by Ian Caldwell
“Why?” I asked.
“I think the riddle is about anatomy. Francesco must’ve believed there was an actual organ in the body where blood and spirit met.”
Charlie appeared in the doorway with the remains of an apple in his hand. “What are you amateurs talking about?” he said, hearing talk of things medical.
“An organ like this,” Paul said, ignoring him. “The rete mirabile.” He pointed to a diagram in the book. “A network of nerves and vessels at the base of the brain. Galen thought this is where vital spirits turned into animal ones.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, checking my watch.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t work as a cipher.”
“That’s because it doesn’t exist in humans,” Charlie said.
“What do you mean?”
Charlie looked up and took a last nibble from his apple. “Galen only dissected animals. The rete mirabile’s something he found in an ox or a sheep.”
Paul’s expression faded.
“He also made a meal of cardiac anatomy,” Charlie continued.
“There’s no septum?” Paul said, as if he knew what Charlie meant.
“There is. There just aren’t any pores in it.”
“What’s a septum?” I asked.
“The wall of tissue between the two sides of the heart.” Charlie walked over to Paul’s book and flipped through it to find a diagram of the circulatory system. “Galen got it all wrong. He said there were little holes in the septum where blood passed between the chambers.”
“There aren’t?”
“No,” Paul snapped, beginning to sound as if he’d been working on this longer than I thought. “But Mondino made the same mistake about the septum. Vesalius and Servetus figured it out, but not until the mid-1500s. Leonardo followed Galen. Harvey didn’t describe the circulatory system until the 1600s. This riddle is from the late 1400s, Charlie. It has to be the rete mirabile or the septum. No one knew that air mixed with blood in the lungs.”
Charlie chuckled. “No one in the West. The Arabs figured it out two hundred years before your guy wrote his book.”
Paul began rifling through his papers. Thinking the matter was settled, I turned to go. “I gotta run. I’ll see you guys later.”
But just as I moved toward the hallway, Paul found what he’d been looking for: the Latin he’d translated weeks earlier, the text of Colonna’s third message.
“The Arab doctor,” he said. “Was his name Ibn al-Nafis?”
Charlie nodded. “That’s the one.”
Paul was all excitement. “Francesco must’ve gotten the text from Andrea Alpago.”
“Who?”
“The man he mentions in the message. Disciple of the venerable Ibn al-Nafis.” Before either of us could speak, Paul was talking to himself. “What’s Latin for lung? Pulmo?”
I made for the door.
“You’re not going to wait to see what it says?” he asked, looking up.
“I’m supposed to be at Katie’s in ten minutes.”
“This’ll only take fifteen. Maybe thirty.”
I think it occurred to him only at that moment how much things had changed.
“I’ll see you guys in the morning,” I said.
Charlie, who understood, smiled and wished me luck.
It was a signal night for Paul, I think. He realized he’d lost me for good. He also sensed that no matter what Colonna’s final message was, it couldn’t possibly contain the man’s entire secret, when so little had been revealed in the first four parts. The second half of the Hypnerotomachia, which we had always assumed was filler, must in reality contain more ciphered text. And whatever consolation Paul took in Charlie’s medical knowledge, or in having solved the fifth riddle, it dissipated quickly when he saw Colonna’s message and realized that he was right.
I fear for you, reader, as I fear for myself. As you have perceived, it was my intention at the beginning of this text to betray to you my meanings, no matter how deeply I wrapped them in codes. I have wished for you to find what you seek, and have acted as your guide.
Now, however, I find that I have not faith enough in my own creation to continue in this manner. Perhaps I cannot judge the true difficulty of the riddles here contained, even if their creators assure me none but a true philosopher could solve them. Perhaps these wise men, too, are jealous of my secret, and have misled me so that they may steal what is rightfully ours. He is clever indeed, this preacher, with followers in every camp; I fear he turns my soldiers against me.
It is as a defense to you then, reader, that I pursue my present course. Where you have become accustomed to finding a riddle within my chapters, you will benceforth find no riddles at all, and no solutions to lead you. I will employ only my Rule of Four for the duration of Poliphilo’s journey, but I will offer you no suggestion of its nature. Only your intellect will guide you now. May God and genius, friend, shepherd you aright.
It was confidence alone, I think, that prevented Paul from sensing his abandonment until many days had passed. I had left him; Colonna had left him; now he navigated alone. He tried, at first, to reinvolve me in the process. We had solved so much together that he thought it would be selfish to let me absent myself in the eleventh hour. We were so close, he thought; we had so little left to do.
Then a week passed, and another. I was beginning again with Katie, relearning her, loving her alone. So much had happened in the weeks we’d been apart that I was more than occupied trying to catch up. We alternated meals at Cloister and at Ivy. She had new friends; we had new routines. There were family matters of hers I began to take an interest in. I sensed that once I’d won her trust back completely, she had things she wanted to tell me.
