iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第57节
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of the diary。〃
〃Did you get it back？〃
He shakes his head。 〃All I got was a handful of Vincent's old handwritten notes。〃
〃So what are you going to do？〃 I ask。
Paul begins reaching for something else under the desk。 〃I'm at Vincent's mercy。〃
〃How much have you told him？〃
When his hands return to view； they're empty。 Losing patience； he moves his chair backward and lowers himself to his knees。 〃He doesn't know any details about the crypt。 Only that it exists。〃
I notice faint tracks across the floor； ruts that trace quarter…circles back to the metal legs of the desk。
〃Last night I started making a map of everything Francesco said about it in the second half of the Hypnerotomachia。 The location； the dimensions； the landmarks。 I knew Vincent might e looking for what I'd found； so I put the map where I used to keep the best work I did in here。〃
There's a clink of metal against metal； and from the far corner of the desk bottom； Paul produces a screwdriver。 The long swatch of tape that secured it to the underside dangles like a weed in his hand。 He peels the tape off； then swivels the desk toward us。 The front legs slide along the grooves in the tile floor； and suddenly the ventilation duct es into view。 Four screws hold the grille to the wall。 The paint has been chipped on all of them。
Paul begins unscrewing the grille。 One corner at a time； the vent es undone。 When he reaches into the duct； then removes his hand； he's holding an envelope stuffed with papers。 My first instinct is to look out the window of the carrel； to see if anyone's watching us。 Now I understand the sheet of black paper that covers it。
Paul opens the envelope。 First he pulls out a pair of photographs； each one worn from handling。 The first is of Paul and Richard Curry in Italy。 They are standing in the middle of the Piazza della Signoria in Florence； directly in front of the Fountain of Neptune。 Blurred in the background is a copy of Michelangelo's David。 Paul is wearing shorts and a backpack； Richard Curry is wearing a suit； but his tie is loose and his collar is unbuttoned。 Both of them are smiling。
The second picture is of the four of us； from sophomore year。 Paul is kneeling in the middle of the photo； wearing a borrowed tie and holding up a medal。 The rest of us are standing around him； with two professors in the background； looking amused。 Paul has just won the annual essay contest of the Princeton Francophile Society。 We three have shown up as figures from French history to support him。 I am Robespierre； Gil is Napoleon； and Charlie； in a huge hoop dress we found at a costume store； is Marie Antoinette。
Paul seems to make nothing of the pictures； placing them gently on the desk as if he's used to seeing them。 Now he empties the rest of the envelope。 What I mistook for a stack of papers is actually a single large sheet； folded over several times to fit inside。
〃This is it；〃 he says； unwrapping it on the surface of the desk。
There； in tiny detail； is a hand…drawn topological map。 Elevation lines run in uneven circles； with rough directional markings in a faint grid。 Near the middle； written in red； is an angular object shaped like a cross。 According to the scale in the corner； it's roughly the size of a dormitory。
〃Is that it？〃 I ask。
He nods。
It's enormous。 For a second both of us sit in silence； trying to absorb it。
〃What are you going to do with the map？〃 I ask； now that the carrel is bare。
Paul opens his hand。 The four small screws to the ventilation duct roll like seeds in his palm。 〃Put it somewhere safe。〃
〃Back in the wall？〃
〃No。〃
He leans down to screw the face of the duct back in； and looks as if a calm has settled over him。 When he rises and begins to pull the sheets of paper from the wall； one after another the messages disappear。 Kings and monsters； ancient names； notes he never meant anyone else to see。
〃So what are you going to do with it？〃 I say； still looking at the map。
He crumples the other sheets in his hand。 The walls are white again。 After sitting down； and folding the map along its creases； he says very evenly； 〃I'm giving it to you。〃
〃What？〃
Paul puts the map into the envelope and hands it to me。 He keeps the pictures for himself。
〃I promised you'd be the first to know。 You deserve to be。〃
He says it as if he's just keeping his word。
〃What do you want me to do with it？〃
He smiles。 〃Don't lose it。〃
〃What if Taft es looking for it？〃
〃That's the idea。 If he does； he'll e looking for me。〃 Paul pauses before speaking again。 〃And besides； I want you to get used to having it around。〃
