The Brutal Telling
Page 41
Clara hadn’t said anything. Just waited. And after a minute her companion blinked then smiled and looked at Clara.
“It’s quite startling. She’s full of Grace, but something’s just happened, hasn’t it?”
Still Clara remained silent, staring at the reproduction of her own work.
Thérèse Brunel went back to looking at it too. Then she inhaled sharply and looked at Clara. “The Fall. My God, you’ve painted the Fall. That moment. She’s not even aware of it, is she? Not really, but she sees something, a hint of the horror to come. The Fall from Grace.” Thérèse grew very quiet, looking at this lovely, blissful woman. And that tiny, nearly invisible awareness.
Clara nodded. “Yes.”
Thérèse looked at her more closely. “But there’s something else. I know what it is. It’s you, isn’t it? She’s you.”
Clara nodded.
After a moment Thérèse whispered so that Clara wasn’t even sure the words had been spoken aloud. Maybe it was the wind. “What are you afraid of?”
Clara waited a long time to speak, not because she didn’t know the answer, but because she’d never said it out loud. “I’m afraid of not recognizing Paradise.”
There was a pause. “So am I,” said Superintendent Brunel.
She wrote a number and handed it to Clara. “I’m going to make a call when I get back to my office. Here’s my number. Call me this afternoon.”
Clara had, and to her amazement the elegant woman, the police officer, had arranged for the Chief Curator at the Musée d’art contemporain in Montreal to see the portfolio.
That had been weeks ago. A lot had happened since. Chief Inspector Gamache had arrested Olivier for murder. Everyone knew that had been a mistake. But as the evidence grew so did their doubts. As all of this was happening Clara had taken her work into the MAC. And now they’d asked for a meeting.
“They won’t say no,” said Peter, speeding along the autoroute. “I’ve never known a gallery to invite an artist to a meeting to turn him down. It’s good news, Clara. Great news. Way better than anything Fortin could have done for you.”
And Clara dared to think that was true.
As he drove Peter thought about the painting on his own easel. The one he now knew was finished. As was his career. On the white canvas Peter had painted a large black circle, almost, but not quite, closed. And where it might have closed he’d put dots.
Three dots. For infinity. For society.
Jean Guy Beauvoir was in the basement of his home looking down at the ragged strips of paper. Upstairs he could hear Enid preparing lunch.
He’d gone to the basement every chance he got in the last few weeks. He’d flip the game on the television then sit with his back to the TV. At his desk. Mesmerized by the scraps of paper. He’d hoped the mad old poet had written the whole thing on a single sheet of paper and simply torn it into strips so he could fit them together like a jigsaw puzzle. But, no, the pieces of paper wouldn’t fit together. He had to find the meaning in the words.
Beauvoir had lied to the Chief. He didn’t do it often, and he had no idea why he’d done it this time. He’d told the Chief he’d thrown them all out, all the stupid words Ruth had tacked onto his door, shoved into his pocket. Given others to give to him.
He’d wanted to throw them out, but even more than that he’d wanted to know what they meant. It was almost hopeless. Perhaps the Chief could decipher it, but poetry had always been a big fat pile of crap to Beauvoir. Even when presented with it whole. How could he ever assemble a poem?
But he’d tried. For weeks.
He slipped one scrap between two and moved another to the top.
I just sit where I’m put, composed
of stone and wishful thinking:
that the deity who kills for pleasure
will also heal,
He took a swig of beer.
“Jean Guy,” his wife sang to him. “Luh-hunch.”
“Coming.”
that in the midst of your nightmare,
the final one, a kind lion
will come with bandages in her mouth
and the soft body of a woman,
Enid called again and he didn’t answer but instead stared at the poem. Then his eyes moved to the furry little feet dangling over the shelf above his desk. At eye level, where he could see it. The stuffed lion he’d quietly taken from the B and B. First to his room, for company. He’d sat it in the chair where he could see it from his bed. And he imagined her there. Maddening, passionate, full of life. Filling the empty, quiet corners of his life. With life.
And when the case was over he’d slipped the lion into his bag and brought it down here. Where Enid never came.
