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达芬奇密码|The Da Vinci Code

第4章|Chapter 3

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 丹-布朗] 阅读：[25914]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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贝祖。法希局长外表像一头发怒的公牛。他宽厚的肩膀向后倾，下巴向胸部伸得很厉害。他乌黑的头发向后梳得整整齐齐，油光可鉴，像战舰舰头一样的V形发尖与突出的前额隔开来，看起来更像是个箭头。往前走时，他黑色的眼睛似乎能把面前的地面烤焦。他眼里喷射出的火清澈透明，那种清澈使人感到他有一股干什么事都决不含糊的认真劲。

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兰登跟随着局长沿着那个有名的楼梯往下走，进入深藏在金字塔下面的正厅。在他们往下走的过程中，他们从两个握有机枪的武装司法警察中间穿过。这传递的信息非常明了：没有法希局长的恩准，今夜谁也进不来，出不去。

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下到地平面以下后，兰登就和不断袭来的惶恐作斗争。法希的存在一点也不受欢迎。此刻的卢浮宫本身似乎有种墓穴的气氛。楼梯像黑暗中的电影院通道一样，每迈一步都有反应灵敏的脚踏灯照亮。兰登能听到他自己的脚步声在头顶的玻璃上回响。朝上望去，他可以看到从喷泉散出的带着些许亮光的水雾正在透明房顶外散去。

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"你赞成这种做法吗？"法希边问边用他宽大的下巴指向上方。

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兰登叹了口气他太累了，不想演戏了。"你们的金字塔真宏伟。"

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法希咕哝了一声，然后说："巴黎脸上的一块疤。"

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得罪了一位。作为客人的兰登感到他的主人不好取悦。他不明白法希是否知道，在密特朗总统明确要求下，这个金字塔正好由666块玻璃构成。这种奇怪的要求一直是喜欢研究阴谋事件的人们的一个热点话题。他们说666恰好是撒旦的代码。

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兰登决定不提这事。

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他们继续往下走，来到地下的正厅，一个宽大的空间渐渐从阴影中显露出来。卢浮宫新落成的岩洞。地下大厅是用暖色的赭色大理石建成，以便和上面卢浮宫正面的蜜色石头相协调。这地下大厅从早到晚大都人声鼎沸。今夜则不然，大厅空无一人，漆黑一片，整个大厅笼罩在阴冷、墓穴般的气氛里。

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"美术馆常规保安人员呢？"兰登问道。

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"隔离起来了。"法希答道，听口气他好像认为兰登怀疑他手下人员的诚实。显然，今晚有不该进来的人进来了。卢浮宫所有的看守人员都有在萨利厅里接受询问。我的人已接管了卢浮宫今晚的安全守卫工作。

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兰登点点头，快步跟上法希。

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"你对雅克。索尼埃有多少了解？"局长问道。

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"事实上，一点也不了解，我们从未见过面。"

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法希显得非常吃惊。"你们的初次会面是在今晚？"

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"是的。我们原计划在我作完报告后的巴黎美国大会举行的招待会上见面的，可他一直就没露面。" 法希在他的小本本上草草记下一些文字。他们继续往前走。这时兰登看到了卢浮宫那个名气稍小一些的金字塔--倒金字塔。它是一个巨大的倒置的天窗，好像钟乳石一样在楼面夹层处悬着。法希领着兰登走上一段楼梯，来到拱型隧道的洞口。洞口上方用大写字母写着德农两个字。德农厅是卢浮宫三个主区中最重要的一区。

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"谁提出要今晚见面的？是你，还是他？"法希突然问道。

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这个问题似乎有点怪。"是索尼埃先生。"兰登在进洞时回答道。"他的秘书几周前通过电子邮件和我取得联系。她说馆长听说我本月要来巴黎讲学，希望在我在巴黎期间和我讨论一些事情。"

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"讨论什么？"

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"我不知道。艺术，我想。我们有共同的兴趣。"

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法希将信将疑。"你不知道你们见面后要谈写什么？"

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兰登的确不知道。他当时有些好奇，但觉得问得过细不太合适。人们都有知道倍受尊敬的雅克。索尼埃喜欢深居简出的生活，很少答应和别人见面。兰登因这次见面的机会简直对他感激不尽。

