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达芬奇密码|The Da Vinci Code

第11章|Chapter 10

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 丹-布朗] 阅读：[25897]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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"只是一个数字玩笑？"贝祖。法希脸色铁青，怒视着索菲。奈芙，一点也不相信这种说法。？"你对索尼埃密码所做出的职业判断就是一种数学恶作剧？"

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法希一点也不明白为什么这个女人如此莽撞。她不仅不经允许擅自闯入画廊来找法希，而且还在试图让他相信索尼埃在生命的最后时刻还突发灵感，为世人留下一个数学玩笑？

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"这个密码。"索菲很快用法语解释道。"简直容易到荒唐的地步。雅克。索尼埃一定知道我们很快就会破译它。"她从羊毛衫口袋里取出一张小纸片递给法希。"这是破译结果。"法希看了看纸片：1－1－2－3－5－8－13－21"就这个"，他厉斥道。"你只是把这些数字按升序排列起来。"

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索菲却满不在乎地、满意地微笑道："正是这样。"

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法希压低了嗓门，声音如滚滚闷雷似的说："奈芙警士，我不明白这究竟能说明什么问题。但是我建议你立刻到那边去。"他焦虑地看了兰登一眼。兰登正站在附近，手机紧贴着耳朵，显然还在听美国大使馆的留言。从兰登煞白的脸色，法希能感觉到消息不妙。

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"局长。"索菲冒险以挑战性的语气说。"你手里的这一组数字正好是数学史上最著名的一个数列。"法希不知道竟然还有称得上"著名"的数列，而且他当然不喜欢索菲简慢的语气。

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"这是斐波那契数列。"她朝法希手里的纸片点头说。"这是一个整数数列，其中每个数等于前面的两数之和。"法希研究了一下这些数字。每个数字的确是前两项之和，但法希想象不出这和索尼埃的死有什么联系。

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"数学家列奥那多。斐波那契在13 世纪创设了这个数列。索尼埃写在地板上的所有数字都属于斐波那契数列，显然，这绝非巧合。"法希盯着这位年轻女人看了一会儿。"好极了，如果不是巧合，那么请你告诉我，雅克。索尼埃为什么非要那样做？他到底想说什么？这表示什么？"

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她耸耸肩。"什么也不表示。问题就在这儿。它只是一个极简单的密码玩笑。这正如把一首名诗的词重新随机打乱看看是否有人能辨认出这些词有什么共同之处一样。"法希威胁性地向前迈了一步，他的脸离索菲的脸只有几英寸远。"我真希望你能给出一个比那更令人满意的解释。"索菲也同样倾斜着身子，本来温柔的面孔变得异常严峻。"局长，鉴于你今夜在此的窘境，我本以为你或许乐意知道雅克。索尼埃或许在和你玩个游戏。看来，显然你不喜欢这个解释。我会告诉密码部主任你不再需要我们的服务。"说完这些，她转身往她来的方向走了。

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法希呆住了，看着她消失在黑暗之中。她疯了吗？索菲。奈芙刚刚重新解释过"职业自杀"。

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法希又转向兰登。兰登还在认真听电话留言，看起来比刚才更焦虑。美国大使馆，贝祖。法希讨厌很多东西，但没有比美国大使馆更令他恼火的了。

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法希和大使经常在涉及双方的事情上较劲--最常见的"战场"是在对美国游客的执法问题上。几乎天天法国司法警察都会逮捕私自拥有毒品的美国留学生、勾引雏妓的生意人、偷窃或毁坏财物的游客。在从法律上来讲，美国大使馆可以干预并将犯罪的美国公民引渡回国，而在美国他们只受到些轻描淡写的惩罚。大使馆总是把犯罪的美国人引渡回国。

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这是阉割司法警察，法希总是这样说。《巴黎赛事》最近曾登载了一幅漫画，把法希描绘成一条狗，它试图咬一名美国罪犯，可是够不着，因为它被拴在美国大使馆。

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今夜可不是这样，法希这样告诉自己。今天我会是个大赢家。

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兰登挂上电话后显得很不自在。"一切都好吗？"法希问。兰登微微地摇摇头。

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从国内传来的坏消息，法希想。他在拿回手机时注意到兰登在微微冒汗。

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"一个事故。"兰登表情不自然地看着兰登说。"一个朋友……"他犹豫了一下。"我明天一大早就得飞回国内。"法希一点也不怀疑兰登脸上的震惊之情是真的，但他还有另一种感觉。他感觉到好像这个美国人的眼里有一丝不愿流露出来的恐惧感。"听到这个消息我很难过。"法希边说边密切地观察着兰登。"请坐。"他指向大画廊内供人站在上面看画的长凳。

