“And the authority of the abbot.”
“Oui.”
It was, Gamache knew, the most curt answer he’d received so far. The monk bent down to put on his socks, breaking eye contact with the Chief, who was himself already dressed.
When the monk straightened up he smiled again. “We’re actually given very thorough personality tests. Evaluated.”
Gamache had thought his expression was neutral, but apparently his skepticism showed.
“Oui,” said the monk with a sigh. “Given the Church’s recent history it might be a good idea to reevaluate the evaluations. Seems the chosen few might not be so choice. But the fact is, most of us are good people. Sane and stable. We just want to serve God.”
“By singing.”
The monk examined Gamache. “You seem to believe, monsieur, that the music and the men can be separated. But they can’t. The community of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups is like a living chant. Each of us individual notes. On our own, nothing. But together? Divine. We don’t just sing, we are the song.”
Gamache could see he believed it. Believed that on their own they were nothing, but together the monks of Saint-Gilbert formed a plainchant. The Chief had a vision of the halls of the monastery filled not with monks in black robes, but with musical notes. Black notes bobbing through the halls. Waiting to come together in sacred song.
“How much does the prior’s death diminish that?” asked Gamache.
The monk inhaled sharply, as though the Chief had jabbed him with a pointy stick.
“We must thank God we had Frère Mathieu at all, and not be upset that he was taken from us.”
This sounded less convincing.
“But will the music suffer?” Gamache had chosen his words deliberately and he saw the result. The monk broke eye contact again and fell silent.
Gamache wondered if an equally important part of a chant wasn’t just the notes, but the space between them. The silence.
The two men stood in the silence.
“We need so little,” said the monk at last. “Music and our faith. Both will survive.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Chief. “I don’t know your name.”
“Bernard. Brother Bernard.”
“Armand Gamache.”
The two men shook hands. Bernard held the Chief’s for a moment longer than was necessary.
It was another one of the hundreds of unspoken messages that darted around the monastery. But what was the message? They were two men who had practically showered together. There did seem one obvious invitation. But Gamache instinctively knew that wasn’t what Frère Bernard was trying to say.
“But something changed,” said Gamache, and Frère Bernard released his hand.
The Chief had realized there were plenty of empty shower stalls. Bernard needn’t have chosen the one right next to the Sûreté officer.
Bernard wanted to talk. Had something to say.
“You were right last night,” said the monk. “We heard you in the Blessed Chapel. The recording changed everything. Not at first. At first it brought us even closer. It was a common mission. The point wasn’t really to share the chants with the world. We were realistic enough to know that a CD of Gregorian chants might not get on the Billboard charts.”
“Then why do it?”
“It was Frère Mathieu’s idea,” said Bernard. “The monastery needed repairs and as much as we tried to keep up with things, eventually what was needed wasn’t effort or even expertise. It was money. The one thing we didn’t have and couldn’t make. We make those chocolate-covered blueberries. Have you tried them?”
Gamache nodded.
“I help look after the animals but I also work in the chocolate factory. They’re very popular. We trade them to other monasteries in exchange for cheese and cider. And we sell them to friends and family. At a huge markup. Everyone knows that, but they also know we need the money.”
“The chocolates are fabulous,” agreed Gamache. “But you’d have to sell thousands of boxes to make enough money.”
“Or sell each box for a thousand dollars. Our families support us a lot, but that seemed a little much to ask. Believe me, Monsieur Gamache, we tried everything. And finally Frère Mathieu came up with selling the one thing we never run out of.”
“Gregorian chants.”
“Exactly. We sing all the time and don’t have to compete with bears or wolves for the blueberries and we don’t have to milk goats for the notes.”
Gamache smiled at the image of squirting Gregorian chants from the teats of goats and sheep.