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"兰登先生，你能不能至少猜一猜我们这位受害者在被害的晚上想和你讨论些什么？这对我们可能有些帮助。"

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这个直截了当的问题使兰登感觉很不自在。"我无法想象。我没问过。他和我联系，我倍感荣幸。我很欣赏索尼埃先生的作品。我上课选用他的文章。"

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法希在本子上记下了这些。

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二人此刻刚好处在通往德农厅的隧道的一半的路程上。兰登看到了尽头的一对向上的扶手电梯，但两个扶手梯都一动不动。

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"你和他有共同的兴趣？"法希问。

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"是的。事实上我去年花了许多时间写一部书的初稿。书中涉及索尼埃先生的主要专业领域。我期待着能够挖他的脑子。"

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法希往上看了一眼。"对不起，我没听懂。"

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这俗语显然没传达清楚意思。"我期待着在那方面向他请教。"

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"我明白了。哪个方面？"

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兰登犹豫了一下，拿不准该怎样确切地表达它。"书稿主要是关于女神崇拜的图像符号的--一种女性崇拜的概念以及与其相关的艺术和象征符号。

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法希把一只肥嘟嘟的手插进头发。"索尼埃在这方面很有学问？"

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"没有谁比他更有学问。"

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"我明白了。"

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兰登认为法希一点也不明白。雅克。索尼埃被认为是全球有关女性崇拜图像符号学的第一专家。索尼埃不仅自己非常喜爱与生育、女神教派、巫术崇拜和圣女相关的文物，还帮助卢浮宫收集了全世界大量的女神艺术品--从德尔菲古老的神殿中女祭司手中的拉布里斯斧头、金质的墨丘利魔杖、好几百只像站立的小天使似的饰有小圆环的T型器物，到古希腊用来驱鬼神用的叉铃，还有一大堆描述何鲁斯被女神伊希斯哺育的情景的小雕像，简直令人难以置信。

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"或许雅克。索尼埃听说过你的书稿吧？"法希说道。"他想约见你，为你写书提供帮助。"

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兰登摇摇头。"事实上，没人知道我的书稿。现在还只是草稿，除了我的编辑处，我从未给人看过。"

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法希不说话了。

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兰登没有说明他未将手稿给任何人看的原因。这三百页的草稿题目初步定为圣女遗失的符号。它提出要对约定俗成的宗教符号学做出的非传统解析，这肯定会引起争议。

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快到静止的扶手电梯时，兰登停了下来。他意识到法希已不再在他身边。转身回望，兰登发现法希站在几码远外的电梯旁。

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"我们乘电梯，我相信你知道步行去大画廊挺远的。"法希在电梯门打开时说道。

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虽然兰登知道乘电梯去德农厅要比爬两层楼梯快得多，他还是站着没动。

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"怎么啦？"法希按着门不让它关上，显得很不耐烦。 兰登喘了口气，充满期待地看了一眼上面的并不密封的扶手电梯。一切都好。他骗自己，慢吞吞地走回电梯。还是个孩子时，兰登掉进了一个废弃的深井里，他在那狭窄的空间踩水好几个小时后才获救，差点死在那里。打那以后，他就对封闭的空间，如电梯、地铁、壁式网球场等充满恐惧。电梯是极安全的机器。兰登反复这样告诫自己，却一点也不相信它安全。它是个悬在封闭的筒子中的小小的金属盒子！他屏住呼吸，走进电梯。当电梯关上时，他心中感到一阵颤栗，这颤栗以前也感受过。

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两层楼。十秒钟。

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电梯开动时法希说："你和索尼埃先生，你们从未说过话吗？从未通信？有没有互相寄过邮件什么的？"

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又是一个古怪的问题。兰登摇摇头。"没有。从没有过。"

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法希扬起头，好像要把这事实记在脑子里。他一言不发，死盯着眼前的铬钢门。

