The following is an excerpt from the Da Vinci Code. Miss Celestine's comments are in red and her guest in the merciless teasing of this novel, who we shall call Dr. Foosball, will write comments in blue.
The ringing of Langdon's hotel phone once again broke the silence. "Somebody's calling me? Nobody ever calls me..."
Groaning in disbelief, he picked up. "Yes?" "Oh, I do hope it's Cindy accepting my prom invitation!"
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."
Langdon was wide awake now. "You sent someone to my room?" "That's not a stri--"
"Celestine!"
"...sorry..."
"I apologize, monsieur, but a man like this . . . I cannot presume the authority to stop him." He...he just...he was so...powerful!
"Who exactly is he?" asked Langdon in his arrestingly deep baritone voice.
But the concierge was gone.
Almost immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Langdon's door. "Open up, or we'll break your door down!"
Uncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, feeling his toes sink deep into the savonniere carpet. Ooh...man-eating carpet... And his toes just kept sinking...and sinking...and sinking. And suddenly, it was a much better novel! He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the door. "Who is it?" For the love of humanity, tell me he was wearing something before he put the bathrobe on.
Wait, how many times has Langdon woken up in hotels when the concierge is calling?
Too many.
"Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you." The man's English was accented--a sharp, authoritative bark. "Just...just so authoritative! I can't help but obey him!" "My name is Lieutenant Jerome Collet. Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire."
Langdon paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ were the rough equivalent of the U.S. FBI. So? the FBI knocks on my door all the time!
Yeah, Celestine, but they've been watching you for a long time.
Shuttup...
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.
"May I come in?" the agent asked. "I can't come in unless you invite me--oops, did I say that? HAHA...oh, darnit, sunlight--CRAP!...ughhh...."
Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain as the stranger's sallow eyes studied him. "What is this is all about?" Hey, can eyes even be sallow? I think so...doesn't sallow mean yellow? The New Cambridgian Dictionary says, "Causing to become of a sickly, yellowish hue." Well, okay, I guess it could be.
"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter." Of course he does...
"Now?" Langdon managed. "It's after midnight." Of course, monsieur Langdon... Your time.
"Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the Louvre this evening? " "Wait, this evening as in the evening after the midnight that Langdon referenced, or the evening only a few hours before?"
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?" "I sensed it with my hair. My hair is an elaborate network of nerves, constantly processing information."
"We found your name in his daily planner." "Now they'll know we're dating! Darn..."
"I trust nothing is wrong?"
The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the narrow opening in the door.
When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid. Didn't this already happen?
Yeah, in that other book...the crummy one, remember?
Wait, this one or that other one?
Wait, you're right...they are both crummy...
"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre." Oh my gosh! I had no idea the Mona Lisa bathed!
As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock gave way to a sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!" Someone put a moustache on the Scream?!
Only the same guy that committed a gruesome crime involving the mutilation of a corpse in the last crummy novel...DUH.
"We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question. Considering your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him." Because after witnessing a gruesome murder, the first you do is consult the guy with the book on the Great Eye.
Wait, there's that symbology thing again...jeez, you weren't kidding, were you? This IS a stinker...
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 deja 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. 'Course it does. Whole story already happened last time. You know. in that other book.
The agent checked his watch. "My captain is waiting, sir."
Langdon barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture. "This symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly . . ." But.... if the photo is so entirely different, then.....
"Positioned?" the agent offered. Observant Guy of the Year award candidate in the making here for sure....
Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can't imagine who would do this to someone." Because he's never witnessed a gruesome murder before. Nope. Never.
The agent looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see in this photograph . . ." He paused. "Monsieur Saunière did that to himself."
One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped through the front gate of the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue la Bruyere. Oooh, I hates that formula! The spiked cilice belt that he wore around his thigh cut into his flesh, and yet his soul sang with satisfaction of service to the Lord.
Pain is good.
His red eyes scanned the lobby as he entered the residence. What is this obsession with weird characters with odd eye colors? Empty. He climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken any of his fellow numeraries. His bedroom door was open; locks were forbidden here. He entered, closing the door behind him.
The room was spartan--hardwood floors, a pine dresser, a canvas mat in the corner that served as his bed. He was a visitor here this week, and yet for many years he had been blessed with a similar sanctuary in New York City.
The Lord has provided me shelter and purpose in my life.
Tonight, at last, Silas felt he had begun to repay his debt. Hurrying to the dresser, he found the cell phone hidden in his bottom drawer and placed a call to a private extension. Yup, real spartan here. Wait, where's Celestine?
No, seriously, where'd she go?
Hey...I feel a bit cheated.
CELESTINE! GET YOUR REAR BACK HERE!
...well, I guess I can finish it up myself.
"Yes?" a male voice answered. A commanding, deep baritone male voice....
"Teacher, I have returned."
"Speak," the voice commanded, sounding pleased to hear from him.
"All four are gone. The three sénéchaux . . . and the Grand Master himself." "Congratulations! Quest complete! You have now leveled up! Welcome to level 5 - Stage 3!
There was a momentary pause, as if for prayer. "Then I assume you have the information?"
"All four concurred. To what? Independently."
"And you believed them?"
"Their agreement was too great for coincidence." "Yup. Boss, it's been unanimously decided that this book is stupid."
An excited breath. "Excellent. I had feared the brotherhood's reputation for secrecy might prevail." "No one must know of my love for Cindy!"
"The prospect of death is strong motivation." "No! I won't read the book! I won't! OKAY, I'LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING, JUST DON'T MAKE ME READ IT!"
"So, my pupil, tell me what I must know."
