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...
Showing posts with label Riffs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Riffs. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Riffing Brown: Installment Four
The following excerpt is from the second chapter of Angels and Demons. I was going to shift it to Philip Pullman for a while, but...this is a lot more fun. Riffing Pullman is just, well...depressing. Riffing Brown, on the other hand, is entertaining. My comments in red as usual.
"Do I have your attention now?" the man's voice said when Langdon finally answered the line. "I'm your biggest fan. Can I have your autograph?"
"Yes, sir, you damn well do. See how emphatic I am? I used the word 'damn'! That makes it emphatic! You want to explain yourself?"
"I tried to tell you before." The voice was rigid, mechanical. "I'm a physicist. I run a research facility. We've had a murder. You saw the body." Did he sound anything like James Earl Jones?
"How did you find me?" Langdon could barely focus. His mind was racing from the image on the FAX. Sit down, dear. Maybe put your head on a pillow. Just relax. Now, tell me about your father...
"I already told you. The World Wide Web. I say the World Wide Web because 'internet' would be too easy, therefore I am intelligent! The site for your book, The Art of the Illuminati."
Langdon tried to gather his thoughts. His book was virtually unknown in mainstream literary circles, but it had developed quite a following on-line. Err...shouldn't that be online?... Nonetheless, the caller's claim still made no sense. "That page has no contact information," Langdon challenged. He challenged? What did he challenge? Is that a legitimate word use? "I'm certain of it."
"I have people here at the lab very adept at extracting user information from the web." "We know you, and if you EVER want to see Toto again, you will pay us the sum of five thousand dollars and never write another book."
Langdon was skeptical. "Sounds like your lab knows a lot about the web."
"We should," the man fired back. "We invented it." ...AL GORE?...
Something in the man's voice told Langdon he was not joking. It really is! It's Al Gore, the King of Conspiracies himself!
"I must see you," "I just can't live without you, Langy!" the caller insisted. "This is not a matter we can discuss on the phone. (even though we already have...) My lab is only an hour's flight from Boston."
Langdon stood in the dim light of his study and analyzed the FAX in his hand. The image was overpowering, possibly representing the epigraphical find of the century, a decade of his research confirmed in a single symbol. Now...you don't think that's taking it a little far? I mean, heck, any regular joe can get a cow-brand....
"It's urgent," the voice pressured. No, the man pressured Langdon to come. The voice did not pressure anything...
Langdon's eyes were locked on the brand. Illuminati, he read over and over. His work had always been based on the symbolic equivalent of fossils... ancient documents and historical hearsay... but this image before him was today. Present tense. He felt like a paleontologist coming face to face with a living dinosaur. CHOMP!
"I've taken the liberty of sending a plane for you," the voice said. "It will be in Boston in twenty minutes." "Do not look at anything. Avert your eyes. If you see anything, we will kill you."
Langdon felt his mouth go dry. "Dang, I knew I shouldn't have had that zinfandel!" An hour's flight…
"Please forgive my presumption," the voice said. "I need you here." Aw, they're eloping!
Langdon looked again at the FAX... an ancient myth confirmed in black and white. We know! The implications were frightening. I know, I know! He gazed absently through the bay window. The first hint of dawn was sifting through the birch trees in his back yard, but the view looked somehow different this morning. As an odd combination of fear and exhilaration settled over him, Langdon knew he had no choice.
"You win," he said. "Tell me where to meet the plane."
--
Thousands of miles away, two men were meeting. The chamber was dark. Medieval. Stone.
"Benvenuto," the man in charge said. He was seated in the shadows, out of sight. "Were you successful?" Ooh, Italian! How smart, how sexy! I just want to keep reading, because there's ITALIAN, and that makes the book intelligent!
"Si," the dark figure replied. "Perfectamente." His words were as hard as the rock walls. Ow! Darn, I really hate it when words of stone hit me in the face!
"And there will be no doubt who is responsible?"
"None."
"Superb. Do you have what I asked for?"
The killer's eyes glistened, black like oil. My olive oil isn't black... He produced a heavy, electronic device and set it on the table. Aunt Martha's ventilator.
The man in the shadows seemed pleased. "You have done well."
"Serving the brotherhood is an honor," the killer said. Of course it is....
"Phase two begins shortly. Get some rest. Tonight we change the world." Hooooope, and chaaaaange...
--
A round-faced man in a blue flight suit emerged from behind the building. "Robert Langdon?" he called. The man's voice was friendly. He had an accent Langdon couldn't place. ...why is his accent relevant?
"That's me," Langdon said, locking his car.
"Perfect timing," the man said. "I've just landed. Follow me, please."
As they circled the building, Langdon felt tense. He was not accustomed to cryptic phone calls and secret rendezvous with strangers. Not knowing what to expect he had donned his usual classroom attire... a pair of chinos, a turtleneck, and a Harris Tweed suit jacket. Ooh, he's sooo attractive! I just want to keep reading, because Langy wears Harris Tweed! As they walked, he thought about the FAX in his jacket pocket, still unable to believe the image it depicted. Then why on earth are you getting on the plane?
The pilot seemed to sense Langdon's anxiety. "Flying's not a problem for you, is it, sir?" "Because if it is, I'll be obligated to conk you on the noggin and stuff you in the cargo hold."
"Not at all," Langdon replied. Branded corpses are a problem for me. Flying I can handle. I wonder how he feels about tattoos?
The man led Langdon the length of the hangar. They rounded the corner onto the runway.
Langdon stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at the aircraft parked on the tarmac. "We're riding in that?" "A giant hotdog with a side-dish of beans?"
The man grinned. "Like it?"
Langdon stared a long moment. "Like it? What the hell is it?" "I already told you, Mr. Langdon. It's a giant hotdog. It has airlift because there's a giant that sits in the rear and eats beans constantly, using the gaseous products of beans to--"
NO!
What? Who are you?
Your conscience, genius. That's going too far.
But--
TOO FAR.
Pfff....okay...
The craft before them was enormous. It was vaguely reminiscent of the Space Shuttle except that the top had been shaved off leaving it perfectly flat. Parked there on the runway, it resembled a colossal wedge. Of cheese? Langdon's first impression was that he must be dreaming. The vehicle looked as airworthy as a Buick. Boxy, but good? The wings were practically non-existent... just two stubby fins on the rear of the fuselage. A pair of dorsal guiders rose out of the aft section. The rest of the plane was hull... about 200 feet from front to back... no windows, nothing but hull. It sounds like a pencil eraser.
"250,000 kilos fully fueled," the pilot offered like a father bragging about his newborn. "Runs on slush hydrogen. The shell's a titanium matrix with silicon carbide fibers. She packs a 20:1 thrust/weight ratio; most jets run at 7:1. The director must be in one helluva a hurry to see you. He doesn't usually send the big boy." Uh-huh. Maybe this is 'accurate', but coming from Mr. "99-percent-is-true" Brown who said Copernicus was murdered and Galileo was part of the Illuminati or something....
"This thing flies?" Langdon said. Yeah--propelled by hot air! HAHAHAHAH!
...Celestine...
...sorry.
The pilot smiled. "Oh yeah." He led Langdon across the tarmac toward the plane. "Looks kind of startling, I know, but you better get used to it. In five years, all you'll see are these babies... HSCT's... High Speed Civil Transports. Our lab's one of the first to own one."
Must be one hell of a lab, Langdon thought. Langdon sure does seem to like using hell a lot.
"This one's a prototype of the Boeing X-33," the pilot continued, "but there are dozens of others... the National Aero Space Plane, the Russians have Scramjet, the Brits have HOTOL. The future's here, it's just taking some time to get to the public sector. You can kiss conventional jets good-bye." Sure we can.
Langdon looked up warily at the craft. "I think I'd prefer a conventional jet." Ok. Here's a Tomcat. The pilot's a really ticked-off Catholic Marine, by the way...
The pilot motioned up the gangplank. "This way, please, Mr. Langdon. Watch your step." WALK THE PLANK, ARRRR!
Minutes later, Langdon was seated inside the empty cabin. The pilot buckled him into the front row and disappeared toward the front of the aircraft. Ok, here you go little wangy-poo! Make sure to keep your belt on, kay?
The cabin itself looked surprisingly like a wide-body commercial airliner. The only exception was that it had no windows, which made Langdon uneasy. He had been haunted his whole life by a mild case of claustrophobia... the vestige of a childhood incident he had never quite overcome. He's haunted, but it's only a mild case.
Langdon's aversion to closed spaces was by no means debilitating, but it had always frustrated him. It manifested itself in subtle ways. Like avoiding public restrooms. He avoided enclosed sports like racquetball or squash, as well as port-a-johns, bunk beds and pyramids and he gladly paid a small fortune for his airy, high-ceilinged Victorian home even though economical faculty housing was readily available. Langdon had often suspected his attraction to the art world as a young boy sprang from his love of museums' wide open spaces. ...I'm guessing he hasn't been in too many crowded museums.
--
On a busy European street, the killer serpentined through a crowd. (What, are we just going to call him "the killer" forever and ever? Plus, I "don't think that word means what you think it means"--serpentined?) He was a powerful man. Dark and potent. Deceptively agile. His muscles still felt hard from the thrill of his meeting. Aww, little killer has a man-crush...
It went well, he told himself. Although his employer had never revealed his face, the killer felt honored to be in his presence. He's a horribly disfigured genius who couldn't possibly find an opera house to lurk in, so he settled for a physics lab and has now fallen desperately in love with a young particle physicist while listening to her recite formulas. Had it really been only fifteen days since his employer had first made contact? The killer still remembered every word of that call… ("OHMIGOSH he spoke to me! Can you believe it? He spoke to me!")
"My name is Janus," the caller had said. "We are kinsmen of a sort. We share an enemy. I hear your skills are for hire."
"It depends whom you represent," the killer replied.
The caller told him.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" No, if it was a joke he would've handed you a pair of binoculars with ink on the rims.
"You have heard our name, I see," the caller replied. "Our name....sss, precious, yes, our name...."
"Of course. The brotherhood is legendary." Legendary...like his brai--
Celestine!
...sorry...
"And yet you find yourself doubting I am genuine." "Well, I am--100% genuine mad scientist in the longstanding tradition ranging from Dr. Frankenstein to Jekyll to TV's Frank!"
"Everyone knows the brothers have faded to dust." Sunbathing vampires?
"A devious ploy. The most dangerous enemy is that which no one fears." Russian roulette, anyone?
The killer was skeptical. "The brotherhood endures?"
"Deeper underground than ever before. Our roots infiltrate everything you see…even the sacred fortress of our most sworn enemy." Hey, look, I TOLD you to never come near my house again...I can't believe your roots are infiltrating my sacred fortress!
"Impossible. They are invulnerable." *yawn* sure they are.
"Our reach is far." Saruman's arm has grown long ind--whoops.
"No one's reach is that far."
"Very soon, you will believe. An irrefutable demonstration of the brotherhood's power has already transpired. A single act of treachery and proof." *yawn* hey, where's the restroom?
"What have you done?"
The caller told him.
The killer's eyes went wide. "An impossible task."
The next day, newspapers around the globe carried the same headline. The killer became a believer. "Now IIIIIIIII'M a believerrrrr!"
Now, fifteen days later, the killer's faith had solidified beyond the shadow of a doubt. The brotherhood endures, he thought. Tonight they will surface to reveal their power.
As he made his way through the streets, his black eyes gleamed with foreboding. One of the most covert and feared fraternities ever to walk the earth had called on him for service. Delta-Phi-Kappa, just down from Domino's. They have chosen wisely, he thought. "Our pizza is better, and cheaper, too!" His reputation for secrecy was exceeded only by that of his deadliness.
So far, he had served them nobly. And delivered their pizza in thirty minutes or less! He had made his kill and delivered the item to Janus as requested. Now, it was up to Janus to use his power to ensure the item's placement. Yeah, the catheter goes right up the--
CELESTINE.
You're no fun...
That's very improper.
What? Constipation is a serious problem in modern day society!
Maybe, but you don't need to bring it up when talking about evil cults.
Go away.
Well, folks, I don't know what to say. I can't be sure why my conscience has decided to join in, but it's really putting a cramp in my style. Let me go deal with it, and maybe I'll do something fun in the near future.
"Do I have your attention now?" the man's voice said when Langdon finally answered the line. "I'm your biggest fan. Can I have your autograph?"
"Yes, sir, you damn well do. See how emphatic I am? I used the word 'damn'! That makes it emphatic! You want to explain yourself?"
"I tried to tell you before." The voice was rigid, mechanical. "I'm a physicist. I run a research facility. We've had a murder. You saw the body." Did he sound anything like James Earl Jones?
"How did you find me?" Langdon could barely focus. His mind was racing from the image on the FAX. Sit down, dear. Maybe put your head on a pillow. Just relax. Now, tell me about your father...
"I already told you. The World Wide Web. I say the World Wide Web because 'internet' would be too easy, therefore I am intelligent! The site for your book, The Art of the Illuminati."
Langdon tried to gather his thoughts. His book was virtually unknown in mainstream literary circles, but it had developed quite a following on-line. Err...shouldn't that be online?... Nonetheless, the caller's claim still made no sense. "That page has no contact information," Langdon challenged. He challenged? What did he challenge? Is that a legitimate word use? "I'm certain of it."
"I have people here at the lab very adept at extracting user information from the web." "We know you, and if you EVER want to see Toto again, you will pay us the sum of five thousand dollars and never write another book."
Langdon was skeptical. "Sounds like your lab knows a lot about the web."
"We should," the man fired back. "We invented it." ...AL GORE?...
Something in the man's voice told Langdon he was not joking. It really is! It's Al Gore, the King of Conspiracies himself!
"I must see you," "I just can't live without you, Langy!" the caller insisted. "This is not a matter we can discuss on the phone. (even though we already have...) My lab is only an hour's flight from Boston."
Langdon stood in the dim light of his study and analyzed the FAX in his hand. The image was overpowering, possibly representing the epigraphical find of the century, a decade of his research confirmed in a single symbol. Now...you don't think that's taking it a little far? I mean, heck, any regular joe can get a cow-brand....
"It's urgent," the voice pressured. No, the man pressured Langdon to come. The voice did not pressure anything...
Langdon's eyes were locked on the brand. Illuminati, he read over and over. His work had always been based on the symbolic equivalent of fossils... ancient documents and historical hearsay... but this image before him was today. Present tense. He felt like a paleontologist coming face to face with a living dinosaur. CHOMP!
