The Rule of Four

fingers to his lips and forms a kiss. Bravissimo, il Fraudolento! Lifting his arms, he encourages the audience to stand. An ovation, my friends. Three cheers for Saint Vincent, patron saint of thieves.

Taft meets the intrusion grimly. Why have you come here, Richard?

They know each other? Charlie whispers.

Paul is trying to distract Curry, telling him to stop, but Curry continues.

Why have you come here, old friend? Is this theater or scholarship? What will you steal this time, now that the portmaster's book is out of your hands?

At this, Taft lurches forward and booms, Stop this. What are you doing?

But Curry's voice escapes like a conjured spirit. Where have you put the piece of leather from the diary, Vincent? Tell me and I'll leave. You can carry on with this farce of yours.

The shadows of the lecture hall creep unpleasantly across Curry's face. Professor Henderson finally shoots to her feet and barks, Someone get security!

A proctor is already within arm's reach of Curry when Taft waves him off. His self-possession has returned.

No, the ogre growls. Let him go. He will leave of his own accord. Won't you, Richard? Before they have to arrest you?

Curry is unmoved. Look at us, Vincent. Twenty-five years, and still waging the same war. Tell me where the blueprint is and you won't see me again. That's the only business we have anymore. The rest of this-Curry sweeps his arms across the lecture hall, encompassing everything-is worthless.

Get out, Richard, Taft says.

You and I tried and failed, Curry continues. What do the Italians say? There's no worse thief than a bad book. Let's be men about it and step aside. Where's the blueprint?

There are whispers all around. The proctor edges between Curry and Paul-but to my surprise, Curry suddenly lowers his head and begins to move toward the far aisle. The animation in his face disappears.

You old fool, he says, addressing Taft even with his back toward the stage. Acton.

Students against the wall push toward the front of the auditorium, keeping their distance. Paul stands rooted to the spot, watching his friend depart.

Leave, Richard, Taft instructs from the podium. Don't return.

We all follow Curry's slow progress toward the exit. The sophomore at the door watches with wide, fearful eyes. In a moment he passes across the threshold, into the anteroom, and is gone from sight.

Intense murmuring seizes the lecture hall as soon as he has vanished. What the hell was that? I ask, looking back at the exit. In our corner, Gil steps over toward Paul. Are you okay?

Paul is fumbling. I don't understand… Gil places an arm over his shoulder. What did you say to him?

Nothing, Paul says. I have to go after him. His hands are shaking, the diary still tucked between them. I need to talk to him.

Charlie begins to protest, but Paul is too upset to argue. Before any of us can insist otherwise, he turns and heads for the door.

I'll go with him, I say to Charlie.

He nods. Taft's voice has begun to roll again in the background, and when I look up at the stage on the way out, the giant seems to be staring directly at me. From her seat, Katie catches my attention. She mouths a question about Paul, but I can't understand what she's saying. Zipping my coat, I head out of the auditorium.

In the courtyard, canopies lurch like skeletons in the dark, dancing on their peg legs. The wind has softened, but the snow continues, thicker than before. Around the corner I hear Paul's voice.

Are you okay?

I turn the corner. Not ten feet away is Richard Curry, jacket fluttering in the wind.

What's wrong? Paul asks.

Get back inside, Curry says.

I step forward to hear more, but snow crunches beneath my feet. Curry looks over, and their conversation halts. I expect some spark of recognition in his eyes, but find none. After putting his hand on Paul's shoulder, Curry slowly backs away.

Richard! Can't we talk somewhere? Paul calls out.

But the old man distances himself quickly, slipping his arms into his suit jacket. He doesn't answer.

It takes me a second to regain my wits and go to Paul's side. Together we watch Curry disappear into the shadow of the chapel.

I need to find out where Bill got the diary, he says.

Right now?

Paul nods.

Where is he?

Taft's office at the Institute.

I look out across the courtyard. Paul's only transportation is an old Datsun he bought with his stipend from Curry. The Institute is a long way from here.

Why'd yow leave the lecture? he asks.

I thought you might need some help.

My bottom lip is shivering. Snow is gathering in Paul's hair.

I'll be okay, he says.

But he's the one without a coat.

Come on. We can drive out there together.

He looks down at his shoes. I have to talk to him alone.

You're sure?

He nods.

At least take this, I offer, unzipping the peacoat.

He smiles. Thanks.

Call us if you need anything.

Paul puts on the coat and slips the diary under his arm. After a second he begins walking off into the snow.

You're sure you don't want help? I shout before he's out of earshot.

He turns back, but only to nod.

Good luck, I say, almost to myself.

And as the cold plunges below the neckline of my shirt, I know there's nothing left to do. When Paul vanishes into the distance, I head back inside.

On my way up to the auditorium I pass by the blonde without a word and find that Charlie and Gil haven't moved from their spot in the rear of the lecture hall. They pay me no attention; Taft has won their interest. His voice is hypnotic.

Everything okay? Gil whispers.

I nod, not wanting to get into the details.

Certain modern interpreters, Taft is saying, have been content to accept that the book conforms to many conventions of an old Renaissance genre, the bucolic romance. But if the Hypnerotomachia is just a conventional love story, then why are only thirty pages devoted to the romance between Poliphilo and Polia? Why do the other three hundred and forty pages form a maze of subplots, strange encounters with mythological figures, dissertations on esoteric subjects? If only one out of every ten words pertains to the romance itself, then how do we explain the other ninety percent of the book?

Charlie turns to me again. Do you know all this stuff?

Yeah. I've heard the same lecture a dozen times over the dinner table at home.

In short, it is no mere love story. Poliphilo's 'struggle for love in a dream'-as the Latin title would have it-is much more complex than boy-meets-girl. For five hundred years scholars have exposed the book to the most powerful interpretive tools of their day, and not one of them has found a way out of the labyrinth.