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达芬奇密码|The Da Vinci Code

第2章|Chapter 1

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 丹-布朗] 阅读：[33213]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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一英里外，那位叫塞拉斯的白化病人一瘸一拐地走入位于拉布律大街的一座豪华的褐砂石大宅的门口。他束在大腿上的带刺的苦修带扎进了肉里。然而，由于他侍奉了上帝，所以他的灵魂在心满意足地歌唱。

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疼痛对人有好处。

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走进大宅时，他红红的眼睛迅速扫视了一下大厅。空无一人。他蹑手蹑脚地上了楼梯，不想吵醒任何一位同伴。他卧室的门开着，因为这里门不许上锁。他了屋进，顺手关了门。

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房间陈设简单--硬木地板，松木衣橱，拐角处有一张当床用的帆布垫子。这一周他都住在这里。他还算运气，多年来，他一直在纽约市享用着这样的栖身之所。

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上帝给了我庇护所，为我指出了生存的目的。

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今夜，塞拉斯感到他终于得以回报了上帝。他匆忙走向衣橱，从最底部抽屉里找到藏在里面的手机拨打电话。

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"喂？"接电话的是个男的声音。

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"大师，我回来了。"

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"讲"那声音命令道，感觉他听到这消息似乎很高兴。

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"四个全完了。三个执事……再加上那个主事本人。"

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对方停了一会，好像是在祷告"那么，我想你是搞到情报了。"

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"四个人说的都一样。分别说出的。"

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"你相信他们？"

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"他们说的都一样，不可能是巧合。"

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他听到一阵激动的呼吸声。

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"好极了。他们一般会严守秘密，他们可是名声在外。我原来还担心他们会保守修士会的秘密而不讲的。"

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"逼近的死神是会令他们开口的强大动因。"

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"那么，弟子，快把我该知道的情况告诉我。"

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塞拉斯知道他从他那几位受害者那里搞到的情报会令人震惊不已。"大师，四个人都证实了拱顶石--那个传奇的拱顶石的存在。"

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通过电话，他听到对方立刻倒吸了一口气，他能感觉到大师的激动心情。"拱顶石，正如我们原来猜想的一样。"

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据传，修士会制作了一个石头地图，即拱顶石，或曰塞缝石。这是一块石板，上面雕刻着修士会最大的秘密被隐藏的地方。这秘密太重要了，修士会就是为了保护它而存在。

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"一旦我们拥有拱顶石，我们离成功就只有一步之遥。"大师道。

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"我们比你想象的更接近。拱顶石就在巴黎。"

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"巴黎？真令人难以置信，简直太容易了。"

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塞拉斯继续描述那晚上早些时候发生的事情：那四名受害者如何在临死前试图通过告密来买回自己罪恶的生命。每个人对塞拉斯所说都一模一样：拱顶石被巧妙地藏在一个巴黎古教堂--圣叙尔皮斯教堂内一个确切的地方。

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"就在上帝的圣所内。"大师惊叹道。"他们真会嘲弄我们！" "已好几个世纪了！"

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大师突然非常肃静，似乎是要让此刻的胜利永驻心间。最后他说："你侍主有功，做了件了不起的事情。我们已苦等了好几百年。你必须找到那块石板--立刻--就在今夜。你知道这事事关重大。"

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塞拉斯知道这事至关重要，可大师的命令似乎无法执行。

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"但那教堂看管甚严。尤其是现在，是夜间，我怎么进去？" 大师以有着重大影响力人物的口吻开始面授机宜。 塞拉斯挂上电话，期待着，激动得连皮肤都发红了。

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一个小时。

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他告诉自己，同时感谢导师给了他时间，让他在进入上帝的圣所之前有时间作苦修。我必须清除今日我灵魂中的罪恶，今天的犯罪目的是神圣的，反抗上帝之敌的战争已进行了百年了，肯定会得到原谅的。

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塞拉斯知道，即便如此，获得赦免的同时，也须做出奉献。

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他取下墨镜，脱得赤条条地跪在房子中央。他低下头，仔细看着紧紧束扎在大腿上的带刺的苦修带。《路》的全部真正的信徒们都带这种东西。这是一根皮带，上面钉有锋利的金属倒钩刺，倒钩刺扎进肉里，以永远提醒人们不要忘记耶稣所受的苦难。这种东西引起的刺痛也有助于压制肉体的欲望。

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虽然塞拉斯今天带苦修带的时间已超过规定的两小时，但他知道今天非同寻常。他抓住扣环，又缩紧了一扣。当倒钩刺扎得更深时，他的肌肉本能地收缩着。他缓缓地吐出一口气，品味着这给他带来疼痛的净化仪式。

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疼痛对人有好处，塞拉斯小声嘀咕着。

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他是在重复他们导师何塞玛利亚。埃斯克里瓦神圣的祷文。虽然埃斯克里瓦1979年就仙逝了，他的智慧永存。当全世界成千上万的信徒跪在地上进行被人称作"肉体苦行"的神圣仪式时，信徒们还在小声重复着他的话语。

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塞拉斯此时将自己的注意力转向他身旁地板上的一根卷得工工整整打着很笨重的结的大绳。要克制。绳结上涂有干血。由于急于想得到因极度痛苦而获得的净化效果，塞拉斯很快地祷告完毕。然后，他抓住绳子的一头，闭上眼睛，使劲地将绳子甩过肩膀。他能感到绳结在击打他的后背。他再次将绳子甩过肩膀抽打自己，抽打自己的肉体。就这样，他反复鞭打着自己。

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这叫鞭笞肉体。

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终于，他感到血开始流了出来。

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Robert Langdon awoke slowly.

