The Codex

84

They brought a pen and a roll of bark paper to Maxwell Broadbent.

“Shall we leave you?” asked Vernon.

“No. I need you here. You too, Sally. Come. Gather around.”

They came and stood around his hammock. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, my sons. And—” he looked at Sally, “my future daughter-in-law. Here we are.”

He paused.

“And what fine sons I have. Pity it took me so long to realize it.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t have a lot of wind left, and my head feels like a pumpkin, so I’ll keep this short.”

His eyes, still clear, traveled around the room. “Congratulations. You did it. You earned your inheritance, and you saved my life. You showed me what a goddamn fool of a father I’ve been—”

“Father—”

“No interruptions! I have some parting advice.” He wheezed. “Here I am on my deathbed, how can I resist?” He took a deep breath. “Philip, of all my sons, you’re the one most like me. I’ve seen, in these past years, how the expectation of a large inheritance has cast a shadow over your life. You’re not naturally greedy, but when you’re waiting for half a billion dollars, it has a corrosive effect. I’ve seen you living beyond your means, trying to play the rich, sophisticated connoisseur in your New York circle. You’ve got the same disease I had: needing to own beauty. Forget it. That’s what museums are for. Live a simpler life. You have a deep appreciation for art, and that should be its own reward, not the recognition and fame. And I’ve heard you’re one hell of a teacher.”

Philip nodded curtly, not altogether pleased.

Broadbent took a couple of ragged breaths. Then he turned to Vernon. “Vernon. You’re a seeker, and now I finally see just how important that choice is for you. Your problem is that you get taken in. You’re an innocent. There’s a rule of thumb here, Vernon: If they want money, the religion’s bullshit. It doesn’t cost anything to pray in a church.”

Vernon nodded.

“And now Tom. Of all my sons you’re the most different from me. I never really understood you. You’re the least materialistic of my sons. You rejected me a long time ago, perhaps for good reasons.”

“Father—”

“Quiet! Unlike me, you’re disciplined in the way you live your life. I know what you really wanted to do was become a paleontologist and hunt dinosaur fossils. Like a fool, I pushed you into medicine. I know you’re a good vet, although I’ve never understood why you’re wasting your tremendous talents doctoring grade horses on the Navajo Indian reservation. What I’ve finally understood is that I must respect and honor your choices in life. Dinosaurs, horses, whatever. You do what you want with my blessing. What I have also come to see is your integrity. Integrity was something I never really had, and it upset me to see it so strongly in one of my sons. I don’t know what you would have done with a big inheritance, and I expect you don’t know, either. You don’t need the money and you don’t really want it.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And now, Borabay… you are my oldest and yet most recent son. I’ve only known you briefly, but in a strange way I feel I know you best of all. I’ve scoped you out, and I realize you’re a little greedy like me. You can’t wait to cut out of here and go to America and enjoy the good life. You don’t really fit in with the Tara. Well, that’s fine. You’ll learn fast. You have an advantage here because you had a good mother and didn’t have me for a father, messing you up.”

Borabay was about to say something, but Broadbent raised his hand. “Can’t a man give a deathbed speech around here without being interrupted? Borabay, your brothers will help you get to America and get citizenship. Once there you’ll become more American than the natives, I have no doubt.”

“Yes, Father.”

Broadbent sighed and cast an eye on Sally. “Tom, this is the woman I never met but wished I had. You’d be a fool to let her slip away.”

“I’m not a fish,” said Sally sharply.

“Ah! That’s just what I mean! A little prickly, perhaps, but an amazing woman.”

“You’re right, Father.”

Broadbent paused, breathing heavily. It was an effort now to talk; the sweat stood out on his brow.

“I am about to write my last will and testament. I want each one of you to choose one thing from the collection in that cave. The rest, if you can get it out of the country, I’d like to donate to whatever museum or museums you choose. We’ll go from oldest to youngest. Borabay, you start.”

Borabay said, “I choose last. What I want is not in cave.”

Broadbent nodded. “All right. Philip? As if I couldn’t guess.” His eyes strayed to the Madonna. “The Lippi is yours.”

Philip tried to say something but could not.

“And now: Vernon?”

There was a silence, and then Vernon said, “I’d like the Monet.”

“I thought that’s what you’d say. I imagine you could get fifty million or more for it. And I hope you do sell it. But Vernon, please, no foundations. Don’t give any money away. When you finally find what you’re looking for, maybe then you’ll have the wisdom to give a little bit of your money away, a little bit.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“I’m also going to send you back with a bagful of gems and coins so I can pay Uncle Sam.”

“All right.”

“And now, Tom, it’s your turn. What’s your pick?”

Tom glanced at Sally. “We’d like the Codex.”

Broadbent nodded. “Interesting choice. It’s yours. And now, Borabay, last but not least. What is this mysterious thing you want that isn’t in the cave?”

Borabay came over to the bed and whispered in Broadbent’s ear.

The old man nodded. “Excellent. Consider it done.” He flourished his pen. His face was beaded with sweat, his breathing rapid and shallow. Tom could see he did not have much lucid time left. And he knew what death from sepsis was like.

“Now,” he said, “give me ten minutes by myself to make out my last will and testament, and then we will gather witnesses and execute it.”