iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第7章

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　I　would　rise　to　find　him　shaving　over　the　sink；　or　ironing　his　shirts；　or　counting　the　bills　in　his　wallet；　always　humming　along　with　the　recording。　Short　as　he　was；　he　tended　to　every　inch　of　his　appearance；　plucking　strands　of　gray　from　his　thick　brown　hair　the　way　florists　cull　limp　petals　from　roses。　There　was　an　internal　vitality　he　was　trying　to　preserve；　a　vivaciousness　he　thought　was　diminished　by　the　crow's…feet　at　the　corners　of　his　eyes；　by　the　thinking　man's　wrinkles　across　his　forehead；　and　whenever　my　imagination　was　dulled　by　the　endless　shelves　of　books　where　we　spent　our　days；　he　was　always　quick　to　sympathize。　At　lunchtime　we　would　take　to　the　streets　for　fresh　pastries　and　gelato；　every　evening　he　would　bring　me　into　town　for　sight…seeing。　One　night　in　Rome；　he　led　me　on　a　tour　of　the　city's　fountains；　telling　me　to　toss　a　lucky　penny　into　each　one。
　〃One　for　Sarah　and　Kristen；〃　he　said　at　the　Barcaccia。　〃To　help　mend　their　broken　hearts。〃
　My　sisters　had　each　been　in　a　painful　breakup　just　before　we　left。　My　father；　who　never　took　much　to　their　boyfriends；　considered　it　a　blessing　in　disguise。
　〃One　for　your　mother；〃　he　said　at　the　Fontana　del　Tritone。　〃For　putting　up　with　me。〃
　When　my　father's　request　for　university　funding　had　fallen　through；　my　mother　kept　the　bookstore　open　on　Sundays　to　help　pay　for　our　trip。
　〃And　one　for　us；〃　he　said　at　the　Quattro　Fiumi。　〃May　we　find　what　we're　looking　for。〃
　What　we　were　looking　for；　I　never　really　knew…at　least；　not　until　we　stumbled　onto　it。　All　I　knew　was　that　my　father　believed　scholarship　on　the　Hypnerotomachia　had　reached　a　dead　end；　mainly　because　everyone　was　missing　the　forest　for　the　trees。　Thumping　his　fist　on　the　dinner　table；　he　would　insist　that　the　scholars　who　disagreed　with　him　had　their　heads　in　the　sand。　The　book　itself　was　too　difficult　to　understand　from　within；　he　said；　a　better　approach　was　to　search　for　documents　that　hinted　at　who　the　author　really　was；　and　why　he'd　written　it。
　In　reality；　my　father　alienated　many　people　with　his　narrow　vision　of　the　truth。　If　it　hadn't　been　for　the　discovery　we　made　that　summer；　my　family　might　soon　have　found　itself　relying　entirely　on　the　bookstore　for　its　livelihood。　Instead；　Lady　Fortune　smiled　on　my　father；　hardly　a　year　before　she　took　his　life。
　On　the　third…floor　branch　of　one　of　the　Vatican　libraries；　in　a　recessed　aisle　of　bookshelves　that　even　the　monkish　dusters　had　not　dusted；　as　we　stood　back…to…back　searching　for　the　clue　he'd　been　pursuing　for　years；　my　father　found　a　letter　inserted　between　the　pages　of　a　thick　family　history。　Dated　two　years　before　the　Hypnerotomachia　was　published；　it　was　addressed　to　a　confessor　at　a　local　church；　and　it　told　the　story　of　a　high…ranking　Roman　scion。　His　name　was　Francesco　Colonna。
　It's　difficult　to　re…create　my　father's　excitement　when　he　saw　the　name。　The　wire…frame　glasses　he　wore；　which　slunk　down　his　nose　the　longer　he　read；　magnified　his　eyes　just　enough　to　make　them　the　measure　of　his　curiosity；　the　first　and　last　thing　most　people　ever　remembered　about　him。　At　that　moment；　as　he　sized　up　what　he'd　found；　all　the　light　in　the　room　seemed　to　converge　inside　those　eyes。　The　letter　he　held　was　written　in　a　clumsy　hand；　in　broken　Tuscan；　as　if　by　a　man　who　was　not　accustomed　to　that　language；　or　to　the　act　of　writing。　It　rambled　on　and　on；　sometimes　directed　at　no　one　in　particular；　sometimes　directed　at　God。　The　author　apologized　for　not　writing　in　Latin　or　in　Greek；　which　were　unknown　to　him。　Then；　at　last；　he　apologized　for　what　he　had　done。
　Forgive　me；　Holy　Father；　for　I　have　killed　two　men。　It　was　my　own　hand　that　struck　the　blow；　but　the　design　was　never　mine。　It　was　Master　Francesco　Colonna　who　bid　me　do　it。　Judge　us　both　with　mercy。
