iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第3部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　〃Right　now？〃　I　ask。
　Gil　looks　at　his　watch；　taking　to　the　idea。　〃We'd　be　clear　for　about　half　an　hour；〃　he　says；　and　in　a　show　of　support　he　even　turns　off　the　television；　letting　Audrey　fizzle　into　the　tube。
　Charlie　flips　his　Fitzgerald　shut；　mischief　stirring。　The　broken　spine　springs　open　in　protest；　but　he　tosses　the　book　onto　the　couch。
　〃I'm　working；〃　Paul　objects。　〃I　need　to　finish　this。〃
　He　glances　at　me　oddly。
　〃What？〃　I　ask。
　But　Paul　remains　silent。
　〃What's　the　problem；　girls？〃　Charlie　says　impatiently。
　〃It's　still　snowing　out　there；〃　I　remind　everyone。
　The　first　snowstorm　of　the　year　came　howling　into　town　today；　just　when　spring　seemed　perched　on　the　tip　of　every　tree　branch。　Now　there　are　calls　for　a　foot　of　accumulation；　maybe　more。　The　Easter　weekend　festivities　on　campus；　which　this　year　include　a　Good　Friday　lecture　by　Paul's　thesis　advisor；　Vincent　Taft；　have　been　reorganized。　This　is　hardly　the　weather　for　what　Charlie　has　in　mind。
　〃You　don't　have　to　meet　Curry　until　8：30；　right？〃　Gil　asks　Paul；　trying　to　convince　him。　〃We'll　be　done　by　then。　You　can　work　more　tonight。〃
　Richard　Curry；　an　eccentric　former　friend　of　my　father's　and　Taft's；　has　been　a　mentor　of　Paul's　since　freshman　year。　He　has　put　Paul　in　touch　with　some　of　the　most　prominent　art　historians　in　the　world；　and　has　funded　much　of　Paul's　research　on　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　Paul　weighs　his　notebook　in　his　hand。　Just　looking　at　it；　the　fatigue　returns　to　his　eyes。
　Charlie　senses　that　he's　ing　around。　〃We'll　be　done　by　7：45；〃　he　says。
　〃What　are　the　teams？〃　Gil　asks。
　Charlie　thinks　it　over；　then　says；　〃Tom's　with　me。〃
　　
　The　game　we're　about　to　play　is　a　new　spin　on　an　old　favorite：　a　fast…paced　match　of　paintball　in　a　maze　of　steam　tunnels　below　campus。　Down　there；　rats　are　more　mon　than　lightbulbs；　the　temperature　hits　three　digits　in　the　dead　of　winter；　and　the　terrain　is　so　dangerous　that　even　the　campus　police　are　forbidden　to　give　chase。　Charlie　and　Gil　came　up　with　the　idea　during　an　exam　period　sophomore　year；　inspired　by　an　old　map　Gil　and　Paul　found　at　their　eating　club；　and　by　a　game　Gil's　father　used　to　play　in　the　tunnels　with　his　friends　as　seniors。
　The　newer　version　gained　popularity　until　nearly　a　dozen　members　of　Ivy　and　most　of　Charlie's　friends　from　his　EMT　squad　were　in　on　it。　It　seemed　to　surprise　them　when　Paul　became　one　of　the　game's　best　navigators；　only　the　four　of　us　understood　it；　knowing　how　often　Paul　used　the　tunnels　to　get　to　and　from　Ivy　on　his　own。　But　gradually　Paul's　interest　in　the　game　waned。　It　frustrated　him　that　no　one　else　saw　the　strategic　possibilities　of　it；　the　tactical　ballet。　He　wasn't　there　when　an　errant　shot　punctured　a　steam　pipe　during　a　big　midwinter　match；　the　explosion　stripped　plastic　safety　casings　off　live　power　lines　for　ten　feet　in　either　direction；　and　might've　cooked　two　half…drunk　juniors；　had　Charlie　not　pulled　them　out　of　the　way。　The　proctors；　Princeton's　campus　police；　caught　on；　and　within　days　the　dean　had　rained　down　a　spate　of　punishments。　In　the　aftermath；　Charlie　replaced　paint　guns　and　pellets　with　something　faster　but　less　risky：　an　old　set　of　laser…tag　guns　he　picked　up　at　a　yard　sale。　Still；　as　graduation　approaches；　the　administration　has　imposed　a　zero…tolerance　policy　on　disciplinary　infractions。　Getting　caught　in　the　tunnels　tonight　could　mean　suspension　or　worse。
