Origin: (Robert Langdon Book 5)

by Dan Brown

  Speechless, Langdon moved toward the masterpiece. It was about twelve feet long and more than four feet tall—far larger than he recalled from seeing it previously in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. I heard this was sold to an anonymous collector, but I had no idea it was Edmond!

  “When I first saw it in the apartment,” Ambra said, “I could not believe that Edmond had a taste for this style of art. But now that I know what he was working on this year, the painting seems eerily appropriate.”

  Langdon nodded, incredulous.

  This celebrated masterpiece was one of the signature works by French Postimpressionist Paul Gauguin—a groundbreaking painter who epitomized the Symbolist movement of the late 1800s and helped pave the way for modern art.

  As Langdon moved toward the painting, he was immediately struck by how similar Gauguin’s palette was to that of the Casa Milà entryway—a blend of organic greens, browns, and blues—also depicting a very naturalistic scene.

  Despite the intriguing collection of people and animals that appeared in Gauguin’s painting, Langdon’s gaze moved immediately to the upper-left-hand corner—to a bright yellow patch, on which was inscribed the title of this work.

  Langdon read the words in disbelief: D’où Venons Nous / Que Sommes Nous / Où Allons Nous.

  Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?

  Langdon wondered if being confronted by these questions every day as he returned to his home had somehow helped inspire Edmond.

  Ambra joined Langdon in front of the painting. “Edmond said he wanted to be motivated by these questions whenever he entered his home.”

  Hard to miss, Langdon thought.

  Seeing how prominently Edmond had displayed the masterpiece, Langdon wondered if perhaps the painting itself might hold some clue as to what Edmond had discovered. At first glance, the painting’s subject seemed far too primitive to hint at an advanced scientific discovery. Its broad uneven brushstrokes depicted a Tahitian jungle inhabited by an assortment of native Tahitians and animals.

  Langdon knew the painting well, and as he recalled, Gauguin intended this work to be “read” from right to left—in the reverse direction from that of standard French text. And so Langdon’s eye quickly traced the familiar figures in reverse direction.

  On the far right, a newborn baby slept on a boulder, representing life’s beginning. Where do we come from?

  In the middle, an assortment of people of different ages carried out the daily activities of life. What are we?

  And on the left, a decrepit old woman sat alone, deep in thought, seeming to ponder her own mortality. Where are we going?

  Langdon was surprised that he hadn’t thought of this painting immediately when Edmond first described the focus of his discovery. What is our origin? What is our destiny?

  Langdon eyed the other elements of the painting—dogs, cats, and birds, which seemed to be doing nothing in particular; a primitive goddess statue in the background; a mountain, twisting roots, and trees. And, of course, Gauguin’s famous “strange white bird,” which sat beside the elderly woman and, according to the artist, represented “the futility of words.”

  Futile or not, Langdon thought, words are what we came here for. Preferably forty-seven characters’ worth.

  For an instant, he wondered if the painting’s unusual title might relate directly to the forty-seven-letter password they were seeking, but a quick count in both French and English did not add up.

  “Okay, we’re looking for a line of poetry,” Langdon said hopefully. “Edmond’s library is this way,” Ambra told him. She pointed to her left, down a wide corridor, which Langdon could see was appointed with elegant home furnishings that were interspersed with assorted Gaudí artifacts and displays.

  Edmond lives in a museum? Langdon still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. The Casa Milà loft was not exactly the homiest place he had ever seen. Constructed entirely of stone and brick, it was essentially a continuous ribbed tunnel—a loop of 270 parabolic arches of varying heights, each about a yard apart. There were very few windows, and the atmosphere tasted dry and sterile, clearly heavily processed to protect the Gaudí artifacts.

  “I’ll join you in a moment,” Langdon said. “First, I’m going to find Edmond’s restroom.”

  Ambra glanced awkwardly back toward the entrance. “Edmond always asked me to use the lobby downstairs … he was mysteriously protective of this apartment’s private bathroom.”

  “It’s a bachelor pad—his bathroom is probably a mess, and he was embarrassed.”