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在上升过程中，兰登尽力把注意力集中到其它东西上，他不敢想他周围的四面墙。光洁的电梯门能照出人影，从反射的影像中，兰登看到局长的领带夹--一个镶有十三颗黑色缟玛瑙的银质十字架。兰登感觉到有一些说不清道不明的惊奇。这种标志被称作宝石十字架--带有十三颗宝石的十字架--是基督教关于耶稣和他的十二个门徒的表意符号。这位法国警察局长这么公开地宣扬自己所信奉的宗教，倒有点出乎兰登的预料。而且，这是在法国，基督教并不是那么一个一生下来就得信奉的宗教。

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"这是宝石十字架。"法希突然说。

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兰登吓了一跳，抬头看了一眼，从反射中可以看到法希的眼睛正盯着他。

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电梯一顿，停了下来。门开了。

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兰登迅速走出电梯，走进厅廊。他渴望享受卢浮宫画廊高得出名的天花板下那宽敞的空间。然而，刚才他所步入的那个狭小空间可一点也不是他想要的那种。

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兰登怔住了，突然停了下来。

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法希扫了他一眼。"兰登先生，我想你从未在卢浮宫不开放的时候进来过。"

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我想我是没来过。兰登心里想，尽量使自己不失态。

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卢浮宫大画廊通常光线极充足，但今夜却是惊人的黑暗。今夜没有平常从上面倾泻而下的柔和的灯光，只有踢脚线处似乎有微微的红光发出，这一处，那一处，断断续续照在地板上。

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兰登怔怔地望着阴森森的走廊，他意识到他本该预想到这种情形。几乎所有的主要画廊夜间都用这种耐用灯照明。这些灯放的位置很巧，都在低处，不刺眼，有利于工作人员夜间走过廊道，同时也使这些画作处于相对阴暗的地方，减缓因强光照射而褪色的速度。今夜，这地方简直使人压抑得透不气来，到外是长长的阴影，原来高高拱起的天花板今夜却像是一片低垂的空窟窿。

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"这边走。"法希说。他向右急转身，走进一个段段相互联接的画廊。

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兰登紧跟着，他的视力慢慢适应了黑暗。四周的巨幅油画变得清晰具体了，他们好像是在一个巨大的暗室里冲洗出的照片，展现在他面前……他在房间里走到哪里，他们的眼睛就跟到哪里。他能闻到博物馆里常有的干燥剂、除湿剂的刺鼻的气味。除湿剂带有些微的碳的气味。碳是一种工业用品，是一种过滤煤用的除湿装置，以消除游客呼出的二氧化碳所产生的腐蚀作用。高高安置在墙上的安全摄像机赫然可见，它向游客清楚地传达这样的信息：我们看着你呢，别动手触摸任何东西。

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"有真的吗？"兰登边问边指向摄像机。

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法希摇头说："当然没有。" 兰登一点也不觉得奇怪。在这么大的美术馆实施录像监视，成本太高，很难做到，而且效果也不好。要监视这数公顷的画廊，单负责信息传输的技术人员，整个卢浮宫就得要好几百人。大多数大型的博物馆现在都使用一种叫"封闭保护"的防范措施。别想着不让贼进来，要让他们出不去。封闭装置在闭馆后启动。如果侵入者拿走一件艺术品，自动封闭的出口就会将画廊封死，即便在警察没赶来之前，贼就已被挡在栅栏里面出不去了。

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声音在上面的大理石走廊内回响。嘈杂声好像是从右前方隐蔽处的小房间里传出来的。那里有一束亮光倾泻在走廊里。

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"馆长办公室。"局长说。

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和法希走近那个小室后，顺着一条又低又短的走廊望去，兰登能看到索尼埃豪华的书房--暖色木材的家具，从前的大师们的画作，还有一个巨大的古色古香的写字台，写字台上立着个两英尺高的全身铠甲的武士模型。房间里几个警察正在忙忙碌着，其中一个坐在索尼埃的桌子前正往手提电脑里输入东西。显然，馆长的私人办公室已成了中央司法警察今晚的临时指挥部了。

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"先生们。"法希用法语大声喊道，人们转向他。"不要以任何理由来打扰我们，听到了吗？"

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办公室里的人都点头表示明白。

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兰登在宾馆的门上曾多次挂过法语写的"请勿打扰"的牌子，所以刚才大致听懂局长"请勿打扰"之类的话。无论如何都不许打搅法希和兰登。

