The Beautiful Mystery (17 page)

“
Oui
,” said the monk with a sigh. “Given the Church’s recent history it might be a good idea to reevaluate the evaluations. Seems the chosen few might not be so choice. But the fact is, most of us are good people. Sane and stable. We just want to serve God.”

“By singing.”

The monk examined Gamache. “You seem to believe, monsieur, that the music and the men can be separated. But they can’t. The community of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups is like a living chant. Each of us individual notes. On our own, nothing. But together? Divine. We don’t just sing, we are the song.”

Gamache could see he believed it. Believed that on their own they were nothing, but together the monks of Saint-Gilbert formed a plainchant. The Chief had a vision of the halls of the monastery filled not with monks in black robes, but with musical notes. Black notes bobbing through the halls. Waiting to come together in sacred song.

“How much does the prior’s death diminish that?” asked Gamache.

The monk inhaled sharply, as though the Chief had jabbed him with a pointy stick.

“We must thank God we had Frère Mathieu at all, and not be upset that he was taken from us.”

This sounded less convincing.

“But will the music suffer?” Gamache had chosen his words deliberately and he saw the result. The monk broke eye contact again and fell silent.

Gamache wondered if an equally important part of a chant wasn’t just the notes, but the space between them. The silence.

The two men stood in the silence.

“We need so little,” said the monk at last. “Music and our faith. Both will survive.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Chief. “I don’t know your name.”

“Bernard. Brother Bernard.”

“Armand Gamache.”

The two men shook hands. Bernard held the Chief’s for a moment longer than was necessary.

It was another one of the hundreds of unspoken messages that darted around the monastery. But what was the message? They were two men who had practically showered together. There did seem one obvious invitation. But Gamache instinctively knew that wasn’t what Frère Bernard was trying to say.

“But something changed,” said Gamache, and Frère Bernard released his hand.

The Chief had realized there were plenty of empty shower stalls. Bernard needn’t have chosen the one right next to the Sûreté officer.

Bernard wanted to talk. Had something to say.

“You were right last night,” said the monk. “We heard you in the Blessed Chapel. The recording changed everything. Not at first. At first it brought us even closer. It was a common mission. The point wasn’t really to share the chants with the world. We were realistic enough to know that a CD of Gregorian chants might not get on the
Billboard
charts.”

“Then why do it?”

“It was Frère Mathieu’s idea,” said Bernard. “The monastery needed repairs and as much as we tried to keep up with things, eventually what was needed wasn’t effort or even expertise. It was money. The one thing we didn’t have and couldn’t make. We make those chocolate-covered blueberries. Have you tried them?”

Gamache nodded.

“I help look after the animals but I also work in the chocolate factory. They’re very popular. We trade them to other monasteries in exchange for cheese and cider. And we sell them to friends and family. At a huge markup. Everyone knows that, but they also know we need the money.”

“The chocolates are fabulous,” agreed Gamache. “But you’d have to sell thousands of boxes to make enough money.”

“Or sell each box for a thousand dollars. Our families support us a lot, but that seemed a little much to ask. Believe me, Monsieur Gamache, we tried everything. And finally Frère Mathieu came up with selling the one thing we never run out of.”

“Gregorian chants.”

“Exactly. We sing all the time and don’t have to compete with bears or wolves for the blueberries and we don’t have to milk goats for the notes.”

Gamache smiled at the image of squirting Gregorian chants from the teats of goats and sheep.

“But you had no great hopes?”

“We always have hope. That’s another thing we never run out of. What we didn’t have were high expectations. The plan was to make the recording and sell it at extortionary rates to family and friends. And through the shops in some of the other monasteries. Our friends and families would play the CD once, just to say they’d done it, then put it away and forget about it.”

“But something happened.”

Bernard nodded. “It took a while. We sold a few hundred. Got enough to buy materials to repair the roof. But then about a year after the CDs went out we started getting money into our account. I remember being in Chapter when the abbot told us that more than a hundred thousand dollars had appeared in our account. He’d had the brother who does our accounting double-check and sure enough, it came from the recordings. More had been made, with our permission, but we didn’t know how many. And then there were the electronic versions. The downloads.”

