The Brutal Telling (40 page)

“Pipe?” Gabri walked over to his partner and offered him a licorice pipe, but Olivier seemed under a spell. Gabri bit into the licorice himself, eating the candied end first, as per the rules.

“What’s bothering you?” Gabri followed the other man’s gaze and saw only what he’d expect to see. Certainly nothing riveting. Just the customers on the
terrasse
, then the village green with Ruth and Rosa. The duck was now wearing a knitted sweater.

Olivier’s eyes narrowed as he too focused on the duck. Then he turned to Gabri.

“Does that sweater look familiar to you?”

“Which?”

“The duck’s, of course.” Olivier studied Gabri closely. The large man never could lie. Now he ate the rest of the pipe and put on his most perplexed face.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s my sweater, isn’t it?”

“Come off it, Olivier. Do you really think you and the duck wear the same size?”

“Not now, but when I was a kid. Where’re my baby clothes?”

Now Gabri was silent, damning Ruth for parading Rosa in her new wardrobe. Well, maybe not so new.

“I thought it was time to get rid of them,” said Gabri. “Ruth needed sweaters and things for Rosa to keep her warm in the fall and winter and I thought of your baby clothes. What were you saving them for anyway? They were just taking up space in the basement.”

“How much space could they take up?” Olivier demanded, feeling himself breaking apart inside, his reserve crumbling. “How could you?” he snarled at Gabri, who leaned away, shocked.

“But you’d talked about getting rid of them yourself.”

“Me, me. Me getting rid of them. Not you. You had no right.”

“I’m sorry, I had no idea they meant that much to you.”

“Well they do. Now what am I going to do?”

Olivier watched as Rosa waddled behind Ruth, who muttered away to the duck, saying God knew what. And Olivier felt tears sting his eyes, and a swell of emotion erupt from his throat. He couldn’t very well take the clothes back. Not now. They were gone. Gone forever.

“Do you want me to get them back?” asked Gabri, taking Olivier’s hand.

Olivier shook his head. Not even sure why he felt so strongly. He had so much else to worry about. And it was true, he’d thought about getting rid of the box of old baby clothes. The only reasons he hadn’t were laziness, and not being sure who to give them to.

Why not Rosa? A distant honking was heard in the sky and both Rosa and Ruth lifted their heads. Overhead a formation of ducks headed south.

Sadness washed over Olivier. Gone. It was all gone. Everything.

For weeks and weeks the villagers journeyed through the forests. At first the young man hurried them along looking behind him now and then. He regretted telling his family and friends to leave with him. He could have been much farther away without the old men and women, and the children. But as the weeks went by and peaceful day followed peaceful day, he began to worry less and was even grateful for the company.

He’d almost forgotten to look over his shoulder when the first sign appeared.

It was twilight, only the twilight never died. Night never fell completely. He wasn’t sure if any of the others noticed. It was, after all, just a small glow in the distance. At the horizon. The next day the sun rose, but not completely. There was a darkness to the sky. But again, just at the horizon. As though a shadow had spilled over from the other side.

The young man knew then.

He clutched his parcel tighter and hurried everyone along, rushing
forward. Driving them onward. They were willing to hurry. After all, immortality, youth, happiness awaited. They were almost giddy with joy. And in that joy he hid.

At night the light grew in the sky. And during the day the shadow stretched toward them.

“Is that it?” his elderly aunt asked eagerly, as they crested a hill. “Are we there?”

In front of them was water. Nothing but water.

And behind them the shadow lengthened.

“Olivier?”

The blond head was bowed, studying the receipts of the day so far. It was getting on for lunch and the bistro was filled with the aroma of garlic and herbs and roast chicken.

Olivier had seen them coming, had heard them even. That shriek as though the forest itself was crying out. They’d emerged from the woods on their ATVs and parked at the old Hadley house. Much of the village stopped what it was doing to watch as Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir walked into the village. They were deep in conversation and no one disturbed them. Olivier had turned away then, walking further into his bistro and behind the bar. Around him the young waiters set tables while Havoc Parra wrote specials on the board.

The door opened and Olivier turned his back. Claiming every last moment.

“Olivier?” said the Chief Inspector. “We need to talk. In private, please.”

Olivier turned and smiled, as though if he ingratiated himself enough they might not do this thing. The Chief Inspector smiled back, but it never reached his thoughtful eyes. Leading them into the back room that overlooked the Rivière Bella Bella Olivier indicated the chairs at the dining table and sat himself.

“How can I help?”

His heart thudded in his chest and his hands were cold and numb. He could no longer feel his extremities, and dots danced before his eyes. He struggled for breath and felt light-headed.

“Tell us about the man who lived in the cabin,” Chief Inspector
Gamache said, matter-of-factly. “The dead man.” He folded his hands, settling in. A good dinner companion who wanted to hear your stories.