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法希把一帮警察抛在身后，带着兰登沿着黑暗的走廊继续向前走。三十码开外的地方出现了通往卢浮宫大画廊的入口。大画廊是卢浮宫最受欢迎的地方--像个走不到头的长廊。长廊里藏有卢浮宫最有价值的意大利杰作。兰登发觉索尼埃的尸体卧躺之地正是此处。大画廊里的嵌木拼花地板明白无误地显现在宝丽莱快照里。

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他们走近后，兰登看到入口被一个巨大的钢铁栅栏堵住了。钢栅栏看去像是中世纪城堡中人用来把强盗挡在外面的防御工具。

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"封闭保护"法希走近栅栏后说。

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即使是在黑暗中，这道封锁线看上去也能抵挡住一辆坦克。到了外边，兰登透过钢栅栏往昏暗的，硕大的洞穴般的大画廊里探视。

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"你先进，兰登先生。"法希说。

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"我先进？进哪儿？"兰登转过身来。 法希指向钢栅栏基部的地板。

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兰登低头望去。在黑暗中他什么也没有看到。封锁栅栏被抬起了两英尺，下面有个进出很不方便的间隙。

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"卢浮宫的保安现在还不能进入这个区域，我手下的技术警察刚刚在这调查完毕。"法希说。"从底下爬进去。"

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兰登盯着脚下窄窄的空隙，又抬眼看着那巨大的铁栅栏。他是开玩笑吧？那铁栅栏像个断头台一样，时刻等待着把入侵者压碎。

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法希用法语咕哝了一句，又看了看表。然后他双膝跪下，挪动着肥胖的身子从栅栏下爬了进去，站起身，透过栅栏回望着兰登。

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兰登叹了口气。他把手掌平放在光滑的嵌木拼花地板上，肚子趴上去，使劲往前挪。他爬到栅栏底下时，他的哈里斯花格尼上衣的背部被栅栏的底部挂刮开了，后脑勺碰到了铁栅栏上。

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真够斯文的，罗伯特，他想。他伸手摸了摸，最后终于把自己挪进去了。兰登站起后便意识到这一夜可短不了。

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The crisp April air whipped through the open window of the Citro?n ZX as it skimmed south past the Opera House and crossed Place Vend?me. In the passenger seat, Robert Langdon felt the city tear past him as he tried to clear his thoughts. His quick shower and shave had left him looking reasonably presentable but had done little to ease his anxiety. The frightening image of the curator’s body remained locked in his mind.

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Jacques Saunière is dead.

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Langdon could not help but feel a deep sense of loss at the curator’s death. Despite Saunière’s reputation for being reclusive, his recognition for dedication to the arts made him an easy man to revere. His books on the secret codes hidden in the paintings of Poussin and Teniers were some of Langdon’s favorite classroom texts. Tonight’s meeting had been one Langdon was very much looking forward to, and he was disappointed when the curator had not shown.

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Again the image of the curator’s body flashed in his mind. Jacques Saunière did that to himself? Langdon turned and looked out the window, forcing the picture from his mind.

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Outside, the city was just now winding down—street vendors wheeling carts of candied amandes, waiters carrying bags of garbage to the curb, a pair of late night lovers cuddling to stay warm in a breeze scented with jasmine blossom. The Citro?n navigated the chaos with authority, its dissonant two-tone siren parting the traffic like a knife.

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"Le capitaine was pleased to discover you were still in Paris tonight," the agent said, speaking for the first time since they’d left the hotel. "A fortunate coincidence."

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Langdon was feeling anything but fortunate, and coincidence was a concept he did not entirely trust. As someone who had spent his life exploring the hidden interconnectivity of disparate emblems and ideologies, Langdon viewed the world as a web of profoundly intertwined histories and events. The connections may be invisible, he often preached to his symbology classes at Harvard, but they are always there, buried just beneath the surface.

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"I assume," Langdon said, "that the American University of Paris told you where I was staying?"

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The driver shook his head. "Interpol."

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Interpol, Langdon thought. Of course. He had forgotten that the seemingly innocuous request of all European hotels to see a passport at check-in was more than a quaint formality—it was the law. On any given night, all across Europe, Interpol officials could pinpoint exactly who was sleeping where. Finding Langdon at the Ritz had probably taken all of five seconds.

