The Rule of Four

think it'll help you finish.

From inside his jacket he pulls out something roughly the size of a brick, wrapped in layers of cloth. Placing it gently on the table, he begins to unwrap it. It's a quirk of Stein's I've noticed before, that his hands twitch until they have a book between them. The same thing happens now: as he unravels the cloth, his movements become more controlled. Inside the swaddling is a worn volume, hardly more than a hundred pages. It smells of something briny.

What collection is it from? I ask, seeing no title on the spine.

No collection, he says. New York. An antiquarian shop. I found it.

Paul is silent. Slowly he extends a hand toward the book. The animal-hide binding is crude and cracked, stitched together with leather twine. The pages are hand-cut. A frontier artifact, maybe. A book kept by a pioneer.

It must be a hundred years old, I say, when Stein doesn't offer any details. A hundred and fifty.

An irritated look crosses Stein's face, as if a dog has just fouled his carpet. Wrong, he says. Wrong. It dawns on me that I'm the dog. Five hundred years.

I focus back on the book.

From Genoa, Bill continues, focusing on Paul. Smell it.

Paul is silent. He pulls an unsharpened pencil from his pocket, turns it backward, and gently opens the cover using the soft nub of the eraser. Bill has bookmarked a page with a silk ribbon.

Careful, Stein says, splaying his hands out above the book. His nails are bitten to the quick. Don't leave marks. I have it on loan. He hesitates. I have to return it when I'm done.

Who had this? Paul asks.

The Argosy Book Store, Bill repeats. In New York. It's what you needed, isn't it? We can finish now.

Paul doesn't seem to notice the pronouns changing in Stein's language.

What is it? I say more assertively.

It's the diary of the portmaster from Genoa, Paul says. His voice is quiet, his eyes circling the script on each page.

I'm stunned. Richard Curry's diary?

Paul nods. Curry was working on an ancient Genoese manuscript thirty years ago, which he claimed would unlock the Hypnerotomachia. Shortly after he told Taft about the book, it was stolen from his apartment. Curry insisted Taft had stolen it. Whatever the truth was, Paul and I had accepted from the beginning that the book was lost to us. We'd gone about our work without it. Now, with Paul pushing to finish his thesis, the diary could be invaluable.

Richard told me there were references to Francesco Colonna in here, Paul says. Francesco was waiting for a ship to come into port. The port-master made daily entries about him and his men. Where they stayed, what they did.

Take it for a day, Bill says, interrupting. He stands up and moves toward the door. Make a copy if you need to. A hand copy. Whatever will help finish the work. But I need it back.

Paul's concentration breaks. You're leaving?

I have to go.

We'll see you at Vincent's lecture?

Lecture? Stein stops. No. I can't.

It's making me nervous, just watching how twitchy he is.

I'll be in my office, he continues, wrapping a red tartan scarf around his neck. Remember, I need it back.

Sure, Paul says, drawing the little bundle closer to him. I'll go through it tonight. I can make notes.

And don't tell Vincent, Stein adds, zipping up his coat. Just between us.

I'll have it back for you tomorrow, Paul tells him. My deadline is midnight.

Tomorrow, then, Stein says, flicking the scarf behind him and slinking off. His exits always seem dramatic, being so abrupt. In a few lanky strides he's crossed the threshold where Mrs. Lockhart presides, and is gone. The ancient librarian places a wilted palm on a frayed copy of Victor Hugo, stroking the neck of an old boyfriend.

Mrs. Lockhart, comes Bill's voice, fading from a place we can't see. Good-bye.

It's really the diary? I ask as soon as he's gone. Just listen, Paul says.

He refocuses on the little book and begins reading out loud. The translation proceeds haltingly at first, Paul struggling with the Ligurian dialect, the language of Columbus's Genoa, fused with stray French-sounding words. But gradually his pace improves.

High seas last night. One ship… broken on the shore. Sharks washed up, one very large. French sailors go to the brothels. A Moorish… corsair?… seen in close waters.

He turns several pages, reading at random.

Fine day. Maria is recovering. Her urine is improving, the doctor says. Expensive quack! The… herbalist… says he will treat her for half the price. And twice as quickly! Paul pauses, staring at the page. Bat dung, he continues, will cure anything.

I interrupt. What does this have to do with the Hypnerotomachia?''

But he keeps shuttling through the pages.

A Venetian captain drank too much last night and began boasting. Our weakness at Fornovo. The old defeat at Portofino. The men brought him to the… shipyard… and strung him from a tall mast. He is still hanging there this morning.

Before I can repeat my question, Paul's eyes go wide.

The same man from Rome came again last night, he reads. Dressed more richly than a duke. No one knows his business here. Why has he come? I ask others. Those who know anything will not speak. A. ship of his is coming to port, the rumor goes. He has come to see that it arrives safely.

I sit forward in my chair. Paul flips the page and continues.

What is of such importance that a man like this comes to see it? What cargo? Women, says the drunkard Barbo. Turk slaves, a harem. But I have seen this man, called Master Colonna by his servants, Brother Colonna by his fiends: he is a gentleman. And I have seen what is in his eyes. It is not desire. It is fear. He looks like a wolf that has seen a tiger.

Paul stops, staring at the words. Curry has repeated the last phrase to him many times. Even I recognize it. A wolf that has seen a tiger.

The cover folds shut in Paul's hands, the tough black seed in its husk of cloths. A salty smell has thickened the air.

Boys, comes a voice from nowhere. Your time is up.

Coming, Mrs. Lockhart. Paul starts into motion, pulling the cloths over the book and wrapping it tight.

What now? I ask.

We've got to show this to Richard, he says, putting the little bundle beneath the shirt Katie lent him.

Tonight? I say.

As we find our way out, Mrs. Lockhart mumbles, but doesn't look up.

Richard needs to know Bill found it, Paul says, glancing at his watch.

Where is he?

At the museum. There's an event tonight for museum trustees.

I hesitate. I'd assumed Richard Curry was in town to celebrate the completion of Paul's thesis.

We're celebrating tomorrow, he says, reading my expression.

The diary peeks out from under his shirt, a wink of black leather in bandages. From above us comes an