The Long Way Home(38)
Frère Albert’s brilliance was in knowing that a community created to help others would never thrive. But one created for equal benefit would. He knew he too was flawed. Perhaps not in ways as obvious as someone with Down’s syndrome. But in ways more subtle, yet equally challenging.
The great genius of LaPorte was the absolute knowledge that everyone there had something to learn from, something to give to, the other. There was no distinction between the Down’s syndrome member and anyone else.
“Dr. Gilbert went there to volunteer as the community’s medical director,” said Myrna. “Not because he could heal them, but because he needed to be healed.”
“Exactly,” said Gamache. “We all need to be healed at some time in our lives. We’ve all been deeply hurt. His hurt was, I think, the same as Peter’s. Not physical, but spiritual. They both had a hole. A tear.”
This was met with silence.
Everyone around that table knew how that felt. The horror of realizing all the toys, all the success, all the powerful boards and new cars and accolades hadn’t filled the hole. They’d actually made it bigger. Deeper.
There was nothing wrong with success, but it had to have meaning.
“Vincent Gilbert knocked on LaPorte hoping to find himself,” said Gamache.
“And you think Peter did too?” asked Clara.
“Do you?” he asked her.
“I’ll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country,” Clara said.
“I will pray you find a way to be useful,” Gamache completed the quote.
Reine-Marie dropped her eyes to her hands and saw the paper napkin twisted and shredded there.
Clara nodded slowly. “I think you might be right. Peter went to Paris not to find a new artistic voice. It was simpler than that. He wanted to find a way to be useful.”
The sun was going down and the birds and crickets and scrambling creatures grew quiet. The scent of roses and sweet peas drifted toward them on the heavy evening air.
“Then why didn’t he stay?” Clara asked.
“Maybe the hole was too big,” said Myrna.
“Maybe his courage failed,” said Reine-Marie.
“Maybe while LaPorte was Dr. Gilbert’s answer, it wasn’t Peter’s,” said Jean-Guy. “His was somewhere else.”
Gamache nodded. He had a call in to the Sûreté in Paris, asking them to visit LaPorte with Peter Morrow’s picture and the dates. To confirm what they suspected. Peter had been there.
And Peter had left there.
THIRTEEN
“Anyone else hungry?” Myrna asked. “Who has the time?”
She couldn’t read her watch in the dark. The sun had set as they’d listened to Armand. So absorbed were they that they hadn’t noticed the darkness. Or their hunger. But now they did.
“Almost ten,” said Beauvoir, whose watch illuminated. “Will Olivier and Gabri still be serving?”
By now they were making their way out of Clara’s back garden, toward the bistro. It was a pleasant evening and they could see late diners lingering over dessert and coffee on the terrasse.
“Quid pro quo,” said Clara. “We’ll feed them information and they’ll feed us food.”
Quid pro quo was a specialty of Olivier’s Bistro.
They took a table inside, tucked into a corner. Far from the other diners. Gabri and Olivier were able to join them, happy to be off their feet.
Ruth joined them, limping in with Rosa from the bookstore.
“Can I close it now?” she demanded.
Myrna turned her head and whispered to Clara, “Jesus, I’d forgotten about her.”
“Who knew she’d even open the bookstore,” said Clara under her breath, “never mind not burn it down.”
“We just got back,” Myrna looked Ruth in the eye and lied. “Thank you for looking after the store.”
“Rosa did most of the business.”
“‘The’ business or ‘her’ business?” Gabri asked.
Myrna and Clara exchanged worried glances. It was a good question and an important distinction.
“A few people came in,” said Ruth, ignoring the question. “Bought books and guides to Paris. I quadrupled the price. What’s for dinner?”
She picked up Jean-Guy’s drink out of habit, then realizing it was just a Coke she quickly snatched up Myrna’s Scotch just before Myrna got to it.
“It’s good to have you back,” Ruth said.
“Are you talking to me or the drink?” Myrna asked, and once again Ruth looked at her as though for the first time.
“The drink, of course.”
They ordered dinner, then Gamache looked at Clara.
“Your turn.”