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As the Citro?n accelerated southward across the city, the illuminated profile of the Eiffel Tower appeared, shooting skyward in the distance to the right. Seeing it, Langdon thought of Vittoria, recalling their playful promise a year ago that every six months they would meet again at a different romantic spot on the globe. The Eiffel Tower, Langdon suspected, would have made their list. Sadly, he last kissed Vittoria in a noisy airport in Rome more than a year ago.

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"Did you mount her?" the agent asked, looking over.

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Langdon glanced up, certain he had misunderstood. "I beg your pardon?"

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"She is lovely, no?" The agent motioned through the windshield toward the Eiffel Tower. "Have you mounted her?"

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Langdon rolled his eyes. "No, I haven’t climbed the tower."

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"She is the symbol of France. I think she is perfect."

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Langdon nodded absently. Symbologists often remarked that France—a country renowned for machismo, womanizing, and diminutive insecure leaders like Napoleon and Pepin the Short—could not have chosen a more apt national emblem than a thousand-foot phallus.

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When they reached the intersection at Rue de Rivoli, the traffic light was red, but the Citro?n didn’t slow. The agent gunned the sedan across the junction and sped onto a wooded section of Rue Castiglione, which served as the northern entrance to the famed Tuileries Gardens—Paris’s own version of Central Park. Most tourists mistranslated Jardins des Tuileries as relating to the thousands of tulips that bloomed here, but Tuileries was actually a literal reference to something far less romantic. This park had once been an enormous, polluted excavation pit from which Parisian contractors mined clay to manufacture the city’s famous red roofing tiles—or tuiles.

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As they entered the deserted park, the agent reached under the dash and turned off the blaring siren. Langdon exhaled, savoring the sudden quiet. Outside the car, the pale wash of halogen headlights skimmed over the crushed gravel parkway, the rugged whir of the tires intoning a hypnotic rhythm. Langdon had always considered the Tuileries to be sacred ground. These were the gardens in which Claude Monet had experimented with form and color, and literally inspired the birth of the Impressionist movement. Tonight, however, this place held a strange aura of foreboding.

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The Citro?n swerved left now, angling west down the park’s central boulevard. curling around a circular pond, the driver cut across a desolate avenue out into a wide quadrangle beyond. Langdon could now see the end of the Tuileries Gardens, marked by a giant stone archway.

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Arc du Carrousel.

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Despite the orgiastic rituals once held at the Arc du Carrousel, art aficionados revered this place for another reason entirely. From the esplanade at the end of the Tuileries, four of the finest art museums in the world could be seen... one at each point of the compass.

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Out the right-hand window, south across the Seine and Quai Voltaire, Langdon could see the dramatically lit facade of the old train station—now the esteemed Musée d’Orsay. Glancing left, he could make out the top of the ultramodern Pompidou Center, which housed the Museum of Modern Art. Behind him to the west, Langdon knew the ancient obelisk of Ramses rose above the trees, marking the Musée du Jeu de Paume.

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But it was straight ahead, to the east, through the archway, that Langdon could now see the monolithic Renaissance palace that had become the most famous art museum in the world.

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Musée du Louvre.

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Langdon felt a familiar tinge of wonder as his eyes made a futile attempt to absorb the entire mass of the edifice. Across a staggeringly expansive plaza, the imposing facade of the Louvre rose like a citadel against the Paris sky. Shaped like an enormous horseshoe, the Louvre was the longest building in Europe, stretching farther than three Eiffel Towers laid end to end. Not even the million square feet of open plaza between the museum wings could challenge the majesty of the facade’s breadth. Langdon had once walked the Louvre’s entire perimeter, an astonishing three-mile journey.

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Despite the estimated five days it would take a visitor to properly appreciate the 65,300 pieces of art in this building, most tourists chose an abbreviated experience Langdon referred to as "Louvre Lite"—a full sprint through the museum to see the three most famous objects: the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory. Art Buchwald had once boasted he’d seen all three masterpieces in five minutes and fifty-six seconds.

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The driver pulled out a handheld walkie-talkie and spoke in rapid-fire French. "Monsieur Langdon est arrivé. Deux minutes."