"I've taken the liberty of sending a plane for you," the voice said. "It will be in Boston in twenty minutes." "Do not look at anything. Avert your eyes. If you see anything, we will kill you."
Langdon felt his mouth go dry. "Dang, I knew I shouldn't have had that zinfandel!" An hour's flight…
"Please forgive my presumption," the voice said. "I need you here." Aw, they're eloping!
Langdon looked again at the FAX... an ancient myth confirmed in black and white. We know! The implications were frightening. I know, I know! He gazed absently through the bay window. The first hint of dawn was sifting through the birch trees in his back yard, but the view looked somehow different this morning. As an odd combination of fear and exhilaration settled over him, Langdon knew he had no choice.
"You win," he said. "Tell me where to meet the plane."
--
Thousands of miles away, two men were meeting. The chamber was dark. Medieval. Stone.
"Benvenuto," the man in charge said. He was seated in the shadows, out of sight. "Were you successful?" Ooh, Italian! How smart, how sexy! I just want to keep reading, because there's ITALIAN, and that makes the book intelligent!
"Si," the dark figure replied. "Perfectamente." His words were as hard as the rock walls. Ow! Darn, I really hate it when words of stone hit me in the face!
"And there will be no doubt who is responsible?"
"None."
"Superb. Do you have what I asked for?"
The killer's eyes glistened, black like oil. My olive oil isn't black... He produced a heavy, electronic device and set it on the table. Aunt Martha's ventilator.
The man in the shadows seemed pleased. "You have done well."
"Serving the brotherhood is an honor," the killer said. Of course it is....
"Phase two begins shortly. Get some rest. Tonight we change the world." Hooooope, and chaaaaange...
--
A round-faced man in a blue flight suit emerged from behind the building. "Robert Langdon?" he called. The man's voice was friendly. He had an accent Langdon couldn't place. ...why is his accent relevant?
"That's me," Langdon said, locking his car.
"Perfect timing," the man said. "I've just landed. Follow me, please."
As they circled the building, Langdon felt tense. He was not accustomed to cryptic phone calls and secret rendezvous with strangers. Not knowing what to expect he had donned his usual classroom attire... a pair of chinos, a turtleneck, and a Harris Tweed suit jacket. Ooh, he's sooo attractive! I just want to keep reading, because Langy wears Harris Tweed! As they walked, he thought about the FAX in his jacket pocket, still unable to believe the image it depicted. Then why on earth are you getting on the plane?
The pilot seemed to sense Langdon's anxiety. "Flying's not a problem for you, is it, sir?" "Because if it is, I'll be obligated to conk you on the noggin and stuff you in the cargo hold."
"Not at all," Langdon replied. Branded corpses are a problem for me. Flying I can handle. I wonder how he feels about tattoos?
The man led Langdon the length of the hangar. They rounded the corner onto the runway.
Langdon stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at the aircraft parked on the tarmac. "We're riding in that?" "A giant hotdog with a side-dish of beans?"
The man grinned. "Like it?"
Langdon stared a long moment. "Like it? What the hell is it?" "I already told you, Mr. Langdon. It's a giant hotdog. It has airlift because there's a giant that sits in the rear and eats beans constantly, using the gaseous products of beans to--"
NO!
What? Who are you?
Your conscience, genius. That's going too far.
But--
TOO FAR.
Pfff....okay...
The craft before them was enormous. It was vaguely reminiscent of the Space Shuttle except that the top had been shaved off leaving it perfectly flat. Parked there on the runway, it resembled a colossal wedge. Of cheese? Langdon's first impression was that he must be dreaming. The vehicle looked as airworthy as a Buick. Boxy, but good? The wings were practically non-existent... just two stubby fins on the rear of the fuselage. A pair of dorsal guiders rose out of the aft section. The rest of the plane was hull... about 200 feet from front to back... no windows, nothing but hull. It sounds like a pencil eraser.
"250,000 kilos fully fueled," the pilot offered like a father bragging about his newborn. "Runs on slush hydrogen. The shell's a titanium matrix with silicon carbide fibers. She packs a 20:1 thrust/weight ratio; most jets run at 7:1. The director must be in one helluva a hurry to see you. He doesn't usually send the big boy." Uh-huh. Maybe this is 'accurate', but coming from Mr. "99-percent-is-true" Brown who said Copernicus was murdered and Galileo was part of the Illuminati or something....
"This thing flies?" Langdon said. Yeah--propelled by hot air! HAHAHAHAH!
...Celestine...
...sorry.
The pilot smiled. "Oh yeah." He led Langdon across the tarmac toward the plane. "Looks kind of startling, I know, but you better get used to it. In five years, all you'll see are these babies... HSCT's... High Speed Civil Transports. Our lab's one of the first to own one."
Must be one hell of a lab, Langdon thought. Langdon sure does seem to like using hell a lot.
"This one's a prototype of the Boeing X-33," the pilot continued, "but there are dozens of others... the National Aero Space Plane, the Russians have Scramjet, the Brits have HOTOL. The future's here, it's just taking some time to get to the public sector. You can kiss conventional jets good-bye." Sure we can.
Langdon looked up warily at the craft. "I think I'd prefer a conventional jet." Ok. Here's a Tomcat. The pilot's a really ticked-off Catholic Marine, by the way...
The pilot motioned up the gangplank. "This way, please, Mr. Langdon. Watch your step." WALK THE PLANK, ARRRR!
Minutes later, Langdon was seated inside the empty cabin. The pilot buckled him into the front row and disappeared toward the front of the aircraft. Ok, here you go little wangy-poo! Make sure to keep your belt on, kay?
The cabin itself looked surprisingly like a wide-body commercial airliner. The only exception was that it had no windows, which made Langdon uneasy. He had been haunted his whole life by a mild case of claustrophobia... the vestige of a childhood incident he had never quite overcome. He's haunted, but it's only a mild case.
Langdon's aversion to closed spaces was by no means debilitating, but it had always frustrated him. It manifested itself in subtle ways. Like avoiding public restrooms. He avoided enclosed sports like racquetball or squash, as well as port-a-johns, bunk beds and pyramids and he gladly paid a small fortune for his airy, high-ceilinged Victorian home even though economical faculty housing was readily available. Langdon had often suspected his attraction to the art world as a young boy sprang from his love of museums' wide open spaces. ...I'm guessing he hasn't been in too many crowded museums.
--
On a busy European street, the killer serpentined through a crowd. (What, are we just going to call him "the killer" forever and ever? Plus, I "don't think that word means what you think it means"--serpentined?) He was a powerful man. Dark and potent. Deceptively agile. His muscles still felt hard from the thrill of his meeting. Aww, little killer has a man-crush...
It went well, he told himself. Although his employer had never revealed his face, the killer felt honored to be in his presence. He's a horribly disfigured genius who couldn't possibly find an opera house to lurk in, so he settled for a physics lab and has now fallen desperately in love with a young particle physicist while listening to her recite formulas. Had it really been only fifteen days since his employer had first made contact? The killer still remembered every word of that call… ("OHMIGOSH he spoke to me! Can you believe it? He spoke to me!")
"My name is Janus," the caller had said. "We are kinsmen of a sort. We share an enemy. I hear your skills are for hire."
"It depends whom you represent," the killer replied.
The caller told him.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" No, if it was a joke he would've handed you a pair of binoculars with ink on the rims.
"You have heard our name, I see," the caller replied. "Our name....sss, precious, yes, our name...."
"Of course. The brotherhood is legendary." Legendary...like his brai--
Celestine!
...sorry...
"And yet you find yourself doubting I am genuine." "Well, I am--100% genuine mad scientist in the longstanding tradition ranging from Dr. Frankenstein to Jekyll to TV's Frank!"
"Everyone knows the brothers have faded to dust." Sunbathing vampires?
"A devious ploy. The most dangerous enemy is that which no one fears." Russian roulette, anyone?
The killer was skeptical. "The brotherhood endures?"
"Deeper underground than ever before. Our roots infiltrate everything you see…even the sacred fortress of our most sworn enemy." Hey, look, I TOLD you to never come near my house again...I can't believe your roots are infiltrating my sacred fortress!
"Impossible. They are invulnerable." *yawn* sure they are.
"Our reach is far." Saruman's arm has grown long ind--whoops.
"No one's reach is that far."
"Very soon, you will believe. An irrefutable demonstration of the brotherhood's power has already transpired. A single act of treachery and proof." *yawn* hey, where's the restroom?
"What have you done?"
The caller told him.
The killer's eyes went wide. "An impossible task."
The next day, newspapers around the globe carried the same headline. The killer became a believer. "Now IIIIIIIII'M a believerrrrr!"
Now, fifteen days later, the killer's faith had solidified beyond the shadow of a doubt. The brotherhood endures, he thought. Tonight they will surface to reveal their power.
As he made his way through the streets, his black eyes gleamed with foreboding. One of the most covert and feared fraternities ever to walk the earth had called on him for service. Delta-Phi-Kappa, just down from Domino's. They have chosen wisely, he thought. "Our pizza is better, and cheaper, too!" His reputation for secrecy was exceeded only by that of his deadliness.
So far, he had served them nobly. And delivered their pizza in thirty minutes or less! He had made his kill and delivered the item to Janus as requested. Now, it was up to Janus to use his power to ensure the item's placement. Yeah, the catheter goes right up the--
CELESTINE.
You're no fun...
That's very improper.
What? Constipation is a serious problem in modern day society!
Maybe, but you don't need to bring it up when talking about evil cults.
Go away.
Well, folks, I don't know what to say. I can't be sure why my conscience has decided to join in, but it's really putting a cramp in my style. Let me go deal with it, and maybe I'll do something fun in the near future.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Riffing Pullman: Installment One
Philip Pullman is what happens when you mix C.S Lewis's evil twin, Dan Brown and Christopher Hitchens all together. It's scary. You have been warned. My comments in red.
Lyra and her dæmon moved through the darkening hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen. They're cooking little girls and demons tonight. The three great tables that ran the length of the hall were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were pulled out ready for the guests. "We'll sit Beelzebub here, and Moloch there, and Xipe Totec there..." Portraits of former Masters hung high up in the gloom along the walls. "Master Robin! You've changed!" Lyra reached the dais and looked back at the open kitchen door, and, seeing no one, stepped up beside the high table. The places here were laid with gold, not silver, and the fourteen seats were not oak benches but mahogany chairs with velvet cushions. "All this, and more, can be yours for 149.99 at TJ Maxx!"
Lyra stopped beside the Master's chair and flicked the biggest glass gently with a fingernail. The sound rang clearly through the hall.
"You're not taking this seriously," whispered her dæmon. "Behave yourself." "You'll never be a warlock if you don't behave yourself!"
Her dæmon's name was Tlaloc! Pantalaimon, and he was currently in the form of a moth, a dark brown one so as not to show up in the darkness of the hall. Because we couldn't possibly have moths in a house.
"They're making too much noise to hear from the kitchen," Lyra whispered back. "And the Steward doesn't come in till the first bell. Stop fussing."
But she put her palm over the ringing crystal anyway, and Pantalaimon fluttered ahead and through the slightly open door of the Retiring Room at the other end of the dais. After a moment he appeared again.
"There's no one there," he whispered. "But we must be quick." "Mother doesn't like it when you play with strange demons!"
Crouching behind the high table, Lyra darted along and through the door into the Retiring Room, where she stood up and looked around. The only light in here came from the fireplace, where a bright blaze of logs settled slightly as she looked, sending a fountain of sparks up into the chimney. She had lived most of her life in the College, sounds like a bad dream...saith the girl who lives in a college town but had never seen the Retiring Room before: only Scholars and their guests were allowed in here, and never females. "Honey, I told you, this is the man-cave!" Even the maid-servants didn't clean in here. That was the Butler's job alone.
Pantalaimon settled on her shoulder. Can a moth settle?
"Happy now? Can we go?" he whispered.
"Don't be silly! I want to look around!" "The voices in my head tell me to!"
It was a large room, with an oval table of polished rosewood on which stood various decanters and glasses, and a silver smoking stand with a rack of pipes. On a sideboard nearby there was a little chafing dish and a basket of poppy heads. "MWUAHAHAHA! Poppies....poppies..."
"They do themselves well, don't they, Pan?" she said under her breath. I had no idea she kept a greek god with her!
She sat in one of the green leather armchairs. It was so deep she found herself nearly lying down, Welcome to the world of short people, Liar--I mean, Lyra. but she sat up again and tucked her legs under her to look at the portraits on the walls. More old Scholars, probably; robed, bearded, and gloomy, they stared out of their frames in solemn disapproval. "Hey, the Stewards of Gond--oops."
"What d'you think they talk about?" Lyra said, or began to say, because before she'd finished the question she heard voices outside the door. "Eating small children, dearie!"
"Behind the chair - quick!" whispered Pantalaimon, and in a flash Lyra was out of the armchair and crouching behind it. It wasn't the best one for hiding behind: she'd chosen one in the very center of the room, and unless she kept very quiet... they'd EAT her!
The door opened, and the light changed in the room; one of the incomers was carrying a lamp, which he put down on the sideboard. Lyra could see his legs, in their dark green trousers and shiny black shoes. It was a servant.
Then a deep voice said, "Has Lord Asriel arrived yet?" Wasn't Asriel the name of a demon in Jewish mythos?
It was the Master. With a red lightsaber? As Lyra held her breath, she saw the servant's dæmon (a dog, like all servants' dæmons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet, and then the Master's feet became visible too, hooves and all! in the shabby black shoes he always wore.
"No, Master," said the Butler. "No word from the aerodock, either." Aerowhat?
"I expect he'll be hungry when he arrives. Show him straight into Hall, will you?" "We have to strip to the waist and lop peoples' heads off for fun as soon as possible."
"Very good, Master."
"And you've decanted some of the special Tokay for him?" "The one with the aphr--never mind."
"Yes, Master. The 1898, as you ordered. His Lordship is very partial to that, I remember."
"Good. Now leave me, please." "I need to play World of Warcraft, and can't have you looking in on me."
"Do you need the lamp, Master?"
"Yes, leave that too. Look in during dinner to trim it, will you?" "I do not dare look away...Desperate Housewives is on in 20 minutes!"
