iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第59部分

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in；　then　figure　out　where　the　word　breaks　are。〃
　〃But　it　must've　taken　Colonna　months　to　write。〃
　He　nods。　〃The　funny　thing　is；　I'd　always　noticed　there　were　certain　lines　in　the　Hypnerotomachia　that　seemed　even　more　disorganized　than　others…places　where　words　didn't　really　fit；　where　clauses　were　in　strange　places；　where　the　weirdest　neologisms　turned　up。　It　makes　sense　now。　Francesco　had　to　write　the　text　to　fit　the　pattern。　It　explains　why　he　used　so　many　languages。　If　the　vernacular　word　didn't　fit　in　the　spaces；　he　would　have　to　try　the　Latin　word；　or　make　one　up　himself。　He　even　made　a　bad　choice　with　the　pattern。　Look。〃
　Paul　points　to　the　line　where　O；　L；　and　N　appear。
　〃See　how　many　cipher　letters　are　on　that　one　line？　And　there'll　be　another　one　once　you　go　six　west　again。　The　four…south；　two…north　pattern　doubles　back　on　itself；　so　every　other　line　in　the　Hypnerotomachia；　Francesco　had　to　find　text　that　fit　four　different　letters。　But　it　worked。　No　one　in　five　hundred　years　picked　up　on　it。〃
　〃But　the　letters　in　the　book　aren't　printed　that　way；〃　I　say；　wondering　how　he　applied　the　technique　to　the　actual　text。　〃Letters　aren't　spaced　evenly　in　a　grid。　How　do　you　figure　out　what's　exactly　north　or　south？〃
　He　nods。　〃You　can't；　because　it's　hard　to　say　which　letter　is　directly　above　or　below　another。　I　had　to　work　it　out　mathematically　instead　of　graphically。〃
　It　still　amazes　me；　the　way　he　teases　simplicity　and　plexity　out　of　the　same　idea。
　〃Take　what　I　wrote；　for　example。　In　this　case　there　are〃…he　counts　something…〃eighteen　letters　per　line；　right？　If　you　work　it　out；　that　means　'four　south'　will　always　be　four　lines　straight　down；　which　is　the　same　as　seventy…two　letters　to　the　right　of　the　original　starting　point。　Using　the　same　math；　'two　north'　will　be　the　same　as　thirty…six　letters　to　the　left。　Once　you　know　the　length　of　Francesco's　standard　line；　you　can　just　figure　out　the　math　and　do　everything　that　way。　After　a　while；　you　get　pretty　quick　at　counting　the　letters。〃
　In　our　partnership；　it　occurs　to　me；　the　only　thing　I　ever　had　that　could　pare　to　the　speed　of　Paul's　reasoning　was　my　intuition…luck；　dreams；　chance　associations。　It　hardly　seems　fair　to　him　that　we　worked　together　as　equals。
　Paul　folds　the　sheet　of　paper　and　places　it　in　the　trash　can。　For　a　second　he　looks　around　the　carrel；　then　lifts　a　stack　of　books　and　places　it　in　the　crook　of　my　arm；　followed　by　a　stack　for　himself。　The　painkiller　must　still　be　working；　because　my　shoulder　doesn't　buckle　under　the　heft。
　〃I'm　amazed　you　figured　it　out；〃　I　tell　him。　〃What　did　it　say？〃
　〃Help　me　put　these　away　back　on　the　shelves　first；〃　he　answers。　〃I　want　to　empty　this　place　out。〃
　〃Why？〃
　〃Just　to　be　safe。〃
　〃From　what？〃
　He　half…smiles　at　me。　〃Library　fines？〃
　We　exit　the　carrel　and　Paul　guides　me　toward　a　long　corridor　extending　far　into　the　darkness。　There　are　bookshelves　on　either　side；　branching　off　into　aisles　of　their　own；　dead　ends　begetting　dead　ends。　We　are　in　a　corner　of　the　library　visited　so　rarely　that　the　librarians　keep　the　lights　off；　letting　visitors　flick　the　switch　on　each　shelf　when　they　e。
　〃I　couldn't　believe　it；　when　I　finished；〃　he　says。　〃Even　before　I　was　through　decoding；　I　was　shaking。　It　was　done。　After　all　this　time；　done。〃
　He　stops　at　one　of　the　rearmost　shelves；　and　I　can　make　out　only　the　silhouette　of　his　face。
　〃And　it　was　worth　it；　Tom。　I　never　even　saw　it　ing；　what　was　in　the　second　half　of　the　book。　Remember　what　we　saw　in　Bill's　letter？〃
　〃Yes。〃
　〃Most　of　that　letter　was　a　lie。　You　know　that　work　is　mine；　Tom。　The　most　Bill　ever　did　was　translate　a　few　Arabic　characters。　He　made　some　copies　and　checked　out　some　books。　Everything　else　I　did　on　my　own。〃
　〃I　know；〃　I　say。
　Paul　covers　his　mouth　with　his　hand　for　a　second。
　〃That's　not　true。　Without　everything　your　father　and　Richard　found；　and　everything　the　rest　of　you　solved…you；　especially…I　couldn't　have　done　it。　I　didn't　do　it　all　on　my　own。　The　rest　of　you　showed　me　the　way。〃