  Ambra smiled. “Well, I think it’s that way.” She pointed in the opposite direction from the library, down a very dark tunnel.

  “Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

  Ambra headed off toward Edmond’s office, and Langdon went in the opposite direction, making his way down the narrow corridor—a dramatic tunnel of brick archways that reminded him of an underground grotto or medieval catacomb. Eerily, as he moved along the stone tunnel, banks of soft motion-sensitive lights illuminated at the base of each parabolic arch, lighting his way.

  Langdon passed an elegant reading area, a small exercise area, and even a pantry, all interspersed with various display tables of Gaudí drawings, architectural sketches, and 3-D models of his projects.

  When he passed an illuminated display table of biological artifacts, however, Langdon stopped short, surprised by the contents—a fossil of a prehistoric fish, an elegant nautilus shell, and a sinuous skeleton of a snake. For a passing moment, Langdon imagined Edmond must have mounted this scientific display himself—perhaps relating to his studies of the origins of life. Then Langdon saw the annotation on the case and realized that these artificts had belonged to Gaudí and echoed various architectural features of this home: the fish scales were the tiled patterns on the walls, the nautilus was the curling ramp into the garage, and the snake skeleton with its hundreds of closely spaced ribs was this very hallway.

  Accompanying the display were the architect’s humble words:

  Nothing is invented, for it’s written in nature first.

  Originality consists of returning to the origin.

  —ANTONI GAUDÍ

  Langdon turned his eyes down the winding, vault-ribbed corridor and once again felt like he was standing inside a living creature.

  A perfect home for Edmond, he decided. Art inspired by science.

  As Langdon followed the first bend in the serpentine tunnel, the space widened, and the motion-activated lights illuminated. His gaze was drawn immediately to a huge glass display case in the center of the hall.

  A catenary model, he thought, having always marveled at these ingenious Gaudí prototypes. “Catenary” was an architectural term that referred to the curve that was formed by a cord hanging loosely between two fixed points—like a hammock or the velvet rope suspended between two stanchions in a theater.

  In the catenary model before Langdon, dozens of chains had been suspended loosely from the top of the case—resulting in long lengths that swooped down and then back up to form limply hanging U-shapes. Because gravitational tension was the inverse of gravitational compression, Gaudí could study the precise shape assumed by a chain when naturally hanging under its own weight, and he could mimic that shape to solve the architectural challenges of gravitational compression.

  But it requires a magic mirror, Langdon mused, moving toward the case. As anticipated, the floor of the case was a mirror, and as he peered down into the reflection, he saw a magical effect. The entire model flipped upside down—and the hanging loops became soaring spires.

  In this case, Langdon realized, he was seeing an inverted aerial view of Gaudí’s towering Basílica de la Sagrada Família, whose gently sloping spires quite possibly had been designed using this very model.

  Pressing on down the hall, Langdon found himself in an elegant sleeping space with an antique four-poster bed, a cherrywood armoire, and an inlaid chest of drawers. The walls were decorated with Gaudí design s
ketches, which Langdon realized were simply more of the museum’s exhibit.

  The only piece of art in the room that seemed to have been added was a large calligraphied quote hanging over Edmond’s bed. Langdon read the first three words and immediately recognized the source.

  God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?

  —NIETZSCHE

  “God is dead” were the three most famous words written by Friedrich Nietzsche, the renowned nineteenth-century German philosopher and atheist. Nietzsche was notorious for his scathing critiques of religion, but also for his reflections on science—especially Darwinian evolution—which he believed had transported humankind to the brink of nihilism, an awareness that life had no meaning, no higher purpose, and offered no direct evidence of the existence of God.

  Seeing the quote over the bed, Langdon wondered if perhaps Edmond, for all his antireligious bluster, might have been struggling with his own role in attempting to rid the world of God.

  The Nietzsche quote, as Langdon recalled, concluded with the words: “Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?”

  This bold idea—that man must become God in order to kill God—was at the core of Nietzsche’s thinking, and perhaps, Langdon realized, partially explained the God complexes suffered by so many pioneering technology geniuses like Edmond. Those who erase God … must be gods.