The Butler bowed slightly and turned to leave, his dæmon trotting obediently after him. Man's best friend=hellhounds. From her not-much-of-a-hiding place Lyra watched as the Master went to a large oak wardrobe in the corner of the room, took his gown from a hanger, and pulled it laboriously on. Pink silk, and ruffles, and frills, and a corset to accent a feminine figure! The Master had been a powerful man, but he was well over seventy now, and his movements were stiff and slow. Does this guy have a name? The Master's dæmon had the form of a raven, and as soon as his robe was on, she jumped down from the wardrobe and settled in her accustomed place on his right shoulder. "Nevermore! Nevermore! Nevermore! NEVERMORENEVERMORENEVEMORE!"
Lyra could feel Pantalaimon bristling with anxiety, though he made no sound. How does a moth bristle? For herself, she was pleasantly excited. There was a thrill up her leg... The visitor mentioned by the Master, Lord Asriel, was her uncle, a man whom she admired and feared greatly. He was said to be involved in high politics, in secret exploration, in distant warfare, and she never knew when he was going to appear. I meet your Asriel and raise you Gandalf. He was fierce: if he caught her in here she'd be severely punished, but she could put up with that. The Dark Side of Liar--er, Lyra: masochism.
What she saw next, however, changed things completely. A mullet? The Master has a mullet?
The Master took from his pocket a folded paper and laid it on the table beside the wine. "This is how you build a crane..." He took the stopper out of the mouth of a decanter containing a rich golden wine, unfolded the paper, and poured a thin stream of white powder into the decanter before crumpling the paper and throwing it into the fire. "Don't do drugs!" Then he took a pencil from his pocket, stirred the wine until the powder had dissolved, and replaced the stopper. Eww, lead poisoning!
His dæmon gave a soft brief squawk. "NEVERMORE!" The Master replied in an undertone, and looked around with his hooded, clouded eyes before leaving through the door he'd come in by. "Gee, I sure hope that he doesn't switch our drinks..."
Lyra whispered, "Did you see that, Pan?"
"Of course I did! I have eyes too, you know, just like every other human be--oh, wait a minute... Now hurry out, before the Steward comes!"
But as he spoke, there came the sound of a bell ringing once from the far end of the hall. "Three o'clock and all's well!"
"That's the Steward's bell!" said Lyra. "I thought we had more time than that."
Pantalaimon fluttered swiftly to the hall door, and swiftly back. "A nudist colony! For the love of humanity, hide your eyes, Li--Lyra!"
"The Steward's there already," he said. "And you can't get out of the other door..." "The way is shut."
The other door, the one the Master had entered and left by, opened onto the busy corridor between the library and the Scholars' common room. At this time of day it was thronged with men pulling on their gowns for dinner, "Cindy, should I wear velvet or taffeta?" or hurrying to leave papers or briefcases in the common room before moving into the hall. Lyra had planned to leave the way she'd come, banking on another few minutes before the Steward's bell rang. Why plan?
And if she hadn't seen the Master tipping that powder into the wine, she might have risked the Steward's anger, or hoped to avoid being noticed in the busy corridor. But she was confused, and that made her hesitate.
Then she heard heavy footsteps on the dais. The Steward was coming to make sure the Retiring Room was ready for the Scholars' poppy and wine after dinner. Sure hope they don't have to take any drug tests...nothing like a poppy-seed bagel to ruin a job interview! Lyra darted to the oak wardrobe, opened it, and hid inside, pulling the door shut just as the Steward entered. "Gee, I wonder if there's a land in the back of the--wait, sorry, wrong story." She had no fear for Pantalaimon: the room was somber colored, and he could always creep under a chair. Because he's a stinking moth....
She heard the Steward's heavy wheezing, "Liar, I am your father!" and through the crack where the door hadn't quite shut she saw him adjust the pipes in the rack by the smoking stand and cast a glance over the decanters and glasses. Then he smoothed the hair over his ears with both palms and said something to his dæmon. Fetch, boy! Fetch! He was a servant, so she was a dog; but a superior servant, so a superior dog. Wait, so she was a real--never mind. In fact, she had the form of a red setter. The dæmon seemed suspicious, and cast around as if she'd sensed an intruder, but didn't make for the wardrobe, to Lyra's intense relief. Lyra was afraid of the Steward, who had twice beaten her. Nothing like child abuse to liven up a children's story, eh?
Lyra heard a tiny whisper; obviously Pantalaimon had squeezed in beside her. Because obviously a moth would need to squeeze to fit into a wardrobe..."
"We're going to have to stay here now. Why don't you listen to me?" "Because you're a stupid moth. You just don't understand!"
She didn't reply until the Steward had left. It was his job to supervise the waiting at the high table; she could hear the Scholars coming into the hall, the murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet.
"It's a good thing I didn't," she whispered back. "We wouldn't have seen the Master put poison in the wine otherwise. Pan, that was the Tokay he asked the Butler about! They're going to kill Lord Asriel!" Duuuuuuuuuh.
"You don't know it's poison." "You know, it could be...cocaine! Or...or...sugar! yeah, that's it..."
"Oh, of course it is. Don't you remember, he made the Butler leave the room before he did it? If it was innocent, it wouldn't have mattered the Butler seeing. And I know there's something going on--something political. They've been fighting over who gets voted out of the Retiring Room. The servants have been talking about it for days. Pan, we could prevent a murder!"
"I've never heard such nonsense," he said shortly. "How do you think you're going to keep still for four hours in this poky wardrobe? Let me go and look in the corridor. I'll tell you when it's clear."
He fluttered from her shoulder, and she saw his little shadow appear in the crack of light. "little shadow". Of a moth. Gee, you don't say?
"It's no good, Pan, I'm staying," she said. "There's another robe or something here. I'll put that on the floor and make myself comfortable. I've just got to see what they do." Read this last sentence aloud in a dry, Ben Stein kind of voice. Beuller?
She had been crouching. She carefully stood up, feeling around for the clothes hangers in order not to make a noise, and found that the wardrobe was bigger than she'd thought. There were several academic robes and hoods, some with fur around them, most faced with silk. Gee, well, isn't this original....a young girl hiding in a closet with fur-trimmed robes. Never heard of that before.
"I wonder if these are all the Master's?" she whispered. "When he gets honorary degrees from other places, Notre Dame? perhaps they give him fancy robes and he keeps them here for dressing-up....Pan, do you really think it's not poison in that wine?"
"No," he said. "I think it is, like you do. And I think it's none of our business. And I think it would be the silliest thing you've ever done in a lifetime of silly things to interfere. It's nothing to do with us." "Who cares that your uncle is going to die a slow, probably gruesome, miserable death as the poison either stops his heart or slows his breathing to the point of agony? It's nothing to do with us!"
"Don't be stupid," Lyra said. "I can't sit in here and watch them give him poison!" "Yes, you can, dangit, and you'll LIKE it!"
"Come somewhere else, then."
"You're a coward, Pan." Darn those cowardly moths!
"Certainly I am. May I ask what you intend to do? Are you going to leap out and snatch the glass from his trembling fingers? What did you have in mind?"
"I didn't have anything in mind, and well you know it," she snapped quietly. "But now I've seen what the Master did, I haven't got any choice. You're supposed to know about conscience, aren't you? How can I just go and sit in the library or somewhere and twiddle my thumbs, knowing what's going to happen? I don't intend to do that, I promise you." Drink it yourself...it'll make for a shorter, less painful book.
"This is what you wanted all the time," he said after a moment. "You wanted to hide in here and watch. Why didn't I realize that before?"
"All right, I do," she said. "Everyone knows they get up to something secret. They have a ritual or something. And I just wanted to know what it was." They strip to the waist, worship an evil emanation and lop peoples heads off for fun. Duh!
"It's none of your business! If they want to enjoy their little secrets you should just feel superior and let them get on with it. Hiding and spying is for silly children." Uh...dude. She is a silly child.
"Exactly what I knew you'd say. Now stop nagging."
The two of them sat in silence for a while, Lyra uncomfortable on the hard floor of the wardrobe and Pantalaimon self-righteously twitching his temporary antennae on one of the robes. Lyra felt a mixture of thoughts contending in her head, and she would have liked nothing better than to share them with her dæmon, but she was proud too. Perhaps she should try to clear them up without his help. "But the voices in my head tell me to tell him! But--he is the voice in my--oh, dangit!"
Her main thought was anxiety, and it wasn't for herself. Wait, her thought WAS anxiety? She'd been in trouble often enough to be used to it. This time she was anxious about Lord Asriel, and about what this all meant. It wasn't often that he visited the college, and the fact that this was a time of high political tension meant that he hadn't come simply to eat and drink and smoke with a few old friends. She knew that both Lord Asriel and the Master were members of the Cabinet Council, the Prime Minister's special advisory body, so it might have been something to do with that; but meetings of the Cabinet Council were held in the palace, not in the Retiring Room of Jordan College.
Then there was the rumor that had been keeping the College servants whispering for days. It was said that the Master reads Cosmo! the Tartars had invaded Muscovy, and were surging north to St. Petersburg, from where they would be able to dominate the Baltic Sea and eventually overcome the entire west of Europe. And Lord Asriel had been in the far North: when she'd seen him last, he was preparing an expedition to Lapland.... in order to visit his long-lost aunt, who'd left him a fortune and three beans.
"Pan," she whispered. "Dish!" "Oven!"
"Yes?"
"Do you think there'll be a war?" "No, we're all going to live in peace and joy and harmony for the rest of our long, pitiful lives--what do you think, dolt?"
"Not yet. Lord Asriel wouldn't be dining here if it was going to break out in the next week or so." "Dang, a large outbreak on my nose..."
"That's what I thought. But later?"
"Shh! Someone's coming."
She sat up and put her eye to the crack of the door. It was the Butler, coming to trim the lamp as the Master had ordered him to. The common room and the library were lit by anbaric power, but the Scholars preferred the older, softer naphtha lamps in the Retiring Room. They wouldn't change that in the Master's lifetime. Fortunately, he had a heart attack and died, so they finally upgraded it.
The Butler trimmed the wick, and put another log on the fire as well, and then listened carefully at the hall door before helping himself to a handful of leaf from the smoking stand. These were special, grown-up leaves that were grown under fluorescent lighting...
He had hardly replaced the lid when the handle of the other door turned, making him jump nervously. Lyra tried not to laugh. The Butler hastily stuffed the leaf into his pocket and turned to face the incomer. "It isn't mine! I was holding it for a friend!"
"Lord Asriel!" he said, and a shiver of cold surprise ran down Lyra's back. As opposed to warm, cuddly surprise. She couldn't see him from where she was, and she tried to smother the urge to move and look.
"Good evening, Wren," said Lord Asriel. I keep expecting to read something about his voice being chocolate for the ears...gag. Lyra always heard that harsh voice with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. Oh, harsh...thank God! "I arrived too late to dine. I'll wait in here."
The Butler looked uncomfortable. "Crap, I KNEW I should've used the can earlier when I had the chance!" Guests entered the Retiring Room at the Master's invitation only, and Lord Asriel knew that; but the Butler also saw Lord Asriel looking pointedly at the bulge in his pocket, and decided not to protest.
"Shall I let the Master know you've arrived, my lord?"
"No harm in that. You might bring me some coffee." "Folgers will do, preferably with carmel, chocolate, half and half and seven teaspoons of sugar."
"Very good, my lord."
The Butler bowed and hastened out, his dæmon trotting submissively at his heels. Lyra's uncle moved across to the fire and stretched his arms high above his head, yawning like a lion. With rows and rows of sharp teeth? He was wearing traveling clothes. D'oh. Lyra was reminded, as she always was when she saw him again, of how much he frightened her. Gaah, he's said that ten times already. Can Liar--er, Lyra please feel something other than fear or pleasure? Please?
There was no question now of creeping out unnoticed: she'd have to sit tight and hope.
Lord Asriel's dæmon, a snow leopard, stood behind him.
"Are you going to show the projections in here?" she said quietly. Astral projections?
"Yes. It'll create less fuss than moving to the lecture theater. They'll want to see the specimens too; I'll send for the Porter in a minute. This is a bad time, Stelmaria." Stelmaria? Like... stella maria? As in, meaning "star-star of the sea"?
"You should rest."
He stretched out in one of the armchairs, so that Lyra could no longer see his face.
"Yes, yes. I should also change my clothes. There's probably some ancient etiquette that allows them to fine me a dozen bottles for coming in here dressed improperly. Are they alcoholic scholars, then? I should sleep for three days. The fact remains that - " "--I'm getting cut off dramatically for random purposes."
There was a knock, and the Butler came in with a silver tray bearing a coffeepot and a cup.
"Thank you, Wren," said Lord Asriel. "Is that the Tokay I can see on the table?"
"The Master ordered it decanted especially for you, my lord," said the Butler. "There are only three dozen bottles left of the '98." "Very good year. Almost as old as I am!"
"All good things pass away. Leave the tray here beside me. Oh, ask the Porter to send up the two cases I left in the Lodge, would you?" Do bad things not pass away? Does that mean that this book is going to--oh, never mind.
"Here, my lord?" "Dang, he's on to us!"
"Yes, here, man. And I shall need a screen and a projecting lantern, also here, also now."
The Butler could hardly prevent himself from opening his mouth in surprise, but managed to suppress the question, or the protest. After all, the Butler remembered being taken out to the woodshed as a child, much like the other characters we've been introduced to thus far.
"Wren, you're forgetting your place," said Lord Asriel. "Don't question me; just do as I tell you." Pitiful servants...
"Very good, my lord," said the Butler. "If I may suggest it, I should perhaps let Mr. Cawson know what you're planning, my lord, or else he'll be somewhat taken aback, if you see what I mean."
"Yes. Tell him, then." "And send Rowsdower in."
Mr. Cawson was the Steward. There was an old and well-established rivalry between him and the Butler. The Steward was the superior, but the Butler had more opportunities to ingratiate himself with the Scholars, and made full use of them. He would be delighted to have this chance of showing the Steward that he knew more about what was going on in the Retiring Room.
He bowed and left. Lyra watched as her uncle poured a cup of coffee, drained it at once, and poured another before sipping more slowly. She was agog: cases of specimens? A projecting lantern? What did he have to show the Scholars that was so urgent and important? The infamous rhetorical question. It does not work well when the author asks it--at the least, it should be asked by a character, in quotation marks or italics to explain such...