Everything Paul had learned about Colonna’s riddles, meanwhile, began to fail him. Like a body of work slowly decaying in function, the Hypnerotomachia resisted all his trusted medicines. The Rule of Four was elusive; Colonna had given no indication of its origin. Charlie, the hero of the fifth riddle, stayed up with Paul some nights, worrying about the effect my departure was having. He never asked me to help, knowing what the book had done to me once, but I saw the way he hovered over Paul, like a doctor eyeing a patient he fears is trending badly. A darkness was setting in, a book lover’s heartbreak, and Paul was helpless against it. He would suffer, without my help, until Easter weekend.
Chapter 19
On the way back to Dod, I shuffle through Katie’s pictures of Princeton Battlefield. In shot after shot I’ve caught her in midmotion, running toward me, hair streaking behind, mouth half open, her words caught somewhere in the registers of experience beyond the camera’s range. The pleasure of imagining her voice in them is the joy of these pictures. In another twelve hours I’ll see her at Ivy, escorting her to the ball she’s been anticipating almost since we met, and I know what she’ll be waiting for me to say. That I’ve made a choice I can stick to; that I’ve learned. That I won’t be returning to the Hypnerotomachia.
When I get back to the room, I expect to find Paul at his desk, but his bunk is still empty, and now the books on his dresser are gone. Taped to the top of the door frame is a note, this one in large red letters.
Tom—
Where are you? Came back looking for you. Figured out 4S-10E-2N-6W! Gone to pick up topo atlas at Firestone, then down to McCosh. Vincent says he has the blueprint. 10:15.
—P.
I read the message again, piecing it together. The basement of McCosh Hall is the location of Taft’s office on campus. But the last line leaves me cold: Vincent says he has the blueprint. I pick up the phone and call the squad house. Charlie’s on the line in a matter of seconds.
“What’s up, Tom?”
“Paul went to see Taft.”
“What? I thought he was going to talk to the dean about Stein.”
“We need to find him. Can you get someone to cover for y—”
Before I can even finish, a muffled sound interrupts the call, and I hear Charlie
talking to someone on the other end.
“When did Paul leave?” he says, returning to the line.
“Ten minutes ago.”
“I’m on my way. We’ll catch up to him.”
Charlie’s 1973 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia pulls up in back of Dod more than fifteen minutes later. The old car looks like a metal toad rusted in mid-hop. Before I’ve even lowered myself into the passenger seat, Charlie’s got it in reverse.
“What took you so long?” I ask.
“A reporter showed up at the squad room when I was leaving,” he said. “She wanted to talk to me about last night.”
“So?”
“Someone at the police department told her what Taft said in his interrogation.” We pull onto Elm Drive, where little crests of slush give the asphalt a choppy surface, like ocean water at night. “Didn’t you tell me Taft knew Richard Curry a long time ago?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because he told the cops he only knew Curry through Paul.”
Just as we enter north campus, I spot Paul in the courtyard between the library and the history department, walking toward McCosh.
“Paul!” I call out the window.
“What are you doing?” Charlie snaps at him, pulling up to the curb.
“I solved it!” Paul says, surprised to see us. “The whole thing. I just need the blueprint. Tom, you’re not going to believe this. It’s the most amaz—”
“What? Tell me.”
But Charlie isn’t hearing any of it. “You’re not going to Taft’s,” he says.
“You don’t understand. It’s done . . . .”
Charlie leans on the car horn, filling the courtyard with noise.
“Listen to me,” Charlie interrupts. “Paul, get in the car. We’re going home.”
“He’s right,” I say. “You shouldn’t have come out here alone.”
“I’m going to Vincent’s,” Paul says quietly, and begins walking in the direction of Taft’s office. “I know what I’m doing.”
Charlie forces the car into reverse, keeping up with Paul. “You think he’s just going to give you what you want?”
“He called me, Charlie. That’s what he said he was going to do.”
“He admitted he stole it from Curry?” I ask. “Why would he give you the blueprint now?”
“Paul,” Charlie says, stopping the car. “He’s not giving you anything.”
The way he says it, Paul stops.
Charlie lowers his voice and explains what he learned from the reporter. “When the police asked Taft last night if he could think of anyone who might’ve done something like this to Stein, Taft said he could think of two people.”
The expression on Paul’s face starts to fade, the excitement of his discovery waning.
“The first was Curry,” Charlie says. “The second was you.” He pauses, letting the emphasis stand. “So I don’t care what the man told you over the phone. You need to stay away from him.”
An old white pickup truck rumbles down the road past us, snow crunching beneath its tires.
“Then help me,” Paul says.
“We will.” Charlie opens the door. “We’ll drive you home.”
Paul tightens his coat around him. “Help me by coming with me. After I get the blueprint from Vincent, I don’t need him anymore.”
Charlie stares. “Are you even hearing us?”
But there are sides to this that Charlie doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what it means that Taft has been hiding the blueprint all along.
“I’m this close to having it in my hands, Charlie,” Paul says. “All I have to do is stand up for what I’ve found. And you’re telling me to go home?”
“Look,” Charlie begins, “I’m just saying we need to—”
But I interrupt. “Paul, we’ll come with you.”
“What?” Charlie says.
“Come on.” I open the passenger door.
Paul turns, not expecting this.
