The Rule of Four

by Ian Caldwell

  “So?”

  Paul’s voice trembles. “Then he said, If I’d known what you were going to do, I would’ve done things differently. Richard thought I knew he’d killed Bill. He meant he would’ve done it differently if he’d known I was going to leave Vincent’s lecture early. That way the police wouldn’t have come looking for me.”

  Gil begins pacing. On the far side of the room, a log breaks in the fireplace.

  “Remember the poem he mentioned at the exhibit?”

  “Browning. ‘Andrea del Sarto.’ ”

  “How did it go?”

  “ ‘You do what many dream of, all their lives,’ ” I tell him. “ ‘Dream? Strive to do, and agonize to do, and fail in doing.’ ”

  “Why would he choose that poem?”

  “Because it went with the del Sarto painting.”

  Paul bangs his hand on the table. “No. Because we solved what he and your father and Vincent never solved. What Richard dreamed of doing, all his life. What he strove, and agonized, and failed in doing.”

  A frustration has come over him that I haven’t seen since we worked together, when he seemed to expect that we could act as a single organism, think a single thought. It shouldn’t be taking you that long. It shouldn’t be that hard. We are riddling again, puzzling meaning from a man he thinks we ought to know equally. I have never understood Colonna, or Curry, well enough for Paul.

  “I don’t understand,” Gil says, seeing that something has come between us, something outside his experience.

  “The paintings,” Paul says, still to me, trying to make me see. “The stories of Joseph. I even told you what they meant. We just didn’t know what Richard was getting at. Now Jacob loved Joseph more than all his children, because he was the son of his old age. And he made him a coat of many colors.”

  He waits for me to give some signal, to tell him I understand, but I can’t.

  “It’s a gift,” he says finally. “Richard thinks he’s giving me a gift.”

  “A gift?” Gil asks. “Have you lost your mind? What gift?”

  “This,” Paul says, extending his arms, encompassing everything. “What he did to Bill. What he did to Vincent. He stopped them from taking it away from me. He’s giving me what I found in the Hypnerotomachia.”

  There is an awful equanimity when he says it, fear and pride and sadness circling around a quiet certainty.

  “Vincent stole it from him thirty years ago,” Paul says. “Richard wouldn’t let the same thing happen to me.”

  “Curry lied to Stein,” I tell him, unwilling to let him be fooled by a man trading on an orphan’s weakness. “He lied to Taft. He’s doing the same thing to you.”

  But Paul is past the point of doubting. Beneath the horror and disbelief in his voice is something approaching gratitude. Here we are, in another room of borrowed paintings, another exhibit in the museum of fatherhood Curry built for the son he never had, and the gestures have become so grand that the motives are unimportant. It’s a final wedge. It reminds me, suddenly, that Paul and I are not brothers. That we believe in different things.

  Gil begins to speak, coming between us to bring this discussion back to earth, when a shuffling sound comes from outside. All three of us turn.

  “What the hell was that?” Gil says.

  Then Curry’s voice comes.

  “Paul,” he murmurs, from just on the other side of the door.

  We all freeze.

  “Richard,” Paul says, coming to. And before Gil or I can stop him, he reaches for the lock.

  “Get away from there!” Gil says.

  But Paul has already unfastened the door, and a hand on the other side has turned the knob.

  There, standing in the threshold, wearing the same black suit from last night, is Richard Curry. He is wild-eyed, startled. There is something in his hand.

  “I need to speak to Paul alone,” he says in a hoarse voice.

  Paul sees what we must all see: the mist of blood near the collar of his dress shirt.

  “Get out of here!” Gil barks.

  “What have you done?” Paul says.

  Curry stares at him, then raises an arm, holding something in an outstretched hand.

  Gil eases forward into the hallway. “Get out,” he repeats.

  Curry ignores him. “I have it, Paul. The blueprint. Take it.”

  “You’re not going near him,” Gil says, voice shaking. “We’re calling the police.”

  My eyes are trained on the dark sheaf in Curry’s hand. I step into the hall beside Gil so that we’re both in front of Paul. Just as Gil reaches for his cell phone, though, Curry catches us off guard. In a single movement he lunges between us, pushing Paul back into the Officers’ Room, and slams the door. Before Gil and I can move, the lock clicks into place.