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兰登茫然地点点头，迈步朝长凳走去。他停了下来，显得越来越不知所措。"事实上，我想用一下洗手间。"法希皱起眉头，对这种拖延有些不悦。"洗手间。当然，咱们休息几分钟吧。"他指向身后他们刚才走过的走廊。"洗手间在后面，在馆长办公室方向。"

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兰登犹豫了一下，指向大画廊另一端说："我想，那边的洗手间近得多。"

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法希意识到兰登说得对。他们已经走过大画廊三分之二的距离，大画廊尽头有两个洗手间。"我陪你好吗？"

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兰登摇头。他已经往画廊更深处走去了。"不必了。我想我得单独在那儿呆上几分钟。"

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法希对兰登要独自沿着走廊走下去倒不恼火，他很放心，因为他知道大画廊那一端是死路一条，没有出口。大画廊惟一的出口在另一端--他们刚刚钻过来的那个门。虽然法国消防法要求像这么大的空间必须有好几个楼梯井，但当索尼埃启动安全防护系统后，那些楼梯井就自动封闭了。就算安全防护系统现在被解除，打开楼梯井，那也没关系--那些外边的门一旦打开，就会弄响警报，门就会被司法警察守卫起来，兰登不可能在法希不知情的情况下离开。

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"我得回到索尼埃先生的办公室呆一会。"法希说。"请直接来找我，兰登先生。我们还有很多东西要讨论。"

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兰登静静地挥一下手，消失在黑暗之中。

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法希转身气哼哼地朝相反方向走去。到铁栅处，他从底下钻了过去，出了大画廊，径直沿大厅气冲冲地冲向设在索尼埃办公室的指挥部。

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"谁批准让索菲。奈芙进来的？"法希咆哮道。

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科莱先生回答道："她告诉外面的警卫说她已破译了密码。"

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法希四处打量了一番。"她走了吗？"

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"她不是和你在一起吗？"

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"她走了。"法希望了望远处阴森森的走廊。索菲显然没情趣停下来和她在外出路上碰到的其他警官聊天。

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一时间，他考虑要呼叫入口处的卫兵，告诉他们在索菲离开卢浮宫之前把她拖回到指挥部来。但又一想，他放弃了这个念头。那只是他的大话……想要说了算。他今晚够烦的了。以后再找奈芙算账，他这么说，心里已经想着要炒她鱿鱼了。

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法希把索菲抛到脑后。他盯着索尼埃桌子上的武士小雕像看了一番。过一会他转向科莱问："他还在吗？"

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科莱急忙点头并把手提电脑转向法希。一个红点在地板图饰上分明地显现出来，在标有"公共厕所"的房间有条不紊地闪烁着。

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"很好。"法希说。他点燃一支香烟大步走进大厅。

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"我得打个电话。要确保兰登不能去除洗手间之外的其他任何地方。"

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Silas sat behind the wheel of the black Audi the Teacher had arranged for him and gazed out at the great Church of Saint-Sulpice. Lit from beneath by banks of floodlights, the church’s two bell towers rose like stalwart sentinels above the building’s long body. On either flank, a shadowy row of sleek buttresses jutted out like the ribs of a beautiful beast.

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The heathens used a house of God to conceal their keystone. Again the brotherhood had confirmed their legendary reputation for illusion and deceit. Silas was looking forward to finding the keystone and giving it to the Teacher so they could recover what the brotherhood had long ago stolen from the faithful.

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How powerful that will make Opus Dei.

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Parking the Audi on the deserted Place Saint-Sulpice, Silas exhaled, telling himself to clear his mind for the task at hand. His broad back still ached from the corporal mortification he had endured earlier today, and yet the pain was inconsequential compared with the anguish of his life before Opus Dei had saved him.

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Still, the memories haunted his soul.

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Release your hatred, Silas commanded himself. Forgive those who trespassed against you.

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Looking up at the stone towers of Saint-Sulpice, Silas fought that familiar undertow... that force that often dragged his mind back in time, locking him once again in the prison that had been his world as a young man. The memories of purgatory came as they always did, like a tempest to his senses... the reek of rotting cabbage, the stench of death, human urine and feces. The cries of hopelessness against the howling wind of the Pyrenees and the soft sobs of forgotten men.

