iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第78部分

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st　friend。
　
　Chapter　30
　
　Maybe；　then；　I'd　made　my　decision　before　I　ever　received　this　package　in　the　mail。　Maybe　the　package　was　only　the　accelerant；　like　the　alcohol　Parker　spilled　on　the　club　floor　that　night。　Not　even　thirty；　and　I　feel　like　an　old　man。　The　eve　of　our　fifth　reunion；　and　fifty　years　seem　to　have　gone　by。
　Imagine；　Paul　said　to　me　once；　that　the　present　is　simply　a　reflection　of　the　future。　Imagine　that　we　spend　our　whole　lives　staring　into　a　mirror　with　the　future　at　our　backs；　seeing　it　only　in　the　reflection　of　what　is　here　and　now。　Some　of　us　would　begin　to　believe　that　we　could　see　tomorrow　better　by　turning　around　to　look　at　it　directly。　But　those　who　did；　without　even　realizing　it；　would've　lost　the　key　to　the　perspective　they　once　had。　For　the　one　thing　they　would　never　be　able　to　see　in　it　was　themselves。　By　turning　their　backs　on　the　mirror；　they　would　bee　the　one　element　of　the　future　their　eyes　could　never　find。
　At　the　time；　I　thought　Paul　was　parroting　wisdom　he'd　gotten　from　Taft；　which　Taft　had　stolen　from　some　Greek　philosopher；　the　idea　that　we　spend　our　lives　backing　into　the　future。　What　I　couldn't　see；　because　I　was　turned　the　wrong　way；　was　that　Paul　meant　it　for　me；　about　me。　For　years　I've　been　determined　to　get　on　with　my　life　by　doggedly　hunting　down　the　future。　It　was　what　everyone　told　me　I　should　do；　to　forget　the　past；　to　look　forward；　and　in　the　end　I　did　it　better　than　anyone　might've　expected。　When　I　arrived；　though；　I　began　to　imagine　that　I　knew　exactly　what　my　father　felt；　that　I　could　identify　with　the　way　things　seemed　to　turn　against　him　with　no　explanation。
　The　fact　is；　I　don't　know　the　first　thing　about　it。　I　turn　around　now；　toward　the　present；　and　find　that　I've　had　nothing　like　the　disappointments　he　experienced。　In　a　business　I　knew　nothing　about；　which　never　captured　my　heart；　I've　done　well　for　myself。　My　superiors　marvel　that；　after　being　the　last　man　out　of　the　office　for　five　years；　I　have　never　taken　a　single　day　off。　Not　knowing　any　better；　they　mistake　it　for　devotion。
　Seeing　that　now；　and　paring　it　to　the　way　my　father　never　did　anything　he　didn't　love；　I　e　to　a　certain　understanding。　I　don't　know　him　any　better　than　I　ever　did；　but　I　know　something　about　the　position　I've　taken　all　these　years；　turning　to　stare　at　the　future。　It's　a　blind　way　to　face　life；　a　stance　that　lets　the　world　pass　you　by；　just　as　you　think　you're　ing　to　grips　with　it。
　Tonight；　long　after　leaving　the　office；　I　quit　my　job　in　Texas。　I　watched　the　sun　go　down　over　Austin；　realizing　it　had　never　once　snowed　in　all　my　time　here；　not　in　April；　not　even　in　midwinter。　I've　almost　forgotten　what　it　feels　like　to　crawl　into　a　bed　so　cold；　you　wished　there　was　someone　else　in　it。　Texas　is　so　hot；　it　helps　you　believe　you're　better　off　sleeping　alone。
　The　package　was　waiting　at　my　house　when　I　came　back　from　work　today。　A　little　brown　mailing　tube　propped　against　my　door；　so　unexpectedly　light；　I　thought　it　might　be　empty。　There　was　nothing　on　the　outside　but　my　house　number　and　postal　code；　no　return　address；　only　a　handwritten　routing　number　in　the　left　corner。　I　remembered　a　poster　Charlie　said　he　was　sending　me；　an　Eakins　painting　of　a　lone　rower　on　the　Schuylkill　River。　He'd　been　trying　to　convince　me　to　move　closer　to　Philadelphia；　trying　to　convince　me　that　it　was　the　right　city　for　a　man　like　me。　His　son　should　see　more　of　his　godfather；　he　said。　Charlie　thought　I　was　slipping　away。
　So　I　cracked　the　tube　open；　saving　it　for　after　the　regular　mail；　the　credit　card　offers　and　sweepstakes　notifications　and　nothing　that　resembled　a　letter　from　Katie。　In　the　glow　of　the　television；　the　barrel　seemed　hollow；　no　poster　from　Charlie；　no　message。　Only　when　I　stuck　my　finger　inside　did　I　feel　something　thin　curled　around　the　circumference。　One　side　of　it　felt　glossy；　the　other　side　ragged。　I　pulled　it　out　less　gently　than　I　should　have；　considering　what　it　was。
