But the agent was already gone. And Gamache himself had to go.
“This is where,” the Chief said, “a dying man, if he’s able, gives his confession.”
Frère Simon was silent.
“What did he say?” Gamache asked.
“He made a noise,” said Frère Simon, as though in a trance. “Trying to clear his throat and then he said ‘homo.’”
Now Simon focused. He came back from far away. The two men stared at each other.
“Homo?” asked the Chief.
Frère Simon nodded. “You can see why I didn’t say anything. It has nothing to do with his death.”
But, thought Gamache, perhaps a lot to do with his life. The Chief considered for a moment.
“What do you think he meant?” he finally asked.
“I think we both know what he meant.”
“Was he gay? Homosexual?”
For a moment Frère Simon tried on his disapproving look, then abandoned it. They were far beyond that.
“It’s hard to explain,” said Frère Simon. “We’re two dozen men here alone. Our goal, our prayer, is to find divine love. Compassion. To be consumed by the love of God.”
“That’s the ideal,” said Gamache. “But in the meantime, you’re also human.”
The need for physical comfort was, he knew, powerful and primal and didn’t necessarily go away with a vow of chastity.
“But what we need isn’t physical love,” said Frère Simon, correctly interpreting Gamache’s thoughts, and correcting him. The monk didn’t sound at all defensive. He was simply struggling to find the right words. “I think most, if not all of us, have left that far behind. We’re not highly sexed or sexual.”
“What do you need then?”
“Kindness. Intimacy. Not sexual. But companionship. God should replace man in our affections, but the reality is, we all want a friend.”
“Is that how you feel, with the abbot?” Gamache asked the question baldly, but his voice and his manner were gentle. “I saw how you reacted when you thought he was the one hurt and dying.”
“I love him, it’s true. But I have no desire for physical relations. It’s hard to explain a love that goes so far beyond that.”
“And the prior? Did he love another?”
Frère Simon was silent. Not a mulish silence, but a contemplative one.
After a minute or so he spoke. “I wondered if he and the abbot…”
It was as far as he could go, for the moment. There was another pause.
“There were many years when they were inseparable. Besides myself, the prior was the only other person ever invited into the abbot’s garden.”
For the first time, Gamache began to wonder if the garden existed on different planes. It was both a place of grass and earth and flowers. But also an allegory. For that most private place inside each one of them. For some it was a dark, locked room. For others, a garden.
The secretary had been admitted. And so had the prior.
And the prior had died there.
“What do you think the prior meant?” asked Gamache.
“I think there’s only one possible interpretation. He knew he was dying and he wanted absolution.”
“For being a homosexual? I thought you just said he probably wasn’t.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. His relationships might’ve been platonic, but he might’ve privately yearned for more. He knew it. And God knew it.”
“Is it the sort of thing God would condemn him for?” Gamache asked.
“For being gay? Maybe not. For breaking his vow of chastity, probably. It’s the sort of thing that would need to be confessed.”
“By saying ‘homo’?” Gamache was far from convinced, though when a person was dying reason played a very small part, if any. When the end came and there was time for only one word, what would that be?
The Chief Inspector had no doubt what his last words would be. And were. When he’d thought he was dying he’d said two words, over and over until he could speak no more.
Reine-Marie.
It would never occur to him to say “hetero.” But then, he carried no guilt about his relationships. And maybe the prior did.
“Do you have his personal records I might see?” asked Gamache.
“No.”
“‘No,’ you don’t want to show me, or ‘no,’ you really don’t have files.”
“We really don’t have files.”