  Gil pounds on the wood with his fist. “Open it!” he screams as he pushes me back and forces his shoulder into the door. The thick wood panel gives nothing. We back up and give two blows together, until the lock seems to bow. Each time, I hear sounds on the other side.

  “One more,” Gil yells.

  On the third push, the metal lock snaps out of its joint, and the door flies open with the sound of a single gunshot.

  We catapult into the room to see Curry and Paul at opposite ends of the fireplace. Curry’s hand is still outstretched. Gil charges toward them, striking Curry at full speed, knocking him onto the floor by the hearth. Curry’s head scrapes the metal grille off its mark, making sparks fly and embers suddenly pulse with color.

  “Richard,” Paul says, running toward him.

  Paul pulls Curry from the hearth and props him against the wet bar. The gash in the man’s head is pouring blood into his eyes as he struggles to orient himself. Only now do I see the blueprint in Paul’s hand.

  “Are you okay?” Paul says, shaking Curry’s shoulders. “He needs an ambulance!”

  But Gil is focused. “The police will take care of him.”

  It’s then that I feel the great rush of heat. The back of Curry’s jacket has caught fire. Now the wet bar has burst into flame.

  “Get back!” Gil barks.

  But I’m frozen in place. The fire is rising toward the ceiling, across the curtains pressed against the wall. Accelerated by the alcohol, the blaze is moving with speed, swallowing up everything around it.

  “Tom!” Gil barks. “Get them away from there! I’m going for an extinguisher!”

  With Paul’s help, Curry is pushing himself to his feet. Suddenly, the man shoves Paul off and staggers into the hallway, pulling off his jacket.

  “Richard,” Paul pleads, following.

  Gil races back through the door and begins hosing the curtains with the extinguisher. But the fire is growing too quickly to be put out. Smoke rolls from the doorway along the ceiling.

  Finally we retreat toward the door, forced out by the heat and smoke. I cover my mouth with my hand, feeling my lungs tighten. When I turn toward the stairs, I can make out Paul and Curry struggling through a thick cloud of black smoke, their voices rising.

  I cry out Paul’s name, but the bottles in the wet bar begin to explode, drowning out my voice. Gil is hit by the first wave of shards. I pull him out of the way, listening for a response from Paul.

  Then, through the smoke, I hear it. “Go, Tom! Get out!”

  The walls are sprayed with tiny reflections of fire. A bottleneck comes pitching into the air over the stairs; it hangs above us, spraying flames, then tumbles to the first floor.

  For a second there is nothing. Then the glass lands in the pile of soaking rags, finding the whiskey and brandy and gin, and the floor flashes to life. From below come popping sounds, wood combusting, fire spreading. The front door is already blocked. Gil is bellowing into his cell phone, calling for help. The fire is rising toward the second floor. My mind seems lit with sparks, a white light when I close my eyes. I am floating, buoyed by the heat. Everything seems so slow, so heavy. Ceiling plaster crashes to the ground. The dance floor is sh
immering like a mirage.

  “How do we get out?” I shout.

  “The service stairway,” Gil says. “Upstairs.”

  “Paul!” I yell.

  But there’s no answer. I inch toward the stairs, and now their voices have disappeared. Paul and Curry are gone.

  “Paul!” I bellow.

  The blaze has swallowed up the Officers’ Room and begins moving toward us. I feel a strange numbness in my thigh. Gil turns to me, pointing. My pant leg is torn open. Blood is running down the tuxedo fabric, black on black. He pulls off his jacket and ties it around the gash. The tunnel of fire seems to close in around us, urging us up the stairs. The air is almost black.

  Gil pushes me up toward the third floor. At the top, nothing is visible, only grades of shadow. A band of light glows beneath a door at the end of the hall. We move forward. The fire has come to the foot of the stairs, but seems to remain at bay.

  Then I hear it. A high, collapsing moan, coming from inside the room.

  The sound freezes us momentarily. Then Gil lunges forward and opens the door. When he does, the sensation of drunkenness from the ball returns to me. Bodily warmth, like the tingle of flight. Katie’s touch on me, Katie’s breath on me, Katie’s lips on me.