　Bottled　inside　the　little　package　was　an　oil　painting。　I　rolled　it　open；　wondering　for　a　second　if　Charlie　had　outdone　himself　and　bought　me　an　original。　But　when　I　saw　the　image　on　the　canvas；　I　knew　better。　The　style　was　much　older　than　nineteenth…century　American；　much　older　than　any　century　American。　The　subject　was　religious。　It　was　European；　from　the　first　true　age　of　painting。
　It　is　difficult　to　explain　the　feeling　of　holding　the　past　in　your　hands。　The　smell　of　that　canvas　was　stronger　and　more　plex　than　anything　in　Texas；　where　even　wine　and　money　are　young。　There　was　a　trace　of　the　same　smell　at　Princeton；　possibly　at　Ivy；　certainly　in　the　oldest　rooms　of　Nassau　Hall。　But　the　odor　was　much　more　concentrated　here；　in　this　tiny　cylinder；　the　smell　of　age；　hardy　and　thick。
　The　canvas　was　dark　with　grime；　but　slowly　I　made　out　the　subject。　In　the　background　stood　the　statuary　of　ancient　Egypt；　obelisks　and　hieroglyphs　and　unfamiliar　monuments。　In　the　foreground　was　a　single　man；　to　whom　others　had　e　in　submission。　Seeing　a　hint　of　pigment；　I　looked　more　closely。　The　man's　robe　was　painted　with　a　brighter　palette　than　the　rest　of　the　scene。　In　the　dusty　desert；　it　was　radiant。　This　man　before　me；　I　hadn't　thought　of　in　years。　It　was　Joseph；　now　a　great　official　in　Egypt；　rewarded　by　the　pharaoh　for　interpreting　dreams。　Joseph；　revealing　himself　to　his　brothers　who　came　to　buy　grain；　the　very　brothers　who　left　him　for　dead　so　many　years　before。　Joseph；　restored　to　his　coat　of　many　colors。
　On　the　bases　of　the　statuary　had　been　painted　three　inscriptions。　The　first　read：　CRESCEBAT　AUTEM　COTIDIE　FAMES　IN　OMNI　TERRA　APERUITQUE　IOSEPH　UNIVERSA　HORREA。　There　was　famine　all　over　the　world。　Then　Joseph　opened　the　granaries。　Then：　FESTINAVITQUE　QUIA　MOTA　FUERANT　VISCERA　EIUS　SUPER　FRATRE　SUO　ET　ERUMPEBANT　LACRIMAE　ET　INTROIENS　CUBICULUM　FLEVIT。　Joseph　hurried　out；　so　strong　was　the　affection　he　felt　for　his　brother　that　he　wanted　to　cry。　On　the　base　of　the　third　statue　was　simply　a　printed　signature。　SANDRO　DI　MARIANO…better　known　by　the　nickname　his　older　brother　gave　him：　〃little　barrel；〃　or　Botticelli。　By　the　date　below　his　name；　the　canvas　was　over　five　hundred　years　old。
　I　stared　at　it；　this　relic　that　only　one　other　pair　of　hands　had　touched　since　the　day　it　was　sealed　below　ground。　Beautiful　in　a　way　that　no　humanist　could　resist；　with　its　pagan　statuary　that　Savonarola　could　never　abide。　Here　it　was；　nearly　destroyed　by　age；　but　somehow　still　intact；　still　vibrant　beneath　the　soot。　Alive；　after　all　this　time。
　I　laid　it　on　the　table　when　my　hands　became　too　unsteady　to　hold　it；　and　I　reached　into　the　tube　again；　looking　for　something　I'd　missed。　A　letter；　a　note；　even　just　a　symbol。　But　it　was　empty。　The　handwriting　on　the　outside；　spelling　out　my　address　with　such　care。　But　nothing　else。　Only　postmarks　and　a　routing　code　in　the　corner。
　Then　that　routing　code　caught　my　eye：　39…055…210185…GEN4519。　There　was　a　pattern　to　it；　like　the　logic　of　a　riddle。　It　formed　an　exchange；　a　phone　number　overseas。
　At　the　dark　end　of　a　bookshelf　I　found　a　volume　someone　had　given　me　for　Christmas　years　ago；　an　almanac；　with　its　catalogs　of　temperatures　and　dates　and　zip　codes；　suddenly　useful。　Toward　the　back　was　a　list　of　foreign　prefixes。
　39；　the　country　code　for　Italy。
　055；　the　area　code　for　Florence。
　I　stared　at　the　rest　of　the　numbers；　beginning　to　feel　the　return　of　my　pulse；　the　old　drumming　in　my　ears。　21　01　85；　a　local　phone　number。　GEN4519；　possibly　a　room　number；　an　extension。　He　was　at　a　hotel；　in　an　apartment。
　There　was　famine　all　over　the　world。　Then　Joseph　opened　the　granaries。
　I　looked　back　at　the　painting；　then　over　at　the　mailing　tube。
　GEN4519。
　Joseph　hurried　out；　so　strong　was　the　affection　he　felt　for　his　brother　that　he　wanted　to　cry。
　GEN4519。　GEN45：19。
　In　the　home　I'd　made；　it　was　easier　to　find　an　almanac　than　a　Bible。　I　had　to　rummage　through　old　boxes　in　my　attic　before　ing　across　the　Bible　that　Charlie　claimed　to　have　left　behind　accidentally　after　his　last　visit。　He　thought　he　might　be　able　to　share　his　faith　with　me；　the　certainties　that　came　with　it。　Indefatigable　Charlie；　hopeful　to　the　end。
　I　have　it　now；　in　front　of　me。　Genesis　45：19　es　at　the　c