　Paul　invokes　my　father's　name；　and　Richard　Curry's；　as　if　they　are　a　pair　of　saints；　two　martyrs　from　the　paintings　in　Taft's　lecture。　For　a　moment　I　feel　like　Sancho　Panza；　listening　to　Don　Quixote。　The　giants　he　sees　are　nothing　but　windmills；　I　know；　and　yet　he's　the　one　who　sees　clearly　in　the　dark；　and　I'm　the　one　doubting　my　eyes。　Maybe　that's　been　the　rub　all　along；　I　think：　we　are　animals　of　imagination。　Only　a　man　who　sees　giants　can　ever　stand　upon　their　shoulders。
　〃But　Bill　was　right　about　one　thing；〃　Paul　says。　〃The　results　will　cast　a　shadow　over　everything　else　in　historical　studies。　For　a　long　time。〃
　He　takes　the　stack　of　books　from　my　hands；　and　suddenly　I　feel　weightless。　The　corridor　behind　us　extends　toward　a　light　in　the　distance；　open　aisles　verging　off　into　space　on　each　side。　Even　in　the　darkness；　I　can　see　the　way　Paul　smiles。
　
　Chapter　22
　
　We　begin　making　trips　back　and　forth　from　the　carrel；　replacing　dozens　of　books；　most　of　them　on　shelves　where　they　don't　belong。　Paul　only　seems　to　care　that　they're　out　of　sight。
　〃Do　you　remember　what　was　going　on　in　Italy　just　before　the　Hypnerotomachia　was　published？〃　he　asks。
　〃Just　what　was　in　the　Vatican　tour　book。〃
　Paul　lifts　another　pile　of　books　into　my　arms　as　we　walk　back　into　the　darkness。
　〃The　intellectual　life　of　Italy　during　Francesco's　day　revolves　around　a　single　city；〃　he　says。
　〃Rome。〃
　But　Paul　shakes　his　head。　〃Smaller　than　that。　The　size　of　Princeton…the　campus；　not　the　town。〃
　I　see　how　enchanted　he　is　by　what　he's　found；　how　real　it's　bee　for　him　already。
　〃In　that　town；〃　he　says；　〃you've　got　more　intellectuals　than　anyone　knows　what　to　do　with。　Geniuses。　Polymaths。　Thinkers　who　are　gunning　for　the　big　answers　to　the　big　questions。　Autodidacts　who　have　taught　themselves　ancient　languages　no　one　else　knows。　Philosophers　who　are　bining　religious　points　from　the　Bible　with　ideas　from　Greek　and　Roman　texts；　Egyptian　mysticism；　Persian　manuscripts　so　old　nobody　knows　how　to　date　them。　The　absolute　cutting　edge　of　humanism。　Think　of　the　riddles。　University　professors　playing　Rithmomachia。　Translators　interpreting　Horapollo。　Anatomists　revising　Galen。〃
　In　my　mind's　eye　the　dome　of　Santa　Maria　del　Fiore　es　into　focus。　My　father　liked　to　call　it　the　mother　city　of　modern　scholarship。　〃Florence；〃　I　say。
　〃Right。　But　that's　only　the　beginning。　In　every　other　discipline；　you've　got　the　biggest　names　in　Europe。　In　architecture　you've　got　Brunelleschi；　who　engineered　the　largest　cathedral　dome　in　a　thousand　years。　In　sculpture　you've　got　Ghiberti；　who　created　a　set　of　reliefs　so　beautiful　that　they're　known　as　the　doors　of　paradise。　And　you've　got　Ghiberti's　assistant；　who　grows　up　to　bee　the　father　of　modern　sculpture…Donatello。〃
　〃The　painters　weren't　bad　either；〃　I　remind　him。
　Paul　smiles。　〃The　single　greatest　concentration　of　genius　in　the　history　of　Western　art；　all　in　this　little　town。　Applying　new　techniques；　inventing　new　theories　of　perspective；　transforming　painting　from　a　craft　into　a　science　and　an　art。　There　must've　been　three　dozen　of　them；　like　Alberti；　who　would've　been　considered　first…class　anywhere　else　in　the　world。　But　in　this　town；　they're　second…rate。　That's　because　they're　peting　with　the　giants。　Masaccio。　Botticelli。　Michelangelo。〃
　As　the　momentum　of　his　ideas　increases；　his　feet　move　faster　down　the　dark　hallways。
　〃You　want　scientists？〃　he　says。　〃How　about　Leonardo　da　Vinci。　You　want　politicians？　Machiavelli。　Poets？　Boccaccio　and　Dante。　And　a　lot　of　these　guys　were　contemporaries。　On　top　of　it　all；　you　have　the　Medici；　a　family　so　rich　it　could　afford　to　patronize　as　many　artists　and　intellectuals　as　the　town　could　produce。
　〃All　of　them；　together；　in　the　same　small　city；　at　basically　the　same　time。　The　greatest　cultural　heroes　in　all　of　Western　history；　crossing　each　other　in　the　streets；　knowing　each　other　on　a　first…name　basis；　talking　to　each　other；　working　together；　peting；　influencing　and　pushing　each　other　to　go　further　than　they　could've　gone　alone。　All　in　a　place　where　beauty　and　truth　are　king；　where　leading　families　fight　over　who　can　mission　the　greatest　art；　who　can　subsidize　th