If I had written The Da Vinci Code, this would have been my prologue.
A few days ago, I attended Scenes: The Heart of Stories, a writing workshop led by Dr. Eghosa Imasuen in Nairobi. One of the assignments was to rewrite the prologue of The DaVinci Code from a different point of view.
I kept wondering about the people standing at the edges of the original story. The witnesses. The guards. The ordinary people caught in the wake of conspiracy and violence.
So instead of following Robert Langdon, I rewrote the prologue through the eyes of a female Louvre guard named Delphine.
If I had written The Da Vinci Code, this might have been my opening.
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Delphine strolled through the corridors of the east wing of the Louvre. It wasn’t her shift, but she had been asked to step in for one of her co-workers who had called in sick with the flu. The museum rarely assigned female guards to night duty, but she was the only one available.
She rubbed her left leg out of habit. An old wound she had sustained while working NATO naval operations. Any opportunity she got, she cursed pirates. The arrow had gone through her knee, but the nerve damage extended all the way to her hips. Sometimes, when the weather turned cold, the scar flared, sending pain up her thigh. Not wanting to become “a druggie,” she had refused pain medication. She had watched addiction consume her brother. Not her too.
She continued down the hall. After five years at the Louvre, she could walk its corridors blindfolded. Delphine took every assignment seriously.
“Discipline,” she would tell recruits during orientation, “is what keeps any institution afloat.”
She paused briefly before one of the paintings when a loud clang of metal shattered the silence, followed almost immediately by the shrill cry of an alarm.
The Grand Gallery.
Her walkie-talkie crackled.
“On it, Jacques.”
She quickened her pace toward the west wing, her limp more pronounced now. Probably another thrill seeker who had managed to sneak in after hours.
Then she heard it.
Bang!
A gunshot.
Delphine dropped onto all fours. Her hand flew instinctively toward the belt at her waist.
Nothing.
The utility belt was still back in the office. She had removed it when she clocked in. She crawled forward, weaving carefully between statues, flower pots, and marble vases. Ahead, a voice echoed through the corridor.
Deep. Cold.
“My work here is done.”
Delphine slid across the polished floor until she reached a mirror positioned opposite the vault entrance. Through its reflection, she saw him.
A man in a black suit stood on the other side of the iron gate. Tall and broad-shouldered, with sparse white hair combed neatly over his scalp. One hand rested on the bars while the other held a pistol partially hidden beneath his sleeve. Beneath the dim lights, the exposed patches of skin looked almost translucent.
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He reminded her of the vigilantes she had encountered during a NATO operation near the Russian border years ago. Men hollowed out by violence.
On the opposite side of the gate lay the museum curator, Jacques Saunière. One trembling hand pressed against his stomach where blood spread steadily through his shirt. Delphine slipped beneath a table.
“Pain is good, monsieur,” the assailant said before turning away.
She pressed herself tighter against the wall as he approached. The polished soles of his shoes passed inches from her face.
Red.
Louboutins.
His footsteps faded into the distance.
Delphine slid out from beneath the table and hurried toward the vault, ignoring the sharp protest in her leg. Saunière struggled to pull himself upright using a chair for support. Nearby, a painting lay face down on the floor. Behind it, an angry tear marked the wall where the frame had been ripped away.
“Monsieur,” Delphine whispered, forcing steadiness into her voice, “I’m going to get help, alright? Let’s see if we can get this gate opened.”
She reached for her walkie-talkie.
Saunière lunged toward the bars and grabbed her wrist with surprising force, smearing warm blood across her white shirt.
“No,” he sputtered.
Blood spilled from his lips.
“I have a very important mission for you,” he said. “The fate of the world now lies in your hands.”
Delphine stared at him. His skin had lost all color.
“Sénéchaux,” he whispered.
Then again.
“Sénéchaux.”
“Listen to me very carefully.”
His legs gave out beneath him.
Delphine dropped to her knees beside him.
Above them, the fluorescent lights flickered.
Then Saunière began to speak.
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During the workshop discussion, Dr. Eghosa Imasuen generously described both the piece and its narrative choice as “genius,” which honestly left me staring at the wall for several business days afterward.