Then Lord Asriel stood up and turned away from the fire. She saw him fully, and marveled at the contrast he made with the plump Butler, the stooped and languid Scholars. Lord Asriel was a tall man with powerful shoulders, a fierce dark face, and eyes that seemed to flash and glitter with savage laughter. Having flashbacks to Dan Brown's descriptions of Langdon here, hold on while I writhe in pain from the memories. It was a face to be dominated by, or to fight: never a face to patronize or pity. Oh, he's an android... All his movements were large and perfectly balanced, like those of a wild animal, and when he appeared in a room like this, he seemed a wild animal held in a cage too small for it. "Nelly, I am Heathc--wait, wrong book."
At the moment his expression was distant and preoccupied. His dæmon came close and leaned her head on his waist, and he looked down at her unfathomably ("I do not think that means what you think it means!") before turning away and walking to the table. Lyra suddenly felt her stomach lurch, for Lord Asriel had taken the stopper from the decanter of Tokay, and was pouring a glass. Drink it, drink it, for the love of humanity drink it, and this will be a better story...
"No!" ...darn.
The quiet cry came before she could hold it back. Lord Asriel heard and turned at once.
"Who's there?" "But I've always been here, remember?"*
She couldn't help herself. She tumbled out of the wardrobe and scrambled up to snatch the glass from his hand. The wine flew out, splashing on the edge of the table and the carpet, and then the glass fell and smashed. He seized her wrist and twisted hard. Nice. No wonder this girl is screwed up.
"Lyra! What the hell are you doing?" "Uh...lying?"
"Let go of me and I'll tell you!" A shot to the groin would make him let go of her. She must not be too bright.
"I'll break your arm first. How dare you come in here?" Well, this is a real treasure of a character, isn't he?
"I've just saved your life!" Of course you have...
They were still for a moment, the girl twisted in pain but grimacing to prevent herself from crying out louder, the man bent over her frowning like thunder. Frowning...like...a sound?
"What did you say?" he said more quietly.
"That wine is poisoned," she muttered between clenched teeth. "I saw the Master put some powder in it."
He let go. She sank to the floor, and Pantalaimon fluttered anxiously to her shoulder. Her uncle looked down with a restrained fury, and she didn't dare meet his eyes. "Your abuser and you: how to enable an abusive personality, pt 1."
"I came in just to see what the room was like," she said. "I know I shouldn't have. But I was going to go out before anyone came in, except that I heard the Master coming and got trapped. The wardrobe was the only place to hide. And I saw him put the powder in the wine. If I hadn't - " "You'd be DEAD!" and that would be a bad thing...why?
There was a knock on the door.
"That'll be the Porter," said Lord Asriel. "Back in the wardrobe. If I hear the slightest noise, I'll make you wish you were dead." Please be dead. Please?
She darted back there at once, and no sooner had she pulled the door shut than Lord Asriel called, "Come in."
As he'd said, it was the Porter.
"In here, my lord?"
Lyra saw the old man standing doubtfully in the doorway, and behind him, the corner of a large wooden box.
"That's right, Shuter," said Lord Asriel. "Bring them both in and put them down by the table."
Lyra relaxed a little, and allowed herself to feel the pain in her shoulder and wrist. There is no pain...no pain... It might have been enough to make her cry, if she was the sort of girl who cried. "No emotions now, we've discussed this!" Instead she gritted her teeth and moved the arm gently until it felt looser. Yeah, she's a regular grunt...(/sarcasm)
Then came a crash of glass and the glug of spilled liquid.
"Damn you, Shuter, you careless old fool! Look what you've done!" Sure, blame the old guy...
Lyra could see, just. Her uncle had managed to knock the decanter of Tokay off the table, and made it look as if the Porter had done it. The old man put the box down carefully and began to apologize. "Does this mean I lose my privileges to watch TV?"
"I'm truly sorry, my lord - I must have been closer than I thought - "
"Get something to clear this mess up. Go on, before it soaks into the carpet!" "For those pesky Tokay-n-Poison stains, I depend on my Hoover carpet-cleaner."
The Porter hurried out. Lord Asriel moved closer to the wardrobe and spoke in an undertone.
"Since you're in there, you can make yourself useful. Watch the Master closely when he comes in. If you tell me something interesting about him, I'll keep you from getting further into the trouble you're already in. Understand?"
"Yes, Uncle." said in a pathetic, sad little voice.
"Make a noise in there and I won't help you. You're on your own."
He moved away and stood with his back to the fire again as the Porter came back with a brush and dustpan for the glass and a bowl and cloth.
"I can only say once again, my lord, I do most earnestly beg your pardon; I don't know what - "
"Just clear up the mess."
As the Porter began to mop the wine from the carpet, the Butler knocked and came in with Lord Asriel's manservant, a man called Thorold. They were carrying between them a heavy case of polished wood with brass handles. "Oh, good, they've brought the body...bring it in, Igor!" They saw what the Porter was doing and stopped dead.
"Yes, it was the Tokay," said Lord Asriel. "Too bad. Is that the lantern? Set it up by the wardrobe, Thorold, if you would. I'll have the screen up at the other end." Shadowrama?
Lyra realized that she would be able to see the screen and whatever was on it through the crack in the door, and wondered whether her uncle had arranged it like that for the purpose. Under the noise the manservant made unrolling the stiff linen and setting it up on its frame, she whispered:
"See? It was worth coming, wasn't it?" Sure. You've gotten yourself abused, a carpet stained and stuck inside a wooden box. Great.
"It might be," Pantalaimon said austerely, in his tiny moth voice. "And it might not."
Lord Asriel stood by the fire sipping the last of the coffee and watching darkly as Thorold opened the case of the projecting lantern and uncapped the lens before checking the oil tank. *snores*
"There's plenty of oil, my lord," he said. "Shall I send for a technician to operate it?"
"No. I'll do it myself. Thank you, Thorold. Have they finished dinner yet, Wren?"
"Very nearly, I think, my lord," replied the Butler. "If I understand Mr. Cawson aright, the Master and his guests won't be disposed to linger once they know you're here. Shall I take the coffee tray?" *yawn* what's that? Story? What story....
"Take it and go."
"Very good, my lord."
With a slight bow, the Butler took the tray and left, and Thorold went with him. As soon as the door closed, Lord Asriel looked across the room directly at the wardrobe, and Lyra felt the force of his glance almost as if it had physical form, as if it were an arrow or a spear. Then he looked away and spoke softly to his dæmon. "Go eat that girl, there in the closet..."
She came to sit calmly at his side, alert and elegant and dangerous, her tawny eyes surveying the room before turning, like his black ones, to the door from the hall as the handle turned. Lyra couldn't see the door, but she heard an intake of breath as the first man came in.
"Master," said Lord Asriel. "Yes, I'm back. Do bring in your guests; I've got something very interesting to show you." It's...ALIIIIIIIVE!
Pullman's book is a very curious thing. It wants to be many, many different books at once. On one hand, it wants to be the Chronicles of Narnia; but that's too stodgy and has a God. It also wants to be Wuthering Heights, but shares absolutely nothing with it. It wants to be a classic. Its heroine, for some unfathomable reason, greatly admires a man who has threatened her physically at least twice and injured her once...within the first chapter. Charming, isn't it?
On one hand, it's not terribly written, though not to my taste at all. At the same time, there's a certain artificial texture to it--like it came out of Book-In-A-Box, Your Guide to Writing a Best-Seller. It's almost as if he is trying, very desperately, to copy someone else, and does copy, but copies poorly.
*Brownie points to anyone who recognizes the numerous references in here.
Lyra and her dæmon moved through the darkening hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen. They're cooking little girls and demons tonight. The three great tables that ran the length of the hall were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were pulled out ready for the guests. "We'll sit Beelzebub here, and Moloch there, and Xipe Totec there..." Portraits of former Masters hung high up in the gloom along the walls. "Master Robin! You've changed!" Lyra reached the dais and looked back at the open kitchen door, and, seeing no one, stepped up beside the high table. The places here were laid with gold, not silver, and the fourteen seats were not oak benches but mahogany chairs with velvet cushions. "All this, and more, can be yours for 149.99 at TJ Maxx!"
Lyra stopped beside the Master's chair and flicked the biggest glass gently with a fingernail. The sound rang clearly through the hall.
"You're not taking this seriously," whispered her dæmon. "Behave yourself." "You'll never be a warlock if you don't behave yourself!"
Her dæmon's name was Tlaloc! Pantalaimon, and he was currently in the form of a moth, a dark brown one so as not to show up in the darkness of the hall. Because we couldn't possibly have moths in a house.
"They're making too much noise to hear from the kitchen," Lyra whispered back. "And the Steward doesn't come in till the first bell. Stop fussing."
But she put her palm over the ringing crystal anyway, and Pantalaimon fluttered ahead and through the slightly open door of the Retiring Room at the other end of the dais. After a moment he appeared again.
"There's no one there," he whispered. "But we must be quick." "Mother doesn't like it when you play with strange demons!"
Crouching behind the high table, Lyra darted along and through the door into the Retiring Room, where she stood up and looked around. The only light in here came from the fireplace, where a bright blaze of logs settled slightly as she looked, sending a fountain of sparks up into the chimney. She had lived most of her life in the College, sounds like a bad dream...saith the girl who lives in a college town but had never seen the Retiring Room before: only Scholars and their guests were allowed in here, and never females. "Honey, I told you, this is the man-cave!" Even the maid-servants didn't clean in here. That was the Butler's job alone.
Pantalaimon settled on her shoulder. Can a moth settle?
"Happy now? Can we go?" he whispered.
"Don't be silly! I want to look around!" "The voices in my head tell me to!"
It was a large room, with an oval table of polished rosewood on which stood various decanters and glasses, and a silver smoking stand with a rack of pipes. On a sideboard nearby there was a little chafing dish and a basket of poppy heads. "MWUAHAHAHA! Poppies....poppies..."
"They do themselves well, don't they, Pan?" she said under her breath. I had no idea she kept a greek god with her!
She sat in one of the green leather armchairs. It was so deep she found herself nearly lying down, Welcome to the world of short people, Liar--I mean, Lyra. but she sat up again and tucked her legs under her to look at the portraits on the walls. More old Scholars, probably; robed, bearded, and gloomy, they stared out of their frames in solemn disapproval. "Hey, the Stewards of Gond--oops."
"What d'you think they talk about?" Lyra said, or began to say, because before she'd finished the question she heard voices outside the door. "Eating small children, dearie!"
"Behind the chair - quick!" whispered Pantalaimon, and in a flash Lyra was out of the armchair and crouching behind it. It wasn't the best one for hiding behind: she'd chosen one in the very center of the room, and unless she kept very quiet... they'd EAT her!
The door opened, and the light changed in the room; one of the incomers was carrying a lamp, which he put down on the sideboard. Lyra could see his legs, in their dark green trousers and shiny black shoes. It was a servant.
Then a deep voice said, "Has Lord Asriel arrived yet?" Wasn't Asriel the name of a demon in Jewish mythos?
It was the Master. With a red lightsaber? As Lyra held her breath, she saw the servant's dæmon (a dog, like all servants' dæmons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet, and then the Master's feet became visible too, hooves and all! in the shabby black shoes he always wore.
"No, Master," said the Butler. "No word from the aerodock, either." Aerowhat?
"I expect he'll be hungry when he arrives. Show him straight into Hall, will you?" "We have to strip to the waist and lop peoples' heads off for fun as soon as possible."
"Very good, Master."
"And you've decanted some of the special Tokay for him?" "The one with the aphr--never mind."
"Yes, Master. The 1898, as you ordered. His Lordship is very partial to that, I remember."
"Good. Now leave me, please." "I need to play World of Warcraft, and can't have you looking in on me."
"Do you need the lamp, Master?"
"Yes, leave that too. Look in during dinner to trim it, will you?" "I do not dare look away...Desperate Housewives is on in 20 minutes!"
The Butler bowed slightly and turned to leave, his dæmon trotting obediently after him. Man's best friend=hellhounds. From her not-much-of-a-hiding place Lyra watched as the Master went to a large oak wardrobe in the corner of the room, took his gown from a hanger, and pulled it laboriously on. Pink silk, and ruffles, and frills, and a corset to accent a feminine figure! The Master had been a powerful man, but he was well over seventy now, and his movements were stiff and slow. Does this guy have a name? The Master's dæmon had the form of a raven, and as soon as his robe was on, she jumped down from the wardrobe and settled in her accustomed place on his right shoulder. "Nevermore! Nevermore! Nevermore! NEVERMORENEVERMORENEVEMORE!"
Lyra could feel Pantalaimon bristling with anxiety, though he made no sound. How does a moth bristle? For herself, she was pleasantly excited. There was a thrill up her leg... The visitor mentioned by the Master, Lord Asriel, was her uncle, a man whom she admired and feared greatly. He was said to be involved in high politics, in secret exploration, in distant warfare, and she never knew when he was going to appear. I meet your Asriel and raise you Gandalf. He was fierce: if he caught her in here she'd be severely punished, but she could put up with that. The Dark Side of Liar--er, Lyra: masochism.
What she saw next, however, changed things completely. A mullet? The Master has a mullet?
The Master took from his pocket a folded paper and laid it on the table beside the wine. "This is how you build a crane..." He took the stopper out of the mouth of a decanter containing a rich golden wine, unfolded the paper, and poured a thin stream of white powder into the decanter before crumpling the paper and throwing it into the fire. "Don't do drugs!" Then he took a pencil from his pocket, stirred the wine until the powder had dissolved, and replaced the stopper. Eww, lead poisoning!
His dæmon gave a soft brief squawk. "NEVERMORE!" The Master replied in an undertone, and looked around with his hooded, clouded eyes before leaving through the door he'd come in by. "Gee, I sure hope that he doesn't switch our drinks..."
Lyra whispered, "Did you see that, Pan?"
"Of course I did! I have eyes too, you know, just like every other human be--oh, wait a minute... Now hurry out, before the Steward comes!"
But as he spoke, there came the sound of a bell ringing once from the far end of the hall. "Three o'clock and all's well!"
"That's the Steward's bell!" said Lyra. "I thought we had more time than that."
Pantalaimon fluttered swiftly to the hall door, and swiftly back. "A nudist colony! For the love of humanity, hide your eyes, Li--Lyra!"
"The Steward's there already," he said. "And you can't get out of the other door..." "The way is shut."
