　bread。
　〃Warm　rustic　bread；〃　the　steward　says；　putting　the　basket　down。
　〃Steak　with　peppercorns；〃　Gil　says；　following　suit。　〃Anything　else？〃
　We　shake　our　heads；　and　Gil　takes　one　last　look　at　the　room；　then　returns　back　upstairs。
　The　steward　pours　water　into　two　glasses。　〃Would　you　like　something　else　to　drink？〃
　When　we　say　no；　he　vanishes　too。
　Paul　serves　himself　quickly。　Watching　him　eat；　I　think　of　the　Oliver　Twist　impression　he　did　the　first　time　we　met；　the　little　bowl　he　made　with　his　hands。　Sometimes　I　wonder　if　Paul's　first　memory　of　childhood　is　of　hunger。　At　the　parochial　school　where　he　was　raised；　he　shared　the　table　with　six　other　children；　and　meals　were　always　first　e；　first　served；　until　the　food　ran　out。　I'm　not　sure　he　ever　escaped　that　mentality。　One　night　our　freshman　year；　back　when　we　all　took　meals　together　in　the　dining　hall　of　our　residential　college；　Charlie　joked　that　Paul　ate　so　fast　you'd　think　food　was　going　out　of　style。　Later　that　night　Paul　explained　why；　and　none　of　us　joked　about　it　again。
　Now　Paul　extends　his　arm　for　a　piece　of　bread；　caught　up　in　the　joy　of　eating。　The　smell　of　food　wrestles　with　the　old　mildew　stink　of　books　and　the　smoke　of　the　fire；　in　a　way　I　might've　enjoyed　under　different　circumstances。　But　here；　now；　it　feels　unfortable；　different　memories　sewn　together。　As　if　he　can　read　my　mind；　Paul　bees　conscious　of　his　reach　and　looks　bashful。
　I　push　the　basket　toward　him。　〃Eat　up；〃　I　say；　scraping　at　the　food。
　Behind　us；　the　fire　sputters。　Over　in　the　corner　is　an　opening　in　the　wall；　the　size　of　a　large　dumbwaiter：　the　entrance　to　the　steam　tunnels；　the　one　Paul　prefers。
　〃I　can't　believe　you　still　crawl　through　that。〃
　He　puts　down　his　fork。　〃It's　better　than　dealing　with　everyone　upstairs。〃
　〃It　feels　like　a　dungeon　down　here。〃
　〃It　didn't　bother　you　before。〃
　I　sense　an　old　argument　reviving。　Paul　quickly　wipes　his　mouth　with　a　napkin。　〃Forget　it；〃　he　says；　putting　the　diary　onto　the　table　between　us。　〃This　is　what　matters　now。〃　He　taps　the　cover　with　two　fingers；　then　pushes　the　little　book　toward　me。　〃We　have　a　chance　to　finish　what　we　started。　Richard　thinks　this　could　be　the　key。〃
　I　rub　at　a　stain　on　the　desk。　〃Maybe　you　should　show　it　to　Taft。〃
　Paul　gapes　at　me。　〃Vincent　thinks　everything　I　found　with　you　is　worthless。　He's　been　pushing　me　for　progress　reports　twice　a　week；　just　to　prove　I　haven't　given　up。　I'm　tired　of　driving　to　the　Institute　every　time　I　need　his　help；　and　having　him　say　this　is　derivative　work。〃
　〃Derivative？〃
　〃And　he　threatened　to　tell　the　department　I'm　stalling。〃
　〃After　everything　we　found？〃
　〃It　doesn't　matter；〃　he　says。　〃I　don't　care　what　Vincent　thinks。〃　He　taps　the　diary　again。　〃I　want　to　finish。〃
　〃Your　deadline　is　tomorrow。〃
　〃We　did　more　together　in　three　months　than　I　did　alone　in　three　years。　What's　one　more　night？〃　Under　his　breath；　he　adds；　〃Besides；　the　deadline　isn't　what　matters。〃
　I'm　surprised　to　hear　him　say　it；　but　the　jab　of　Taft's　rejection　is　what　lingers。　Paul　must've　known　it　would。　I　feel　more　pride　in　the　work　I　did　on　the　Hypnerotomachia　than　in　all　the　work　I　did　on　my　own　thesis。
　〃Taft's　out　of　his　mind；〃　I　tell　him。　〃No　one's　ever　found　that　much　in　the　book　before。　Why　didn't　you　request　an　advisor　change？〃
　Paul's　hands　begin　shredding　the　bread　into　little　pellets；　rolling　them　between　his　fingers。　〃I've　been　asking　myself　the　same　thing；〃　he　says；　looking　away。　〃Do　you　know　how　many　times　he's　bragged　to　me　about　ruining　the　academic　career　of　'some　moron'　with　his　peer　reviews　or　tenure　remendations？　He　never　mentioned　your　father；　but　there　were　others。　Remember　Professor　Macintyre　from　Classics？　Remember　his　book　about　Keats's　'Ode　on　a　Grecian　Urn'？〃
　I　nod。　Taft　wrote　an　article　on　what　he　perceived　to　be　the　declining　quality　of　scholarship　at　major　universities；　using　Macintyre's　book　as　a　primary　example。　In　three　paragraphs　Taft　identified　more　factual　errors；　misattributions；　and　oversights　than　two　dozen　other　scholars　had　found　in　their　own　book　reviews。　Taft's　implicit　criticism　seemed　to　be　aimed　at　the　reviewers；　but　it　was　Macintyre　who　became　such　a　laughingstock　that　the　university　pruned