But here, just up rue St-Stanislas where Émile 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 hal , 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 wal s. 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 fel , 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 Isabel e Lacoste had thought he might like to see. Most from sympathetic col eagues around the world, others from citizens who also wanted to let him know how they felt.
He read them al , responded to them al , 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 il egible but Gamache had grown used to it and could now decode the scrawl.
Cher Armand,
This brings my thoughts, and prayers that you’re feeling better. We speak of you often and hope you’ll visit. Ruth says to bring Reine-Marie, since she doesn’t actually like you. But she did ask me to say hello, and fuck off.
Gamache smiled. It was one of the kinder things Ruth Zardo said to people. Almost an endearment. Almost.
I do, however, have one question. Why would Olivier move the body? It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t do it, you know.
Love,
Gabri
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 cal 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.
“Merci, vous êtes très gentil.” Thank you, you’re very kind, the man said.
“C’est moi qui vous remercie.” It is I who thank you, Gamache responded. It was a wel -known, but no less sincere, exchange among gracious people. The man had spoken in perfect, educated, cultured French.
Perhaps slightly accented, but Gamache knew that might just be his preconception, since he knew the
man to be English, while he himself was Francophone.
They ate their candy and read their books. Henri settled in and by three thirty the librarian, Winnie, was turning on the lamps. The sun was already setting on the wal ed city and the old library within the wal s.
Gamache was reminded of a nesting dol . The most public face was North America and huddled inside that was Canada and huddled inside Canada was Québec. And inside Québec? An even smal er presence, the tiny English community. And within that?
This place. The Literary and Historical Society. That held them and al their records, their thoughts, their memories, their symbols. Gamache didn’t have to look at the statue above him to know who it was. This place held their leaders, their language, their culture and achievements. Long forgotten or never known by the Francophone majority outside these wal s but kept alive here.
It was a remarkable place almost no Francophone even knew existed. When he’d told Émile about it his old friend had thought Gamache was joking, making it up, and yet the building was just two blocks from his own home.
Yes, it was like a nesting dol . Each held within the other until final y at the very core was this little gem.
But was it nesting or hiding?
Gamache watched Winnie make her way around the library with its floor-to-ceiling books, Indian carpets scattered on the hardwood floors, a long wooden table and beside that the sitting area. Two leather wing chairs and the worn leather sofa where Gamache sat, his correspondence and books on the coffee table. Arched windows broke up the bookcases and flooded the room with light, when there was light to catch. But the most striking part of the library was the balcony that curved above it. A wrought iron spiral staircase took patrons to the second story of bookshelves that rose to the plaster ceiling.
The room was fil ed with volume and volumes. With light. With peace.
Gamache couldn’t believe he’d never known it was here, had stumbled over it quite by accident one day while on a walk trying to clear his mind of the images.
But more than the flashes that came unbidden, were the sounds. The gunshots, the exploding wood and wal s as bul ets hit. The shouts, then the screams.
But louder than al of that was the quiet, trusting, young voice in his head.
“I believe you, sir.”
Armand and Henri left the library and did their rounds of the shops, picking up a selection of raw milk cheeses, pâté and lamb from J.A. Moisan, fruit and vegetables from the grocery store across the way, and a fresh, warm baguette from the Pail ard bakery on rue St-Jean. Arriving home before Émile he put another log on the fire to warm up the chil y home. It had been built in 1752 and while the stone wal s were three feet thick and would easily repel a cannonbal , it was defenseless against the winter wind.
As Armand cooked the home warmed up and by the time Émile arrived the place was toasty warm and smel ed of rosemary and garlic and lamb.
“Salut,” Émile cal ed from the front door, then a moment later arrived in the kitchen carrying a bottle of red wine and reaching for the corkscrew. “Smel s terrific.”
Gamache carried the evening tray of baguette, cheeses and pâté into the living room, placing it on the table before the fire while Émile brought in their wine.
“Santé.”
The two men sat facing the fireplace and toasted.
When they each had something to eat they discussed their days, Émile describing lunching with friends at the bar in the Château Frontenac and research he was doing for the Société Champlain. Gamache described his quiet hours in the library.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Émile took a bite of wild boar pâté.
Gamache shook his head. “It’s in there somewhere.
Otherwise it doesn’t make sense. We know the French troops were not more than half a mile from here in 1759, waiting for the English.”