The Rule of Four (15 page)

By the time we find a pinch of standing room at the back of the auditorium, Taft has begun, and already it’s far from the usual Good Friday drivel. He’s delivering a slide show, and over the broad white projection screen comes a series of images, each more terrible than the last. Saints being tortured. Martyrs being slain. Taft is saying that faith is easier to give than life, but harder to take away. He has brought examples to make his point.

“Saint Denis,” he says, voice pulsing through the speakers mounted high overhead, “was martyred by decapitation. According to legend, his corpse rose and carried his head away.”

Above the lectern is a painting of a blindfolded man with his head on a block. The executioner is wielding an enormous ax.

“Saint Quentin,” he continues, advancing to the next image. “Painted by Jacob Jordaens, 1650. He was stretched on the rack, then flogged. He prayed to God for strength, and survived, but was later put on trial as a sorcerer. He was racked and beaten, and his flesh was pierced with iron wires from the shoulders to the thighs. Iron nails were forced into his fingers, skull, and body. He was ultimately decapitated.”

Charlie, failing to see the point of all this, or maybe just unimpressed after the horrors he’s seen with the ambulance team, turns to me.

“So what’d Stein want?” he whispers.

Across the screen comes a dark image of a man, naked but for a loincloth, being forced to lie across a metal surface. A fire is being lit below him. “Saint Lawrence,” Taft continues, familiar enough with the details not to need cues. “Martyred in 258. Burned alive on a gridiron.”

“He found a book Paul needs for his thesis,” I say.

Charlie points to the bundle in Paul’s hand. “Must be important,” he says.

I expect something sharp in the words, a reminder of how Stein cut our game short, but Charlie says them with respect. He and Gil still mispronounce the
Hypnerotomachia
’s title five times out of ten, but Charlie, at least, can identify with how hard Paul has worked, and how much this research means to him.

Taft presses a button behind the lectern again, and an even stranger image appears. A man lies on a wooden tablet, with a hole in the side of his abdomen. A string from within the hole is gradually being turned on a spit by two men on either side of him.

“Saint Erasmus,” Taft says, “also known as Elmo. He was tortured by Emperor Diocletian. Though beaten with whips and clubs, he survived. Though rolled in tar and set on fire, he lived. Though thrown into prison, he escaped. He was recaptured and forced to sit in a burning iron chair. Finally he was killed by having his stomach cut open and his intestines wound around a windlass.”

Gil turns to me. “This is
definitely
different.”

A face in the back row turns to shush us, but seems to think better of it after seeing Charlie.

“The proctors wouldn’t even listen to me about the screen,” Charlie whispers to Gil, still looking for conversation.

Gil turns back toward the stage, not wanting to resurrect the topic.

“Saint Peter,” Taft continues, “by Michelangelo, around 1550. Peter was martyred under Nero, crucified upside-down at his own request. He was too humble to be crucified the same way as Christ.”

Onstage, Professor Henderson looks uncomfortable, picking nervously at a spot on her sleeve. Without any thread of argument connecting one slide to the next, Taft’s presentation is beginning to seem less like a lecture than like a sadist’s peep show. The usual rumble of conversation in the auditorium on Good Fridays has dissolved into titillated silence.

“Hey,” Gil says, tapping Paul’s sleeve, “does Taft always talk about this stuff?”

Paul nods.

“He’s a little off, isn’t he?” Charlie whispers.

The two of them, having stayed out of Paul’s academic life for so long, are noticing this for the first time.

Paul nods, but says nothing.

“We arrive, then,” Taft continues, “at the Renaissance. The home of a man who embraced the language of violence I have been trying to convey. What I wish to share with you tonight is not a story he created by dying, but something of the mysterious story he created while still alive. The man was an aristocrat from Rome named Francesco Colonna. He wrote one of the rarest books ever printed: the
Hypnerotomachia Poliphili
.”

Paul’s eyes are fixed on Taft, pupils wide in the dark.

“From
Rome
?” I whisper.

Paul looks at me, incredulous. Before he can answer, though, there is an outburst at the entrance behind us. A sharp, violent exchange has erupted between the girl at the door and a large man, as yet obscured. Their voices are spilling through the lecture hall.