“If he’s going with or without us,” I say to Charlie under my breath, leaning back into the car, “then I’m going too.”
Paul begins walking toward McCosh as Charlie considers his position.
“Taft can’t do anything if there are three of us,” I say. “You know that.”
Charlie exhales slowly, sending a cloud of steam into the air. Finally he makes a space for the car in the snow and pulls the keys from the ignition.
The walk to Taft’s office takes an eternity, pacing up to the gray edifice in the snow. The room lies in the bowels of McCosh, where the hallways are so cramped and the stairs are so steep, we have to descend single file. It’s hard to believe Vincent Taft can breathe in here, let alone move. Even I get the sensation of being too big for the place. Charlie must feel like he’s trapped.
I look back, just to make sure he’s still there. The sight of him behind us, filling the doorways and covering our backs, gives me enough confidence to keep moving. I realize now what I was too bluff to admit before: if Charlie hadn’t come with us, I couldn’t have gone through with this.
Paul leads us down a final hallway, toward the single room at the end. Because of the weekend and the holiday, every other office is locked up and dark. Only beneath the white door bearing the placard of Taft’s name do I see the rich glow of light. The paint on the door is chipped, curling over itself near the edge, where it closes into the jamb. On the bottom of the panel is a faint line of discoloration, the high-water mark of an old flood from the steam tunnels coiled just beneath the basement floor, a stain unpainted since Taft’s arrival in the time before time.
Paul raises his hand to knock, when a voice comes from inside. “You’re late,” Taft growls.
The knob squeaks when Paul turns it. I feel Charlie bump up against my back.
“Go on,” he whispers, pushing me forward.
Taft is sitting alone behind a great antique desk, sunken into a leather chair. He has thrown his tweed coat over the back of the chair, and with shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, he is proofing manuscript pages with a red pen that looks tiny in his fist.
“Why are they here?” he demands.
“Give me the blueprint,” Paul says, coming right to the point.
Taft looks at Charlie, then at me. “Sit down,” he says, pointing toward a pair of chairs with two thick fingers.
I glance around, trying to ignore him. Wooden bookshelves line the tiny office on all sides, covering the white walls. Trails run through the dust on their surfaces where volumes have been dragged off to be read. There is a path worn in the carpet where Taft walks from the door to his desk.
“Sit,” Taft repeats.
Paul is about to refuse, when Charlie nudges him into the chair, wanting to get this over with.
Taft balls a rag in his hand and wipes his mouth with it. “Tom Sullivan,” he says, the resemblance finally occurring to him.
I nod, but say nothing. There’s an old pillory on the wall above his head, mounted with its jaws open. The only hint of light or color in the room is the red morocco of book bindings and the gold of gilt pages.
“Leave him alone,” Paul says, sitting forward. “Where’s the blueprint?”
I’m surprised how strong he sounds.
Taft tuts, bringing a cup of tea to his mouth. There’s an unpleasant look in his eyes, as if he’s waiting for one of us to put up a fight. Finally, he rises from the leather chair, forces the sleeves of his shirt up higher, and plods over to a space in the bookshelves where a safe has been built into the wall. He spins the combination with a hairy hand, then pulls the lever and swings the door on its hinges. Reaching inside, he produces a leather notebook.
“Is that it?” Paul says faintly.
When Taft opens it and hands something to Paul, though, it’s only a typed piece of Institute stationery, dated two weeks ago.
“I want you to know where things stand,” Taft says. “Read it.”
When I see the effect the paper has on Paul, I lean over to read i
t as well.
Dean Meadows:
Pursuant to our conversation of 12 March regarding Paul Harris, herewith the additional information you requested. As you know, Mr. Harris petitioned for several extensions, and has been highly secretive concerning the content of his work. Only when, at my insistence, he submitted a final progress report last week, did I understand why. Enclosed please find a copy of my upcoming article, “Unveiling the Mystery: Francesco Colonna and the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, ” tentatively scheduled for fall publication in Renaissance Quarterly. Also enclosed is a copy of Mr. Harris’s progress report, for the purposes of comparison. Please contact me with any further inquiries.
Sincerely,
Dr. Vincent Taft
We’re speechless.
The ogre turns to Charlie and me. “I’ve worked on this for thirty years,” he says, a strange evenness in his voice. “Now the results don’t even bear my name. You have never been grateful to me, Paul. Not when I introduced you to Steven Gelbman. Not when you received special access to the Rare Books Room. Not even when I granted you multiple extensions on your ineffectual work. Never.”
Paul is too stunned to respond.
“I won’t have you take this from me,” Taft continues. “I’ve waited too long.”
“They have my other progress reports,” Paul stutters. “They have Bill’s records.”
“They’ve never seen a progress report from you,” Taft says, opening a drawer and pulling out a sheaf of forms. “And they certainly don’t have Bill’s records.”
“They’ll know it wasn’t yours. You haven’t published anything on Francesco in twenty-five years. You don’t even work on the Hypnerotomachia anymore.”
Taft pulls at his beard. “Renaissance Quarterly has seen three preliminary drafts of my article. And I’ve received several calls of congratulation on my lecture last night.”