Riffing Brown: Installment One

This is a short excerpt from Angels and Demons. Miss Celestine's additions are in red.

Physicist Leonardo Vetra smelled burning flesh, and he knew it was his own. Ooh, charbroiled! He stared up in terror at the dark figure looming over him. "What do you want!" Do you hate question marks! I do! So never use questions marks, okay!

"La chiave," the raspy voice replied. He used to be an opera singer, but then got nodes from too much belting. "The password."

"But…I don't... " ...I don't want to go see this movie! Noooo!

The intruder pressed down again, grinding the white hot object deeper into Vetra's chest. There was the hiss of broiling flesh. Would you like your broiled flesh rare, medium or well-done?
Vetra cried out in agony. "There is no password!" He felt himself drifting toward unconsciousness.

The figure glared. "Ne avevo paura. I was afraid of that." Because all bilingual assassins sprinkle their English with Italian liberally.

Vetra fought to keep his senses, but the darkness was closing in. His only solace was in knowing his attacker would never obtain what he had come for. Vee have vays of making you talk... A moment later, however, the figure produced a blade and brought it to Vetra's face. The blade hovered. And you can have a hoverblade too, for just ten low payments of 19.99 a month! Carefully. Surgically.

"For the love of God!" Vetra screamed. But it was too late.

--

High atop the steps of the Pyramid of Giza a young woman laughed and called down to him. But...but...the Great Pyramid of Giza isn't a step pyramid..."Robert, hurry up! I knew I should have married a younger man!" Her smile was magic.

He struggled to keep up, but his legs felt like stone. "Wait," he begged. "Please…"

As he climbed, his vision began to blur. Ah, dang...lost my contacts in the sand again! There was a thundering in his ears. This is your brain on NunStrum. I must reach her! Oh mysterious girl whose name hasn't been mentioned! I love you! But when he looked up again, the woman had disappeared. In her place stood an old man with rotting teeth. Ah, darn...never the same the morning after! The man stared down, curling his lips into a lonely grimace. Then he let out a scream of anguish that resounded across the desert.

Robert Langdon awoke with a start from his nightmare. As opposed to his other dream that, y'know, he just had the paragraph above. The phone beside his bed was ringing. Dazed, he picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"I'm looking for Robert Langdon," a man's voice said.

Langdon sat up in his empty bed and tried to clear his mind. Wait, if he was in his bed, how was it empty? "This…is METALLICA! Robert Langdon." He squinted at his digital clock. It was 5:18 A.M.

"I must see you immediately."

"Who is this?"

"My name is Maximilian Kohler. I'm a Discrete Particle Physicist." Because "Discrete Particle Physicist" is exactly how you introduce yourself on a first date.

"A what?" Langdon could barely focus. "Are you sure you've got the right Langdon?"

"You're a Professor of Religious Iconology at Harvard University. You've written three books on symbology and... " Oh, Robert! You're so...so...smart! Ooh...

"Do you know what time it is?"

"I apologize. I have something you need to see. I can't discuss it on the phone."

A knowing groan escaped Langdon's lips. The last time I checked, a groan was 'ugh'. How can a groan be knowing? This had happened before. One of the perils of writing books about religious symbology was the calls from religious zealots who wanted him to confirm their latest sign from God.

"How did you get my number?" Langdon tried to be polite despite the hour.

"On the World-Wide-Web. The site for your book." Since everyone refers to the internet as the World Wide Web. It just makes you sound smarter.

Langdon frowned. He was damn sure his book's site (damn sure? not just 'sure'? really, what's the significance here?) did not include his home phone number. The man was obviously lying. Captain Obvious--Dan, that is--Strikes Again! He could have said: "Langdon was positive that his book's website didn't include personal contact information--after all, he liked his privacy" and still brought the point across.

"I need to see you," the caller insisted. "I'll pay you well."

Now Langdon was getting mad. "I'm sorry, but I really... "

"If you leave immediately, you can be here by... "

"I'm not going anywhere! It's five o'clock in the morning!" Langdon hung up and collapsed back in bed. He closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep. It was no use. The dream was emblazoned in his mind. Reluctantly, he put on his robe and went downstairs.

Robert Langdon wandered barefoot through his deserted Massachusetts Victorian home (well, if he's in there, then it's not deserted, is it?) and nursed his ritual insomnia remedy... a mug of steaming Nestle's Quik. Dude, wait...what? He was nursing his drink?! The April moon filtered through the bay windows and played on the oriental carpets. Langdon's colleagues often joked that his place looked more like an anthropology museum than a home. My bookshelf has an icon, a crucifix, two old Bibles, an old Lives of the Saints and some other really old books. Does this make me...smart? It apparently makes Langy smart. His shelves were packed with religious artifacts from around the world…an ekuaba from Ghana, a gold cross from Spain, a cycladic idol from the Aegean, and even a rare woven boccus from Borneo... a young warrior's symbol of perpetual youth.