Silas knew the information he had gleaned from his victims would come as a shock. "Teacher, all four confirmed the existence of the clef de voûte . . . the legendary keystone." And the Kops? Honestly, who states something in one language that your audience understands, and then repeats it in another language that your audience also understands?
He heard a quick intake of breath over the phone and could feel the Teacher's excitement. "The keystone. Exactly as we suspected." "It is stone!"
According to lore, the brotherhood had created a map of stone--a clef de voûte . . . or keystone--an engraved tablet that revealed the final resting place of the brotherhood's greatest secret...information so powerful that its protection was the reason for the brotherhood's existence. The brotherhood is actually Tom and Crow's cult?
"When we possess the keystone," the Teacher said, "we will be only one step away."
"We are closer than you think. The keystone is here in Paris." "Or it was. You see, I had a bad headache and laid down on a park bench for a nap. When I woke up, a pickpocket had taken it." "Silas.... how many times have I told you? Don't lose the critical parts of our plan! This is almost as bad as the time you put the key to Buckingham Palace in your shoe, and then fell into the Thames and kicked your shoes off." "I know, but that was a fluke!"
"Paris? Incredible. It is almost too easy."
Silas relayed the earlier events of the evening . . . how all four of his victims, moments before death, had desperately tried to buy back their godless lives by telling their secret. Each had told Silas the exact same thing--that the keystone was ingeniously hidden at a precise location inside one of Paris's ancient churches--the Eglise de Saint-Sulpice.
"Inside a House of the Lord," the Teacher exclaimed. "How they mock us!" Yeah, yeah...
"As they have for centuries."
The Teacher fell silent, as if letting the triumph of this moment settle over him. Finally, he spoke. "You have done a great service to God. We have waited centuries for this. You must retrieve the stone for me. Immediately. Tonight. You understand the stakes."
Silas knew the stakes were incalculable, and yet what the Teacher was now commanding seemed impossible. "But the cathedral, it is a fortress. Especially at night. How will I enter?" Yeah, there are ninja-nuns guarding it constantly.
With the confident tone of man of enormous influence, the Teacher explained what was to be done.
This looks like a convenient place to take a break and look for Ce--what on earth are you doing down there? *kicks Celestine* wake up!
Ouch! What? What did I miss?
You fell asleep! You're supposed to be suffering with me!
*yawns* Sorry.
That does it...
When Silas hung up the phone, his skin tingled with anticipation. I can just sense the leg-thrills from here, can't you, Dr. Foosball?
One hour, he told himself, grateful that the Teacher had given him time to carry out the necessary penance before entering a house of God. I must purge my soul of today's sins. The sins committed today had been Holy in purpose. Acts of war against the enemies of God had been committed for centuries. Forgiveness was assured. Whose crackball idea was that?
I think Danny thinks that it's the Church's.
Wait, which orifice did he pull that one out of?
Yikes...
Even so, Silas knew, absolution required sacrifice.
Pulling his shades, he stripped naked and knelt in the center of his room. Looking down, he examined the spiked cilice belt clamped around his thigh. All true followers of The Way wore this device--a leather strap, studded with sharp metal barbs that cut into the flesh as a perpetual reminder of Christ's suffering. The pain caused by the device also helped counteract the desires of the flesh. "Ouch! Dangit--can't sin--hurts too--OUCH!"
Although Silas already had worn his cilice today longer than the requisite two hours, he knew today was no ordinary day. Grasping the buckle, he cinched it one notch tighter, wincing as the barbs dug deeper into his flesh. Exhaling slowly, he savored the cleansing ritual of his pain. Nothing like a little masochistic delight to help ya on your way to heaven, eh?
Pain is good, Silas whispered, repeating the sacred mantra of Father Josemaria Escriva--the Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escriva had died in 1975, his wisdom lived on, his words still whispered by thousands of faithful servants around the globe as they knelt on the floor and performed the sacred practice known as "corporal mortification." Aw, come on, Dan, that one's below the belt--using a saint to justify your assassin? Geez...
Silas turned his attention now to a heavy knotted rope coiled neatly on the floor beside him. The Discipline. The knots were caked with dried blood. Eager for the purifying effects of his own agony, Silas said a quick prayer. Then, gripping one end of the rope, he closed his eyes and swung it hard over his shoulder, feeling the knots slap against his back. He whipped it over his shoulder again, slashing at his flesh. Again and again, he lashed. So...he's a little goth kid grown up? (no offense to the perfectly normal goths; I don't mean to associate you with the albino ninja monkey cocaine-smoking assassin!) Seriously...I...just....wow.
Castigo corpus meum.
Finally, he felt the blood begin to flow. You say that like it's a bad thing!
Flow, baby, flow!
Well, was I right, Dr. Foosball?
Yep. It's a stinker, all right.
Hey, are you up for a moose lip omelet?
No!
Sorry...I was taking cues from Silas. Corporal mortification, and all that.
Well, a moose-lip omelet certainly qualifies...
You know, Dr. Foosball, from the way it reads, I'd almost think that Danny misses the point of certain kinds of mortification entirely--the point being not to torture oneself to death, but to do penance to sin. And I'd almost think that Danny doesn't even realize that mortification doesn't have to be torturous anyway.
Gee, did you just figure that out? Dolt...
Well, what? I like to be charitable.
Charitable to that piece of--
Hey, wait a minute--I smell...FOOD!
Lay off the jokes...my head hurts now. Where's the Advil?
Over there...
I'm going to have to wash my brain out with mind-bleach now...yech. The sheer amount of man-crushes in this one excerpt is astounding.
Yeah, no kidding...just wait until we tackle Philip Pullman!
We? Wait a minute...
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