〃Why？〃
He sits back。 〃Because I want us to work together。 I want us to find Francesco's crypt together。〃
Finally I understand。 〃Next year。〃
He nods。 〃In Chicago。 And Rome。〃
The vent whirs one last time； whispering through the grille。
〃This is yours〃 is all I can think to say。 〃Your thesis。 You finished it。〃
〃This is so much bigger than a thesis； Tom。〃
〃It's much bigger than a Ph。D。 dissertation too。〃
〃Exactly。〃
Now I hear it in his voice。 This is just the beginning。
〃I don't want to do this alone；〃 he says。
〃What can I do？〃
He smiles。 〃Just keep the map for now。 Let it burn a hole in your pocket for a while。〃
It unnerves me； how light the envelope is； the impermanence of what I'm holding。 It seems to argue against the reality of all of this； that the wisdom of the Hypnerotomachia can sit in the fold of my palm。
〃e on；〃 he says finally； glancing down at his watch。 〃Let's go home。 We need to pick up some things for Charlie。〃
He takes down the last remnant of his work with one final swoop of his arm。 There is no more trace in the carrel of Paul； or of Colonna； or of the long trail of ideas connecting them over five hundred years。 The sheet of black paper on the window is gone。
Chapter 24
The last question the recruiter from Daedalus asked during my job interview was a riddle： If a frog falls down a fifty…foot well and has to climb his way out； making three feet of progress every day； but slipping back two feet every night； in how many days will he escape？
Charlie's answer was that he never escapes； because a frog that falls fifty feet doesn't get back up。 Paul's answer had something to do with an ancient philosopher who died by walking into a well while staring up at the stars。 Gil's answer was that he'd never heard of a frog climbing wells； and what did all this have to do with developing software in Texas； anyway？
The right answer； I think； is that it takes the frog forty…eight days； or two days less than you might expect。 The trick is realizing that the frog climbs one foot per day after all is said and done…but on the forty…eighth day； he climbs three feet and reaches the top of the well before he can slide back again。
I don't know what makes me think of that just now。 Maybe this is the sort of moment when riddles have an afterglow of their own； a wisdom that illuminates the edges of experience when nothing else can。 In a world where half of the villagers always lie and half of them always tell the truth； where the hare never catches the tortoise because the distance between them shrinks by a never…collapsing infinity of halves； where the fox can never be left on the same bank of the river as the hen； or the hen on the same bank as the grain； because with perfect regularity the one will consume the other； and nothing you can do will prevent it： in that world； everything is sensible but the premise。 A riddle is a castle built on air； perfectly habitable if you don't look down。 The grand impossibility of what Paul has told me…that an ancient rivalry between a monk and a humanist has left a crypt of treasures beneath a forgotten forest…rests on the much more basic impossibility that a book like the Hypnerotomachia； written in code； impenetrable； ignored by scholars for five centuries； could exist。 It couldn't； yet it's as real to me as I am to myself。 And if I accept its existence； then the foundation is set； and the impossible castle can be built。 The rest is just mortar and stones。
When the elevator doors open； and the library lobby seems weightless in the wintry light； it feels like we've emerged from a tunnel。 Every time I think of that Daedalus riddle； I imagine the frog's surprise when； for the first time； on his last day； three steps forward are not followed by two steps back。 There is a suddenness at the top of the well； an unexpected quickening of the journey at its end； that I feel now。 The riddle I've known since I was a child…the riddle of the Hypnerotomachia…has been solved in less than a day。
We click through the turnstile at the library's front border； and the nip of the wind returns beneath the entrance。 Paul presses the door open； and I tighten my coat around me。 There is snow everywhere； no stones or walls or shadows； only brilliant tornadoes of white。 All around me is Chicago and Texas； graduation； Dod and home。 Here I am； suddenly； above ground。
We start south。 On the way back to the dorm； a Dumpster has been overturned。 Little nests of garbage poke up from mounds of snow； and the squirrels are at them already； pulling out apple cores and near…empty bottles of lotion； passing e
