No, he couldn’t explain it.
But Beauvoir knew one thing, after years of kneeling beside dead bodies. It was very, very dangerous to come between a person and their beliefs.
Frère Antoine handed Beauvoir a basket. The monk bent down and searched through thick elephant ear leaves.
“Why do you think Frère Luc is the portier?” the monk asked, not looking at Beauvoir.
“Punishment? Some sort of hazing ritual?”
Frère Antoine shook his head. “Every single one of us is assigned that little room when we first arrive.”
“Why?”
“So we can leave.”
Frère Antoine picked a plump squash and put it in Beauvoir’s basket.
“Religious life is hard, Inspector. And this is the hardest. Not many can cut it.”
He made it sound like the marines of religious orders. There’s no life like it. And Beauvoir discovered a small stirring of understanding. Of attraction even. This was a tough life. And only the tough made it. The few. The proud. The monks.
“Those of us who stay at Saint-Gilbert have been called here. But that means it’s voluntary. And we have to be sure.”
“So you test each new monk?”
“We don’t test him, the test is between himself and God. And there’s no wrong answer. Just the truth. He’s given the door to guard and the key to leave.”
“Free choice?” asked Beauvoir, and saw the monk smile again.
“Might as well make use of it.”
“Has anyone ever left?”
“Lots. More leave than stay.”
“And Brother Luc? He’s been here almost a year now. When’s his test over?”
“When he decides it’s over. When he asks to be taken out of the porter’s room and comes to join the rest of us. Or he uses the key and leaves.”
Another heavy gourd landed in Beauvoir’s basket.
Frère Antoine moved down the row.
“He’s in a sort of purgatory there,” said the monk, searching among the huge leaves for more squash. “Of his own making. It must be very painful. He seems paralyzed.”
“By what?”
“You tell me, Inspector. What generally paralyzes people?”
Beauvoir knew that answer. “Fear.”
Frère Antoine nodded. “Frère Luc is gifted. By far the best voice we have here, and that’s saying something. But he’s frozen with fear.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything. Of belonging. And not belonging. He’s afraid of the sun and afraid of shadows. He’s afraid of creaks in the night and afraid of the morning dew. That’s why I know Frère Mathieu wouldn’t have chosen him to be the soloist. Because his voice, while beautiful, is full of fear. When that fear is replaced by faith he’ll be the soloist. But not before.”
Beauvoir thought about that as they inched down the row, his basket growing heavy with produce.
“But suppose the prior had chosen him? Suppose he decided most people wouldn’t hear the fear, or care. Maybe it even made the music more attractive, richer, more human. I don’t know. But suppose Frère Mathieu had chosen Luc. How would you’ve felt?”
The monk took the straw hat from his head and wiped his brow. “You think I’d care?”
Beauvoir met the stare. It really was like looking into a mirror. “I think you’d care very deeply.”
“Would you? If a man you admired, respected, revered even passed you up in favor of someone else, what would you do?”
“Is that how you felt about the prior? You revered him?”
“I did. He was a great man. He saved the monastery. And if he wanted a monkey to sing solo I’d happily plant bananas.”
Beauvoir found himself wanting to believe this man. Perhaps because he wanted to believe he’d react the same way himself.
But he had his doubts.
And Jean-Guy Beauvoir also doubted this monk. Beneath that robe, beneath that ridiculous hat, wasn’t the son of God but the son of man. And the son of man, Beauvoir knew, was capable of almost anything. If pushed. If betrayed. Especially by a man he revered.
Beauvoir knew that the root of all evil wasn’t money. No, what created and drove evil was fear. Fear of not having enough money, enough food, enough land, enough power, enough security, enough love. Fear of not getting what you want, or losing what you have.
Beauvoir watched Brother Antoine collect hidden squash. What drove a healthy, smart young man to become a monk? Was it faith or was it fear?
