iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第6章

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　〃What　now？〃　Paul　says。
　Gil　looks　around；　spotting　proctors　at　every　exit。
　〃This　way；〃　I　tell　them。
　We　near　one　of　the　dorm　entrances　and　duck　into　Holder　Hall。　A　drunk　sophomore　opens　the　door　to　her　room　and　stands　there；　confused；　as　if　we're　the　ones　who　are　supposed　to　greet　her。　She　sizes　us　up；　then　raises　a　bottle　of　Corona　in　her　hand。
　〃Cheers。〃　She　belches；　then　shuts　the　door　just　in　time　for　me　to　see　one　of　her　roommates　warming　up　by　the　fireplace；　wearing　nothing　but　a　towel。
　〃e　on；〃　I　say。
　They　follow　me　up　a　flight　of　stairs；　where　I　bang　loudly　on　one　of　the　doors。
　〃What　are　you　doi…〃　Gil　begins。
　But　before　he　can　finish；　the　door　opens　and　I'm　greeted　by　a　pair　of　great　green　eyes。　The　lips　below　them　open　faintly　at　the　sight　of　me。　Katie　is　dressed　in　a　tight　Navy　T…shirt　and　a　pair　of　weathered　jeans；　her　auburn　hair　is　pulled　back　into　a　short　ponytail。　Before　letting　us　in；　she　bursts　out　laughing。
　〃I　knew　you'd　be　here；〃　I　say；　rubbing　my　hands。　When　I　step　in　and　hug　her；　the　embrace　is　warm　and　wele。
　〃A　birthday　suit　for　my　birthday；〃　she　says；　looking　me　up　and　down。　Her　eyes　are　glowing。　〃So　this　is　why　you　didn't　call。〃
　As　Katie　backs　into　the　room　I　see　Paul　fixated　on　the　camera　in　her　hand；　a　Pentax　with　a　telephoto　lens　almost　as　long　as　her　forearm。
　〃What's　that　for？〃　Gil　asks　when　Katie　turns　to　put　the　camera　on　a　bookshelf。
　〃Taking　shots　for　the　Prince；〃　she　says。　〃Maybe　they'll　print　one　this　time。〃
　This　must　be　why　she's　not　running。　Katie　has　been　trying　all　year　to　get　a　photo　on　the　front　page　of　the　Daily　Princetonian；　but　the　seniority　system　has　worked　against　her。　Now　she's　turned　the　tables。　Only　freshmen　and　sophomores　have　rooms　in　Holder；　and　hers　overlooks　the　entire　courtyard。
　〃Where's　Charlie？〃　she　asks。
　Gil　shrugs；　staring　down　through　the　window。　〃Out　there　playing　grab…ass　with　Will　Clay。〃
　Katie　returns　to　me；　still　smiling。　〃How　long　did　it　take　you　to　plan　this？〃
　I　falter。
　〃Days；〃　Gil　improvises；　when　I　can't　think　of　a　way　to　explain　that　this　whole　performance　wasn't　for　her。　〃Maybe　a　week。〃
　〃Impressive；〃　Katie　says。　〃The　weathermen　didn't　know　it　would　start　snowing　until　this　morning。〃
　〃Hours；〃　Gil　revises。　〃Maybe　a　day。〃
　Her　eyes　never　leave　me。　〃So　let　me　guess。　You　need　a　change　of　clothes。〃
　〃We　need　three。〃
　Katie　retreats　to　her　closet　and　says；　〃Must　be　pretty　chilly　out　there。　Looks　like　the　cold　was　starting　to　get　to　you　guys。〃
　Paul　looks　at　her　as　if　she　can't　possibly　mean　what　he　thinks。　〃Is　there　a　phone　I　could　use？〃　he　asks；　gathering　his　wits。
　Katie　points　at　a　cordless　on　the　desk。　I　move　across　the　room　and　press　up　against　her；　pushing　her　into　the　closet。　She　tries　to　shake　me　off；　but　when　I　press　too　hard；　both　of　us　fall　onto　the　rows　of　shoes；　high　heels　in　all　the　wrong　places。　It　takes　a　second　to　untangle　ourselves；　and　I　stand　up　expecting　moans　from　Paul　and　Gil。　But　their　focus　is　elsewhere。　Paul　is　in　the　corner；　whispering　into　the　phone；　while　Gil　peers　out　the　window。　At　first　I　think　Gil's　looking　for　Charlie。　Then　I　see　the　proctor　in　his　line　of　sight；　speaking　into　his　radio　as　he　approaches。
　〃Hey；　Katie；〃　Gil　says；　〃we　don't　need　matching　outfits　here。　Anything　works。〃
　〃Relax；〃　she　says；　ing　back　with　handfuls　of　clothing　on　hangers。　She　lays　out　three　pairs　of　sweatpants；　two　T…shirts；　and　a　blue　dress　shirt　I've　been　missing　since　March。　〃It's　the　best　I　can　do　on　short　notice。〃
　We　throw　ourselves　into　them。　Suddenly；　from　the　entryway　downstairs；　the　hiss　of　a　hand　radio　cuts　the　air。　The　outside　door　to　the　building　thuds　shut。
　Paul　hangs　up　the　phone。　〃I　have　to　get　to　the　library。〃