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A telephone was ringing in the darkness—a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings he saw a plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed walls, and a colossal mahogany four-poster bed.

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Where the hell am I?

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The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram: HOTEL RITZ PARIS.

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Slowly, the fog began to lift.

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Langdon picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

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"Monsieur Langdon?" a man’s voice said. "I hope I have not awoken you?"

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Dazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32 A.M. He had been asleep only an hour, but he felt like the dead.

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"This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but you have a visitor. He insists it is urgent."

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Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes focused now on a crumpled flyer on his bedside table.

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THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY OF PARIS proudly presents AN EVENING WITH ROBERT LANGDON PROFESSOR OF RELIGIOUS SYMBOLOGY, HARVARD UNIVERSITY Langdon groaned. Tonight’s lecture—a slide show about pagan symbolism hidden in the stones of Chartres Cathedral—had probably ruffled some conservative feathers in the audience. Most likely, some religious scholar had trailed him home to pick a fight.

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"I’m sorry," Langdon said, "but I’m very tired and—"

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"Mais, monsieur," the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. "Your guest is an important man."

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Langdon had little doubt. His books on religious paintings and cult symbology had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last year Langdon’s visibility had increased a hundredfold after his involvement in a widely publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of self-important historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed never-ending.

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"If you would be so kind," Langdon said, doing his best to remain polite, "could you take the man’s name and number, and tell him I’ll try to call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you." He hung up before the concierge could protest.

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Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest Relations Handbook, whose cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS. SLUMBER AT THE PARIS RITZ. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-length mirror across the room. The man staring back at him was a stranger—tousled and weary.

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You need a vacation, Robert.

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The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn’t appreciate seeing proof in the mirror. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and drawn tonight. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin. Around his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way deeper into his thicket of coarse black hair. Although his female colleagues insisted the gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better.

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If Boston Magazine could see me now.

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Last month, much to Langdon’s embarrassment, Boston Magazine had listed him as one of that city’s top ten most intriguing people—a dubious honor that made him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues. Tonight, three thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to haunt him at the lecture he had given.

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"Ladies and gentlemen..." the hostess had announced to a full house at the American University of Paris’s Pavilion Dauphine, "Our guest tonight needs no introduction. He is the author of numerous books: The Symbology of Secret Sects, The An of the Illuminati, The Lost Language of Ideograms, and when I say he wrote the book on Religious Iconology, I mean that quite literally. Many of you use his textbooks in class."

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The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically.

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"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive curriculum vitae. However..." She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was seated onstage. "An audience member has just handed me a far more, shall we say... intriguing introduction."

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She held up a copy of Boston Magazine.

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Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that?

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The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and Langdon felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Thirty seconds later, the crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting up. "And Mr. Langdon’s refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role in last year’s Vatican conclave certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter." The hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?"

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The crowd applauded.

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Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article again.

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"Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like some of our younger awardees, this forty-something academic has more than his share of scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated by an unusually low, baritone speaking voice, which his female students describe as ’chocolate for the ears.’ "

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The hall erupted in laughter.

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Langdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came next—some ridiculous line about "Harrison Ford in Harris tweed"—and because this evening he had figured it was finally safe again to wear his Harris tweed and Burberry turtleneck, he decided to take action.

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"Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and edging her away from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for fiction." He turned to the audience with an embarrassed sigh. "And if I find which one of you provided that article, I’ll have the consulate deport you."

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The crowd laughed.

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"Well, folks, as you all know, I’m here tonight to talk about the power of symbols..."

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The ringing of Langdon’s hotel phone once again broke the silence.

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Groaning in disbelief, he picked up. "Yes?"

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As expected, it was the concierge. "Mr. Langdon, again my apologies. I am calling to inform you that your guest is now en route to your room. I thought I should alert you."

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Langdon was wide awake now. "You sent someone to my room?"

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"I apologize, monsieur, but a man like this... I cannot presume the authority to stop him."

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"Who exactly is he?"

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But the concierge was gone.

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Almost immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Langdon’s door.

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Uncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, feeling his toes sink deep into the savonniere carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the door. "Who is it?"

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"Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you." The man’s English was accented—a sharp, authoritative bark. "My name is Lieutenant Jerome Collet. Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire."

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Langdon paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ was the rough equivalent of the U.S. FBI.

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Leaving the security chain in place, Langdon opened the door a few inches. The face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was exceptionally lean, dressed in an official-looking blue uniform.

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"May I come in?" the agent asked.

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Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain as the stranger’s sallow eyes studied him. "What is this all about?"

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"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter."

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"Now?" Langdon managed. "It’s after midnight."

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"Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the Louvre this evening?"

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Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator Jacques Saunière had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon’s lecture tonight, but Saunière had never shown up. "Yes. How did you know that?"

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"We found your name in his daily planner."

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"I trust nothing is wrong?"

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The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the narrow opening in the door.

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When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid.

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"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre."

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As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock gave way to a sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!"

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"We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question, considering your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him."

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Langdon stared at the picture, his horror now laced with fear. The image was gruesome and profoundly strange, bringing with it an unsettling sense of déjà vu. A little over a year ago, Langdon had received a photograph of a corpse and a similar request for help. Twenty-four hours later, he had almost lost his life inside Vatican City. This photo was entirely different, and yet something about the scenario felt disquietingly familiar.

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The agent checked his watch. "My capitaine is waiting, sir."

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Langdon barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture. "This symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly..."

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"Positioned?" the agent offered.

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Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can’t imagine who would do this to someone."

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The agent looked grim. "You don’t understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see in this photograph..." He paused. "Monsieur Saunière did that to himself."

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