  As Langdon pondered the notion, he was struck by a second realization.

  Nietzsche was not just a philosopher—he was also a poet!

  Langdon himself owned Nietzsche’s The Peacock and the Buffalo, a compilation of 275 poems and aphorisms that offered thoughts on God, death, and the human mind.

  Langdon quickly counted the characters in the framed quote. They were not a match, and yet a surge of hope swelled within him. Could Nietzsche be the poet of the line we’re seeking? If so, will we find a book of Nietzsche’s poetry in Edmond’s office? Either way, Langdon would ask Winston to access an online compilation of Nietzsche’s poems and search them all for a line containing forty-seven characters.

  Eager to get back to Ambra and share his thoughts, Langdon hurried through the bedroom into the restroom that was visible beyond.

  As he entered, the lights inside came on to reveal an elegantly decorated bathroom containing a pedestal sink, a freestanding shower unit, and a toilet.

  Langdon’s eyes were drawn immediately to a low antique table cluttered with toiletries and personal items. When he saw the items on the table, he inhaled sharply, taking a step back.

  Oh God. Edmond … no.

  The table before him looked like a back-alley drug lab—used syringes, pill bottles, loose capsules, and even a rag spotted with blood.

  Langdon’s heart sank.

  Edmond was taking drugs?

  Langdon knew that chemical addiction had become painfully commonplace these days, even among the rich and famous. Heroin was cheaper than beer now, and people were popping opioid painkillers like they were ibuprofen.

  Addiction would certainly explain his recent weight loss, Langdon thought, wondering if maybe Edmond had been pretending to have “gone vegan” only in an attempt to cover for his thinness and sunken eyes.

  Langdon walked to the table and picked up one of the bottles, reading the prescription label, fully expecting to find one of the common opioids like OxyContin or Percocet.

  Instead he saw: Docetaxel.

  Puzzled, he checked another bottle: Gemcitabine.

  What are these? he wondered, checking a third bottle: Fluorouracil. Langdon froze. He had heard of Fluorouracil through a colleague at Harvard, and he felt a sudden wave of dread. An instant later, he spied a pamphlet lying among the bottles. The title was “Does Veganism Slow Pancreatic Cancer?”

  Langdon’s jaw dropped as the truth hit him.

  Edmond wasn’t a drug addict.

  He was secretly fighting a deadly cancer.

  CHAPTER 53

  AMBRA VIDAL STOOD in the soft light of the attic apartment and ran her eyes across the rows of books lining the walls of Edmond’s library.

  His collection is larger than I remembered.

  Edmond had transformed a wide section of curved hallway into a stunning library by building shelves between the vertical supports of Gaudí’s vaults. His library was unexpectedly large and well stocked, especially considering Edmond had allegedly planned to be here for only two years.

  It looks like he moved in for good.

  Eyeing the crowded shelves, Ambra realized that locating Edmond’s favorite line of poetry would be far more time-consuming than anticipated. As she continued walking along the shelves, scanning the spines of the books, she saw nothing but scientific tomes on cosmology, consciousness, and artificial intelligence:

  THE BIG PICTURE

  FORCES OF NATURE

  ORIGINS OF CONSCIOUSNESS

  THE BIOLOGY OF BELIEF

  INTELLIGENT ALGORITHMS

  OUR FINAL INVENTION

  She reached the end of one section and stepped around an architectural rib into the next section of shelves. Here she found a wide array of scientific topics—thermodynamics, primordial chemistry, psychology.

  No poetry.

  Noting that Winston had been quiet for some time now, Ambra pulled out Kirsch’s cell phone. “Winston? Are we still connected?”

  “I am here,” his accented voice chimed.

  “Did Edmond actually read all of these books in his library?”

  “I believe so, yes,” Winston replied. “He was a voracious consumer of text and called this library his ‘trophy room of knowledge.’”

  “And is there, by any chance, a poetry section in here?”

  “The only titles of which I’m specifically aware are the nonfiction volumes that I was asked to read in e-book format so Edmond and I could discuss their contents—an exercise, I suspect, that was more for my education than for his. Unfortunately, I do not have this entire collection cataloged, so the only way you will be able to find what you are looking for will be by an actual physical search.”

