Langdon quickly joined Ambra at a hutch-like case that had a slanted glass top. Inside, propped open to page 163, barely visible in the dim light, sat a massive bound edition of The Complete Works of William Blake.
As Beña had informed them, the page in question was not a poem at all, but rather a Blake illustration. Langdon had wondered which of Blake’s images of God to expect, but it most certainly was not this one.
The Ancient of Days, Langdon thought, squinting through the darkness at Blake’s famous 1794 watercolor etching.
Langdon was surprised that Father Beña had called this “an image of God.” Admittedly, the illustration appeared to depict the archetypal Christian God—a bearded, wizened old man with white hair, perched in the clouds and reaching down from the heavens—and yet a bit of research on Beña’s part would have revealed something quite different. The figure was not, in fact, the Christian God but rather a deity called Urizen—a god conjured from Blake’s own visionary imagination—depicted here measuring the heavens with a huge geometer’s compass, paying homage to the scientific laws of the universe.
The piece was so futuristic in style that, centuries later, the renowned physicist and atheist Stephen Hawking had selected it as the jacket art for his book God Created the Integers. In addition, Blake’s timeless demiurge watched over New York City’s Rockefeller Center, where the ancient geometer gazed down from an Art Deco sculpture titled Wisdom, Light, and Sound.
Langdon eyed the Blake book, again wondering why Edmond had gone to such lengths to have it displayed here. Was it pure vindictiveness? A slap in the face to the Christian Church?
Edmond’s war against religion never wanes, Langdon thought, glancing at Blake’s Urizen. Wealth had given Edmond the ability to do whatever he pleased in life, even if it meant displaying blasphemous art in the heart of a Christian church.
Anger and spite, Langdon thought. Maybe it’s just that simple. Edmond, whether fairly or not, had always blamed his mother’s death on organized religion.
“Of course, I’m fully aware,” Beña said, “that this painting is not the Christian God.”
Langdon turned to the old priest in surprise. “Oh?”
“Yes, Edmond was quite up front about it, although he didn’t need to be—I’m familiar with Blake’s ideas.”
“And yet you have no problem displaying the book?”
“Professor,” the priest whispered, smiling softly. “This is Sagrada Família. Within these walls, Gaudí blended God, science, and nature. The theme of this painting is nothing new to us.” His eyes twinkled cryptically. “Not all of our clergy are as progressive as I am, but as you know, for all of us, Christianity remains a work in progress.” He smiled gently, nodding back to the book. “I’m just glad Mr. Kirsch agreed not to display his title card with the book. Considering his reputation, I’m not sure how I would have explained that, especially after his presentation tonight.” Beña paused, his face somber. “Do I sense, however, that this image is not what you had hoped to find?”
“You’re right. We’re looking for a line of Blake’s poetry.”
“‘Tyger Tyger, burning bright’?” Beña offered. “‘In the forests of the night’?”
Langdon smiled, impressed that Beña knew the first line of Blake’s most famous poem—a six-stanza religious query that asked if the same God who had designed the fearsome tiger had also designed the docile lamb.
“Father Beña?” Ambra asked, crouching down and peering intently through the glass. “Do you happen to have a phone or a flashlight with you?”
“No, I’m sorry. Shall I borrow a lantern from Antoni’s tomb?”
“Would you, please?” Ambra asked. “That would be helpful.”
Beña hurried off.
The instant he left, she whispered urgently to Langdon, “Robert! Edmond didn’t choose page one sixty-three because of the painting!”
“What do you mean?” There’s nothing else on page 163.
“It’s a clever decoy.”
“You’ve lost me,” Langdon said, eyeing the painting.
“Edmond chose page one sixty-three because it’s impossible to display that page without simultaneously displaying the page next to it—page one sixty-two!”
Langdon shifted his gaze to the left, examining the folio preceding The Ancient of Days. In the dim light, he could not make out much on the page, except that it appeared to consist entirely of tiny handwritten text.
Beña returned with a lantern and handed it to Ambra, who held it up over the book. As the soft glow spread out across the open tome, Langdon drew a startled breath.
The facing page was indeed text—handwritten, as were all of Blake’s original manuscripts—its margins embellished with drawings, frames, and various figures. Most significantly, however, the text on the page appeared to be designed in elegant stanzas of poetry.
Directly overhead in the main sanctuary, Agent Díaz paced in the darkness, wondering where his partner was.
Fonseca should have returned by now.
When the phone in his pocket began vibrating, he thought it was probably Fonseca calling him, but when he checked the caller ID, Díaz saw a name he had never expected to see.
Mónica Martín
He could not imagine what the PR coordinator wanted, but whatever it was, she should be calling Fonseca directly. He is lead agent on this team.