The other door, the one the Master had entered and left by, opened onto the busy corridor between the library and the Scholars' common room. At this time of day it was thronged with men pulling on their gowns for dinner, "Cindy, should I wear velvet or taffeta?" or hurrying to leave papers or briefcases in the common room before moving into the hall. Lyra had planned to leave the way she'd come, banking on another few minutes before the Steward's bell rang. Why plan?
And if she hadn't seen the Master tipping that powder into the wine, she might have risked the Steward's anger, or hoped to avoid being noticed in the busy corridor. But she was confused, and that made her hesitate.
Then she heard heavy footsteps on the dais. The Steward was coming to make sure the Retiring Room was ready for the Scholars' poppy and wine after dinner. Sure hope they don't have to take any drug tests...nothing like a poppy-seed bagel to ruin a job interview! Lyra darted to the oak wardrobe, opened it, and hid inside, pulling the door shut just as the Steward entered. "Gee, I wonder if there's a land in the back of the--wait, sorry, wrong story." She had no fear for Pantalaimon: the room was somber colored, and he could always creep under a chair. Because he's a stinking moth....
She heard the Steward's heavy wheezing, "Liar, I am your father!" and through the crack where the door hadn't quite shut she saw him adjust the pipes in the rack by the smoking stand and cast a glance over the decanters and glasses. Then he smoothed the hair over his ears with both palms and said something to his dæmon. Fetch, boy! Fetch! He was a servant, so she was a dog; but a superior servant, so a superior dog. Wait, so she was a real--never mind. In fact, she had the form of a red setter. The dæmon seemed suspicious, and cast around as if she'd sensed an intruder, but didn't make for the wardrobe, to Lyra's intense relief. Lyra was afraid of the Steward, who had twice beaten her. Nothing like child abuse to liven up a children's story, eh?
Lyra heard a tiny whisper; obviously Pantalaimon had squeezed in beside her. Because obviously a moth would need to squeeze to fit into a wardrobe..."
"We're going to have to stay here now. Why don't you listen to me?" "Because you're a stupid moth. You just don't understand!"
She didn't reply until the Steward had left. It was his job to supervise the waiting at the high table; she could hear the Scholars coming into the hall, the murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet.
"It's a good thing I didn't," she whispered back. "We wouldn't have seen the Master put poison in the wine otherwise. Pan, that was the Tokay he asked the Butler about! They're going to kill Lord Asriel!" Duuuuuuuuuh.
"You don't know it's poison." "You know, it could be...cocaine! Or...or...sugar! yeah, that's it..."
"Oh, of course it is. Don't you remember, he made the Butler leave the room before he did it? If it was innocent, it wouldn't have mattered the Butler seeing. And I know there's something going on--something political. They've been fighting over who gets voted out of the Retiring Room. The servants have been talking about it for days. Pan, we could prevent a murder!"
"I've never heard such nonsense," he said shortly. "How do you think you're going to keep still for four hours in this poky wardrobe? Let me go and look in the corridor. I'll tell you when it's clear."
He fluttered from her shoulder, and she saw his little shadow appear in the crack of light. "little shadow". Of a moth. Gee, you don't say?
"It's no good, Pan, I'm staying," she said. "There's another robe or something here. I'll put that on the floor and make myself comfortable. I've just got to see what they do." Read this last sentence aloud in a dry, Ben Stein kind of voice. Beuller?
She had been crouching. She carefully stood up, feeling around for the clothes hangers in order not to make a noise, and found that the wardrobe was bigger than she'd thought. There were several academic robes and hoods, some with fur around them, most faced with silk. Gee, well, isn't this original....a young girl hiding in a closet with fur-trimmed robes. Never heard of that before.
"I wonder if these are all the Master's?" she whispered. "When he gets honorary degrees from other places, Notre Dame? perhaps they give him fancy robes and he keeps them here for dressing-up....Pan, do you really think it's not poison in that wine?"
"No," he said. "I think it is, like you do. And I think it's none of our business. And I think it would be the silliest thing you've ever done in a lifetime of silly things to interfere. It's nothing to do with us." "Who cares that your uncle is going to die a slow, probably gruesome, miserable death as the poison either stops his heart or slows his breathing to the point of agony? It's nothing to do with us!"
"Don't be stupid," Lyra said. "I can't sit in here and watch them give him poison!" "Yes, you can, dangit, and you'll LIKE it!"
"Come somewhere else, then."
"You're a coward, Pan." Darn those cowardly moths!
"Certainly I am. May I ask what you intend to do? Are you going to leap out and snatch the glass from his trembling fingers? What did you have in mind?"
"I didn't have anything in mind, and well you know it," she snapped quietly. "But now I've seen what the Master did, I haven't got any choice. You're supposed to know about conscience, aren't you? How can I just go and sit in the library or somewhere and twiddle my thumbs, knowing what's going to happen? I don't intend to do that, I promise you." Drink it yourself...it'll make for a shorter, less painful book.
"This is what you wanted all the time," he said after a moment. "You wanted to hide in here and watch. Why didn't I realize that before?"
"All right, I do," she said. "Everyone knows they get up to something secret. They have a ritual or something. And I just wanted to know what it was." They strip to the waist, worship an evil emanation and lop peoples heads off for fun. Duh!
"It's none of your business! If they want to enjoy their little secrets you should just feel superior and let them get on with it. Hiding and spying is for silly children." Uh...dude. She is a silly child.
"Exactly what I knew you'd say. Now stop nagging."
The two of them sat in silence for a while, Lyra uncomfortable on the hard floor of the wardrobe and Pantalaimon self-righteously twitching his temporary antennae on one of the robes. Lyra felt a mixture of thoughts contending in her head, and she would have liked nothing better than to share them with her dæmon, but she was proud too. Perhaps she should try to clear them up without his help. "But the voices in my head tell me to tell him! But--he is the voice in my--oh, dangit!"
Her main thought was anxiety, and it wasn't for herself. Wait, her thought WAS anxiety? She'd been in trouble often enough to be used to it. This time she was anxious about Lord Asriel, and about what this all meant. It wasn't often that he visited the college, and the fact that this was a time of high political tension meant that he hadn't come simply to eat and drink and smoke with a few old friends. She knew that both Lord Asriel and the Master were members of the Cabinet Council, the Prime Minister's special advisory body, so it might have been something to do with that; but meetings of the Cabinet Council were held in the palace, not in the Retiring Room of Jordan College.
Then there was the rumor that had been keeping the College servants whispering for days. It was said that the Master reads Cosmo! the Tartars had invaded Muscovy, and were surging north to St. Petersburg, from where they would be able to dominate the Baltic Sea and eventually overcome the entire west of Europe. And Lord Asriel had been in the far North: when she'd seen him last, he was preparing an expedition to Lapland.... in order to visit his long-lost aunt, who'd left him a fortune and three beans.
"Pan," she whispered. "Dish!" "Oven!"
"Yes?"
"Do you think there'll be a war?" "No, we're all going to live in peace and joy and harmony for the rest of our long, pitiful lives--what do you think, dolt?"
"Not yet. Lord Asriel wouldn't be dining here if it was going to break out in the next week or so." "Dang, a large outbreak on my nose..."
"That's what I thought. But later?"
"Shh! Someone's coming."
She sat up and put her eye to the crack of the door. It was the Butler, coming to trim the lamp as the Master had ordered him to. The common room and the library were lit by anbaric power, but the Scholars preferred the older, softer naphtha lamps in the Retiring Room. They wouldn't change that in the Master's lifetime. Fortunately, he had a heart attack and died, so they finally upgraded it.
The Butler trimmed the wick, and put another log on the fire as well, and then listened carefully at the hall door before helping himself to a handful of leaf from the smoking stand. These were special, grown-up leaves that were grown under fluorescent lighting...
He had hardly replaced the lid when the handle of the other door turned, making him jump nervously. Lyra tried not to laugh. The Butler hastily stuffed the leaf into his pocket and turned to face the incomer. "It isn't mine! I was holding it for a friend!"
"Lord Asriel!" he said, and a shiver of cold surprise ran down Lyra's back. As opposed to warm, cuddly surprise. She couldn't see him from where she was, and she tried to smother the urge to move and look.
"Good evening, Wren," said Lord Asriel. I keep expecting to read something about his voice being chocolate for the ears...gag. Lyra always heard that harsh voice with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. Oh, harsh...thank God! "I arrived too late to dine. I'll wait in here."
The Butler looked uncomfortable. "Crap, I KNEW I should've used the can earlier when I had the chance!" Guests entered the Retiring Room at the Master's invitation only, and Lord Asriel knew that; but the Butler also saw Lord Asriel looking pointedly at the bulge in his pocket, and decided not to protest.
"Shall I let the Master know you've arrived, my lord?"
"No harm in that. You might bring me some coffee." "Folgers will do, preferably with carmel, chocolate, half and half and seven teaspoons of sugar."
"Very good, my lord."
The Butler bowed and hastened out, his dæmon trotting submissively at his heels. Lyra's uncle moved across to the fire and stretched his arms high above his head, yawning like a lion. With rows and rows of sharp teeth? He was wearing traveling clothes. D'oh. Lyra was reminded, as she always was when she saw him again, of how much he frightened her. Gaah, he's said that ten times already. Can Liar--er, Lyra please feel something other than fear or pleasure? Please?
There was no question now of creeping out unnoticed: she'd have to sit tight and hope.
Lord Asriel's dæmon, a snow leopard, stood behind him.
"Are you going to show the projections in here?" she said quietly. Astral projections?
"Yes. It'll create less fuss than moving to the lecture theater. They'll want to see the specimens too; I'll send for the Porter in a minute. This is a bad time, Stelmaria." Stelmaria? Like... stella maria? As in, meaning "star-star of the sea"?
"You should rest."
He stretched out in one of the armchairs, so that Lyra could no longer see his face.
"Yes, yes. I should also change my clothes. There's probably some ancient etiquette that allows them to fine me a dozen bottles for coming in here dressed improperly. Are they alcoholic scholars, then? I should sleep for three days. The fact remains that - " "--I'm getting cut off dramatically for random purposes."
There was a knock, and the Butler came in with a silver tray bearing a coffeepot and a cup.
"Thank you, Wren," said Lord Asriel. "Is that the Tokay I can see on the table?"
"The Master ordered it decanted especially for you, my lord," said the Butler. "There are only three dozen bottles left of the '98." "Very good year. Almost as old as I am!"
"All good things pass away. Leave the tray here beside me. Oh, ask the Porter to send up the two cases I left in the Lodge, would you?" Do bad things not pass away? Does that mean that this book is going to--oh, never mind.
"Here, my lord?" "Dang, he's on to us!"
"Yes, here, man. And I shall need a screen and a projecting lantern, also here, also now."
The Butler could hardly prevent himself from opening his mouth in surprise, but managed to suppress the question, or the protest. After all, the Butler remembered being taken out to the woodshed as a child, much like the other characters we've been introduced to thus far.
"Wren, you're forgetting your place," said Lord Asriel. "Don't question me; just do as I tell you." Pitiful servants...
"Very good, my lord," said the Butler. "If I may suggest it, I should perhaps let Mr. Cawson know what you're planning, my lord, or else he'll be somewhat taken aback, if you see what I mean."
"Yes. Tell him, then." "And send Rowsdower in."
Mr. Cawson was the Steward. There was an old and well-established rivalry between him and the Butler. The Steward was the superior, but the Butler had more opportunities to ingratiate himself with the Scholars, and made full use of them. He would be delighted to have this chance of showing the Steward that he knew more about what was going on in the Retiring Room.
He bowed and left. Lyra watched as her uncle poured a cup of coffee, drained it at once, and poured another before sipping more slowly. She was agog: cases of specimens? A projecting lantern? What did he have to show the Scholars that was so urgent and important? The infamous rhetorical question. It does not work well when the author asks it--at the least, it should be asked by a character, in quotation marks or italics to explain such...
Then Lord Asriel stood up and turned away from the fire. She saw him fully, and marveled at the contrast he made with the plump Butler, the stooped and languid Scholars. Lord Asriel was a tall man with powerful shoulders, a fierce dark face, and eyes that seemed to flash and glitter with savage laughter. Having flashbacks to Dan Brown's descriptions of Langdon here, hold on while I writhe in pain from the memories. It was a face to be dominated by, or to fight: never a face to patronize or pity. Oh, he's an android... All his movements were large and perfectly balanced, like those of a wild animal, and when he appeared in a room like this, he seemed a wild animal held in a cage too small for it. "Nelly, I am Heathc--wait, wrong book."
At the moment his expression was distant and preoccupied. His dæmon came close and leaned her head on his waist, and he looked down at her unfathomably ("I do not think that means what you think it means!") before turning away and walking to the table. Lyra suddenly felt her stomach lurch, for Lord Asriel had taken the stopper from the decanter of Tokay, and was pouring a glass. Drink it, drink it, for the love of humanity drink it, and this will be a better story...
"No!" ...darn.
The quiet cry came before she could hold it back. Lord Asriel heard and turned at once.
"Who's there?" "But I've always been here, remember?"*
She couldn't help herself. She tumbled out of the wardrobe and scrambled up to snatch the glass from his hand. The wine flew out, splashing on the edge of the table and the carpet, and then the glass fell and smashed. He seized her wrist and twisted hard. Nice. No wonder this girl is screwed up.
"Lyra! What the hell are you doing?" "Uh...lying?"
"Let go of me and I'll tell you!" A shot to the groin would make him let go of her. She must not be too bright.
"I'll break your arm first. How dare you come in here?" Well, this is a real treasure of a character, isn't he?
"I've just saved your life!" Of course you have...
They were still for a moment, the girl twisted in pain but grimacing to prevent herself from crying out louder, the man bent over her frowning like thunder. Frowning...like...a sound?
"What did you say?" he said more quietly.
"That wine is poisoned," she muttered between clenched teeth. "I saw the Master put some powder in it."
He let go. She sank to the floor, and Pantalaimon fluttered anxiously to her shoulder. Her uncle looked down with a restrained fury, and she didn't dare meet his eyes. "Your abuser and you: how to enable an abusive personality, pt 1."
"I came in just to see what the room was like," she said. "I know I shouldn't have. But I was going to go out before anyone came in, except that I heard the Master coming and got trapped. The wardrobe was the only place to hide. And I saw him put the powder in the wine. If I hadn't - " "You'd be DEAD!" and that would be a bad thing...why?
There was a knock on the door.