  “I understand.”

  “While you search, there is one thing, I think, that may interest you—breaking news from Madrid regarding your fiancé, Prince Julián.”

  “What’s happening?” Ambra demanded, halting abruptly. Her emotions still churned over Julián’s possible involvement in Kirsch’s assassination. There’s no proof, she reminded herself. Nothing confirms that Julián helped put Ávila’s name on the guest list.

  “It was just reported,” Winston said, “that a raucous demonstration is forming outside the Royal Palace. Evidence continues to suggest that Edmond’s assassination was secretly arranged by Bishop Valdespino, probably with the help of someone inside the palace, perhaps even the prince. Fans of Kirsch are now picketing. Have a look.”

  Edmond’s smartphone began streaming footage of angry protesters at the palace gates. One carried a sign in English that read: PONTIUS PILATE KILLED YOUR PROPHET—YOU KILLED OURS!

  Others were carrying spray-painted bedsheets emblazoned with a single-word battle cry—¡APOSTASÍA!—accompanied by a logo that was now being stenciled with increasing frequency on the sidewalks of Madrid.

  Apostasy had become a popular rallying cry for Spain’s liberal youth. Renounce the Church!

  “Has Julián made a statement yet?” Ambra asked.

  “That’s one of the problems,” Winston replied. “Not a word from Julián, nor the bishop, nor anyone at all in the palace. The continued silence has made everyone suspicious. Conspiracy theories are rampant, and the national press has now begun questioning where you are, and why you have not commented publicly on this crisis either?”

  “Me?!” Ambra was horrified at the thought.

  “You witnessed the murder. You are the future queen consort and the love of Prince Julián’s life. The public wants to hear you say that y
ou are certain Julián is not involved.”

  Ambra’s gut told her that Julián could not possibly have known about Edmond’s murder; when she thought back to their courtship, she recalled a tender and sincere man—admittedly naive and impulsively romantic—but certainly no murderer.

  “Similar questions are surfacing now about Professor Langdon,” Winston said. “Media outlets have begun asking why the professor has disappeared without comment, especially after featuring so prominently in Edmond’s presentation. Several conspiracy blogs are suggesting that his disappearance may actually be related to his involvement in Kirsch’s murder.”

  “But that’s crazy!”

  “The topic is gaining traction. The theory stems from Langdon’s past search for the Holy Grail and the bloodline of Christ. Apparently, the Salic descendants of Christ have historical ties to the Carlist movement, and the assassin’s tattoo—”

  “Stop,” Ambra interrupted. “This is absurd.”

  “And yet others are speculating that Langdon has disappeared because he himself has become a target tonight. Everyone has become an armchair detective. Much of the world is collaborating at this moment to figure out what mysteries Edmond uncovered … and who wanted to silence him.”

  Ambra’s attention was drawn by the sound of Langdon’s footsteps approaching briskly up the winding corridor. She turned just as he appeared around the corner.

  “Ambra?” he called, his voice taut. “Were you aware that Edmond was seriously ill?”

  “Ill?” she said, startled. “No.”

  Langdon told her what he had found in Edmond’s private bathroom.

  Ambra was thunderstruck.

  Pancreatic cancer? That’s the reason Edmond was so pale and thin?

  Incredibly, Edmond had never said a word about being ill. Ambra now understood his maniacal work ethic over the past few months. Edmond knew he was running out of time.

  “Winston,” she demanded. “Did you know about Edmond’s illness?”

  “Yes,” Winston replied without hesitation. “It was something he kept very private. He learned of his disease twenty-two months ago and immediately changed his diet and began working with increased intensity. He also relocated to this attic space, where he would breathe museum-quality air and be protected from UV radiation; he needed to live in darkness as much as possible because his medications made him photosensitive. Edmond managed to outlive his doctors’ projections by a considerable margin. Recently, though, he had started to fail. Based on empirical evidence I gathered from worldwide databases on pancreatic cancer, I analyzed Edmond’s deterioration and calculated that he had nine days to live.”