The Rule of Four (24 page)

Paul reads it a second time, then a third.

“He was going to try to take it from me,” he whispers faintly, stepping away from the desk to lean back on the wall.

“How is that possible?”

“Maybe he thought no one would believe it was undergraduate work.”

I refocus on the letter. “When did he offer to type up your thesis?”

“Sometime last month.”

“He’s been meaning to take it for that long?”

Paul glares at me and moves his hand across the desk. “
Obviously.
He’s been writing these people since January.”

When the letters settle on the desktop, a final sheet of correspondence peeks out from behind the Oxford and Harvard letters. When Paul sees the corner of the stationery, he pulls it out.

Richard,
it begins,
I hope this letter finds you well. Perhaps you’ve had better luck in Italy than you had in New York. If not, then we both know the situation you’re in. We also both know Vincent. I think it’s fair to say he has plans of his own for anything that comes of this. I therefore have a proposition for you. There’s more than enough here to suit both of us, and I’ve come up with a division of labor I think you’ll find fair. Please contact me soon to discuss. Leave me your phone numbers in Florence and Rome as well—the mail over there is unreliable, and I’d prefer to straighten this out ASAP. —B.

The reply, in a different pen and a different hand, has been written on the bottom of the original letter and sent back. There are two telephone numbers, one preceded by the letter
F,
the other by an
R.
A final note is jotted afterward:

As requested. Call after business hours, my time. What about Paul? —Richard.

Paul is speechless. He rifles through the papers again, but there’s nothing else. When I try to console him, he motions me off.

“We should tell the dean,” I say finally.

“Tell him what? That we were going through Bill’s stuff?”

Suddenly, a bright reflection curves along the opposite wall, followed by colored lights flashing through the sheet-glass windows. A police car has arrived in the front courtyard of the museum, siren mute. Two officers emerge. The red and blue lights go dead just as a second squad car arrives and two more officers follow.

“Someone must’ve told them we were here,” I say.

The note from Curry shakes in Paul’s hand. He’s standing in place, watching the dark forms hurry toward the main entrance.

“Come on.” I yank him toward the bookshelves by the rear exit.

Just then, the front door to the library opens and the beam of a flashlight lances across the room. We duck into a corner. Both officers enter the room.

“Over there,”
the first officer says, gesturing in our direction.

I grab the knob and press the back door open. Paul ducks into the hallway as the first policeman nears. On my haunches, I clamber out and regain my feet. We slide with our backs to the wall, and Paul leads us to the stairs, racing toward the ground floor. When we return to the open space of the main hall, I can see a flashlight skirting a nearby wall.

“Downstairs,” Paul says. “There’s a service elevator.”

We enter the Asian wing of the museum. Sculptures and vases sit behind ghostly walls of glass. Chinese scrolls lie unraveled and mounted beside tomb figures in display cabinets. The room is a murky shade of green.

“This way,” Paul urges as the footsteps come closer.

He leads me around a corner, back into a dead end, where the only exit is the large pair of metal doors to the service elevator.

Voices grow louder. I can make out two policemen standing at the foot of the stairs, trying to find their way around in the dark. Suddenly the entire floor is illuminated.

“We got lights . . .”
comes the voice of a third.

Paul forces his key into the slot on the wall. When the elevator doors part, he pulls me in. A barrage of footsteps follows, moving in our direction.

“Come on, come on . . .”

The doors remain open. For a second I think they’ve cut the power to the elevator. Then, just as the first officer turns the corner, the metal walls slide shut. A hand beats against the doors when the officer catches up, but the sound fades as the cabin begins to move.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Out the loading docks,” Paul says, trying to catch his breath.

We exit into a holding area of some kind, and Paul forces open the door leading into a huge, cold room. I wait for my eyes to adjust. The garage doors of the loading bays loom before us. The wind outside is so close, it’s making the metal panels tremble. I imagine footsteps racing downstairs in our direction, but nothing is audible through the thick door.