"That'll be the Porter," said Lord Asriel. "Back in the wardrobe. If I hear the slightest noise, I'll make you wish you were dead." Please be dead. Please?
She darted back there at once, and no sooner had she pulled the door shut than Lord Asriel called, "Come in."
As he'd said, it was the Porter.
"In here, my lord?"
Lyra saw the old man standing doubtfully in the doorway, and behind him, the corner of a large wooden box.
"That's right, Shuter," said Lord Asriel. "Bring them both in and put them down by the table."
Lyra relaxed a little, and allowed herself to feel the pain in her shoulder and wrist. There is no pain...no pain... It might have been enough to make her cry, if she was the sort of girl who cried. "No emotions now, we've discussed this!" Instead she gritted her teeth and moved the arm gently until it felt looser. Yeah, she's a regular grunt...(/sarcasm)
Then came a crash of glass and the glug of spilled liquid.
"Damn you, Shuter, you careless old fool! Look what you've done!" Sure, blame the old guy...
Lyra could see, just. Her uncle had managed to knock the decanter of Tokay off the table, and made it look as if the Porter had done it. The old man put the box down carefully and began to apologize. "Does this mean I lose my privileges to watch TV?"
"I'm truly sorry, my lord - I must have been closer than I thought - "
"Get something to clear this mess up. Go on, before it soaks into the carpet!" "For those pesky Tokay-n-Poison stains, I depend on my Hoover carpet-cleaner."
The Porter hurried out. Lord Asriel moved closer to the wardrobe and spoke in an undertone.
"Since you're in there, you can make yourself useful. Watch the Master closely when he comes in. If you tell me something interesting about him, I'll keep you from getting further into the trouble you're already in. Understand?"
"Yes, Uncle." said in a pathetic, sad little voice.
"Make a noise in there and I won't help you. You're on your own."
He moved away and stood with his back to the fire again as the Porter came back with a brush and dustpan for the glass and a bowl and cloth.
"I can only say once again, my lord, I do most earnestly beg your pardon; I don't know what - "
"Just clear up the mess."
As the Porter began to mop the wine from the carpet, the Butler knocked and came in with Lord Asriel's manservant, a man called Thorold. They were carrying between them a heavy case of polished wood with brass handles. "Oh, good, they've brought the body...bring it in, Igor!" They saw what the Porter was doing and stopped dead.
"Yes, it was the Tokay," said Lord Asriel. "Too bad. Is that the lantern? Set it up by the wardrobe, Thorold, if you would. I'll have the screen up at the other end." Shadowrama?
Lyra realized that she would be able to see the screen and whatever was on it through the crack in the door, and wondered whether her uncle had arranged it like that for the purpose. Under the noise the manservant made unrolling the stiff linen and setting it up on its frame, she whispered:
"See? It was worth coming, wasn't it?" Sure. You've gotten yourself abused, a carpet stained and stuck inside a wooden box. Great.
"It might be," Pantalaimon said austerely, in his tiny moth voice. "And it might not."
Lord Asriel stood by the fire sipping the last of the coffee and watching darkly as Thorold opened the case of the projecting lantern and uncapped the lens before checking the oil tank. *snores*
"There's plenty of oil, my lord," he said. "Shall I send for a technician to operate it?"
"No. I'll do it myself. Thank you, Thorold. Have they finished dinner yet, Wren?"
"Very nearly, I think, my lord," replied the Butler. "If I understand Mr. Cawson aright, the Master and his guests won't be disposed to linger once they know you're here. Shall I take the coffee tray?" *yawn* what's that? Story? What story....
"Take it and go."
"Very good, my lord."
With a slight bow, the Butler took the tray and left, and Thorold went with him. As soon as the door closed, Lord Asriel looked across the room directly at the wardrobe, and Lyra felt the force of his glance almost as if it had physical form, as if it were an arrow or a spear. Then he looked away and spoke softly to his dæmon. "Go eat that girl, there in the closet..."
She came to sit calmly at his side, alert and elegant and dangerous, her tawny eyes surveying the room before turning, like his black ones, to the door from the hall as the handle turned. Lyra couldn't see the door, but she heard an intake of breath as the first man came in.
"Master," said Lord Asriel. "Yes, I'm back. Do bring in your guests; I've got something very interesting to show you." It's...ALIIIIIIIVE!
Pullman's book is a very curious thing. It wants to be many, many different books at once. On one hand, it wants to be the Chronicles of Narnia; but that's too stodgy and has a God. It also wants to be Wuthering Heights, but shares absolutely nothing with it. It wants to be a classic. Its heroine, for some unfathomable reason, greatly admires a man who has threatened her physically at least twice and injured her once...within the first chapter. Charming, isn't it?
On one hand, it's not terribly written, though not to my taste at all. At the same time, there's a certain artificial texture to it--like it came out of Book-In-A-Box, Your Guide to Writing a Best-Seller. It's almost as if he is trying, very desperately, to copy someone else, and does copy, but copies poorly.
*Brownie points to anyone who recognizes the numerous references in here.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Riffing Brown: Installment Three
As per usual, my comments are in red.
The secret is how to die. A very well-guarded secret. So secret that everyone has just been dying to learn it.
Since the beginning of time, the secret had always been how to die.
The thirty-four-year-old initiate gazed down at the human skull cradled in his palms. The skull was hollow, like a bowl, filled with bloodred wine. So...he was holding the skull upside-down? Was the jaw removed, so he could drink it more easily?
Drink it, he told himself. You have nothing to fear. Except the vengeful ghost of the former occupant of the skull, and possibly little residual fleshy bits from the brain. But never mind that.
As was tradition, he had begun this journey adorned in the ritualistic garb of a medieval heretic being led to the gallows, his loose-fitting shirt gaping open to reveal his pale chest, his left pant leg rolled up to the knee, and his right sleeve rolled up to the elbow. Around his neck hung a heavy rope noose—a "cable-tow" as the brethren called it. Tonight, however, like the brethren bearing witness, he was dressed as a master. Naked except for a grass hula skirt and coconut shells.
The assembly of brothers encircling him all were adorned in their full regalia of lambskin aprons, sashes, and white gloves. Hell's kitchen? Around their necks hung ceremonial jewels that glistened like ghostly eyes in the muted light. Many of these men held powerful stations in life, and yet the initiate knew their worldly ranks meant nothing within these walls. Here all men were equals, sworn brothers sharing a mystical bond. SEXISM! How dare they say 'men' and 'brothers'? I feel oppressed just reading it!
As he surveyed the daunting assembly, the initiate wondered who on the outside would ever believe that this collection of men would assemble in one place . . . much less this place. The room looked like a holy sanctuary from the ancient world.
The truth, however, was stranger still. It was the local Taco Bell.
I am just blocks away from the White House. In the sewers.
This colossal edifice, located at 1733 Sixteenth Street NW in Washington, D.C., was a replica of a pre-Christian temple—the temple of King Mausolus, the original mausoleum . . . a place to be taken after death. Much like oceans, giant furnaces and holes in the ground. Outside the main entrance, two seventeen-ton sphinxes guarded the bronze doors. The interior was an ornate labyrinth of ritualistic chambers, halls, sealed vaults, libraries, and even a hollow wall that held the remains of two human bodies. Jimmy Hoffa was one of them, but don't tell anybody. The initiate had been told every room in this building held a secret, and yet he knew no room held deeper secrets than the gigantic chamber in which he was currently kneeling with a skull cradled in his palms. Yes, it was here that, every night, those manly men gathered together and played with My Little Pony. Deeper secrets there have never been.
The Temple Room.
This room was a perfect square. And cavernous. The ceiling soared an astonishing one hundred feet overhead, supported by monolithic columns of green granite. A tiered gallery of dark Russian walnut seats with hand-tooled pigskin encircled the room. A thirty-three-foot-tall throne dominated the western wall, with a concealed pipe organ opposite it. The Phaaaaaaaantom of the Opera is...not here... The walls were a kaleidoscope of ancient symbols . . . Egyptian, Hebraic, astronomical, alchemical, and others yet unknown. And some are from Atlantis! Yeah...
Tonight, the Temple Room was lit by a series of precisely arranged candles. Their dim glow was aided only by a pale shaft of moonlight that filtered down through the expansive oculus in the ceiling and illuminated the room's most startling feature—an enormous altar hewn from a solid block of polished Belgian black marble, situated dead center of the square chamber. And this is where we sacrifice our animals...goats and sheep, usually....all right everybody, next chamber over is human sacrifice...don't be alarmed by the large doors...
The secret is how to die, the initiate reminded himself. There are other ways, dearie!
"It is time," a voice whispered. With that, the initiate took the gun, pulled the trigger, and that was the end of the story.
The initiate let his gaze climb the distinguished white-robed figure standing before him. The Supreme Worshipful Master. MST3K--Manos: Hands of Fate, anyone? The man, in his late fifties, was an American icon, well loved, robust, and incalculably wealthy. ...Donald Trump? Wait, it says well-loved... His once-dark hair was turning silver, and his famous visage reflected a lifetime of power and a vigorous intellect. Oh. Not Donald Trump.
"Take the oath," the Worshipful Master said, his voice soft like falling snow. Gently falling snow has no sound...at least, not a perceptible one. Does that mean that the SWM isn't speaking? Ooh! Goodie! "Complete your journey."
The initiate's journey, like all such journeys, had begun at the first degree. On that night, in a ritual similar to this one, the Worshipful Master had blindfolded him with a velvet hoodwink and pressed a ceremonial dagger to his bare chest, demanding: "Do you seriously declare on your honor, uninfluenced by mercenary or any other unworthy motive, that you freely and voluntarily offer yourself as a candidate for the mysteries and privileges of this brotherhood?" OOPS! Sorry, dude, I didn't mean to slip--oh, wow, that's a lot of blood--um--where's the Quick-crete?
"I do," the initiate had lied. We wants it...
"Then let this be a sting to your consciousness," the master had warned him, "as well as instant death should you ever betray the secrets to be imparted to you." Cross my heart and hope to di--iiiiiiiieuhhh....
At the time, the initiate had felt no fear. They will never know my true purpose here.
Tonight, however, he sensed a foreboding solemnity in the Temple Room, and his mind began replaying all the dire warnings he had been given on his journey, threats of terrible consequences if he ever shared the ancient secrets he was about to learn: Throat cut from ear to ear . . . tongue torn out by its roots . . . bowels taken out and burned . . . scattered to the four winds of heaven . . . heart plucked out and given to the beasts of the field— Ooh, goody! Nothing like a ritual sacrifice to spicen up the day!
"Brother," the gray-eyed master said, placing his left hand on the initiate's shoulder. "Take the final oath."
Steeling himself for the last step of his journey, the initiate shifted his muscular frame and turned his attention back to the skull cradled in his palms. The crimson wine looked almost black in the dim candlelight. Blood? Is this a secret blue-oyster-worshipping cult of vampiric brothers? The chamber had fallen deathly silent, and he could feel all of the witnesses watching him, waiting for him to take his final oath and join their elite ranks. Soon, you can be a Moonie, too!
Tonight, he thought, something is taking place within these walls that has never before occurred in the history of this brotherhood. Not once, in centuries. Ooh, I'm dying of suspense, here... (/sarcasm)
He knew it would be the spark . . . and it would give him unfathomable power. "And once more, WE SHALL RULE THE--oh. Sorry. Energized, he drew a breath and spoke aloud the same words that countless men had spoken before him in countries all over the world.
"May this wine I now drink become a deadly poison to me . . . should I ever knowingly or willfully violate my oath." And obviously that's not true, if this is a secret ritual.
His words echoed in the hollow space.
Then all was quiet.
Steadying his hands, the initiate raised the skull to his mouth and felt his lips touch the dry bone. He closed his eyes and tipped the skull toward his mouth, drinking the wine in long, deep swallows. When the last drop was gone, he lowered the skull. A nasty bit of something was stuck in his teeth. Eew.
For an instant, he thought he felt his lungs growing tight, and his heart began to pound wildly. My God, they know! Could it be...ALCOHOL? Then, as quickly as it came, the feeling passed.
A pleasant warmth began to stream through his body. "Teeheee, I'm gonna be soooo hung over tomorrow morning..." The initiate exhaled, smiling inwardly as he gazed up at the unsuspecting gray-eyed man who had foolishly admitted him into this brotherhood's most secretive ranks.
Soon you will lose everything you hold most dear. Money? Wife? House? Possessions? Food?
The Otis elevator climbing the south pillar of the Eiffel Tower was overflowing with tourists. Inside the cramped lift, an austere businessman in a pressed suit gazed down at the boy beside him. "You look pale, son. You should have stayed on the ground."
"I'm okay . . ." the boy answered, struggling to control his anxiety. "I'll get out on the next level." I can't breathe. And with that, the book came to a screeching halt.
The man leaned closer. "I thought by now you would have gotten over this." He brushed the child's cheek affectionately. "No, Daddy, you need to go get me some Vicodin."
The boy felt ashamed to disappoint his father, but he could barely hear through the ringing in his ears. I can't breathe. I've got to get out of this box! *gasp*wheeze*gasp*wheeze*
The elevator operator was saying something reassuring about the lift's articulated pistons and puddled-iron construction. Far beneath them, the streets of Paris stretched out in all directions.
Almost there, the boy told himself, craning his neck and looking up at the unloading platform. Just hold on. To...the object of his terror?
As the lift angled steeply toward the upper viewing deck, the shaft began to narrow, its massive struts contracting into a tight, vertical tunnel.
"Dad, I don't think—" "--I have any brains."
Suddenly a staccato crack echoed overhead. The carriage jerked, swaying awkwardly to one side. Frayed cables began whipping around the carriage, thrashing like snakes. The boy reached out for his father. Final Destination 23: Langdon's Last Stand.
"Dad!"
Their eyes locked for one terrifying second.
Then the bottom dropped out.
Robert Langdon jolted upright in his soft leather seat, startling out of the semiconscious daydream. He was sitting all alone in the enormous cabin of a Falcon 2000EX corporate jet as it bounced its way through turbulence. In the background, the dual Pratt & Whitney engines hummed evenly. Aww, now I'm disappointed. Hey, anyone else noticed that in this one, in addition to the last two, he was always sleeping at the beginning?
"Mr. Langdon?" The intercom crackled overhead. "We're on final approach."
