Brutal Telling

Gamache sipped his coffee and watched her. It was interesting that everyone seemed to know about Marc Gilbert moving the body, but no one seemed to know about the other Gilbert, risen from the dead.

“What were you looking for just now?” she asked.

“A book called Being.”

“Being? That’s the one about Brother Albert and the community he built?” She got up and walked toward the bookshelves. “We’ve talked about this before.”

She changed direction and walked to the far end of her bookstore.

“We did, years ago.” Gamache followed her.

“I remember now. I gave Old Mundin and The Wife a copy when Charles was born. The book’s out of print, I think. Shame. It’s brilliant.”

They were in her used-books section.

“Ah, here it is. I have one left. A little dog-eared, but the best books are.”

She handed Gamache the slim volume. “Can I leave you here? I told Clara I’d meet her in the bistro for lunch.”

Armand Gamache settled into his armchair and in the sunshine through the window he read. About an asshole. And a saint. And a miracle.

Jean Guy Beauvoir arrived at the crowded bistro and after ordering a beer from a harried Havoc he squeezed through the crowd. He caught snippets of conversation about the fair, about how horrible the judging was this year, really, the worst so far. About the weather. But mostly he heard about the body.

Roar Parra and Old Mundin were sitting in a corner with a couple of other men. They looked up and nodded at Beauvoir, but didn’t move from their precious seats.

Beauvoir scanned the room for Gamache, but knew he wasn’t there. Knew as soon as he’d walked in. After a few minutes he managed to snag a table. A minute later he was joined by the Chief Inspector.

“Hard at work, sir?” Beauvoir brushed cookie crumbs from the Chief’s shirt.

“Always. You?” Gamache ordered a ginger beer and turned his full attention to his Inspector.

“I Googled Vincent Gilbert.”

“And?”

“This is what I found out.” Beauvoir flipped open his notebook. “Vincent Gilbert. Born in Quebec City in 1934 into a prominent francophone family. Father a member of the National Assembly, mother from the francophone elite. Degree in philosophy from Laval University then medical degree from McGill. Specializing in genetics. Made a name for himself by creating a test for Down’s syndrome, in utero. So that they could be found early enough and possibly treated.”

Gamache nodded. “But he stopped his research, went to India, and when he returned instead of going back into the lab immediately and completing his research he joined Brother Albert at LaPorte.”

The Chief Inspector put a book on the table and slid it toward Beauvoir.

Beauvoir turned it over. There on the back was a scowling, imperious face. Exactly the same look Beauvoir had seen while kneeling on the man’s chest just an hour earlier.

“Being,” he read, then put it down.

“It’s about his time at LaPorte,” said Gamache.

“I read about it,” said Beauvoir. “For people with Down’s syndrome. Gilbert volunteered there, as medical director, when he got back from India. After that he refused to continue his research. I’d have thought working there he’d want to cure it even more.”

Gamache tapped the book. “You should read it.”

Beauvoir smirked. “You should tell me about it.”

Gamache hesitated, gathering his thoughts. “Being isn’t really about LaPorte. It’s not even about Vincent Gilbert. It’s about arrogance, humility and what it means to be human. It’s a beautiful book, written by a beautiful man.”

“How can you say that about the man we just met? He was a shit.”

Gamache laughed. “I don’t disagree. Most of the saints were. St. Ignatius had a police record, St. Jerome was a horrible, mean-spirited man, St. Augustine slept around. He once prayed, ‘Lord, give me chastity, but not just yet.’ ”

Beauvoir snorted. “Sounds like lots of people. So why’s one a saint and someone else just an asshole?”

“Can’t tell you that. It’s one of the mysteries.”

“Bullshit. You don’t even go to church. What do you really think?”

Gamache leaned forward. “I think to be holy is to be human, and Vincent Gilbert is certainly that.”

“You think more than that, though, don’t you? I can see it. You admire him.”

Gamache picked up the worn copy of Being. He looked over and saw Old Mundin drinking a Coke and eating cheese and pate on a baguette. Gamache remembered Charles Mundin’s tiny hand grasping his finger. Full of trust, full of grace.

And he tried to imagine a world without that. Dr. Vincent Gilbert, the Great Man, would almost certainly have earned a Nobel Prize, had he continued his research. But he’d stopped his research and earned the scorn of his colleagues and much of the world instead.

And yet Being wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t even an explanation. It just was. Like