　〃You　guys　go　out　the　back；〃　Katie　says；　voice　quickening。　〃I'll　deal　with　it。〃
　I　take　her　hand　as　Gil　thanks　her　for　the　clothes。
　〃I'll　see　you　later？〃　she　says　to　me；　conjuring　something　in　her　eyes。　It's　a　look　that　always　es　with　a　smile　now；　because　she　can't　believe　I　still　fall　for　it。
　Gil　groans　and　drags　me　out　the　door　by　my　arm。　As　we　duck　out　of　the　building；　I　can　hear　Katie's　voice　calling　down　to　the　proctor。
　〃Officer！　Officer！　I　need　your　help。　。　。　。〃
　Gil　turns　back；　eyes　trained　on　her　room。　When　he　sees　the　proctor　arrive　in　the　crosshairs　of　Katie's　leaded　window；　his　expression　lightens。　Before　long；　as　we　head　into　the　piercing　wind；　Holder　vanishes　behind　a　curtain　of　snow。　Campus　is　nearly　empty　as　we　descend　toward　Dod；　and　any　residue　of　the　tunnels'　heat　seems　to　radiate　away；　washed　off　in　tiny　beads　of　snow　that　roll　from　my　cheeks。　Paul　walks　slightly　ahead　of　us；　keeping　a　more　purposeful　pace。　The　entire　time；　he　doesn't　speak　a　word。
　
　Chapter　4
　
　It　was　through　a　book　that　I　met　Paul。　We　probably　would've　met　anyway　at　Firestone　Library；　or　in　a　study　group；　or　in　one　of　the　literature　classes　we　both　took　freshman　year；　so　maybe　there's　nothing　special　about　a　book。　But　when　you　consider　that　the　one　in　question　was　five　hundred　years　old；　and　that　it　was　the　same　one　my　father　had　been　studying　before　he　died；　the　occasion　somehow　seems　more　momentous。
　The　Hypnerotomachia　Poliphili；　which　in　Latin　means　〃Poliphilo's　Struggle　for　Love　in　a　Dream；〃　was　published　around　1499　by　a　Venetian　man　named　Aldus　Manutius。　The　Hypnerotomachia　is　an　encyclopedia　masquerading　as　a　novel；　a　dissertation　on　everything　from　architecture　to　zoology；　written　in　a　style　that　even　a　tortoise　would　find　slow。　It　is　the　world's　longest　book　about　a　man　having　a　dream；　and　it　makes　Marcel　Proust；　who　wrote　the　world's　longest　book　about　a　man　eating　a　piece　of　cake；　look　like　Ernest　Hemingway。　I　would　venture　to　guess　that　Renaissance　readers　felt　the　same　way。　The　Hypnerotomachia　was　a　dinosaur　in　its　own　time。　Though　Aldus　was　the　greatest　printer　of　his　day；　the　Hypnerotomachia　is　a　tangle　of　plots　and　characters　connected　by　nothing　but　its　protagonist；　an　allegorical　everyman　named　Poliphilo。　The　gist　is　simple：　Poliphilo　has　a　strange　dream　in　which　he　searches　for　the　woman　he　loves。　But　the　way　it's　told　is　so　plicated　that　even　most　Renaissance　scholars…the　same　people　who　read　Plotinus　while　waiting　for　the　bus…consider　the　Hypnerotomachia　painfully；　tediously　difficult。
　Most；　that　is；　except　my　father。　He　marched　through　Renaissance　historical　studies　to　the　beat　of　his　own　drum；　and　when　the　majority　of　his　colleagues　turned　their　backs　on　the　Hypnerotomachia；　he　squared　it　in　his　sights。　He'd　been　converted　to　the　cause　by　a　professor　named　Dr。　McBee；　who　taught　European　history　at　Princeton。　McBee；　who　died　the　year　before　I　was　born；　was　a　mousy　man　with　elephant　ears　and　small　teeth　who　owed　all　of　his　success　in　the　world　to　an　effervescent　personality　and　a　canny　sense　of　what　made　history　worthwhile。　Though　he　wasn't　much　to　look　at；　the　little　man　stood　tall　in　the　world　of　the　academy。　Every　year　his　closing　lecture　on　the　death　of　Michelangelo　filled　the　largest　auditorium　on　campus　with　spectators　and　left　college　men　wiping　their　eyes　and　reaching　for　their　handkerchiefs。　Above　all；　McBee　was　a　champion　of　the　book　that　everyone　else　in　his　field　ignored。　He　believed　there　was　something　peculiar　about　the　Hypnerotomachia；　possibly　something　great；　and　he　convinced　his　students　to　search　for　the　old　book's　true　meaning。