Paul rushes over to a switch on the wall. When he turns the knob, an engine stirs and the retractable loading door begins to budge.

“That’s enough,” I say, once the opening is big enough to admit both of us on our backs.

But Paul shakes his head and the door continues to rise.

“What are you doing?”

The gap between the floor and the bottom of the door increases until it brings the entire vista of south campus into view. For a second I’m stopped short by how beautiful it is, how empty.

Suddenly Paul turns the motor knob in the opposite direction and the door starts to roll shut.

“Go!”
he cries.

He darts from the wall toward the open bay, and I fumble, trying to get on my back. Paul is already in front of me. He rolls beneath the door, then pulls me out just before the metal connects with the ground.

I stand up, trying to catch my breath. When I begin moving in the direction of Dod, Paul jerks me back.

“They’ll see us from upstairs.” He points to the windows on the west side of the building. After scanning the path to our east, he says, “This way.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, following.

He bobs his head and we trudge into the night, away from our quad and out of their sight lines. I can feel the wind beneath my coat collar, cooling the sweat on my neck. When I look back, Dod and Brown Hall are almost purely dark, as is every dormitory in the distance. Night has reached all corners of campus. Only the windows at the art museum are shot with light.

We continue east through Prospect Gardens, a botanical wonderland in the heart of campus. The tiny spring plantings are dashed with white, almost invisible underfoot, but the American beech and the cedar of Lebanon stand like guardian angels above them, arms outstretched to shoulder the snow. A police car patrols one of the side streets, and we pick up our pace.

My thoughts are jumpy, my mind working to understand what we’ve seen. Maybe it was Taft we saw at Stein’s desk, rifling through his papers, erasing any connection between them. Maybe he called the police on us. I look over at Paul, wondering if the same thought has crossed his mind, but his expression is blank.

In the distance, the new music department shows signs of life.

“We can go in there for a while,” I suggest.

“Where?”

“The practice rooms in the basement. Until we’re clear.”

Stray notes float in the air as we near. Night-owl musicians come to Woolworth to rehearse in private. Down toward Prospect, another campus police car skids by, splashing slush and rock salt onto the curb. I force myself to walk faster.

Construction on Woolworth has only recently finished, and the building that emerged from the scaffolding is a curious thing, fortresslike from the outside but glassy and fragile-looking from within. Its atrium curves like a river through the music library and classrooms on the ground floor, rising three stories to skylights above. The wind howls jealously around it. Paul unlocks the entrance to the building with his ID card, holding the door as I pass through.

“Which way?” he asks.

I lead him to the nearest staircase. Gil and I have been here twice since the building was opened, both times after drinks on a slow Saturday night. His father’s second wife insisted that Gil learn to play something by Duke Ellington, the same way my father insisted that I learn something by Arcangelo Corelli, and between us we have eight years of lessons and almost nothing to show for it. Thumping our bottles on the top of an old baby grand, Gil would bungle “ ‘A’ Train,” I would butcher “La Follia,” and we would pretend to keep a beat that neither of us had ever learned.

Paul and I pad down the basement hallway, to find that only one piano is still at work. Someone in a distant practice room is playing “Rhapsody in Blue.” We slip into a small, soundproof studio, and Paul edges behind the upright piano, taking a seat on the stool. He looks at the keys of the piano, mysterious as computer keys to him, and doesn’t touch them. The overhead light sputters for a second, then goes dead. It’s just as well.

“I can’t believe it,” he says finally, taking a deep breath.

“Why would they do it?” I ask.

Paul runs his index finger across a key, scratching at the ebony. When he seems not to hear the question, I repeat myself.

“What do you want me to say, Tom?”

“Maybe this is why Stein wanted to help in the first place.”

“When? Tonight with the diary?”

“Months ago.”

“You mean, when you stopped working on the
Hypnerotomachia
?”

The chronology is a jab, a reminder that Stein’s involvement traces ultimately back to me.

“You think this is my fault?”

“No,” Paul says quietly. “Of course not.”