  Richard Curry stands arguing with Paul behind a long table at the far end of the room. There’s an empty bottle in his hand. His head lolls on his shoulders, pouring blood. There is nothing but the smell of alcohol here, the remnants of a bottle poured over the table, a cabinet in the wall opened to reveal another stash of liquor, an old Ivy president’s secret. The room is as long as the building’s breadth, framed in silver by the moonlight. Shelves of books line the walls, with leather spines deep into the darkness beyond Curry’s head. On the north-facing wall there are two windows. Puddles glisten everywhere.

  “Paul!” Gil yells. “He’s blocking the service stairs, behind you.”

  Paul turns to look, but Curry’s eyes are fixed on Gil and me. I’m paralyzed by the sight of him. The ridges of his face are so drawn that gravity seems to be pulling at him, dragging him down.

  “Richard,” Paul says firmly, as if to a child, “we all have to get out.”

  “Move away,” Gil shouts, stepping forward.

  But as he does, Curry smashes the bottle on a table and lunges, swiping Gil’s arm with the jagged bottleneck. Blood runs between Gil’s fingers in black ribbons. He staggers back, watching the blood pour onto his arm. Seeing this, Paul sags against the wall.

  “Here,” I call out, yanking the handkerchief from my pocket.

  Gil moves slowly. When he pulls a hand away to take the cloth, I see how deep the cut is. Blood runs over the furrow as soon as the pressure is gone.

  “Go!” I say, pulling him to the windows. “Jump out! The bushes will break your fall.”

  But he is frozen, staring at the bottleneck in Curry’s hands. Now the door to the library is quaking, hot air building on the other side. Tendrils of smoke are starting to stream in from beneath the door, and I can feel my eyes watering, my chest getting heavy.

  “Paul,” I cry through the smoke. “You have to get out!”

  “Richard,” Paul yells. “Come on!”

  “Let him go!” I bellow at Curry—but now the fire is roaring to be let in. From beyond comes a terrible ripping sound, wood tearing under its own weight.

  Suddenly Gil collapses onto the wall beside me. I rush to the window and open it, propping him against the frame, struggling to keep him upright.

  “Help Paul . . .” Gil mumbles, the last thing he says to me before the life begins to fade from his eyes.

  A frigid wind strikes through the room, kicking up snow from the bushes below. As gently as I can, I lift him into position. He looks angelic in the light, effortless even now. Staring down at the bloody handkerchief, clinging to his arm out of nothing but its own weight, I begin to feel everything dissolve around me. With one last look, I let go. In an instant, Gil is gone.

  “Tom,” comes Paul’s voice, so distant now that it seems to come from a cloud of smoke. “Go.”

  I turn to see Paul struggling in Curry’s arms, trying to pull him toward the window, but the old man is much stronger. He won’t be moved. Curry shoves Paul toward the service stairs instead.

  “Jump!” I hear below me, voices pouring up through the open window. “Jump down!”

  Firefighters, spotting me inside.

  But I turn back. “Paul!” I yell. “Come on!”

  “Go, Tom,” I can hear him say, one last time. “Please.”

  The words become distant too quickly, as if Curry has carried him down into the haze. The two of them are retreating into the ancient bonfires, wrestling like angels through the lifetimes of men.

  “Down” is the final word I hear from inside the room, spoken in Curry’s voice. “Down.”

  And again, from outside: “Hurry! Jump!”

  “Paul,” I scream, backing up toward the ledge of the window as the flames begin to corner me. Hot smoke presses like a fist against my chest. Across the room, the door to the service stairs swings shut. There is no one to be seen. I let myself fall.

  Those are the last things I remember before the slush of snow engulfs me. Then there is only an explosion, like a sudden dawn at midnight. A gas pipe, bringing the entire building to its feet. And the soot begins to fall.

  In the silence, I am shouting. To the firemen. To Gil. To anyone who will listen. I have seen it, I am shouting: Richard Curry, opening the entrance to the service stairs, pulling Paul away.

  Listen to me.