Langdon sat up straight and slid his lecture notes back into his leather daybag. He'd been halfway through reviewing Masonic symbology when his mind had drifted. Ooh, look, a triangle... The daydream about his late father, Langdon suspected, had been stirred by this morning's unexpected invitation from Langdon's longtime mentor, Peter Solomon.
The other man I never want to disappoint. "Solomon! I'll do anything for you!"
The fifty-eight-year-old philanthropist, historian, and scientist had taken Langdon under his wing nearly thirty years ago, in many ways filling the void left by Langdon's father's death. Except much creepier. Despite the man's influential family dynasty and massive wealth, Langdon had found humility and warmth in Solomon's soft gray eyes. "Hypnotic--soft--gray eyes--can't--think--about-anything-else."
Outside the window the sun had set, but Langdon could still make out the slender silhouette of the world's largest obelisk, rising on the horizon like the spire of an ancient gnomon. The 555-foot marble-faced obelisk marked this nation's heart. All around the spire, the meticulous geometry of streets and monuments radiated outward. Is it really the largest obelisk?
Even from the air, Washington, D.C., exuded an almost mystical power. Cue conspiracy theories.
Langdon loved this city, and as the jet touched down, he felt a rising excitement about what lay ahead. "...I gotta go tinkle." The jet taxied to a private terminal somewhere in the vast expanse of Dulles International Airport and came to a stop.
Langdon gathered his things, thanked the pilots, and stepped out of the jet's luxurious interior onto the foldout staircase. The cold January air felt liberating. And also freezing.
Breathe, Robert, he thought, appreciating the wide-open spaces. I'm sorry...are we talking about Washington DC?
A blanket of white fog crept across the runway, and Langdon had the sensation he was stepping into a marsh as he descended onto the misty tarmac.
"Hello! Hello!" a singsong British voice shouted from across the tarmac. "Professor Langdon?" What's a British singsonger doing in DC?
Langdon looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a badge and clipboard hurrying toward him, waving happily as he approached. Curly blond hair protruded from under a stylish knit wool hat. Are you sure it wasn't short, butch grey hair?
"Welcome to Washington, sir!"
Langdon smiled. "Thank you."
"My name is Pam, from passenger services." The woman spoke with an exuberance that was almost unsettling. "If you'll come with me, sir, your car is waiting."
Langdon followed her across the runway toward the Signature terminal, which was surrounded by glistening private jets. A taxi stand for the rich and famous. As opposed to Langdon, who Brown has been lauding, who lives in a Victorian manor, who has five books, who's been internationally recognized in every #@%* book, as Brown has impressed upon us multiple times...
"I hate to embarrass you, Professor," the woman said, sounding sheepish, "but you are the Robert Langdon who writes books about symbols and religion, aren't you?" Ooh, Langdon, you write about symbols and religion...ooooh.
Langdon hesitated and then nodded.
"I thought so!" she said, beaming. "My book group read your book about the sacred feminine and the church! What a delicious scandal that one caused! You do enjoy putting the fox in the henhouse!" Hey, what kind of screwball book group was this?
Langdon smiled. "Scandal wasn't really my intention." No, artificial dissemination was.
The woman seemed to sense Langdon was not in the mood to discuss his work. "I'm sorry. Listen to me rattling on. I know you probably get tired of being recognized . . . but it's your own fault." She playfully motioned to his clothing. "Ooh, I'm playfully motioning to your clothing!" "Your uniform gave you away." That's not a uniform, dearie. It's the only outfit he owns.
My uniform? Langdon glanced down at his attire. He was wearing his usual charcoal turtleneck, Harris Tweed jacket, khakis, and collegiate cordovan loafers . . . his standard attire for the classroom, lecture circuit, author photos, and social events. In other words, everything.
The woman laughed. "Those turtlenecks you wear are so dated. You'd look much sharper in a tie!" Yes, dated to 2009.
No chance, Langdon thought. Little nooses. WEAR A TIE! WEAR A TIE!
Neckties had been required six days a week when Langdon attended Phillips Exeter Academy, and despite the headmaster's romantic claims that the origin of the cravat went back to the silk fascalia worn by Roman orators to warm their vocal cords, Langdon knew that, etymologically, cravat actually derived from a ruthless band of "Croat" mercenaries who donned knotted neckerchiefs before they stormed into battle. To this day, this ancient battle garb was donned by modern office warriors hoping to intimidate their enemies in daily boardroom battles. Sure they are...
"Thanks for the advice," Langdon said with a chuckle. "I'll consider a tie in the future."
Mercifully, a professional-looking man in a dark suit got out of a sleek Lincoln Town Car parked near the terminal and held up his finger. "Mr. Langdon? I'm Charles with Beltway Limousine." He opened the passenger door. "Good evening, sir. Welcome to Washington." Should've said "Jim with Enterprise"
Langdon tipped Pam for her hospitality and then climbed into the plush interior of the Town Car. The driver showed him the temperature controls, the bottled water, and the basket of hot muffins. I'm trying to figure out if he's talking about food, or using 'hot muffins' as a euphemism for Langdon's female adorers. Seconds later, Langdon was speeding away on a private access road. So this is how the other half lives. WHAT? Excuse me, sir, but in the other book of yours (Angels and Demons) you referred to Langy's "Victorian home" that looked "more like an archaeological museum than a home" and was filled with various religious artifacts. He's also, to date, referred to at least five different books Langy was alleged to have written--he is most certainly not a pauper. What "other half" is he talking about?
As the driver gunned the car up Windsock Drive, he consulted his passenger manifest and placed a quick call. "This is Beltway Limousine," the driver said with professional efficiency. "I was asked to confirm once my passenger had landed." He paused. "Yes, sir. Your guest, Mr. Langdon, has arrived, and I will deliver him to the Capitol Building by seven P.M. You're welcome, sir." He hung up.
Langdon had to smile. No stone left unturned. Peter Solomon's attention to detail was one of his most potent assets, allowing him to manage his substantial power with apparent ease. "Solomon wants me to come to Waaashington...I'm going to Washington for Solomon...la la la la la..." A few billion dollars in the bank doesn't hurt either.
Langdon settled into the plush leather seat and closed his eyes as the noise of the airport faded behind him. The U.S. Capitol was a half hour away, and he appreciated the time alone to gather his thoughts. Everything had happened so quickly today that Langdon only now had begun to think in earnest about the incredible evening that lay ahead. "Aw, dang. Swooped up by another international multimillionaire fighting-force AGAIN!"
Arriving under a veil of secrecy, Langdon thought, amused by the prospect.
Ten miles from the Capitol Building, a lone figure was eagerly preparing for Robert Langdon's arrival. Dear God, let it be an albino ninja monkey assassin!
The secret is how to die. A very well-guarded secret. So secret that everyone has just been dying to learn it.
Since the beginning of time, the secret had always been how to die.
The thirty-four-year-old initiate gazed down at the human skull cradled in his palms. The skull was hollow, like a bowl, filled with bloodred wine. So...he was holding the skull upside-down? Was the jaw removed, so he could drink it more easily?
Drink it, he told himself. You have nothing to fear. Except the vengeful ghost of the former occupant of the skull, and possibly little residual fleshy bits from the brain. But never mind that.
As was tradition, he had begun this journey adorned in the ritualistic garb of a medieval heretic being led to the gallows, his loose-fitting shirt gaping open to reveal his pale chest, his left pant leg rolled up to the knee, and his right sleeve rolled up to the elbow. Around his neck hung a heavy rope noose—a "cable-tow" as the brethren called it. Tonight, however, like the brethren bearing witness, he was dressed as a master. Naked except for a grass hula skirt and coconut shells.
The assembly of brothers encircling him all were adorned in their full regalia of lambskin aprons, sashes, and white gloves. Hell's kitchen? Around their necks hung ceremonial jewels that glistened like ghostly eyes in the muted light. Many of these men held powerful stations in life, and yet the initiate knew their worldly ranks meant nothing within these walls. Here all men were equals, sworn brothers sharing a mystical bond. SEXISM! How dare they say 'men' and 'brothers'? I feel oppressed just reading it!
As he surveyed the daunting assembly, the initiate wondered who on the outside would ever believe that this collection of men would assemble in one place . . . much less this place. The room looked like a holy sanctuary from the ancient world.
The truth, however, was stranger still. It was the local Taco Bell.
I am just blocks away from the White House. In the sewers.
This colossal edifice, located at 1733 Sixteenth Street NW in Washington, D.C., was a replica of a pre-Christian temple—the temple of King Mausolus, the original mausoleum . . . a place to be taken after death. Much like oceans, giant furnaces and holes in the ground. Outside the main entrance, two seventeen-ton sphinxes guarded the bronze doors. The interior was an ornate labyrinth of ritualistic chambers, halls, sealed vaults, libraries, and even a hollow wall that held the remains of two human bodies. Jimmy Hoffa was one of them, but don't tell anybody. The initiate had been told every room in this building held a secret, and yet he knew no room held deeper secrets than the gigantic chamber in which he was currently kneeling with a skull cradled in his palms. Yes, it was here that, every night, those manly men gathered together and played with My Little Pony. Deeper secrets there have never been.
The Temple Room.
This room was a perfect square. And cavernous. The ceiling soared an astonishing one hundred feet overhead, supported by monolithic columns of green granite. A tiered gallery of dark Russian walnut seats with hand-tooled pigskin encircled the room. A thirty-three-foot-tall throne dominated the western wall, with a concealed pipe organ opposite it. The Phaaaaaaaantom of the Opera is...not here... The walls were a kaleidoscope of ancient symbols . . . Egyptian, Hebraic, astronomical, alchemical, and others yet unknown. And some are from Atlantis! Yeah...
Tonight, the Temple Room was lit by a series of precisely arranged candles. Their dim glow was aided only by a pale shaft of moonlight that filtered down through the expansive oculus in the ceiling and illuminated the room's most startling feature—an enormous altar hewn from a solid block of polished Belgian black marble, situated dead center of the square chamber. And this is where we sacrifice our animals...goats and sheep, usually....all right everybody, next chamber over is human sacrifice...don't be alarmed by the large doors...
The secret is how to die, the initiate reminded himself. There are other ways, dearie!
"It is time," a voice whispered. With that, the initiate took the gun, pulled the trigger, and that was the end of the story.
The initiate let his gaze climb the distinguished white-robed figure standing before him. The Supreme Worshipful Master. MST3K--Manos: Hands of Fate, anyone? The man, in his late fifties, was an American icon, well loved, robust, and incalculably wealthy. ...Donald Trump? Wait, it says well-loved... His once-dark hair was turning silver, and his famous visage reflected a lifetime of power and a vigorous intellect. Oh. Not Donald Trump.
"Take the oath," the Worshipful Master said, his voice soft like falling snow. Gently falling snow has no sound...at least, not a perceptible one. Does that mean that the SWM isn't speaking? Ooh! Goodie! "Complete your journey."
The initiate's journey, like all such journeys, had begun at the first degree. On that night, in a ritual similar to this one, the Worshipful Master had blindfolded him with a velvet hoodwink and pressed a ceremonial dagger to his bare chest, demanding: "Do you seriously declare on your honor, uninfluenced by mercenary or any other unworthy motive, that you freely and voluntarily offer yourself as a candidate for the mysteries and privileges of this brotherhood?" OOPS! Sorry, dude, I didn't mean to slip--oh, wow, that's a lot of blood--um--where's the Quick-crete?
"I do," the initiate had lied. We wants it...
"Then let this be a sting to your consciousness," the master had warned him, "as well as instant death should you ever betray the secrets to be imparted to you." Cross my heart and hope to di--iiiiiiiieuhhh....
At the time, the initiate had felt no fear. They will never know my true purpose here.
Tonight, however, he sensed a foreboding solemnity in the Temple Room, and his mind began replaying all the dire warnings he had been given on his journey, threats of terrible consequences if he ever shared the ancient secrets he was about to learn: Throat cut from ear to ear . . . tongue torn out by its roots . . . bowels taken out and burned . . . scattered to the four winds of heaven . . . heart plucked out and given to the beasts of the field— Ooh, goody! Nothing like a ritual sacrifice to spicen up the day!
"Brother," the gray-eyed master said, placing his left hand on the initiate's shoulder. "Take the final oath."
Steeling himself for the last step of his journey, the initiate shifted his muscular frame and turned his attention back to the skull cradled in his palms. The crimson wine looked almost black in the dim candlelight. Blood? Is this a secret blue-oyster-worshipping cult of vampiric brothers? The chamber had fallen deathly silent, and he could feel all of the witnesses watching him, waiting for him to take his final oath and join their elite ranks. Soon, you can be a Moonie, too!
Tonight, he thought, something is taking place within these walls that has never before occurred in the history of this brotherhood. Not once, in centuries. Ooh, I'm dying of suspense, here... (/sarcasm)
He knew it would be the spark . . . and it would give him unfathomable power. "And once more, WE SHALL RULE THE--oh. Sorry. Energized, he drew a breath and spoke aloud the same words that countless men had spoken before him in countries all over the world.
"May this wine I now drink become a deadly poison to me . . . should I ever knowingly or willfully violate my oath." And obviously that's not true, if this is a secret ritual.
His words echoed in the hollow space.
Then all was quiet.
Steadying his hands, the initiate raised the skull to his mouth and felt his lips touch the dry bone. He closed his eyes and tipped the skull toward his mouth, drinking the wine in long, deep swallows. When the last drop was gone, he lowered the skull. A nasty bit of something was stuck in his teeth. Eew.
For an instant, he thought he felt his lungs growing tight, and his heart began to pound wildly. My God, they know! Could it be...ALCOHOL? Then, as quickly as it came, the feeling passed.
A pleasant warmth began to stream through his body. "Teeheee, I'm gonna be soooo hung over tomorrow morning..." The initiate exhaled, smiling inwardly as he gazed up at the unsuspecting gray-eyed man who had foolishly admitted him into this brotherhood's most secretive ranks.
Soon you will lose everything you hold most dear. Money? Wife? House? Possessions? Food?
The Otis elevator climbing the south pillar of the Eiffel Tower was overflowing with tourists. Inside the cramped lift, an austere businessman in a pressed suit gazed down at the boy beside him. "You look pale, son. You should have stayed on the ground."
"I'm okay . . ." the boy answered, struggling to control his anxiety. "I'll get out on the next level." I can't breathe. And with that, the book came to a screeching halt.
The man leaned closer. "I thought by now you would have gotten over this." He brushed the child's cheek affectionately. "No, Daddy, you need to go get me some Vicodin."