　Charlie　sidesteps　into　the　bedroom　he　shares　with　Gil　and　pulls　out　a　large　hiking　pack；　then　another；　which　he　hands　to　me。　Finally　he　pulls　on　his　hat。
　〃Jesus；　Charlie；〃　Gil　says。　〃We're　only　going　down　there　for　half　an　hour。　I　packed　less　for　spring　break。〃
　〃Be　prepared；〃　Charlie　says；　hitching　the　larger　of　the　two　packs　over　his　shoulders。　〃That's　what　I　say。〃
　〃You　and　the　Boy　Scouts；〃　I　mumble。
　〃Eagle　scouts；〃　Charlie　says；　because　he　knows　I　never　made　it　past　tenderfoot。
　〃You　ladies　ready？〃　Gil　interrupts；　standing　by　the　door。
　Paul　breathes　deeply；　waking　himself　up；　then　nods。　From　inside　his　room　he　grabs　his　pager　and　hitches　it　to　his　belt。
　At　the　front　of　Dod　Hall；　our　dormitory；　Charlie　and　I　part　ways　with　Gil　and　Paul。　We　will　enter　the　tunnels　at　different　locations；　and　be　invisible　to　each　other　until　one　team　finds　the　other　underground。
　〃I　didn't　know　there　was　such　a　thing　as　a　black　Boy　Scout；〃　I　tell　Charlie　once　he　and　I　are　on　our　own；　heading　down　campus。
　The　snow　is　deeper　and　colder　than　I　expected。　I　wrench　my　ski　jacket　around　me；　and　force　my　hands　into　gloves。
　〃That's　okay；〃　he　says。　〃Before　I　met　you；　I　didn't　know　there　was　such　a　thing　as　a　white　pussy。〃
　　
　The　trip　down　campus　passes　in　a　haze。　For　days；　with　graduation　so　near　and　my　own　thesis　out　of　the　way；　the　world　has　seemed　like　a　rush　of　unnecessary　motion…underclassmen　hurrying　to　night　seminars；　seniors　typing　their　final　chapters　in　sweating　puter　labs；　now　snowflakes　everywhere　in　the　sky；　dancing　in　circles　before　they　find　the　ground。
　As　we　walk　down　campus；　my　leg　begins　to　ache。　For　years　the　scar　on　my　thigh　has　been　predicting　bad　weather　six　hours　after　the　bad　weather　arrives。　It's　a　memento　of　an　old　accident；　the　scar。　Not　long　after　my　sixteenth　birthday　I　was　in　a　car　crash　that　laid　me　up　in　a　hospital　for　most　of　my　sophomore　summer。　The　details　are　a　blur　to　me　now；　but　the　one　distinct　memory　I　have　of　that　night　is　my　left　femur　snapping　clean　through　the　muscle　of　my　thigh　until　one　end　of　it　was　staring　back　at　me　through　the　skin。　I　had　just　enough　time　to　see　it　before　passing　out　from　shock。　Both　bones　in　my　left　forearm　broke　as　well；　and　three　ribs　on　the　same　side。　According　to　the　paramedics；　the　bleeding　from　my　artery　was　stopped　just　in　time　for　them　to　save　me。　By　the　time　they　got　me　out　of　the　wreckage；　though；　my　father；　who'd　been　driving　the　car；　was　dead。
　The　accident　changed　me；　of　course：　after　three　surgeries　and　two　months　of　rehab；　and　the　onset　of　phantom　pains　with　their　six…hour　weather　delay；　I　still　had　metal　pins　in　my　bones；　a　scar　up　my　leg；　and　a　strange　hole　in　my　life　that　only　seemed　to　get　bigger　the　more　time　wore　on。　At　first　there　were　different　clothes…different　sizes　of　pants　and　shorts　until　I　regained　enough　weight；　then　different　styles　to　cover　up　a　skin　graft　on　my　thigh。　Later　I　realized　that　my　family　had　changed　too：　my　mother；　who'd　retreated　into　herself；　first　and　most　of　all；　but　also　my　two　older　sisters；　Sarah　and　Kristen；　who　spent　less　and　less　time　at　home。　Finally　it　was　my　friends　who　changed…or；　I　guess；　finally　I　was　the　one　who　changed　them。　I'm　not　sure　if　I　wanted　friends　who　understood　me　better；　or　saw　me　differently；　or　what　exactly；　but　the　old　ones；　like　my　old　clothes；　just　didn't　fit　anymore。