　The　letter　claimed　that　the　murders　were　part　of　an　intricate　plan；　one　that　no　man　as　simple　as　the　author　himself　could　have　contrived。　The　two　victims　were　men　Colonna　suspected　of　treachery；　and　at　his　direction　they　were　sent　on　an　unusual　mission。　They　were　given　a　letter　to　deliver　to　a　church　outside　the　walls　of　Rome；　where　a　third　man　would　be　waiting　to　receive　it。　Under　pain　of　death　the　two　men　were　not　to　look　at　the　letter；　not　to　lose　it；　not　to　so　much　as　touch　it　with　an　ungloved　hand。　So　began　the　story　of　the　simple　Roman　mason　who　slew　the　messengers　at　San　Lorenzo。
　　
　The　discovery　my　father　and　I　made　that　summer　came　to　be　known；　in　academic　circles；　as　the　Belladonna　Document。　My　father　felt　sure　it　would　revive　his　reputation　in　the　scholarly　munity；　and　within　six　months　he　published　a　small　book　under　that　title　suggesting　the　letter's　connection　to　the　Hypnerotomachia。　The　book　was　dedicated　to　me。　In　it；　he　argued　that　the　Francesco　Colonna　who'd　written　the　Hypnerotomachia　was　not　the　Venetian　monk；　as　most　professors　believed；　but　instead　the　Roman　aristocrat　mentioned　in　our　letter。　To　bolster　this　claim；　he　added　an　appendix　including　all　known　records　on　the　lives　of　both　the　Venetian　monk；　whom　he　called　the　Pretender；　and　of　the　Roman　Colonna；　so　that　readers　could　pare。　The　appendix　alone　made　believers　of　both　Paul　and　me。
　The　details　are　straightforward。　The　monastery　in　Venice　where　the　false　Francesco　lived　was　an　unthinkable　place　for　a　philosopher…author；　most　of　the　time；　to　hear　my　father　tell　it；　the　place　was　an　unholy　cocktail　of　loud　music；　hard　drinking；　and　lurid　sexual　escapades。　When　Pope　Clement　VII　attempted　to　force　restraint　on　the　brethren　there；　they　replied　that　they　would　sooner　bee　Lutherans　than　accept　discipline。　Even　in　such　an　environment；　the　Pretender's　biography　reads　like　a　rap　sheet。　In　1477　he　was　exiled　from　the　monastery　for　unnamed　violations。　Four　years　later　he　returned；　only　to　mit　a　separate　crime；　for　which　he　was　almost　defrocked。　In　1516　he　pled　no　contest　to　rape　and　was　banished　for　life。　Undeterred；　he　returned　again；　and　was　exiled　again；　this　time　for　a　scandal　involving　a　jeweler。　Mercifully；　death　took　him　in　1527。　The　Venetian　Francesco　Colonna…accused　thief；　confessed　rapist；　lifelong　Dominican…was　ninety…three　years　old。
　The　Roman　Francesco；　on　the　other　hand；　appeared　to　be　a　model　of　every　scholarly　virtue。　According　to　my　father；　he　was　the　son　of　a　powerful　noble　family；　who　raised　him　in　the　best　of　European　society　and　had　him　educated　by　the　highest…minded　Renaissance　intellectuals。　Francesco's　uncle；　Prospero　Colonna；　was　not　only　a　revered　patron　of　the　arts　and　a　cardinal　of　the　Church；　but　such　a　renowned　humanist　that　he　may　have　been　the　inspiration　for　Shakespeare's　Prospero　in　The　Tempest。　These　were　the　sorts　of　connections；　my　father　argued；　that　made　it　possible　for　a　single　man　to　write　a　book　as　plex　as　the　Hypnerotomachia…and　they　were　certainly　the　connections　that　would've　ensured　its　publication　by　a　leading　press。
　What　sealed　the　matter　entirely；　to　me　at　least；　was　the　fact　that　this　blue…blooded　Francesco　had　been　a　member　of　the　Roman　Academy；　a　fraternity　of　men　mitted　to　the　pagan　ideals　of　the　old　Roman　Republic；　the　ideals　expressed　with　such　admiration　in　the　Hypnerotomachia。　That　would　explain　why　Colonna　identified　himself　in　the　secret　acrostic　as　〃Fra〃：　the　title　Brother；　which　other　scholars　took　as　a　sign　that　Colonna　was　a　monk；　was　also　a　mon　greeting　at　the　Academy。
