Then he saw her again.
At the funeral. The funerals. Lined up in uniform with the rest of the famous homicide division of the Surete du Quebec as he took his place at the head of the terrible column. One bitter cold day. To bury those who died under his command that day in the abandoned factory.
Closing his eyes he breathed deeply, smelling the musky scents of the library. Of age, of stability, of calm and peace. Of old-fashioned polish, of wood, of words bound in worn leather. He smelled his own slight fragrance of rosewater and sandalwood.
And he thought of something good, something nice, some kind harbor. And he found it in Reine-Marie, as he remembered her voice on his cell phone earlier in the day. Cheerful. Home. Safe. Their daughter Annie coming over for dinner with her husband. Groceries to buy, plants to water, correspondence to catch up on.
He could see her on the phone in their Outremont apartment standing by the bookcase, the sunny room filled with books and periodicals and comfortable furniture, orderly and peaceful.
There was a calm about it, as there was about Reine-Marie.
And he felt his racing heart settle and his breathing deepen. Taking one last long breath, he opened his eyes.
“Would your dog like some water?”
“I beg your pardon?” Gamache refocused and saw the elderly man sitting across from him motioning to Henri.
“I used to bring Seamus here. He’d lie at my feet while I read. Like your dog. What’s his name?”
“Henri.”
At the sound of his name the young shepherd sat up, alert, his huge ears swinging this way and that, like satellite dishes searching for a signal.
“I beg you,
The man laughed. “Seamus used to get excited whenever I’d say B-O-O-K. He’d know we were coming here. I think he loved it even more than I do.”
Gamache had been coming to this library every day for almost a week and except for whispered conversations with the elderly female librarian as he searched for obscure volumes on the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, he hadn’t spoken to anyone.
It was a relief to not talk, to not explain, or feel an explanation was desired if not demanded. That would come soon enough. But for now he’d yearned for and found peace in this obscure library.
Though he’d been visiting his mentor for years, and had come to believe he knew old Quebec intimately, he’d never actually been in this building. Never even noticed it among the other lovely homes and churches, convents, schools, hotels and restaurants.
But here, just up rue St-Stanislas where Emile had his old stone home, Gamache had found sanctuary in an English library, among books. Where else?
“Would he like water?” the elderly man asked again. He seemed to want to help and though Gamache doubted Henri needed anything he said yes, please. Together they walked out of the library and down the wooden hall, past portraits of former heads of the Literary and Historical Society. It was as though the place was encrusted with its own history.
It gave it a feeling of calm and certainty. Though much of old Quebec City was like that within the thick walls. The only fortress city in North America, protected from attack.
It was, these days, more symbolic than practical but Gamache knew symbols were at least as powerful as any bomb. Indeed, while men and women perished, and cities fell, symbols endured, grew.
Symbols were immortal.
The elderly man poured water into a bowl and Gamache carried it back to the library, putting it on a towel so as not to get water on the wide, dark floorboards. Henri, of course, ignored it.
The two men settled back into their seats. Gamache noticed the man was reading a heavy horticultural reference book. He himself went back to the correspondence. A selection of letters Isabelle Lacoste had thought he might like to see. Most from sympathetic colleagues around the world, others from citizens who also wanted to let him know how they felt. He read them all, responded to them all, grateful Agent Lacoste sent only a sampling.
At the very end he read the letter he knew was there. Was always there. Every day. It was in a now familiar hand, dashed off, almost illegible but Gamache had grown used to it and could now decode the scrawl.
Gamache smiled. It was one of the kinder things Ruth Zardo said to people. Almost an endearment. Almost.
Inside, as always, Gabri had put a licorice pipe. Gamache took it out, hesitated, then offered the treat to the man across the way.
“Licorice?”
The man looked up at Gamache then down at the offering.
“Are you offering candy to a stranger? Hope I won’t have to call the police.”
Gamache felt himself tense. Had the man recognized him? Was this a veiled message? But the man’s faded blue eyes were without artifice, and he was smiling. Reaching out the elderly man broke the pipe in half and handed the larger portion back to his companion. The part with the candy flame, the biggest and the best part.