There was no escape, Olivier knew. He’d known it from the instant he’d seen the Hermit dead on the bistro floor. He’d seen this avalanche sliding toward him, gaining momentum. Olivier couldn’t run. Could never outrun what was coming.

“He was one of my first customers when Gabri and I moved to Three Pines.”

The words, kept inside for so long, crawled out. Rotting. Olivier was surprised his breath didn’t stink.

Gamache gave him a small nod of encouragement.

“We just had an antique shop then. I hadn’t turned this into a bistro, yet. We rented the space above to live in. It was awful. Crammed full of junk, and filthy. Someone had plastered over all the original features. But we worked day and night to restore it. I think we’d only been here a few weeks when he walked in. He wasn’t the man you saw on the floor. Not then. This was years ago.”

Olivier saw it all again. Gabri was upstairs in their new home, stripping the beams and taking the drywall off, exposing the magnificent original brick walls. Each discovery more exciting than the last. But none could rival the growing awareness that they’d found a home. A place they could finally settle. At first they’d been so intent on unpacking they didn’t really take in the details of the village. But slowly, over the first few weeks and months, the village revealed itself.

“I was still setting up the business and didn’t have much stuff, just odds and ends collected over the years. I’d always dreamed of opening an antique store, since I was a kid. Then the chance came.”

“It didn’t just come,” said Gamache quietly. “It was helped along.”

Olivier sighed. He should have known Gamache would find out.

“I’d quit my job in the city. I’d been quite successful, as you might have heard.”

Gamache nodded again.

Olivier smiled, remembering those heady days. Of silk suits and gym memberships, of visiting the Mercedes dealership when the only issue was the color of the car.

And of taking that one step too far.

It’d been humiliating. He’d been so depressed he was afraid of what
he might do to himself, so he’d sought help. And there, in the waiting room of the therapist, was Gabri. Large, voluble, vain and full of life.

At first Olivier had been repulsed. Gabri was everything he’d come to despise. Olivier thought of himself and his friends as gay men. Discreet, elegant, cynical.

Gabri was just queer. Common. And fat. There was nothing discreet about him.

But neither was there anything mean. And over time Olivier grew to appreciate how very beautiful kindness was.

And he fell in love with Gabri. Deeply, totally, indiscreetly in love.

Gabri had agreed to leave his job at the Y in Westmount and move out of the city. It didn’t matter where. They got in their car and drove south. And there, over a rise in the road, they’d stopped the car. Finally admitting they were lost. Though since they had no destination they couldn’t be lost, Gabri happily told Olivier, who was busy in the driver’s side wrestling with a Carte Routière du Québec. Eventually he realized Gabri was standing outside and softly tapping on his window. He lowered it and Gabri gestured.

Annoyed, Olivier shoved the map into the backseat and got out.

“What?” he snapped at Gabri, who was looking ahead. Olivier followed his gaze. And found home.

He knew it immediately.

It was the place in all the fairy tales he’d read as a kid, under the bedding, when his father thought, hoped, he was reading about naval battles. Or naked girls. Instead he’d been reading about villages, and cottages, and gardens. And little wisps of smoke, and dry stone walls older than anyone in the village.

He’d forgotten all that, until that very moment. And in that instant he remembered his other childhood dream. Of opening an antique shop. A modest little affair where he could put his finds.

“Shall we,
ma belle
?” Gabri took Olivier’s hand and leaving the car where it stood they walked down the dirt road and into Three Pines.

“I was disappointed at first when the Hermit came in—”

“The Hermit?” Gamache asked.

“That’s what I called him.”

“But didn’t you know his name?”

“He never told me and I never asked.”

Gamache caught Beauvoir’s eye. The Inspector was looking both disappointed and disbelieving.

“Go on,” said Gamache.

“His hair was a little long and he looked a bit scruffy. Not the sort to do a lot of buying. But it was quiet and I talked to him. He came back a week later, and then about once a week for a few months. Finally he took me aside and said he had something he wanted to sell. That was pretty disappointing too. I’d been nice to the guy but now he was asking me to buy some piece of junk and it pissed me off. I almost asked him to leave, but by then he had the piece in his hand.”

Olivier remembered looking down. They were at the back and the lighting wasn’t good, but it didn’t gleam or glitter. In fact it looked very dull. Olivier reached out for it but the Hermit drew his hand back. And then it caught the light.

It was a miniature portrait. The two men walked to the window and Olivier got a good view.

It was in a tarnished old frame and must have been painted with a single horse hair, so fine was the detail. It showed a man in profile, powdered wig, blowsy clothing.

Even the memory made Olivier’s heart quicken.

“How much do you want?”

“Maybe some food?” the Hermit had asked, and the deal was sealed.