The kind lion. With its soft skin and smile. “Wimoweh, a-wimoweh,” he sang under his breath as he read the final stanza.
and lick you clean of fever,
and pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck
and caress you into darkness and paradise.
An hour later Armand Gamache walked out of the woods and down the slope into Three Pines. On the porch of the bistro he took a deep breath, composed himself, and entered.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did he saw Gabri behind the bar, where Olivier had always stood. The large man had diminished, lost weight. He looked careworn. Tired.
“Gabri,” said Gamache, and the two old friends stared at each other.
“Monsieur,” said Gabri. He shifted a jar of allsorts and another of jelly beans on the polished wood counter, then came around. And offered Gamache a licorice pipe.
Myrna walked in a few minutes later to find Gabri and Gamache sitting quietly by the fire. Talking. Their heads together. Their knees almost touching. An uneaten licorice pipe between them.
They looked up as she entered.
“I’m sorry.” She stopped. “I can come back. I just wanted to show you this.” She held a piece of paper out to Gabri.
“I got one too,” he said. “Ruth’s latest poem. What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know.” She couldn’t get used to coming into the bistro and seeing only Gabri. With Olivier in jail it felt as though something vital was missing, as though one of the pines had been cut down.
It was excruciating, what was happening. The village felt torn and ragged. Wanting to support Olivier and Gabri. Appalled at the arrest. Not believing it. And yet knowing that Chief Inspector Gamache would never have done it unless he was certain.
It was also clear how much it had cost Gamache to arrest his friend. It seemed impossible to support one without betraying the other.
Gabri rose, as did Gamache. “We were just catching up. Did you know the Chief Inspector has another granddaughter? Zora.”
“Congratulations.” Myrna embraced the grandfather.
“I need fresh air,” said Gabri, suddenly restless. At the door he turned to Gamache. “Well?”
The Chief Inspector and Myrna joined him and together they walked slowly round the village green. Where all could see. Gamache and Gabri, together. The wound not healed, but neither was it getting deeper.
“Olivier didn’t do it, you know,” said Gabri, stopping to look at Gamache directly.
“I admire you for standing by him.”
“I know there’s a lot about him that sucks. Not surprisingly, those are some of my favorite parts.” Gamache gave a small guffaw. “But there’s one question I need answered.”
“Oui?”
“If Olivier killed the Hermit, why move the body? Why take it to the Hadley house to be found? Why not leave it in the cabin? Or stick it in the woods?”
Gamache noticed the “he” had become an “it.” Gabri couldn’t accept that Olivier had killed, and he certainly couldn’t accept that Olivier had killed a “he” not an “it.”
“That was answered in the trial,” said Gamache, patiently. “The cabin was about to be found. Roar was cutting a path straight for it.”
Gabri nodded, relu
ctantly. Myrna watched and willed her friend to be able to accept the now undeniable truth.
“I know,” said Gabri. “But why move it to the Hadley house? Why not just take it deeper into the woods and let the animals do the rest?”
“Because Olivier realized the body wasn’t the most damning evidence against him. The cabin was. Years of evidence, of fingerprints, of hairs, of food. He couldn’t hope to clean it all up, at least not right away. But if our investigation focused on Marc Gilbert and the Hadley house he might stop the progress of the paths. If the Gilberts were ruined there was no need of horse trails.”
Gamache’s voice was calm. No sign of the impatience Myrna knew it could hold. This was at least the tenth time she’d heard the Chief Inspector explain it to Gabri, and still Gabri didn’t believe it. And even now Gabri was shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,” said Gamache, and clearly meant it. “There was no other conclusion.”
“Olivier isn’t a murderer.”
“I agree. But he did kill. It was manslaughter. Unintentional. Can you really tell me you believe he’s not capable of killing out of rage? He’d worked years to get the Hermit to give him the treasure, and feared he might lose it. Are you sure Olivier wouldn’t be driven to violence?”
Gabri hesitated. Neither Gamache nor Myrna dared breathe, for fear of chasing away timid reason fluttering around their friend.
“Olivier didn’t do it.” Gabri sighed heavily, exasperated. “Why would he move the body?”