But the accusation hangs in the air. The map of Rome, like the diary, has reminded me of what I left behind, how much progress we made before I left, how much I enjoyed it. I look at my hands, curled up in my lap. It was my father who said I had lazy hands. Five years of lessons hadn’t produced a single presentable Corelli sonata; that’s when he started pushing basketball instead.

The strong take from the weak, Thomas, but the smart take from the strong.

“What about the note to Curry?” I say, fixing on the back of the piano. The wood is unvarnished and raw along the entire side, where the upright is supposed to face a wall. It strikes me as a strange economy, like a professor who doesn’t brush the back of his hair because he can’t see it in the mirror. My father used to do that. It was a defect of perspective, I always thought—the mistake of someone who could only see the world one way. His students must have noticed it as often as I did. Every time he turned his back on them.

“Richard would never try to take something from me,” Paul says, biting at a nail. “We must’ve missed something.”

A hush settles in. The practice room is warm, and when we’re both quiet there’s no sound at all, besides an occasional hum from down the hall, where Gershwin has been replaced by a Beethoven sonata that rumbles in the distance. It reminds me of sitting through summer storms as a child. The power is out, the house is quiet, and nothing can be heard besides the roll of far-off thunder. My mother is reading to me by candlelight—Bartholomew Cubbins or an illustrated Sherlock Holmes—and the only thing on my mind is how the best stories always seem to be about men in funny hats.

“I think it was Vincent in there,” Paul says. “At the police station he lied about his relationship with Bill. He told them Bill was the best graduate student he’d advised in years.”

We both know Vincent,
Stein’s letter said.
It’s fair to say he has plans of his own for anything that comes of this.

“You think Taft wants it for himself?” I ask. “He hasn’t tried to publish anything on the
Hypnerotomachia
in years.”

“This isn’t
about
publishing, Tom.”

“What’s it about?”

Paul stays quiet for a moment, then says, “You heard what Vincent said tonight. He’s never admitted before that Francesco was from Rome.” Paul looks down at the pedals of the piano, jutting out from the wooden frame like tiny gold shoes. “He’s trying to take this away from me.”

“Take what away from you?”

But again Paul hesitates. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“What if it was Curry in the museum?” I offer, when he turns away. The letter from Stein to Curry has complicated my vision of the man. It reminds me that he was more taken with the
Hypnerotomachia
than any of them.

“He’s not involved, Tom.”

“You saw how he acted when you showed him the diary. Curry still thought it was his.”

“No. I
know
him, Tom. Okay? You don’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You never trusted Richard. Even when he tried to help you.”

“I didn’t need his help.”

“And you only hate Vincent because of your father.”

I turn to him, surprised. “He drove my father to—”

“To what? Run off the road?”

“Drove him to
distraction.
What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“He wrote a book review, Tom.”

“He ruined his life.”

“He ruined his
career.
There’s a difference.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not. I’m defending Richard. But Vincent never did anything to you.”

I’m just about to dig into Paul, when I see the effect our conversation is having on him. He runs the base of his palm above his cheeks, blotting them. For a second I can only see headlights on the road. A horn is blaring.

“Richard’s always been good to me,” Paul is saying.

I don’t remember my father making a sound. Not once during that drive, not even when we skidded off the road.

“You don’t know them,” he says. “Either of them.”

I’m not sure when the rain began—while we were driving to see my mother at the book show, or on the way to the hospital when I was riding in the ambulance.

“I found this book review once of Vincent’s first major work,” Paul continues. “A clipping in his house, from the early seventies, back when he was a hotshot at Columbia—before he came to the Institute and his career fell apart. It was glowing, the kind of thing professors dream about. At the end it said, ‘Vincent Taft has already begun his next project: a definitive history of the Italian Renaissance. To judge from his existing work, it will be a magnum opus indeed; the sort of rare accomplishment in which the
writing
of history becomes the
making
of history.’ I remember that, word for word. I found it spring of sophomore year, before I really knew him. That was the first time I started to understand who he was.”