'-this year, for the first time, he applied for and got a bow-hunting permit.'
Ta da.
The meeting broke up. Beauvoir handed out the assignments and the teams went off. As the room cleared Nichol made to get up but Gamache stopped her. They were alone now and he wanted a quiet talk. He'd watched her during the meeting, again choosing a seat one removed from the next person, not grabbing a coffee and Danish with the others. In fact, not doing anything anyone else did. It was almost willful, this desire to separate herself from the team. The clothes she was wearing were plain, not the kind you might expect from a Montreal woman in her mid-twenties. There was none of the characteristic Quebecoise flamboyance. He realised he'd grown used to a certain individuality among his team members. But Nichol seemed to strive to be invisible. Her suit was dull blue and made of cheap material. The shoulders were slightly padded, the lumps of foam screamed bargain bin. Creeping out from her armpits was a thin white line where the tide of perspiration had reached the last time she'd worn this suit. And not cleaned it. He wondered if she made her own clothes. He wondered if she still lived at home with her parents. He wondered how proud they must be of her, and how much pressure she felt to succeed. He wondered if all that explained the one thing that did distinguish her from everyone else. Her smugness.
'You're a trainee, here to learn,' he said quietly, directly into the slightly pursed face. 'Therefore a certain teaching is necessary. Do you enjoy learning?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And how do you learn?'
'Sir?'
'The question is clear. Think about it, please, and answer.'
His deep brown eyes, as always, were lively and warm. He spoke calmly, but firmly. Without hostility but with an expectation. His tone was clearly one of boss and trainee. She was taken aback. He had been so friendly yesterday, so courteous, she thought she could take advantage of that. Now she began to realise her mistake.
'I learn by watching and listening, sir.'
'And?'
And what? They sat there, Gamache looking as though he had all day, though she knew he had to conduct the public meeting in Three Pines in just two hours and they still had to drive there. Nichol's mind froze. And… and…
'Think about it. Tonight you can tell me what you've come up with. For now, though, let me tell you how I work. And what my expectations of you are.'
'Yes sir.'
'I watch. I'm very good at observing. Noticing things. And listening. Actively listening to what people are saying, their choice of words, their tone. What they aren't saying. And this, Agent Nichol, is the key. It's choice.'
'Choice?'
'We choose our thoughts. We choose our perceptions. We choose our attitudes. We may not think so. We may not believe it, but we do. I absolutely know we do. I've seen enough evidence, time after time, tragedy after tragedy. Triumph after triumph. It's about choice.'
'Like choice of schools? Or dinner?'
'Clothes, hairstyle, friends. Yes. It starts there. Life is choice. All day, everyday. Who we talk to, where we sit, what we say, how we say it. And our lives become defined by our choices. It's as simple and as complex as that. And as powerful. So when I'm observing, that's what I'm watching for. The choices people make.'
'What can I do, sir?'
'You can learn. You can watch and listen, and do as you're told. You're a trainee. Nobody expects you to know anything. If you pretend to know you aren't going to actually learn.'
Nichol could feel herself blush and cursed her body, which had betrayed her for as long as she could remember. She was a blusher. Maybe, came some voice from deep down below blushing level, maybe if you stop pretending you'll also stop blushing. But it was a very weak voice.
'I watched you yesterday. You did some good work. You got us on to the arrow possibility early. Excellent. But you also have to listen. Listen to the villagers, listen to the suspects, listen to gossip, listen to your instincts and listen to your colleagues.'
Nichol liked the sound of that. Colleagues. She'd never had them before. In the Highway Division of the Surete she'd worked more or less on her own, and before that in the local Repentigny force she'd always felt people were waiting to undermine her. It would be nice to have colleagues. Gamache leaned toward her.
'You need to learn that you have choices. There are four things that lead to wisdom. You ready for them?'
She nodded, wondering when the police work would begin.
'They are four sentences we learn to say, and mean.' Gamache held up his hand as a fist and raised a finger with each point. 'I don't know. I need help. I'm sorry. And one other.' Gamache thought for a moment but couldn't bring it to mind. 'I forget. But we'll talk more about it tonight, right?'
'Right, sir. And thank you.' Oddly enough, she realised she meant it.
After Gamache had left, Nichol brought out her notebook. She hadn't wanted to take notes while he was talking. She figured it would make her look foolish. Now she quickly wrote: I'm sorry, I don't know, I need help, I forget.
When Peter got out of the shower and came into the kitchen he noticed two things. The coffee was brewing and Clara was wrapped around Lucy who herself was a tight ball of Golden Retriever, her nose between her back legs.
'It worked for me last night,' said Clara, arching her head back to look at Peter's slippers, and instinctively up his bathrobe.
Peter knelt down and kissed Clara. Then he kissed Lucy's head. But the dog didn't stir. 'Poor one.'
'I offered her some banana but she didn't even look up.'
Everyday for Lucy's entire dog life Jane had sliced a banana for breakfast and had miraculously dropped one of the perfect disks on to the floor where it sat for an instant before being gobbled up. Every morning Lucy's prayers were answered, confirming her belief that God was old and clumsy and smelt like roses and lived in the kitchen.
But no more.
Lucy knew her God was dead. And she now knew the miracle wasn't the banana, it was the hand that offered the banana.
After breakfast Peter and Clara both got into their fall clothing and headed across the village green to Ben's place. The gray clouds were threatening rain and the wind had a dampness and a bite. The aroma of sauteed garlic and onions met them as they stepped on to Ben's front veranda. Clara knew if she was struck blind she'd always be able to tell when she was in Ben's home. It smelled of stinky dog and old books. All of Ben's dogs had smelled, not just Daisy, and it seemed to have nothing to do with age. Clara wasn't sure if he created or attracted them. But now, suddenly, his place smelled of home cooking. Instead of welcoming it, Clara felt a little queasy, as though one more certainty had been removed. She wanted the old smell back. She wanted Jane back. She wanted everything to stay the same.
'Oh, I wanted to surprise you,' said Ben, coming over to hug Clara. 'Chili con carne.'
'My favorite comfort food.'
'I've never made it before but I have some of my mother's recipe books and found it in The Joy of Cooking. It won't bring Jane back, but it might ease the pain.'
Clara looked at the huge cookbook open on the counter, and felt revolted. It had come from that house. Timmer's place. The home that repulsed love and laughter and welcomed snakes and mice. She wanted nothing to do with it, and she realised her revulsion stretched even to objects that had come from there.
'But Ben, you loved Jane too. And you found her. It must have been a nightmare.'
'It was.' He told them briefly about it, his back to them, not daring to face Peter and Clara as though he was responsible. He stirred the ground meat as it cooked while Clara opened the tins of ingredients and listened to Ben. After a moment she handed the can opener to Peter and had to sit down. Ben's story was playing in her head like a movie. But she kept expecting Jane to get up. As Ben finished Clara excused herself and went through the kitchen into the living room.