A Trick of the Light
“Actually it did,” said Beauvoir, slowing for the traffic on the bridge. Beside him Gamache was gazing at the skyline. As he always did. But now the Chief turned to look at him.
“How’d it help?”
“It’s a relief. I feel free. I’m sorry it hurt Enid, but it’s one of the best things to come out of what happened.”
“How so?”
“I feel like I was given another chance. So many died, but when I didn’t I took a look at my life and realized how unhappy I was. And it wasn’t going to get better. It wasn’t Enid’s fault, but we were never really well suited. But I was afraid to change, to admit I made a mistake. Afraid to hurt her. But I just couldn’t take it anymore. Surviving the raid gave me the courage to do what I should have done years ago.”
“The courage to change.”
“Pardon?”
“It was one of the lines from that prayer on the coin,” said Gamache.
“Yeah, I guess so. Whatever it was, I could just see my life stretching ahead getting worse and worse. Don’t get me wrong, Enid’s wonderful—”
“We’ve always liked her. A lot.”
“And she likes you, as you know. But she’s not the one for me.”
“Do you know who is?”
“No.”
Beauvoir glanced at the Chief. Gamache was now looking out the windshield, his face thoughtful, then he turned to Beauvoir.
“You will,” said the Chief.
Beauvoir nodded, deep in thought. Then he finally spoke.
“What would you have done, sir? If you’d been married to someone else when you met Madame Gamache?”
Gamache looked at Beauvoir, his eyes keen. “I thought you said you hadn’t met the one for you.”
Beauvoir hesitated. He’d given the Chief the opening, and Gamache had taken it. And now looked at him. Waiting for an answer. And Beauvoir almost told him. Almost told the Chief everything. Longed to open his heart and expose it to this man. As he’d told Armand Gamache about everything else in his life. About his unhappiness with Enid. They’d talked about that, about his own family, about what he wanted, and what he didn’t want.
Jean Guy Beauvoir trusted Gamache with his life.
He opened his mouth, the words hovering there, just at the opening. As though a stone had rolled back and these miraculous words were about to emerge. Into the daylight.
I love your daughter. I love Annie.
Beside him Chief Inspector Gamache waited, as though he had all the time in the world. As though nothing could be more important than Beauvoir’s personal life.
The city, with its invisible cross, got bigger and bigger. And then they were over the bridge.
“I haven’t met anyone,” said Beauvoir. “But I want to be ready. I can’t be married. It wouldn’t have been fair to Enid.”
Gamache was quiet for a moment. “Nor would it be fair to your lover’s husband.”
It wasn’t a rebuke. Wasn’t even a warning. And Beauvoir knew then if Chief Inspector Gamache had suspected he’d have said something. He’d not play games with Beauvoir. The way Beauvoir was with Gamache.
No, this wasn’t a game. Nor was it a secret, really. It was just a feeling. Unfulfilled. Not acted upon.
I love your daughter, sir.
But those words were swallowed too. Returned to the dark to join all the other unsaid things.
* * *
They found the apartment block in the Notre-Dame-de-Grâce quartier of Montréal. Squat and gray, it might have been designed by Soviet architects in the 1960s.
The grass had been peed white by dogs, and lumps of poop sat on it. The flower beds were overgrown with strangled bushes and weeds. The concrete walk to the front door was cracked and heaved.
Inside, it smelled of urine and resonated with the distant echoes of doors slamming and people shouting at each other.
Monsieur and Madame Dyson lived on the top floor. The handrail on the concrete stairs was sticky and Beauvoir quickly took his hand off of it.
Up they walked. Three flights. Not pausing for breath but not racing either. They took measured steps. Once at the top they found the door to the Dyson apartment.
Chief Inspector Gamache raised his hand, and paused.
To give the Dysons one more second of peace before shattering their lives? Or to give himself one more moment before facing them?
Rap. Rap.
It opened a crack, a security chain across a fearful face.
“Oui?”
“Madame Dyson? My name is Armand Gamache. I’m with the Sûreté du Québec.” He already had his ID out and now showed it to her. Her eyes dropped to it, then back up to the Chief’s face. “This is my colleague Inspector Beauvoir. May we speak with you?”