　Yet　my　father's　argument；　which　seemed　so　lucid　to　Paul　and　me；　clouded　the　academic　waters。　My　father　hardly　lived　long　enough　to　brave　the　teapot　tempest　he　stirred　up　in　the　little　world　of　Hypnerotomachia　scholarship；　but　it　nearly　undid　him。　Almost　all　of　my　father's　colleagues　rejected　the　work；　Vincent　Taft　went　out　of　his　way　to　defame　it。　By　then；　the　arguments　in　favor　of　the　Venetian　Colonna　had　bee　so　entrenched　that；　when　my　father　failed　to　address　one　or　two　of　them　in　his　brief　appendix；　the　whole　work　was　discredited。　The　idea　of　connecting　two　doubtful　murders　with　one　of　the　world's　most　valuable　books；　Taft　wrote；　was　〃nothing　but　a　sad　and　sensational　bit　of　self…promotion。〃
　My　father；　of　course；　was　devastated。　To　him　it　was　the　substance　of　his　career　they　were　rejecting；　the　fruit　of　the　quest　he'd　been　on　since　his　days　with　McBee。　He　never　understood　the　violence　of　the　reaction　against　his　discovery。　The　only　enduring　fan　of　The　Belladonna　Document；　as　far　as　I　know；　was　Paul。　He　read　the　book　so　many　times　that　even　the　dedication　stuck　in　his　memory。　When　he　arrived　at　Princeton　and　found　a　Tom　Corelli　Sullivan　listed　in　the　freshman　face…book；　he　recognized　my　middle　name　immediately　and　decided　to　track　me　down。
　　
　If　he　expected　to　meet　a　younger　version　of　my　father；　he　must　have　been　disappointed。　The　freshman　Paul　found；　who　walked　with　a　faint　limp　and　seemed　embarrassed　by　his　middle　name；　had　done　the　unthinkable：　he　had　renounced　the　Hypnerotomachia　and　bee　the　prodigal　son　of　a　family　that　made　a　religion　out　of　reading。　The　shockwaves　of　the　accident　were　still　ringing　through　my　life；　but　the　truth　is　that　even　before　my　father　died；　I　was　losing　my　faith　in　books。　I'd　begun　to　realize　that　there　was　an　unspoken　prejudice　among　book…learned　people；　a　secret　conviction　they　all　seemed　to　share；　that　life　as　we　know　it　is　an　imperfect　vision　of　reality；　and　that　only　art；　like　a　pair　of　reading　glasses；　can　correct　it。　The　scholars　and　intellectuals　I　met　at　our　dinner　table　always　seemed　to　hold　a　grudge　against　the　world。　They　could　never　quite　reconcile　themselves　to　the　idea　that　our　lives　don't　follow　the　dramatic　arc　that　a　good　author　gives　to　a　great　literary　character。　Only　in　accidents　of　pure　perfection　does　the　world　actually　bee　a　stage。　And　that；　they　seemed　to　think；　was　a　shame。
　No　one　ever　said　it　that　way；　exactly；　but　when　my　father's　friends　and　colleagues…all　but　Vincent　Taft…came　to　see　me　in　the　hospital；　looking　sheepish　about　the　reviews　they'd　written　of　his　book；　mumbling　little　eulogies　for　him　they'd　posed　in　the　waiting　room；　I　began　to　see　the　writing　on　the　wall。　I　noticed　it　the　moment　they　walked　to　my　bedside：　every　one　of　them　brought　handfuls　of　books。
　〃This　helped　me　when　my　father　died；〃　said　the　chairman　of　the　history　department；　placing　Merton's　Seven　Storey　Mountain　on　the　food　tray　beside　me。
　〃I　find　great　fort　in　Auden；〃　said　the　young　graduate　student　writing　her　dissertation　under　my　father。　She　left　a　paperback　edition　with　one　corner　clipped　off　to　remove　the　price。
　〃What　you　need　is　a　pick…me…up；〃　another　man　whispered　when　the　others　left　the　room。　〃Not　this　bloodless　stuff。〃
　I　didn't　even　recognize　him。　He　left　a　copy　of　The　Count　of　Monte　Cristo；　which　I'd　already　read；　and　I　could　only　wonder　if　he　really　thought　revenge　was　the　best　emotion　to　encourage　just　then。
　None　of　these　people；　I　realized；　could　cope　with　reality　any　better　than　I　could。　My　father's　death　had　a　nasty　finality　to　it；　and　it　made　a　mockery　of　the　laws　they　lived　by：　that　every　fact　can　be　reinterpreted；　that　every　ending　can　be　changed。　Dickens　had　rewritten　Great　Expectations　so　that　Pip　could　be　happy。　No　one　could　rewrite　this。
　　
　When　I　met　Paul；　then；　I　was　wary。　I'd　spent　the　last　two　years　of　high　school　forcing　certain　changes　on　myself：　whenever　I　felt　the　pain　in　my　leg；　I　would　continue　t