　One　of　them　searched　even　more　avidly　than　McBee　could　have　hoped。　My　father　was　an　Ohio　bookseller's　son；　and　he　arrived　on　campus　the　day　after　his　eighteenth　birthday；　almost　fifty　years　after　F。　Scott　Fitzgerald　made　it　fashionable　to　be　a　midwestern　boy　at　Princeton。　Much　had　changed　since　then。　The　university　was　shedding　its　country　club　past；　and　in　the　spirit　of　the　times；　it　was　falling　out　of　love　with　tradition。　The　freshmen　of　my　father's　year　were　the　last　class　required　to　attend　chapel　service　on　Sundays。　The　year　after　he　left；　women　arrived　on　campus　for　the　first　time　as　students。　WPRB；　the　college　radio　station；　ushered　them　in　to　the　sound　of　Handel's　〃Hallelujah　Chorus。〃　My　father　liked　to　say　that　the　spirit　of　his　youth　was　best　captured　in　Immanuel　Kant's　essay　〃What　is　Enlightenment？〃　Kant；　in　his　mind；　was　like　the　Bob　Dylan　of　the　1790s。
　That　was　my　father's　way：　to　erase　the　line　in　history　beyond　which　everything　seems　stuffy　and　arcane。　Instead　of　timelines　and　great　men；　history　to　him　was　ideas　and　books。　He　followed　McBee's　advice　for　two　more　years　at　Princeton；　and　after　graduating　he　followed　it　all　the　way　back　west　to　the　University　of　Chicago　for　a　Ph。D。　on　Renaissance　Italy。　A　year　of　fellowship　work　in　New　York　ensued；　until　Ohio　State　offered　him　a　tenure…track　position　teaching　quattrocento　history；　and　he　leapt　at　the　chance　to　go　home。　My　mother；　an　accountant　whose　tastes　ran　to　Shelley　and　Blake；　took　up　the　bookselling　business　in　Columbus　after　my　grandfather　retired；　and　between　the　two　of　them　I　was　raised　in　the　fold　of　bibliophiles；　the　way　some　children　are　raised　in　religion。
　At　the　age　of　four　I　was　traveling　to　book　conferences　with　my　mother。　By　six　I　knew　the　difference　between　parchment　and　vellum　better　than　I　knew　a　Fleer　from　a　Topps。　Before　my　tenth　birthday　I　had　handled　some　half…dozen　copies　of　the　printing　world's　masterpiece；　the　Gutenberg　Bible。　But　I　can't　even　remember　a　time　in　my　life　when　I　didn't　know　which　book　was　the　Bible　of　our　own　little　faith：　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　〃It's　the　last　great　Renaissance　mystery；　Thomas；〃　my　father　would　lecture　me；　the　same　way　McBee　must　have　lectured　him。　〃But　no　one　has　e　even　close　to　solving　it。〃
　He　was　right：　no　one　had。　Of　course；　it　wasn't　until　decades　after　the　book　was　published　that　anyone　realized　it　needed　solving。　That　was　when　a　scholar　made　a　strange　discovery。　When　the　first　letters　of　every　chapter　in　the　Hypnerotomachia　are　strung　together；　they　form　an　acrostic　in　Latin：　Poliam　Frater　Franciscus　Columna　Peramavit；　which　means　〃Brother　Francesco　Colonna　loved　Polia　tremendously。〃　Since　Polia　was　the　name　of　the　woman　Poliphilo　searches　for；　other　scholars　finally　started　to　ask　who　the　author　of　the　Hypnerotomachia　really　was。　The　book　itself　doesn't　say；　and　even　Aldus；　the　printer；　never　knew。　But　from　that　point　on；　it　became　mon　to　suppose　that　the　author　was　an　Italian　friar　named　Francesco　Colonna。　In　a　small　group　of　professional　researchers；　particularly　those　inspired　by　McBee；　it　also　became　mon　to　suppose　that　the　acrostic　was　only　a　hint　of　the　secrets　that　lay　within　the　book。　That　group's　quest　was　to　discover　the　rest。
　My　father's　claim　to　fame　in　all　this　was　a　document　he　found　during　the　summer　I　turned　fifteen。　That　year…the　year　before　the　car　accident…he　brought　me　with　him　on　a　research　trip　to　a　monastery　in　southern　Germany；　then　later　to　the　Vatican　libraries。　We　were　sharing　an　Italian　studio　apartment　with　two　rollaway　beds　and　a　prehistoric　stereo　system；　and　each　morning　for　five　weeks；　with　the　precision　of　a　medieval　punishment；　he　chose　a　new　Corelli　masterwork　from　the　pilations　he'd　brought；　then　woke　me　to　the　sound　of　violins　and　harpsichords　at　exactly　half…past　seven；　reminding　me　that　research　waited　for　no　man。
　I　would　rise　to　find　him　shaving　over　the　sink；　or　ironing　his　shirts；　or　counting　the　bills　in