The Rule of Four

see you so soon. I thought you wouldn't be done until later. What a nice surprise. His fingers are tickling his cufflinks, his eyes full of pleasure. He reaches over to shake Paul's outstretched hand.

How have you been?

We both smile. The energy in Curry's voice belies his age, but in other ways the hounds of time are closing in. Since I last saw him, only six months ago, signs of stiffness have crept into his movements, and the faintest hollow has formed behind the flesh of his face. Richard Curry is the owner of a large auction house in New York now, and the trustee of museums much bigger than this one-but according to Paul, after the Hypnerotomachia disappeared from his life, the career that replaced it never became more than a sideline, a campaign to forget what came before. No one seemed more surprised by his success, and less impressed by it, than Curry himself.

Ah, he says now, turning as if to introduce us to someone. Have you seen the paintings?

Behind him is a canvas I've never noticed before. Looking around, I realize the art on the walls is not what's usually here.

These aren't from the university collections, Paul says.

Curry smiles. No, not at all. Each of the trustees brought something for tonight. We made a bet to see which one of us could put the most paintings on loan to the museum.

Curry, the old football player, still has a residue in his speech of wagers and gambles and gentlemen's bets.

Who won? I ask.

The art museum, he says, deflecting the question. Princeton profits when we strive.

In the silence that follows, he scans the faces of the patrons who haven't fled the great hall after our interruption.

I was going to show you this after the trustees' meeting, he says to Paul, but there's no reason not to do it now.

He gestures for us to follow him, and begins walking toward a room to the left. I glance at Paul, wondering what he means, but Paul seems not to know.

George Carter, Sr., brought these two… Curry says, showing us the artwork along the way. Two small prints by Durer sit in frames so old they have the texture of driftwood. And the Wolgemut on the far side. He points across the floor. The Philip Murrays brought those two very nice Mannerists.

Curry leads us into a second room, where late-twentieth-century art has been replaced by Impressionist paintings. The Wilson family brought four: a Bonnat, a small Manet, and two by Toulouse-Lautrec. He gives us time to study them. The Marquands added this Gauguin.

We travel across the main hall, and in the room of antiquities he says, Mary Knight brought only one, but it's a very large Roman bust, and she says it may become a permanent donation. Very generous.

What about yours? Paul asks.

Curry has brought us in a great circle through the first floor, back to the original room. This is mine, he says, waving his hand.

Which one? Paul asks.

All of them.

They exchange a look. The main hall contains more than a dozen works.

Come this way, Curry says to us, returning to a wall of paintings close to where we found him. These are the ones I want to show you.

He walks us before every canvas on the wall, one at a time, but says nothing.

What do they have in common? he asks, after letting us take them in.

I shake my head, but Paul sees it at once.

The subject. They're all the biblical story of Joseph.

Curry nods. Joseph Selling Wheat to the People he begins, pointing to the first. By Bartholomeus Breenbergh, about 1655.1 convinced the Barber Institute to lend it out.

He gives us a moment, then moves to the second painting. Joseph and his Brothers, by Franz Maulbertsch, 1750. Look at the obelisk in the background.

It reminds me of a print from the Hypnerotomachia I say.

Curry smiles. I thought the same thing at first. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be a connection.

He walks us toward the third.

Pontormo, Paul says before Curry can even begin.

Yes. Joseph in Egypt.

How did you get this?

London wouldn't let it come directly to Princeton. I had to arrange it through the Met.

Curry is about to say something else, when Paul spots the final two paintings in the series. They are a pair of panels, several feet in size, rich with color. The emotion rises in his voice.

Andrea del Sarto. Stories of Joseph. I saw these in Florence.

Richard Curry is silent. He paid for Paul to spend our freshman summer in Italy researching the Hypnerotomachia, the only time Paul has ever left the country.

I have a friend at the Palazzo Pitti, Curry says, folding his hands over his chest. He has been very good to me. I have them on loan for a month.

Paul stands frozen for a minute, struck silent. His hair is matted to his head, still wet from the snow, but a smile forms on his lips as he turns back to the painting. It occurs to me, finally, after watching his reaction, that the canvases have been mounted in this order for a reason. They form a crescendo of significance only Paul can understand. Curry must have insisted on this arrangement, and the curators must have agreed to it, obliging the trustee who brought more art than all the others combined. The wall in front of us is a gift from Curry to Paul, a silent congratulation on the completion of his thesis.

Have you read Browning's poem on Andrea del Sarto? Curry asks, trying to put words to it.

I have, for a literature seminar, but Paul shakes his head.

You do what many dream of, all their lives, Curry says. Dream? Strive to do, and agonize to do, and fail in doing.

Paul finally turns and puts a hand on Curry's shoulder. It's then that he steps back and takes the bundle of cloths from beneath his shirt.

What's this? Curry asks.

Something Bill just brought me. Paul falters, and I sense he's unsure how Curry will react. He carefully unwraps the book. I think you should see it.

My diary, Curry says, stunned. He turns it over in his hands. I can't believe it…

I'm going to use it, Paul says. To finish.

But Curry ignores him; as he looks down at the book, his smile disappears. Where did it come from?

From Bill.

You said that. Where did he find it?

Paul hesitates. An edge has entered Curry's voice.

In a bookstore in New York, I say. An antiquarian shop.

Impossible, the man mumbles. I looked for this book everywhere. Every library, every bookstore, every pawnshop in New York. All of the major auction houses. It was gone. For thirty years, Paul. It was gone.

He turns the pages, carefully scanning them with both his eyes and his hands. Yes, look. Here's the section I told you about. Colonna is mentioned here-he advances to another entry, then to another-and here. Abruptly he looks up. Bill didn't just stumble onto this tonight. Not the night before your work is due.

What do you mean?

What about the drawing? Curry demands. Bill gave you that too?

What drawing?

The piece of leather. Curry forms dimensions from his thumbs and index fingers, about one foot square. Tucked into the centerfold of the diary. There was a drawing on it. A blueprint.

It wasn't there, Paul says.