The Beautiful Mystery
* * *
“Who’s leading the choir now that the prior is gone?” Gamache asked. They’d walked to the end of the garden and were wandering back. Their cheeks were red from the cold morning air.
“I’ve asked Brother Antoine to take over the choir.”
“The soloist? The one who challenged you last night?”
“The one who is by far the most accomplished musician, after Mathieu.”
“You weren’t tempted to take over?”
“I was tempted, and still am,” said the abbot with a smile. “But I passed up that fruit. Antoine is the man for the job. Not me.”
“And yet, he was one of the prior’s men.”
“What do you mean by that?” The abbot’s smile faded.
Gamache cocked his head slightly and examined his companion. “I mean that this abbey, this order, is divided. The prior’s men on one side, the abbot’s men on the other.”
“That’s preposterous,” the abbot snapped. Then snapped back into place. But it was too late. Gamache had had a glimpse of what hid beneath the face. A serpent’s tongue had lashed out, and retreated just as quickly.
“It’s the truth, mon père,” said Gamache.
“You’re mistaking dissent for dissension,” said the abbot.
“I’m not. I do know the difference. What’s happening here, and has probably been going on for quite a while, is far more than healthy disagreement. And you know it.”
The two men had stopped walking and now stared at each other.
“I don’t know what you mean, Monsieur Gamache. There’s no such creature as an abbot’s man. Or a prior’s man. Mathieu and I worked together for decades. He looked after the music, I looked after their spiritual life—”
“But weren’t they one and the same? Frère Luc described the chants as both a bridge to God and God himself.”
“Frère Luc is young and tends to simplify.”
“Frère Luc is one of the prior’s men.”
The abbot bristled. “The chants are important, but only one aspect of our spiritual lives here at Saint-Gilbert.”
“Does the split cut along those lines?” asked Gamache. His voice was calm but unrelenting. “Those for whom the music was paramount joined with the prior. Those whose faith came first joined with you?”
“There was no joining,” said the abbot, his voice raised in exasperation. Desperation, even, thought Gamache. “We’re united. We can sometimes disagree, but that’s all.”
“And did you disagree about the direction of the abbey? Did you disagree about something as fundamental as the vow of silence?”
“I lifted that.”
“Yes, but only after the prior was dead, and only to answer our questions, not to allow the monks to go into the world. Do concerts, give interviews.”
“The vow of silence will never be permanently lifted. Never.”
* * *
“Do you think the second recording’ll go ahead?” Beauvoir asked.
Now, finally, he saw a reaction in Frère Antoine. A flash of anger, then suppressed. Like the root vegetables beneath their feet. Buried, but still growing.
“I have no idea. If the prior was alive I’m sure it would have. The abbot was against it, of course. But Frère Mathieu would’ve won.”
There was no uncertainty in the monk’s voice. And Beauvoir finally had his button. It had taken him awhile to find it. He could push and insult and harangue Frère Antoine all day, and he’d remain composed, good-humored even. But mention the abbot?
Kaboom.
“Why do you say, ‘of course’? Why would the abbot be against it?”
As long as he could keep pushing the “abbot button” this monk would be off-balance. And there was a better chance something unexpected would come out of that mouth.
“Because it wasn’t under his control.”
The monk leaned closer to Beauvoir. Jean-Guy felt the force of this monk’s personality. And his physical vitality. Here was a strong man, in every way.
Why are you a monk? was really the question Beauvoir was longing to ask. But didn’t. And he knew, deep down, why not. He too was afraid. Of the answer.
“Look, the abbot decides everything within these walls. In a monastic life the abbot is all-powerful,” said Frère Antoine, his hazel eyes focused on Beauvoir. “But he let something slip through his fingers. The music. In allowing the first recording he let the music out into the world and lost control of it. The chants took on a life of their own. He’s spent the past year trying to undo all that. To contain them again.” A malicious smile appeared on that handsome face. “But he can’t. It’s God’s will. And he hates it. And he hated the prior. We all knew that.”