Page 131 of The Secret of Secrets (Robert Langdon #6)
The most disturbing and effective piece of art in Europe, Langdon had long believed, was Victims of Communism —a memorial consisting of six life-size bronze men descending a wide concrete staircase.
Each of the men was emaciated, bearded, and on a different step.
Eerily, all six men were the same individual…
but each was in a different state of decay…
one missing an arm, another half his head, another with a gaping chasm through his chest.
Defiance and endurance, Langdon recalled, was the artist’s message. This individual, regardless of his level of suffering, remained standing.
Langdon had not anticipated seeing the sculpture on this visit to Prague, and yet there it was, rushing by the window of the embassy sedan as they sped along újezd Street. He would have pointed it out to Katherine, but she was already asleep on his shoulder, her tousled hair soft against his cheek.
Having dropped the ambassador at the embassy, Sergeant Kerble was now whisking Langdon and Katherine south along Pet?ín Gardens, headed for the Four Seasons Hotel and a much-needed rest. As they turned left onto Legion Bridge, Langdon closed his eyes and listened to Katherine’s soft breathing, feeling comforted by the reassuring sound of… life.
The concept of death had been entirely too present today, not only in discussion, but also in Langdon’s reality…nearly freezing to death in the Vltava River, then being shot at by Pavel and narrowly escaping Threshold.
Remarkably, over the past year, everything Langdon had learned from Katherine about consciousness had altered his perspective on dying…
markedly easing his trepidation about aging and mortality.
If Katherine’s nonlocal model of consciousness turned out to be correct, then the logical conclusion was that some part of Langdon, his being, his soul, his mind…
would transcend the death of his body and live on.
I’m in no hurry to find out, he thought, savoring the warmth of Katherine’s head on his shoulder.
Yesterday, while touring the Vy?ehrad, they had stumbled across an unusually morbid reliquary displaying a human shoulder blade—allegedly that of St. Valentine—and Katherine had startled him with a deceptively simple question: How do you define death?
Having never considered death in literal terms, Langdon drew a blank, finally offering a feebly circular definition that he never would have accepted from his students: Death is the absence of life.
To his surprise, Katherine told him his reply was quite close to the official, medical definition: The irreversible cessation of all cell function. Then she informed him that the official medical definition was 100 percent incorrect.
“Death,” she explained, “has nothing to do with the physical body. We define death in terms of consciousness. Consider a brain-dead, nonresponsive patient on life support—his body is technically very much alive, and yet we routinely pull the plug on that body. Without consciousness, we view a human body as essentially dead …even when its physical functions are perfectly intact.”
True, Langdon realized.
“And the opposite is equally true,” she continued. “A quadriplegic in a wheelchair, who has lost physical function in his entire body and yet remains conscious, is very much alive. Stephen Hawking was essentially a mind without a body. Imagine if someone suggested pulling the plug on him!”
Langdon had never heard the point made quite that way.
“Robert,” she finished, “we can no longer deny the growing tide of evidence that consciousness can exist outside the body… beyond the confines of the brain. The day has come for us to entirely redefine consciousness…and therefore entirely redefine death !”
Langdon hoped she was right, and that dying was not as “terminal” an event as most imagined. From the recesses of his memory, the ancient teachings of Asclepius bubbled up:
Far too many fear death and regard it as the worst disaster that can befall them: they know nothing of what they speak.
Death comes as a dissolution from an exhausted body…
Just as the body leaves the mother’s womb when it is mature in it, so also does the soul leave the body when it has come to perfection.
As a young student of comparative religion, Langdon had been amazed by the universality of the promise of reincarnation and life after death—the lone, unswerving assurance offered by every single religious tradition that had survived the test of time.
He had always viewed this consistent trait as an example of Darwinian “survival of the fittest.” The only religions that survived were those offering a solution to humankind’s greatest fear.