To my surprise, when the man emerges into the light, I recognize him at once.

Chapter 10
                           

Against the loud protests of the blonde at the door, Richard Curry enters the auditorium. Dozens of heads in the back of the room turn. Curry scans the audience, then turns toward the stage.

This book,
Taft continues in the background, oblivious to the commotion,
is perhaps the greatest remaining mystery of Western printing.

From all sides, awkward glances size up the intruder. Curry looks disheveled: tie loose, jacket in hand, a dislocated look in his eyes. Paul begins pushing his way through a small crowd of students.

It was published by the most famous press in all of Renaissance Italy, but even the identity of its author remains heavily debated.

“What’s that guy doing?” Charlie whispers.

Gil shakes his head. “Isn’t that Richard Curry?”

Now Paul is in the back row, trying to get Curry’s attention.

It is considered by many to be not only the world’s most misunderstood book, but also—perhaps only after the Gutenberg Bible—the world’s most valuable.

Paul stands beside the man now. He places a hand on Curry’s back, almost cautiously, and whispers something, but the old man shakes his head.

“I am here,” Curry says, loudly enough that people in the front row turn to get a glimpse, “to say something of my own.”

By now Taft has stopped talking. Every face in the hall is fixed on the stranger. He reaches up and runs his hand over his head. Glaring at Taft, he speaks again.

“The language of violence?” he says, in a shrill, unfamiliar voice. “I heard this lecture thirty years ago, Vincent, when you thought
I
was your audience.” He turns to the crowd and spreads his arms, addressing them all. “Did he tell you about Saint Lawrence? Saint Quentin? Saint Elmo and the windlass? Hasn’t anything changed, Vincent?”

There are murmurs through the audience as people register Curry’s scorn. From one corner there is laughter.

“This, my friends,” Curry continues, pointing at the stage, “is a hack. A fool and a crook.” He turns to focus on Taft. “Even a charlatan can fool the same man twice, Vincent. But you? You prey on the innocent.” He places his fingers to his lips and forms a kiss. “Bravissimo, il Fraudolento!” Lifting his arms, he encourages the audience to stand. “An ovation, my friends. Three cheers for Saint Vincent, patron saint of thieves.”

Taft meets the intrusion grimly. “Why have you come here, Richard?”

“They know each other?”
Charlie whispers.

Paul is trying to distract Curry, telling him to stop, but Curry continues.

“Why have
you
come here, old friend? Is this theater or scholarship? What will you steal this time, now that the portmaster’s book is out of your hands?”

At this, Taft lurches forward and booms, “
Stop this.
What are you doing?”

But Curry’s voice escapes like a conjured spirit. “Where have you put the piece of leather from the diary, Vincent? Tell me and I’ll leave. You can carry on with this farce of yours.”

The shadows of the lecture hall creep unpleasantly across Curry’s face. Professor Henderson finally shoots to her feet and barks, “Someone get security!”

A proctor is already within arm’s reach of Curry when Taft waves him off. His self-possession has returned.

“No,” the ogre growls. “Let him go. He will leave of his own accord. Won’t you, Richard? Before they have to
arrest
you?”

Curry is unmoved. “Look at us, Vincent. Twenty-five years, and still waging the same war. Tell me where the blueprint is and you won’t see me again. That’s the only business we have anymore. The rest of this”—Curry sweeps his arms across the lecture hall, encompassing everything—“is worthless.”

“Get out, Richard,” Taft says.

“You and I tried and failed,” Curry continues. “What do the Italians say?
There’s no worse thief than a bad book
. Let’s be men about it and step aside. Where’s the blueprint?”

There are whispers all around. The proctor edges between Curry and Paul—but to my surprise, Curry suddenly lowers his head and begins to move toward the far aisle. The animation in his face disappears.

“You old fool,” he says, addressing Taft even with his back toward the stage. “Act on.”

Students against the wall push toward the front of the auditorium, keeping their distance. Paul stands rooted to the spot, watching his friend depart.

“Leave, Richard,” Taft instructs from the podium. “Don’t return.”