The boy felt ashamed to disappoint his father, but he could barely hear through the ringing in his ears. I can't breathe. I've got to get out of this box! *gasp*wheeze*gasp*wheeze*
The elevator operator was saying something reassuring about the lift's articulated pistons and puddled-iron construction. Far beneath them, the streets of Paris stretched out in all directions.
Almost there, the boy told himself, craning his neck and looking up at the unloading platform. Just hold on. To...the object of his terror?
As the lift angled steeply toward the upper viewing deck, the shaft began to narrow, its massive struts contracting into a tight, vertical tunnel.
"Dad, I don't think—" "--I have any brains."
Suddenly a staccato crack echoed overhead. The carriage jerked, swaying awkwardly to one side. Frayed cables began whipping around the carriage, thrashing like snakes. The boy reached out for his father. Final Destination 23: Langdon's Last Stand.
"Dad!"
Their eyes locked for one terrifying second.
Then the bottom dropped out.
Robert Langdon jolted upright in his soft leather seat, startling out of the semiconscious daydream. He was sitting all alone in the enormous cabin of a Falcon 2000EX corporate jet as it bounced its way through turbulence. In the background, the dual Pratt & Whitney engines hummed evenly. Aww, now I'm disappointed. Hey, anyone else noticed that in this one, in addition to the last two, he was always sleeping at the beginning?
"Mr. Langdon?" The intercom crackled overhead. "We're on final approach."
Langdon sat up straight and slid his lecture notes back into his leather daybag. He'd been halfway through reviewing Masonic symbology when his mind had drifted. Ooh, look, a triangle... The daydream about his late father, Langdon suspected, had been stirred by this morning's unexpected invitation from Langdon's longtime mentor, Peter Solomon.
The other man I never want to disappoint. "Solomon! I'll do anything for you!"
The fifty-eight-year-old philanthropist, historian, and scientist had taken Langdon under his wing nearly thirty years ago, in many ways filling the void left by Langdon's father's death. Except much creepier. Despite the man's influential family dynasty and massive wealth, Langdon had found humility and warmth in Solomon's soft gray eyes. "Hypnotic--soft--gray eyes--can't--think--about-anything-else."
Outside the window the sun had set, but Langdon could still make out the slender silhouette of the world's largest obelisk, rising on the horizon like the spire of an ancient gnomon. The 555-foot marble-faced obelisk marked this nation's heart. All around the spire, the meticulous geometry of streets and monuments radiated outward. Is it really the largest obelisk?
Even from the air, Washington, D.C., exuded an almost mystical power. Cue conspiracy theories.
Langdon loved this city, and as the jet touched down, he felt a rising excitement about what lay ahead. "...I gotta go tinkle." The jet taxied to a private terminal somewhere in the vast expanse of Dulles International Airport and came to a stop.
Langdon gathered his things, thanked the pilots, and stepped out of the jet's luxurious interior onto the foldout staircase. The cold January air felt liberating. And also freezing.
Breathe, Robert, he thought, appreciating the wide-open spaces. I'm sorry...are we talking about Washington DC?
A blanket of white fog crept across the runway, and Langdon had the sensation he was stepping into a marsh as he descended onto the misty tarmac.
"Hello! Hello!" a singsong British voice shouted from across the tarmac. "Professor Langdon?" What's a British singsonger doing in DC?
Langdon looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a badge and clipboard hurrying toward him, waving happily as he approached. Curly blond hair protruded from under a stylish knit wool hat. Are you sure it wasn't short, butch grey hair?
"Welcome to Washington, sir!"
Langdon smiled. "Thank you."
"My name is Pam, from passenger services." The woman spoke with an exuberance that was almost unsettling. "If you'll come with me, sir, your car is waiting."
Langdon followed her across the runway toward the Signature terminal, which was surrounded by glistening private jets. A taxi stand for the rich and famous. As opposed to Langdon, who Brown has been lauding, who lives in a Victorian manor, who has five books, who's been internationally recognized in every #@%* book, as Brown has impressed upon us multiple times...
"I hate to embarrass you, Professor," the woman said, sounding sheepish, "but you are the Robert Langdon who writes books about symbols and religion, aren't you?" Ooh, Langdon, you write about symbols and religion...ooooh.
Langdon hesitated and then nodded.
"I thought so!" she said, beaming. "My book group read your book about the sacred feminine and the church! What a delicious scandal that one caused! You do enjoy putting the fox in the henhouse!" Hey, what kind of screwball book group was this?
Langdon smiled. "Scandal wasn't really my intention." No, artificial dissemination was.
The woman seemed to sense Langdon was not in the mood to discuss his work. "I'm sorry. Listen to me rattling on. I know you probably get tired of being recognized . . . but it's your own fault." She playfully motioned to his clothing. "Ooh, I'm playfully motioning to your clothing!" "Your uniform gave you away." That's not a uniform, dearie. It's the only outfit he owns.
My uniform? Langdon glanced down at his attire. He was wearing his usual charcoal turtleneck, Harris Tweed jacket, khakis, and collegiate cordovan loafers . . . his standard attire for the classroom, lecture circuit, author photos, and social events. In other words, everything.
The woman laughed. "Those turtlenecks you wear are so dated. You'd look much sharper in a tie!" Yes, dated to 2009.
No chance, Langdon thought. Little nooses. WEAR A TIE! WEAR A TIE!
Neckties had been required six days a week when Langdon attended Phillips Exeter Academy, and despite the headmaster's romantic claims that the origin of the cravat went back to the silk fascalia worn by Roman orators to warm their vocal cords, Langdon knew that, etymologically, cravat actually derived from a ruthless band of "Croat" mercenaries who donned knotted neckerchiefs before they stormed into battle. To this day, this ancient battle garb was donned by modern office warriors hoping to intimidate their enemies in daily boardroom battles. Sure they are...
"Thanks for the advice," Langdon said with a chuckle. "I'll consider a tie in the future."
Mercifully, a professional-looking man in a dark suit got out of a sleek Lincoln Town Car parked near the terminal and held up his finger. "Mr. Langdon? I'm Charles with Beltway Limousine." He opened the passenger door. "Good evening, sir. Welcome to Washington." Should've said "Jim with Enterprise"
Langdon tipped Pam for her hospitality and then climbed into the plush interior of the Town Car. The driver showed him the temperature controls, the bottled water, and the basket of hot muffins. I'm trying to figure out if he's talking about food, or using 'hot muffins' as a euphemism for Langdon's female adorers. Seconds later, Langdon was speeding away on a private access road. So this is how the other half lives. WHAT? Excuse me, sir, but in the other book of yours (Angels and Demons) you referred to Langy's "Victorian home" that looked "more like an archaeological museum than a home" and was filled with various religious artifacts. He's also, to date, referred to at least five different books Langy was alleged to have written--he is most certainly not a pauper. What "other half" is he talking about?
As the driver gunned the car up Windsock Drive, he consulted his passenger manifest and placed a quick call. "This is Beltway Limousine," the driver said with professional efficiency. "I was asked to confirm once my passenger had landed." He paused. "Yes, sir. Your guest, Mr. Langdon, has arrived, and I will deliver him to the Capitol Building by seven P.M. You're welcome, sir." He hung up.
Langdon had to smile. No stone left unturned. Peter Solomon's attention to detail was one of his most potent assets, allowing him to manage his substantial power with apparent ease. "Solomon wants me to come to Waaashington...I'm going to Washington for Solomon...la la la la la..." A few billion dollars in the bank doesn't hurt either.
Langdon settled into the plush leather seat and closed his eyes as the noise of the airport faded behind him. The U.S. Capitol was a half hour away, and he appreciated the time alone to gather his thoughts. Everything had happened so quickly today that Langdon only now had begun to think in earnest about the incredible evening that lay ahead. "Aw, dang. Swooped up by another international multimillionaire fighting-force AGAIN!"
Arriving under a veil of secrecy, Langdon thought, amused by the prospect.
Ten miles from the Capitol Building, a lone figure was eagerly preparing for Robert Langdon's arrival. Dear God, let it be an albino ninja monkey assassin!
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Riffing Brown: Installment Two
The following is an excerpt from the first chapters of the Da Vinci Code. As usual, my comments are in red.
Robert Langdon awoke slowly. Deja vu...didn't he do this in the other book?
A telephone was ringing in the darkness—a tinny, unfamiliar ring. This sounds really familiar. 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. Ooh, how romantic.
Where the hell am I? Purgatory.
The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram:
HOTEL RITZ PARIS.
Slowly, the fog began to lift. And then he beheld the great monster, rising up out of the lagoon, ominous and threatening...
Langdon picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Monsieur Langdon?" a man's voice said. "I hope I have not awoken you?" Anyone else think that this question mark is a little out of place? Anyone? Beuller?
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 undead. Wooden stake or silver bullets?
"This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but you have a visitor. He insists it is urgent." "I love you, Langdon. We must be together, or else I shall die!"
Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes focused now on a crumpled flyer on his bedside table.
THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY OF PARIS
proudly presents
An evening with Robert Langdon
Professor of Religious Symbology, Harvard University "Symbology". Interesting, I've never heard of that before...
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. He's a professor of "religious symbology". Doesn't that make him a "religious scholar"?
"I'm sorry," Langdon said, "but I'm very tired and—"
"Mais monsieur," the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. "Your guest is an important man."
Langdon had little doubt. He is, after all, soooooo important himself, it's only natural that other important men come to visit. 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 hundred-fold after his involvement in a widely publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of self-important historians (the first step to recovering from a problem is admitting you have one.) and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed never-ending.
"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.
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. It had, after all, been a long hard night of making Ad Hominem attacks against the Church.
You need a vacation, Robert. Try the bermuda triangle. Nice, private, and cheap...
The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate seeing proof in the mirror. Oh, no! Now Cindy won't go to the prom with me! His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and drawn tonight. Eyes can't be drawn. A face can be drawn. A forehead can be drawn. Eyeballs cannot. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin. With that, Langdon realized that his boyish charm was finally fading. Around his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way deeper into his thicket of coarse black hair. Gee, and there I thought it was brown...which is, y'know, what he said in the other one. Is it brownish-black, dark brown or really black? Although his female colleagues insisted the gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better. Oh, of course. Those female colleagues again. What the heck is a bookish appeal? I find books appealing. I like sitting on the couch with a blanket, cup of hot cocoa and a G.K Chesterton book. But what's a bookish appeal?
If Boston Magazine could see me now. Oh, poor me...I was so handsome once, and now...now I'm...AGING! Heaven forbid anyone should age. 'cause obviously it's, like, y'know...not natural or anything silly like that.
Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, (here Brown is explaining that Boston apparently finds Langdon very intriguing, but he's still very humble as is shown by his embarrassment. Brown seems to think that Langdon is a saint.) 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.
"Ladies and gentlemen.. ." the hostess (oh no. It's a female. You know what that means.) had announced to a full-house at The American University of Paris's Pavillon Dauphine, "Our guest tonight needs no introduction. You wouldn't know him anyway. He's an obscure little--oh, whoops, sorry. He is the author of numerous books: The Symbology of Secret Sects, The Art of the Illuminati, The Lost Language of Ideograms, (an ideogram is a character meant to express an idea without giving the pronunciation of an idea. Chinese characters are roughly ideograms, and as far as I know people still write using Chinese characters...) and when I say he wrote the book on Religious Iconology, I mean that quite literally. Many of you use his textbooks in class." Since obviously Religious Iconology/Symbology (which is it, Danny?!) is a huge field that lots of people are studying.
The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically. "AHHOHMIGOSH IT'S LANGDON!!!!! WE LOVE YOU!!!!"
"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive curriculum vitae, however ..." I have the feeling that somehow "impressive curriculum vitae" is actually a codeword for virility. Anyone else get that drift? She glanced playfully at Langdon ("ooh, Langdon, I'm glancing at you playfully! I love you so much! You're so hot!"), who was seated onstage. "An audience member has just handed me a far more, shall we say ... intriguing introduction." Literary flirting has never been so embarrassing.
She held up a copy of Boston Magazine.
Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that? Brown seems to like using 'X the hell'. Well, I don't blame him entirely--his writing makes me want to cuss, too.
The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and Langdon felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Inane article, once again showing Langdon's humility. Saint Langdon, patron of conspiracy theories, speak for us... Thirty seconds later, the crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting up. I have this sneaking suspicion this crowd was mostly female. "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." (gag) intrigue-o-meter? INTRIGUE-O-METER? WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT? I'm getting embarrassed just reading this! The hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?"
The crowd applauded.
Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article again. Oh, Langy, you're so humble...
"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. Here we go again. His captivating presence is punctuated by an unusually low, baritone speaking voice, which his female students describe as 'chocolate for the ears." Those female students...'chocolate for the ears' indeed. I didn't even know that was possible.
Now, let's be frank. I don't know ANYONE, male or female, who will describe someone physically in that much depth, let alone in front of that person. My conclusion? Danny's crushing on his character again, and wants us to, too.
The hall erupted in laughter. So did I, when I read this the first time. And then I started crying.
Langdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came next—some ridiculous line about "Harrison Ford in Harris tweed" But the author believes it, doesn't he? he uses 'ridiculous' to show Langdon's humility, even while implying the opposite is correct!—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. You, sir, are no Indiana Jones. Just saying.
"Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and edging her away from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for fiction." Oh yes, I agree entirely. 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." Thank God!
The crowd laughed.
"Well, folks, as you all know, I'm here tonight to talk about the power of symbols ..." "And this is my senior picture. As you all can tell, I was a very striking lad, with an arrestingly deep baritone voice, mysterious brown-with-grey-whisps and black hair and an alleged Harrison Ford lookalike. I was a paragon, a symbol of virility. Aren't I wonderful?" "Yes, Langdon! You are!"
Brown's apparent crush on his Gary Stu alter ego is mildly unsettling, or at least I find it so. If anyone else has other opinions, then please do share--I'd really like to think that Dan has only unconsciously made himself an idealized alter ego that he proceeds to turn into a superheroic destroyer-of traditions. But, you know, when the Author mysteriously appears on the jacket of the book wearing the same Harris tweed and turtleneck as the character did in the first chapter...well, minds start turning.
For more information, see this article on the "Mary Sue" archetype and this one on author surrogates. Both are very applicable to all of Brown's works involving Langdon, in my opinion.
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