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Andorra, he thought, feeling his muscles tighten.

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Incredibly, it was in that barren and forsaken suzerain between Spain and France, shivering in his stone cell, wanting only to die, that Silas had been saved.

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He had not realized it at the time.

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The light came long after the thunder.

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His name was not Silas then, although he didn’t recall the name his parents had given him. He had left home when he was seven. His drunken father, a burly dockworker, enraged by the arrival of an albino son, beat his mother regularly, blaming her for the boy’s embarrassing condition. When the boy tried to defend her, he too was badly beaten.

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One night, there was a horrific fight, and his mother never got up. The boy stood over his lifeless mother and felt an unbearable up-welling of guilt for permitting it to happen.

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This is my fault!

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As if some kind of demon were controlling his body, the boy walked to the kitchen and grasped a butcher knife. Hypnotically, he moved to the bedroom where his father lay on the bed in a drunken stupor. Without a word, the boy stabbed him in the back. His father cried out in pain and tried to roll over, but his son stabbed him again, over and over until the apartment fell quiet.

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The boy fled home but found the streets of Marseilles equally unfriendly. His strange appearance made him an outcast among the other young runaways, and he was forced to live alone in the basement of a dilapidated factory, eating stolen fruit and raw fish from the dock. His only companions were tattered magazines he found in the trash, and he taught himself to read them. Over time, he grew strong. When he was twelve, another drifter—a girl twice his age—mocked him on the streets and attempted to steal his food. The girl found herself pummeled to within inches of her life. When the authorities pulled the boy off her, they gave him an ultimatum—leave Marseilles or go to juvenile prison.

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The boy moved down the coast to Toulon. Over time, the looks of pity on the streets turned to looks of fear. The boy had grown to a powerful young man. When people passed by, he could hear them whispering to one another. A ghost, they would say, their eyes wide with fright as they stared at his white skin. A ghost with the eyes of a devil!

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And he felt like a ghost... transparent... floating from seaport to seaport.

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People seemed to look right through him.

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At eighteen, in a port town, while attempting to steal a case of cured ham from a cargo ship, he was caught by a pair of crewmen. The two sailors who began to beat him smelled of beer, just as his father had. The memories of fear and hatred surfaced like a monster from the deep. The young man broke the first sailor’s neck with his bare hands, and only the arrival of the police saved the second sailor from a similar fate.

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Two months later, in shackles, he arrived at a prison in Andorra.

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You are as white as a ghost, the inmates ridiculed as the guards marched him in, naked and cold. Mira el espectro! Perhaps the ghost will pass right through these walls!

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Over the course of twelve years, his flesh and soul withered until he knew he had become transparent.

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I am a ghost.

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I am weightless.

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Yo soy un espectro... palido coma una fantasma... caminando este mundo a solas.

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One night the ghost awoke to the screams of other inmates. He didn’t know what invisible force was shaking the floor on which he slept, nor what mighty hand was trembling the mortar of his stone cell, but as he jumped to his feet, a large boulder toppled onto the very spot where he had been sleeping. Looking up to see where the stone had come from, he saw a hole in the trembling wall, and beyond it, a vision he had not seen in over ten years. The moon.

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Even while the earth still shook, the ghost found himself scrambling through a narrow tunnel, staggering out into an expansive vista, and tumbling down a barren mountainside into the woods. He ran all night, always downward, delirious with hunger and exhaustion.

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Skirting the edges of consciousness, he found himself at dawn in a clearing where train tracks cut a swath across the forest. Following the rails, he moved on as if dreaming. Seeing an empty freight car, he crawled in for shelter and rest. When he awoke the train was moving. How long? How far? A pain was growing in his gut. Am I dying? He slept again. This time he awoke to someone yelling, beating him, throwing him out of the freight car. Bloody, he wandered the outskirts of a small village looking in vain for food. Finally, his body too weak to take another step, he lay down by the side of the road and slipped into unconsciousness.

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The light came slowly, and the ghost wondered how long he had been dead. A day? Three days? It didn’t matter. His bed was soft like a cloud, and the air around him smelled sweet with candles. Jesus was there, staring down at him. I am here, Jesus said. The stone has been rolled aside, and you are born again.

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He slept and awoke. Fog shrouded his thoughts. He had never believed in heaven, and yet Jesus was watching over him. Food appeared beside his bed, and the ghost ate it, almost able to feel the flesh materializing on his bones. He slept again. When he awoke, Jesus was still smiling down, speaking. You are saved, my son. Blessed are those who follow my path.