The Chief Inspector stared at Gabri. Words failed him. If there was any way to convince this tormented man, he would. He’d tried. He hated the thought that Gabri would carry this unnecessary burden, the horror of believing his partner falsely imprisoned. Better to accept the wretched truth than struggle, twisting, to make a wish a reality.
Gabri turned his back on the Chief Inspector and walked onto the green, to the very center of the village, and sat on the bench.
“What a magnificent man,” said Gamache, as he and Myrna resumed their walk.
“He is that. He’ll wait forever, you know. For Olivier to come back.”
Gamache said nothing and the two strolled in silence. “I ran into Vincent Gilbert,” he finally said. “He says Marc and Dominique are settling in.”
“Yes. Turns out when he’s not moving bodies around the village Marc’s quite nice.”
“Too bad about Marc the horse.”
“Still, he’s probably happier.”
This surprised Gamache and he turned to look at Myrna. “Dead?”
“Dead? Vincent Gilbert had him sent to LaPorte.”
Gamache snorted and shook his head. The asshole saint indeed.
As they passed the bistro he thought about the canvas bag. The thing that had, more than anything else, condemned Olivier when found hidden behind the fireplace.
Ruth’s door opened and the old poet, wrapped in her worn cloth coat, hobbled out, followed by Rosa. But today the duck was without clothing. Just feathers.
Gamache had grown so used to seeing Rosa in her outfits it seemed almost unnatural that she should be without one now. The two walked across the road to the green where Ruth opened a small paper bag and tossed bread for Rosa, who waddled after the crumbs, flapping her wings. A quacking could be heard overhead, getting closer. Gamache and Myrna turned to the sound. But Ruth’s eyes remained fixed, on Rosa. Overhead, ducks approached in V formation flying south for the winter.
And then, with a cry that sounded almost human Rosa rose up and flew into the air. She circled and for an instant everyone thought she would return. Ruth raised her hand, offering bread crumbs from her palm. Or a wave. Good-bye.
And Rosa was gone.
“Oh, my God,” breathed Myrna.
Ruth stared, her back to them, her face and hand to the sky. Bread crumbs tumbling to the grass.
Myrna took out the crumpled paper from her pocket and gave it to Gamache.
She rose up into the air and the jilted earth let out a sigh.
She rose up past telephone poles and rooftops of houses where the earthbound hid.
She rose up sleeker than the sparrows that swirled around her like a jubilant cyclone
She rose up, past satellites and every cell phone down on earth rang at once.
“Rosa,” whispered Myrna. “Ruth.”
Gamache watched the old poet. He knew what was looming behind the Mountain. What crushed all before it. The thing the Hermit most feared. The Mountain most feared.
Conscience.
Gamache remembered opening the coarse sack, his hand sliding over the smooth wood inside. It was a simple carving. A young man in a chair, listening.
Olivier. He’d turned it over and found three letters etched into the wood. GYY.
He’d decoded them in the cabin just minutes before and had stared at the word.
Woo.
Hidden in the rude rough sack it was far finer, even, than the more detailed carvings. This was simplicity itself. Its message was elegant and horrific. The carving was beautiful and yet the young man seemed utterly empty. His imperfections worn away. The wood hard and smooth so that the world slid right off it. There would be no touch and therefore no feeling.
It was the Mountain King, as a man. Unassailable, but unapproachable. Gamache felt like throwing it deep into the forest. To lie where the Hermit had put himself. Hiding from a monster of his own making.
But there was no hiding from Conscience.
Not in new homes and new cars. In travel. In meditation or frantic activity. In children, in good works. On tiptoes or bended knee. In a big career. Or a small cabin.
It would find you. The past always did.
Which was why, Gamache knew, it was vital to be aware of actions in the present. Because the present became the past, and the past grew. And got up, and followed you.
And found you. As it had the Hermit. As it had Olivier. Gamache stared at the cold, hard, lifeless treasure in his hand.
Who wouldn’t be afraid of this?
Ruth limped across the green to the bench and sat. With a veined hand she clutched her blue cloth coat to her throat while Gabri reached out and taking her other hand in his and rubbing it softly and murmured, “there, there.”
She rose up but remembered to politely wave good-bye . . .
THE END
THE BRUTAL TELLINGCOVER
TITLE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
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