“How did the brothers react?”

“Well, it seemed a miracle. On so many levels. We suddenly had more money than we could use, and more coming all the time. But money aside, it was as if God had given His blessing. Smiled on the project.”

“And not just God, but the outside world,” said Gamache.

“True. It seemed everyone all at once discovered how beautiful our music was.”

“Validation?”

Frère Bernard colored and nodded. “I’m embarrassed to admit, but that’s what it felt like. It seemed to matter after all. What the world thought.”

“The world loved you.”

Bernard took a deep breath and lowered his gaze to his hands, now resting on the lap of his robe. Cradling the ends of the rope around his waist.

“And for a while that felt wonderful,” said Frère Bernard.

“What happened?”

“The world not only discovered our music, they discovered us. Planes started buzzing overhead, people arrived by the boatload. Reporters, sightseers. Self-proclaimed pilgrims came to worship us. It was terrible.”

“The price of fame.”

“All we wanted was heat in the winter,” said Frère Bernard. “And a roof that didn’t leak.”

“But still, you managed to hold them all off.”

“That was Dom Philippe. He made it clear to other monasteries, and to the public, that we’re a reclusive order. With a rule of silence. He even went on television, just the once. Radio Canada.”

“I saw the interview.” Though it could hardly be called an interview. It was Dom Philippe standing in an anonymous location, in his robes. Looking at the camera, and imploring people to please leave his monastery alone. He was glad everyone was enjoying the chants, but said it was all they had to offer. They could give nothing more. But the world could give them, the monks of Saint-Gilbert, a great gift. Peace and quiet.

“And did they leave the monks alone?” asked Gamache.

“Eventually.”

“But peace wasn’t restored, was it?”

They left the shower rooms and Gamache followed Frère Bernard down the quiet corridor. Toward the closed door at the end. Not the one into the Blessed Chapel. But the other end.

Frère Bernard pulled on the handle and they stepped into a bright new day.

They were, in fact, in a huge walled enclosure. With goats and sheep, chickens and ducks. Frère Bernard took a reed basket for himself and handed one to Gamache.

The air was fresh, cool, and felt good after the heat of the shower. Over the high wall he could see pine trees, and hear birds and the soft lapping of water on rocks.

“
Excusez-moi,
” said Bernard to the chicken before taking her egg. “
Merci
.”

Gamache also burrowed his large hand under the chickens, and found the warm eggs. He placed them carefully in his basket.

“
Merci,
” he said to each chicken.

“Peace appeared to have been restored, Chief Inspector,” said Bernard as he moved from hen to hen. “But Saint-Gilbert didn’t feel the same. There was tension. Some of the monks wanted to capitalize on our popularity. Arguing it was clearly God’s will, and it would be wicked to turn our backs on such an opportunity.”

“And others?”

“They argued that God had been generous enough, and we needed to accept what He’d given with humility. That this was a test. That fame was a serpent, masquerading as a friend. This was our temptation and we needed to reject it.”

“Where did Frère Mathieu stand?”

Bernard came to a large duck and stroked her head, whispering words Gamache couldn’t hear but recognized as endearments. Then Frère Bernard kissed the top of her head and moved on. Without taking away any of her eggs.

“With the abbot. They were best friends, two halves of a whole. Dom Philippe the aesthetic, the prior a man of action. Together they led the monastery. Without the abbot there would never have been a recording. He supported it completely. Helped with the connections with the outside world. Was as joyful about it as the rest.”

“And the prior?”

“It was his baby. He was the undisputed leader of the choir and the recording. He chose the music, the arrangements, the soloists, the order in which they’d be recorded. It was all done in a single morning, in the Blessed Chapel, using an old tape machine the abbot borrowed on a trip to the abbey at Saint-Benoit-du-lac.”

It was, Gamache knew from listening to the CD many times, not of good quality. But that added a sort of sheen to it, a legitimacy. No digital editing, no multiple tracks. No tricks or fakery. It was real.