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Again, he slept.

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It was a scream of anguish that startled the ghost from his slumber. His body leapt out of bed, staggered down a hallway toward the sounds of shouting. He entered into a kitchen and saw a large man beating a smaller man. Without knowing why, the ghost grabbed the large man and hurled him backward against a wall. The man fled, leaving the ghost standing over the body of a young man in priest’s robes. The priest had a badly shattered nose. Lifting the bloody priest, the ghost carried him to a couch.

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"Thank you, my friend," the priest said in awkward French. "The offertory money is tempting for thieves. You speak French in your sleep. Do you also speak Spanish?"

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The ghost shook his head.

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"What is your name?" he continued in broken French.

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The ghost could not remember the name his parents had given him. All he heard were the taunting gibes of the prison guards.

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The priest smiled. "No hay problema. My name is Manuel Aringarosa. I am a missionary from Madrid. I was sent here to build a church for the Obra de Dios."

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"Where am I?" His voice sounded hollow.

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"Oviedo. In the north of Spain."

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"How did I get here?"

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"Someone left you on my doorstep. You were ill. I fed you. You’ve been here many days."

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The ghost studied his young caretaker. Years had passed since anyone had shown any kindness. "Thank you, Father."

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The priest touched his bloody lip. "It is I who am thankful, my friend."

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When the ghost awoke in the morning, his world felt clearer. He gazed up at the crucifix on the wall above his bed. Although it no longer spoke to him, he felt a comforting aura in its presence. Sitting up, he was surprised to find a newspaper clipping on his bedside table. The article was in French, a week old. When he read the story, he filled with fear. It told of an earthquake in the mountains that had destroyed a prison and freed many dangerous criminals.

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His heart began pounding. The priest knows who I am! The emotion he felt was one he had not felt for some time. Shame. Guilt. It was accompanied by the fear of being caught. He jumped from his bed. Where do I run?

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"The Book of Acts," a voice said from the door.

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The ghost turned, frightened.

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The young priest was smiling as he entered. His nose was awkwardly bandaged, and he was holding out an old Bible. "I found one in French for you. The chapter is marked."

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Uncertain, the ghost took the Bible and looked at the chapter the priest had marked.

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Acts 16.

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The verses told of a prisoner named Silas who lay naked and beaten in his cell, singing hymns to God. When the ghost reached Verse 26, he gasped in shock.

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"...And suddenly, there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken, and all the doors fell open."

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His eyes shot up at the priest.

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The priest smiled warmly. "From now on, my friend, if you have no other name, I shall call you Silas."

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The ghost nodded blankly. Silas. He had been given flesh. My name is Silas.

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"It’s time for breakfast," the priest said. "You will need your strength if you are to help me build this church."

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Twenty thousand feet above the Mediterranean, Alitalia flight 1618 bounced in turbulence, causing passengers to shift nervously. Bishop Aringarosa barely noticed. His thoughts were with the future of Opus Dei. Eager to know how plans in Paris were progressing, he wished he could phone Silas. But he could not. The Teacher had seen to that.

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"It is for your own safety," the Teacher had explained, speaking in English with a French accent. "I am familiar enough with electronic communications to know they can be intercepted. The results could be disastrous for you."

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Aringarosa knew he was right. The Teacher seemed an exceptionally careful man. He had not revealed his own identity to Aringarosa, and yet he had proven himself a man well worth obeying. After all, he had somehow obtained very secret information. The names of the brotherhood’s four top members! This had been one of the coups that convinced the bishop the Teacher was truly capable of delivering the astonishing prize he claimed he could unearth.

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"Bishop," the Teacher had told him, "I have made all the arrangements. For my plan to succeed, you must allow Silas to answer only to me for several days. The two of you will not speak. I will communicate with him through secure channels."

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"You will treat him with respect?"

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"A man of faith deserves the highest."

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"Excellent. Then I understand. Silas and I shall not speak until this is over."

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"I do this to protect your identity, Silas’s identity, and my investment."

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"Your investment?"

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"Bishop, if your own eagerness to keep abreast of progress puts you in jail, then you will be unable to pay me my fee."

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The bishop smiled. "A fine point. Our desires are in accord. Godspeed."

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Twenty million euro, the bishop thought, now gazing out the plane’s window. The sum was approximately the same number of U.S. dollars. A pittance for something so powerful.

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He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail. Money and faith were powerful motivators.

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