size if they were too tall. Every time I look at the man I think of how misshapen he is, how his head is too big and his gut is too round, how the fat dangles from his arms as if the flesh were pulled from his bones. Still, there is an operatic quality to the figure he cuts onstage. In his wrinkled white dress shirt and worn tweed coat, he is larger than his own circumstances, a mind bulging at its human seams. Professor Henderson steps toward him, trying to adjust the microphone on his lapel, and Taft remains still, like a crocodile having its teeth cleaned by a bird. This is the giant at the top of Paul's beanstalk. Remembering the story of Epp Lang and the dog, I feel my stomach turn again.
By the time we find a pinch of standing room at the back of the auditorium, Taft has begun, and already it's far from the usual Good Friday drivel. He's delivering a slide show, and over the broad white projection screen comes a series of images, each more terrible than the last. Saints being tortured. Martyrs being slain. Taft is saying that faith is easier to give than life, but harder to take away. He has brought examples to make his point.
Saint Denis, he says, voice pulsing through the speakers mounted high overhead, was martyred by decapitation. According to legend, his corpse rose and carried his head away.
Above the lectern is a painting of a blindfolded man with his head on a block. The executioner is wielding an enormous ax.
Saint Quentin, he continues, advancing to the next image. Painted by Jacob Jordaens, 1650. He was stretched on the rack, then flogged. He prayed to God for strength, and survived, but was later put on trial as a sorcerer. He was racked and beaten, and his flesh was pierced with iron wires from the shoulders to the thighs. Iron nails were forced into his ringers, skull, and body. He was ultimately decapitated.
Charlie, failing to see the point of all this, or maybe just unimpressed after the horrors he's seen with the ambulance team, turns to me.
So what'd Stein want? he whispers.
Across the screen comes a dark image of a man, naked but for a loincloth, being forced to lie across a metal surface. A fire is being lit below him. Saint Lawrence, Taft continues, familiar enough with the details not to need cues. Martyred in 258. Burned alive on a gridiron.
He found a book Paul needs for his thesis, I say.
Charlie points to the bundle in Paul's hand. Must be important, he says.
I expect something sharp in the words, a reminder of how Stein cut our game short, but Charlie says them with respect. He and Gil still mispronounce the
Taft presses a button behind the lectern again, and an even stranger image appears. A man lies on a wooden tablet, with a hole in the side of his abdomen. A string from within the hole is gradually being turned on a spit by two men on either side of him.
Saint Erasmus, Taft says, also known as Elmo. He was tortured by Emperor Diocletian. Though beaten with whips and clubs, he survived. Though rolled in tar and set on fire, he lived. Though thrown into prison, he escaped. He was recaptured and forced to sit in a burning iron chair. Finally he was killed by having his stomach cut open and his intestines wound around a windlass.
Gil turns to me. This is
A face in the back row turns to shush us, but seems to think better of it after seeing Charlie.
The proctors wouldn't even listen to me about the screen, Charlie whispers to Gil, still looking for conversation.
Gil turns back toward the stage, not wanting to resurrect the topic.
Saint Peter, Taft continues, by Michelangelo, around 1550. Peter was martyred under Nero, crucified upside-down at his own request. He was too humble to be crucified the same way as Christ.
Onstage, Professor Henderson looks uncomfortable, picking nervously at a spot on her sleeve. Without any thread of argument connecting one slide to the next, Taft's presentation is beginning to seem less like a lecture than like a sadist's peep show. The usual rumble of conversation in the auditorium on Good Fridays has dissolved into titillated silence.
Hey, Gil says, tapping Paul's sleeve, does Taft always talk about this stuff?
Paul nods.
He's a little off, isn't he? Charlie whispers.
The two of them, having stayed out of Paul's academic life for so long, are noticing this for the first time.
Paul nods, but says nothing.
We arrive, then, Taft continues, at the Renaissance. The home of a man who embraced the language of violence I have been trying to convey. What I wish to share with you tonight is not a story he created by dying, but something of the mysterious story he created while still alive. The man was an aristocrat from Rome named Francesco Colonna. He wrote one of the rarest books ever printed: the
Paul's eyes are fixed on Taft, pupils wide in the dark.
From Rome? I whisper.
Paul looks at me, incredulous. Before he can answer, though, there is an outburst at the entrance behind us. A sharp, violent exchange has erupted between the girl at the door and a large man, as yet obscured. Their voices are spilling through the lecture hall.
To my surprise, when the man emerges into the light, I recognize him at once.
Chapter 10
Against the loud protests of the blonde at the door, Richard Curry enters the auditorium. Dozens of heads in the back of the room turn. Curry scans the audience, then turns toward the stage.
From all sides, awkward glances size up the intruder. Curry looks disheveled: tie loose, jacket in hand, a dislocated look in his eyes. Paul begins pushing his way through a small crowd of students.
What's that guy doing? Charlie whispers.
Gil shakes his head. Isn't that Richard Curry?
Now Paul is in the back row, trying to get Curry's attention.
It is considered by many to be not only the worlds most misunderstood book, but also-perhaps only after the Gutenberg Bible-the world's most valuable.
Paul stands beside the man now. He places a hand on Curry's back, almost cautiously, and whispers something, but the old man shakes his head.
I am here, Curry says, loudly enough that people in the front row turn to get a glimpse, to say something of my own.
By now Taft has stopped talking. Every face in the hall is fixed on the stranger. He reaches up and runs his hand over his head. Glaring at Taft, he speaks again.
The language of violence? he says, in a shrill, unfamiliar voice. I heard this lecture thirty years ago, Vincent, when you thought I was your audience. He turns to the crowd and spreads his arms, addressing them all. Did he tell you about Saint Lawrence? Saint Quentin? Saint Elmo and the windlass? Hasn't anything changed, Vincent?
There are murmurs through the audience as people register Curry's scorn. From one corner there is laughter.
This, my friends, Curry continues, pointing at the stage, is a hack. A fool and a crook. He turns to focus on Taft. Even a charlatan can fool the same man twice, Vincent. But you? You prey on the innocent. He places his