  And at first, they do. Two firemen, hearing me, approach the building. A medic is beside me, trying to understand. What stairs? he asks. Where do they come out?

  The tunnels, I tell him. They come out near the tunnels.

  Then the smoke clears, and the hoses make sense of the club’s face, and everything begins to change. There is less searching, less listening. There is nothing left, they are saying, in the slowness of their steps. There is no one inside this.

  Paul is alive, I shout. I saw him.

  But every second is a strike against him. Every minute is a fistful of sand. By the way Gil is looking at me now, I realize how much has changed.

  “I’m okay,” he says to the medic tending to his arm. He wipes a wet cheek, then points to me. “Help my friend.”

  The moon hangs over us like a watchful eye, and as I sit there, staring past the silent men who hose down the shattered clubhouse, I imagine Paul’s voice. Somehow, he says, far away, staring at me over coffee, I feel like he’s my father too. Over the black curtain of the sky I can see his face, so full of certainty that I believe him even now.

  So what do you think? he is asking me.

  About you going to Chicago?

  About us going to Chicago.

  Where we were taken that night, what questions were asked of us, I don’t remember. The fire kept burning in front of me, and Paul’s voice hummed in my ears, as though he might still rise from the flames. I saw a thousand faces before that sunrise, bearing messages of hope: friends roused from their rooms by the fire; professors awakened in their beds by the sound of sirens; the chapel service itself stopped in mid-reading by the spectacle of it all. And they gathered around us like a traveling treasury, each face a coin, as if it had been declared on high that we ought to suffer our losses by counting what remained. Maybe I knew then that it was a rich, rich poverty we were entering. What dark comedy the gods favored, who made this. My brother Paul, sacrificed on Easter. The tortoise shell of irony, dropped heavy on our heads.

  That night the three of us survived, together, out of necessity. We met in the hospital, Gil and Charlie and I, bedfellows again. None of us spoke. Charlie fingered the crucifix around his neck, Gil slept, and I stared at the walls. Without news about Paul, we all invested ourselves in the myth of his survival, the myth of his resurrection. I should have known better than to believe there was anything indivisible about a friendship, any more than there
was about a family. And yet the myth of it sustained me then. Then, and ever after.

  Myth, I say. And never hope.

  For the box of hope lay empty.

  Chapter 29

  Time, like a doctor, washed its hands of us. Before Charlie was even out of the hospital, we had become old news. Classmates stared at us as if we were out of context, fugitive memories with an aura of former significance.

  Within a week, the cloud of violence over Princeton had burned off. Students began to walk across campus after dark again, first in groups, then alone. Unable to sleep, I would wander off to the WaWa in the middle of the night, only to find it full of people. Richard Curry lived on in their conversations. So did Paul. But gradually the names I knew disappeared, replaced by exams and varsity lacrosse games and the yearly spring talk, a senior who’d slept with her thesis advisor, the final episode of a favorite television show. Even the headlines I read while waiting in line at the register, the ones that kept my mind off being alone when everyone else seemed to be with friends, suggested that the world had moved forward without us. On the seventeenth day after Easter, the front page of the Princeton Packet announced that a plan for an underground parking lot in town had been nixed. Only at the bottom of page two was it reported that a wealthy alumnus had donated two million dollars toward the rebuilding of Ivy.

  Charlie was out of his hospital bed in five days, but spent another two weeks in rehab. Doctors suggested cosmetic surgery on his chest, where patches of his skin had become thick and gristly, but Charlie refused. I visited him at the medical center every day but one. Charlie wanted me to bring him potato chips from the WaWa, books for his classes, scores from every Sixers game. He always gave me a reason to come back.

  More than once he made a point of showing me his burns. At first I thought it was to prove something to himself, that he didn’t feel disfigured, that he was much stronger than what had happened to him. Later I sensed that the opposite was true. He wanted to make sure I knew he had been changed by this. He seemed to fear that he’d stopped being a part of my life and Gil’s at the moment he ran into the steam tunnels after Paul. We were getting along without him, mending our losses alone. He knew we’d begun to feel like strangers in our own skins, and he wanted us to know that he was in the same position, that we were all still in this together.