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An indecipherable confirmation came crackling back.

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The agent stowed the device, turning now to Langdon. "You will meet the capitaine at the main entrance."

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The driver ignored the signs prohibiting auto traffic on the plaza, revved the engine, and gunned the Citro?n up over the curb. The Louvre’s main entrance was visible now, rising boldly in the distance, encircled by seven triangular pools from which spouted illuminated fountains.

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La Pyramide.

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The new entrance to the Paris Louvre had become almost as famous as the museum itself. The controversial, neomodern glass pyramid designed by Chinese-born American architect I. M. Pei still evoked scorn from traditionalists who felt it destroyed the dignity of the Renaissance courtyard. Goethe had described architecture as frozen music, and Pei’s critics described this pyramid as fingernails on a chalkboard. Progressive admirers, though, hailed Pei’s seventy-one-foot-tall transparent pyramid as a dazzling synergy of ancient structure and modern method—a symbolic link between the old and new—helping usher the Louvre into the next millennium.

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"Do you like our pyramid?" the agent asked.

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Langdon frowned. The French, it seemed, loved to ask Americans this. It was a loaded question, of course. Admitting you liked the pyramid made you a tasteless American, and expressing dislike was an insult to the French.

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"Mitterrand was a bold man," Langdon replied, splitting the difference. The late French president who had commissioned the pyramid was said to have suffered from a "Pharaoh complex." Singlehandedly responsible for filling Paris with Egyptian obelisks, art, and artifacts.

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Fran?ois Mitterrand had an affinity for Egyptian culture that was so all-consuming that the French still referred to him as the Sphinx.

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"What is the captain’s name?" Langdon asked, changing topics.

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"Bezu Fache," the driver said, approaching the pyramid’s main entrance. "We call him le Taureau."

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Langdon glanced over at him, wondering if every Frenchman had a mysterious animal epithet. "You call your captain the Bull?"

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The man arched his eyebrows. "Your French is better than you admit, Monsieur Langdon."

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My French stinks, Langdon thought, but my zodiac iconography is pretty good. Taurus was always the bull. Astrology was a symbolic constant all over the world.

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The agent pulled the car to a stop and pointed between two fountains to a large door in the side of the pyramid. "There is the entrance. Good luck, monsieur."

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"You’re not coming?"

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"My orders are to leave you here. I have other business to attend to."

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Langdon heaved a sigh and climbed out. It’s your circus.

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The agent revved his engine and sped off.

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As Langdon stood alone and watched the departing taillights, he realized he could easily reconsider, exit the courtyard, grab a taxi, and head home to bed. Something told him it was probably a lousy idea.

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As he moved toward the mist of the fountains, Langdon had the uneasy sense he was crossing an imaginary threshold into another world. The dreamlike quality of the evening was settling around him again. Twenty minutes ago he had been asleep in his hotel room. Now he was standing in front of a transparent pyramid built by the Sphinx, waiting for a policeman they called the Bull.

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I’m trapped in a Salvador Dali painting, he thought.

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Langdon strode to the main entrance—an enormous revolving door. The foyer beyond was dimly lit and deserted.

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Do I knock?

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Langdon wondered if any of Harvard’s revered Egyptologists had ever knocked on the front door of a pyramid and expected an answer. He raised his hand to bang on the glass, but out of the darkness below, a figure appeared, striding up the curving staircase. The man was stocky and dark, almost Neanderthal, dressed in a dark double-breasted suit that strained to cover his wide shoulders. He advanced with unmistakable authority on squat, powerful legs. He was speaking on his cell phone but finished the call as he arrived. He motioned for Langdon to enter.

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"I am Bezu Fache," he announced as Langdon pushed through the revolving door. "Captain of the Central Directorate Judicial Police." His tone was fitting—a guttural rumble... like a gathering storm.

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Langdon held out his hand to shake. "Robert Langdon."

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Fache’s enormous palm wrapped around Langdon’s with crushing force.

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"I saw the photo," Langdon said. "Your agent said Jacques Saunière himself did—"

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"Mr. Langdon," Fache’s ebony eyes locked on. "What you see in the photo is only the beginning of what Saunière did."

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