As Langdon sat on his brass Maharishi's chest and savored the warmth of the chocolate, the bay window caught his reflection. The image was distorted and pale…like a ghost. An aging ghost, he thought, cruelly reminded that his youthful spirit was living in a mortal shell. "Someday, I'll die...and the world will be denied of my presence...it cannot be! No!"

Although not overly handsome in a classical sense, the forty-five-year-old Langdon had what his female colleagues referred to as an "erudite" appeal... I'm female. I don't even know what "erudite appeal" is supposed to mean. wisps of gray in his thick brown hair, probing blue eyes, an arrestingly deep voice, and the strong, carefree smile of a collegiate athlete. Oh, Langdon! You're sooooo attractive! Our logic and reasoning is just...absolutely destroyed by your arresting voice and strong smile! The fact that you were an athlete twenty-five years ago is sooooo astounding! We love you, Langdon! A varsity diver in prep school and college, Langdon still had the body of a swimmer, a toned, six-foot physique that he vigilantly maintained with fifty laps a day in the university pool.

Notice, at this point, readers, that Brown has simultaneously informed us of Langdon's "empty bed" and "deserted...mansion", all the while going on gushingly about his erudite appeal, arrestingly deep voice, probing blue eyes and a strong smile in a way vaguely reminiscent of a creepy man-crush. It appears that Brown wants us to feel sorry for Langdon--so attractive, and yet with no woman by his side. His point is made--Langdon lives alone, in spite of his perceived Adonistic stature. It is made clumsily.

Langdon's friends had always viewed him as a bit of an enigma... a man caught between centuries. On weekends he could be seen lounging on the quad in blue-jeans, discussing computer graphics or religious history with students; other times he could be spotted in his Harris tweed and paisley vest, photographed in the pages of upscale art magazines at museum openings where he had been asked to lecture. No no, Danny. Between centuries is when I dress up in a Victorian-era gown with corset, hoopskirts and crinoline one day and slouch around in jeans and an old band t-shirt the next.

Although a tough teacher and strict disciplinarian, Langdon was the first to embrace what he hailed as the "lost art of good clean fun." Ooh, Langdon, you're sooo much fun! He relished recreation with an infectious fanaticism that had earned him a fraternal acceptance among his students. His campus nickname... "The Dolphin"... was a reference both to his affable nature and his legendary ability to dive into a pool and outmaneuver the entire opposing squad in a waterpolo match. Legendary has two meanings--"General Patton's temper was legendary", as in, well-known, or "Bigfoot is legendary"--doesn't exist. I prefer the latter, myself.

As Langdon sat alone, absently gazing into the darkness, the silence of his home was shattered again, this time by the ring of his Fax machine. Too exhausted to be annoyed, Langdon forced a tired chuckle. In the fifteen minutes that have gone by, he's become...more exhausted?

God's people, he thought. Two thousand years of waiting for their Messiah, and they're still persistent as hell. Well, that's...random.

Wearily, he returned his empty mug to the kitchen and walked slowly to his oak-paneled study. The incoming FAX lay in the tray. Sighing, he scooped up the paper and looked at it.

Instantly, a wave of nausea hit him. "Cindy...won't go to the prom with me?!"

The image on the page was that of a human corpse. The body had been stripped naked, and its head had been twisted, facing completely backwards. On the victim's chest was a terrible burn. He had clearly been out on the beach for far too long. The man had been branded…imprinted with a single word. It was a word Langdon knew well. Very well. As does anyone else who has seen "Lara Croft". He stared at the ornate lettering in disbelief.

"Illuminati," he stammered, his heart pounding. It can't be…

In slow motion, afraid of what he was about to witness, Langdon rotated the fax 180 degrees. He looked at the word upside down. Because no one has ever seen that phenomena before. Especially not people who own a recent DVD edition of "The Princess Bride".

The breath went out of him. It was like he had been hit by a truck. O, that he had! Barely able to believe his eyes, he rotated the FAX again, reading the brand right side up and then upside down.

"Illuminati, " he whispered.

Stunned, Langdon collapsed in a chair. He sat a moment in utter bewilderment. Gradually, his eyes were drawn to the blinking red light on his FAX machine. Whoever had sent this FAX was still on the line…waiting to talk.

Ah-wheeeeew...ahwheeeeew....ahwheeEE! Whoops, sorry, I fell asleep for a minute there...anyway, what happened? Oh, right, right. Sorry, I just got so caught up in the... (yawn)...intensity of the author's man-crush on his own character that I passed out. Oh--wait a minute, what was that? Right, right. In DVC, Brown described Langdon as being "Harrison Ford in harris tweed", if I recall correctly, and references a black turtleneck. Then brown hair with grey wisps, blah blah blah. Yeah. Whatever, right?

Dan Brown

Oh...no. That's not mildly unsettling at all.