The more spiritual side of Langdon often wondered if perhaps the age-old promise of eternal life might actually predate religion…finding its roots in the lost wisdom of the ancients…a time when the human mind was sufficiently uncluttered to perceive the deepest truths that permeated the universe.
A thought for another day, he decided as their car slowed in front of the Four Seasons.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he whispered to Katherine beside him. “We’re here.”
Faukman lunged for the phone. “Hello?!”
“Jonas, it’s Robert,” announced the unmistakable baritone voice. “I’m just back at the hotel. The manager said you’ve been calling nonstop.”
“I have been!” Faukman exclaimed. “The explosion in Prague? I was worri—”
“Sorry, we’re both okay.”
Faukman sighed in relief. “You know, Robert, most authors make me nervous by submitting their manuscripts late, but you have an irritating habit—”
“Thanks for your concern,” Langdon replied with a laugh, “but I was nowhere near the blast.”
“Glad to hear it, even if I don’t believe it,” Faukman said. “I’ve witnessed your proclivity for proximity to peril.”
“And I your predilection for paranoid presumptions.”
Faukman chuckled. “That response was a bit too quick…even for you, Robert. How do I know this isn’t some AI chatbot?”
“Because AI would never know you declined one of the bestselling novels of the past twenty years because you thought the author used too many ellipses.”
“Hey! I told you that in confidence!”
“Yes, and I’ll take it to my grave,” Langdon assured him. “Just not today.”
“Any word on Katherine’s manuscript?” Faukman asked hopefully.
“Sorry,” Langdon replied, his voice weary. “I wish I could give you better news…”
It was just before seven o’clock when Langdon turned off the steam shower in the Royal Suite. The night was young, but a wintry darkness had long since settled over Prague, and he and Katherine had agreed they were headed directly to bed.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, Langdon stepped from the shower and found Katherine submerged in a bubble bath with one lithe leg extended and a safety razor in her hand.
She’s shaving her legs? he thought, surprised. “Are we going out?”
Katherine laughed. “No, Robert, we are not going out. Do you really not know why a woman shaves her legs before bed?”
“Ah…” He hesitated. “I just thought…you were exhausted.”
“I was. But when I saw you get in the shower, I woke up.” She motioned to his toned abs. “You look pretty good, Aquaman…for someone your age.”
“My age ? You’re older than I am!”
“Do you really want to go there?”
“No, my darling…I do not.” Langdon walked over to the tub, sat on the edge, and placed a hand affectionately on the back of Katherine’s neck. “What I meant to say is you’re beautiful, brilliant, hilarious, and I adore you.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “And I’ll see you in bed.”
It’s official, Katherine thought as she finished her preparations and got out of the tub. I’m in love.
She suspected maybe she’d loved Langdon all along, and finally their timing was right. It didn’t matter. Either way, they were here now. Together. Savor these moments.
After drying off, she reached beneath the sink and pulled out the handsomely wrapped package that she had hidden there earlier.
It contained the most elegant piece of lingerie Katherine had ever purchased.
Simone Pérèle macchiato silk. She hoped Robert liked the sophisticated one-piece from their Dream Collection.
After letting her hair down, Katherine dropped her towel and slipped into the near-weightless lingerie.
The silk felt luxurious against her warm skin, falling perfectly over her body.
Forgoing her usual Balade Sauvage, she pulled out the tiny spritzer sampler of Mojave Ghost that had come with the lingerie.
She sprayed a cloud of mist into the air and walked through it, her senses aroused by the notes of Chantilly musk and powdery violet.
After checking herself one last time in the mirror, she opened the door to the bedroom, pleased to see that Langdon had already turned off the lights.
Perfect, she thought, knowing her sheer lingerie was now backlit, leaving her lithe silhouette on full display.
Smiling coyly, she struck a seductive pose in the doorframe awaiting Langdon’s reaction.
But the only response she heard was the soft, rhythmic cadence of his gentle snoring.