And it was beautiful. It had captured what Frère Bernard had described. When people listened it was as though they too belonged. Were less alone. Were still individuals, but part of a community. Part of everything. People, animals, trees, rocks. There was suddenly no distinction.

It felt as though the Gregorian chants entered people’s bodies and rearranged their DNA, so that they were part of everything around them. There was no anger, no competition, no winners or losers. Everything was splendid and everything was equal.

And everyone was at peace.

No wonder people wanted more. Cried for more. Demanded more. Showed up at the monastery, and pounded on the door, almost hysterical to be let in. And given more.

And the monks had refused.

Bernard had been quiet for a few moments, walking slowly around the perimeter of the enclosure.

“Tell me,” said Gamache. There was more, he knew. There was always more. Bernard had followed him into the showers, with one purpose. To tell Gamache something, and so far while interesting, this wasn’t it.

There was more.

“It was the vow of silence.”

Gamache waited, then finally prodded. “Go on.”

Frère Bernard hesitated, trying to find the words to explain something that didn’t exist in the outside world. “Our vow of silence isn’t absolute. It’s also known as a rule of silence. We’re allowed to talk to each other sometimes, but it disturbs the peace of the abbey, and the peace of the monk. Silence is seen as both voluntary and deeply spiritual.”

“But you are allowed to talk?”

“Our tongues aren’t cut out when we sign up,” said the monk with a smile. “But it isn’t encouraged. A chatty man would never make a monk. There’re times of the day where quiet is more important. Night, for instance. That’s called the Great Silence. Some monasteries have relaxed the vow of silence, but here at Saint-Gilbert we try to maintain a great silence most of the day.”

Great silence, thought Gamache. That was what he’d experienced a few hours ago, when he’d risen and walked into the corridor. It had felt like a void into which he might fall. And if he had, what would he have met there?

“The greater the silence the louder the voice of God?” asked Gamache.

“Well, the better chance we have of hearing it. Some of the monks wanted the vow lifted so that we could go into the world and speak to people about the music. Maybe do concerts. We were getting all sorts of invitations. There was even a rumor that we’d been invited to the Vatican, but the abbot had declined.”

“How did people feel about that?”

“Some were angry. Some were relieved.”

“Some supported the abbot, and some didn’t?”

Bernard nodded. “You have to understand, an abbot is more than a boss. Our allegiance isn’t to the bishop or archbishop. It’s to the abbot. And the abbey. We elect him and he keeps that job until he either dies or steps down. He’s our pope.”

“And is he considered infallible?”

Bernard stopped walking and crossed his arms, laying his free hand protectively and instinctively on the eggs.

“No. But the happiest abbeys are where the monks don’t question their abbot. And the best abbots are open to suggestions. Discuss everything in Chapter. Then they make a decision. And everyone accepts. It’s seen as an act of humility and of grace. It’s not about winning or losing, but voicing your opinion. And letting God and the community decide.”

“But that stopped happening here.”

Bernard nodded.

“Was there someone who started this campaign to end the vow of silence? A voice for the dissenters?”

Again, Bernard nodded. This was what he’d wanted to say.

“Frère Mathieu,” said Bernard, at last. He looked miserable. “The prior wanted the vow of silence lifted. It led to terrible rows. He was a forceful man. Used to getting what he wanted. Up until then what he wanted and what the abbot wanted were the same thing. But not anymore.”

“And Frère Mathieu didn’t submit?” asked Gamache.

“Not at all. And slowly other monks saw that the walls didn’t crumble if they too didn’t submit. If they continued to fight, and even disobeyed. The arguments escalated, became more vocal.”

“In a silent community?”

Bernard smiled. “You’d be surprised how many ways there are to get your message across. Far more powerful, and insulting, than words. A turned back in a monastery is like dropping the f-bomb. A rolled eye is a nuclear attack.”

“And by yesterday morning?” asked Gamache.

“By yesterday morning the monastery had been laid to waste. Except that the bodies were still walking and the walls still standing. But Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups was dead in every other way.”