　The　thing　people　like　to　say　to　victims　is　that　time　is　a　great　healer。　The　great　healer　is　what　they　say；　as　if　time　were　a　doctor。　But　after　six　years　of　thinking　on　the　subject；　I　have　a　different　impression。　Time　is　the　guy　at　the　amusement　park　who　paints　shirts　with　an　airbrush。　He　sprays　out　the　color　in　a　fine　mist　until　it's　just　lonely　particles　floating　in　the　air；　waiting　to　be　plastered　in　place。　And　what　es　of　it　all；　the　design　on　the　shirt　at　the　end　of　the　day；　usually　isn't　much　to　see。　I　suspect　that　whoever　buys　that　shirt；　the　one　great　patron　of　the　everlasting　theme　park；　whoever　he　is；　wakes　up　in　the　morning　and　wonders　what　he　ever　saw　in　it。　We're　the　paint　in　that　analogy；　as　I　tried　to　explain　to　Charlie　when　I　mentioned　it　once。　Time　is　what　disperses　us。
　Maybe　the　best　way　to　put　it　is　the　way　Paul　did；　not　long　after　we　met。　Even　then　he　was　a　Renaissance　fanatic；　eighteen　years　old　and　already　convinced　that　civilization　had　been　in　a　nosedive　since　the　death　of　Michelangelo。　He'd　read　all　of　my　father's　books　on　the　period；　and　he　introduced　himself　to　me　a　few　days　into　freshman　year　after　recognizing　my　middle　name　in　the　freshman　face…book。　I　have　a　peculiar　middle　name；　which　for　parts　of　my　childhood　I　carried　like　an　albatross　around　my　neck。　My　father　tried　to　name　me　after　his　favorite　poser；　a　slightly　obscure　seventeenth…century　Italian　without　whom；　he　said；　there　could've　been　no　Haydn；　and　therefore　no　Mozart。　My　mother；　on　the　other　hand；　refused　to　have　the　birth　certificate　printed　the　way　he　wanted；　insisting　until　the　moment　of　my　arrival　that　Arcangelo　Corelli　Sullivan　was　a　horrible　thing　to　foist　on　a　child；　like　a　three…headed　monster　of　names。　She　was　partial　to　Thomas；　her　father's　name；　and　whatever　it　lacked　in　imagination　it　made　up　for　in　subtlety。
　Thus；　as　the　pangs　of　labor　began；　she　held　a　delivery…bed　filibuster；　as　she　called　it；　keeping　me　out　of　this　world　until　my　father　agreed　to　a　promise。　In　a　moment　less　of　inspiration　than　of　desperation；　I　became　Thomas　Corelli　Sullivan；　and　for　better　or　worse；　the　name　stuck。　My　mother　hoped　that　I　could　hide　my　middle　name　between　the　other　two；　like　sweeping　dust　beneath　a　rug。　But　my　father；　who　believed　there　was　much　in　a　name；　always　said　that　Corelli　without　Arcangelo　was　like　a　Stradivarius　without　strings。　He'd　only　given　in　to　my　mother；　he　claimed；　because　the　stakes　were　much　higher　than　she　let　on。　Her　filibuster；　he　used　to　say　with　a　smile；　was　staged　in　the　marriage　bed；　not　on　the　delivery　bed。　He　was　the　sort　of　man　who　thought　a　pact　made　in　passion　was　the　only　good　excuse　for　bad　judgment。
　I　told　Paul　all　of　this；　several　weeks　after　we　met。
　〃You're　right；〃　he　said；　when　I　told　him　my　little　airbrush　metaphor。　〃Time　is　no　da　Vinci。〃　He　thought　for　a　moment；　then　smiled　in　that　gentle　way　of　his。　〃Not　even　a　Rembrandt。　Just　a　cheap　Jackson　Pollock。〃
　He　seemed　to　understand　me　from　the　beginning。
　All　three　of　them　did：　Paul；　Charlie；　and　Gil。
　
　Chapter　2
　
　Now　Charlie　and　I　are　standing　over　a　manhole　at　the　foot　of　Dillon　Gym；　near　the　south　of　campus。　The　Philadelphia　76ers　patch　on　his　knit　hat　is　hanging　by　a　thread；　fluttering　in　the　wind。　Above　us；　under　the　orange　eye　of　a　sodium　lamp；　snowflakes　twitch　in　huge　clouds。　We　are　waiting。　Charlie　is　beginning　to　lose　patience　because　the　two　sophomores　across　the　street　are　costing　us　time。
　〃Just　tell　me　what　we're　supposed　to　do；〃　I　say。