We all follow Curry’s slow progress toward the exit. The sophomore at the door watches with wide, fearful eyes. In a moment he passes across the threshold, into the anteroom, and is gone from sight.

Intense murmuring seizes the lecture hall as soon as he has vanished.

“What the hell was that?” I ask, looking back at the exit.

In our corner, Gil steps over toward Paul.

“Are you okay?”

Paul is fumbling. “I don’t understand . . .”

Gil places an arm over his shoulder. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” Paul says. “I have to go after him.” His hands are shaking, the diary still tucked between them. “I need to talk to him.”

Charlie begins to protest, but Paul is too upset to argue. Before any of us can insist otherwise, he turns and heads for the door.

“I’ll go with him,” I say to Charlie.

He nods. Taft’s voice has begun to roll again in the background, and when I look up at the stage on the way out, the giant seems to be staring directly at me. From her seat, Katie catches my attention. She mouths a question about Paul, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. Zipping my coat, I head out of the auditorium.

In the courtyard, canopies lurch like skeletons in the dark, dancing on their peg legs. The wind has softened, but the snow continues, thicker than before. Around the corner I hear Paul’s voice.

“Are you okay?”

I turn the corner. Not ten feet away is Richard Curry, jacket fluttering in the wind.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asks.

“Get back inside,” Curry says.

I step forward to hear more, but snow crunches beneath my feet. Curry looks over, and their conversation halts. I expect some spark of recognition in his eyes, but find none. After putting his hand on Paul’s shoulder, Curry slowly backs away.

“Richard! Can’t we talk somewhere?” Paul calls out.

But the old man distances himself quickly, slipping his arms into his suit jacket. He doesn’t answer.

It takes me a second to regain my wits and go to Paul’s side. Together we watch Curry disappear into the shadow of the chapel.

“I need to find out where Bill got the diary,” he says.

“Right now?”

Paul nods.

“Where is he?”

“Taft’s office at the Institute.”

I look out across the courtyard. Paul’s only transportation is an old Datsun he bought with his stipend from Curry. The Institute is a long way from here.

“Why’d
you
leave the lecture?” he asks.

“I thought you might need some help.”

My bottom lip is shivering. Snow is gathering in Paul’s hair.

“I’ll be okay,” he says.

But he’s the one without a coat.

“Come on. We can drive out there together.”

He looks down at his shoes. “I have to talk to him alone.”

“You’re sure?”

He nods.

“At least take this,” I offer, unzipping the peacoat.

He smiles. “Thanks.”

“Call us if you need anything.”

Paul puts on the coat and slips the diary under his arm. After a second he begins walking off into the snow.

“You’re sure you don’t want help?” I shout before he’s out of earshot.

He turns back, but only to nod.

Good luck,
I say, almost to myself.

And as the cold plunges below the neckline of my shirt, I know there’s nothing left to do. When Paul vanishes into the distance, I head back inside.

On my way up to the auditorium I pass by the blonde without a word and find that Charlie and Gil haven’t moved from their spot in the rear of the lecture hall. They pay me no attention; Taft has won their interest. His voice is hypnotic.

“Everything okay?” Gil whispers.

I nod, not wanting to get into the details.

“Certain modern interpreters,” Taft is saying, “have been content to accept that the book conforms to many conventions of an old Renaissance genre, the bucolic romance. But if the
Hypnerotomachia
is just a conventional love story, then why are only thirty pages devoted to the romance between Poliphilo and Polia? Why do the other three hundred and forty pages form a maze of subplots, strange encounters with mythological figures, dissertations on esoteric subjects? If only one out of every ten words pertains to the romance itself, then how do we explain the other ninety percent of the book?”

Charlie turns to me again. “Do you know all this stuff?”

“Yeah.” I’ve heard the same lecture a dozen times over the dinner table at home.

“In short, it is no mere love story. Poliphilo’s ‘struggle for love in a dream’—as the Latin title would have it—is much more complex than boy-meets-girl. For five hundred years scholars have exposed the book to the most powerful interpretive tools of their day, and not one of them has found a way out of the labyrinth.