The Beautiful Mystery

THIRTY-ONE

Beauvoir awoke to the sound of the bells, calling the faithful. Though he knew the bells weren’t for him, still he followed them through his bleary brain. Up, up he crawled to consciousness.

He wasn’t even completely sure if he was awake, so vague was his border between conscious and unconscious. He felt confused, clumsy. Grabbing his watch he tried to focus on the time.

Five in the morning. The bells continued and if Beauvoir could’ve mustered the energy he’d have tossed his shoes at the monk who was ringing them.

He flopped back in the bed and prayed for the sound to stop. Anxiety gripped him and he gasped for breath.

Deep breath in, he begged his body. Deep breath out.

Deep breath—oh, fuck it, he thought. Beauvoir sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side, feeling his bare feet on the cold stone floor.

Everything hurt. The soles of his feet, the top of his head. His chest, his joints. His toenails and his eyebrows. He stared at the wall across from him, his mouth open and slack. Begging for breath.

Finally, with one jagged gasp, his throat opened and air rushed in.

Then the trembling began.

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He turned on the light and grabbed the bottle of pills from underneath his pillow, squeezing it tight. After a couple of tries he got it open. He wanted one, but the shaking was so bad two tumbled out. He didn’t care. He tossed them both into his mouth and dry swallowed. Then he gripped the sides of his bed and waited.

His chemo. His medicine. The pills would kill what was killing him. Stop the trembling. Stop the pain so deep inside he couldn’t get at it. Stop the images, the memories.

The fears. That he’d been left alone. And was still alone. Would always be alone.

He lay back in bed and felt the pills begin to work. How could anything this good be bad?

He felt human again. Whole again.

The pain receded, his brain cleared. The hooks and barbs released his flesh, and the void was filled in. As he drifted, Beauvoir could hear familiar voices singing.

The bells had ended and the service had begun. Vigils. The first of the day.

Two clear voices were singing now. A call and response. And Beauvoir was surprised to realize he now recognized it. His grip on the bed loosened as he listened.

Call. Response.

Call. Response.

It was mesmerizing.

Call. Response.

And then all the voices joined in. No more need to call. They’d found each other.

Beauvoir felt a tug deep inside. A pain not wholly numbed.

It was five thirty in the morning. Vigils had ended and Gamache sat in the pew, appreciating the peace of the service. He inhaled the incense. It smelled like a garden, not musky, like in most churches.

The monks had left. All except Frère Sébastien, who joined him in the pew.

“Your colleagues aren’t as religious as you.”

“I’m afraid I’m not religious either,” said the Chief. “I don’t go to church.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“Looking for a murderer, I’m afraid. Not salvation.”

“Still, you seem to find solace.”

Gamache was silent for a moment, then he nodded. “It would be hard not to. Do you like Gregorian chants?”

“Very much. A whole mythology has grown up around them, you know. Probably because we know so little about them. We don’t even know where Gregorian chant came from.”

“Would the name be a clue?”

The Dominican smiled. “You’d think so, but you’d be wrong. Pope Gregory had nothing to do with the chants. Marketing, that’s all. Gregory was a popular pope, so to curry favor some astute priest named the chants after him.”

“Is that how they became so popular?”

“It didn’t hurt. There’s also a theory that if Christ heard any music, or sang any music, it would’ve been plainchant. Now there’s a marketing tool. Endorsed by Jesus. As sung by the Savior.”

Gamache laughed. “It would certainly give them a leg up on the competition.”

“Scientists have even begun studying the chants,” said Frère Sébastien, “trying to explain the popularity of the recording these monks made. People went nuts for it.”

“And have they any explanation?”

“Well, when they hooked up probes to volunteers and played Gregorian chants it was quite startling.”

“How so?”

“It showed that after a while their brain waves changed. They started producing alpha waves. Do you know what those are?”

“They’re the most calm state,” said the Chief. “When people are still alert, but at peace.”

“Exactly. Their blood pressure dropped, their breathing became deeper. And yet, they also became, as you said, more alert. It was as though they became ‘more so,’ you know?”

“Themselves, but their best selves.”

“That’s it. Doesn’t work on everyone, of course. But I think it works on you.”

Gamache considered that and nodded. “It does. Perhaps not as profoundly as the Gilbertines, but I’ve felt it.”

“While the scientists say it’s alpha waves, the Church calls it ‘the beautiful mystery.’”

“The mystery being?”

“Why these chants, more than any other church music, are so powerful. Since I’m a monk I think I’ll go with the theory they’re the voice of God. Though there’s a third possibility,” the Dominican admitted. “I was at dinner a few weeks ago with a colleague and he has a theory that all tenors are idiots. Something to do with their brain pans and the vibration of the sound waves.”

Gamache laughed. “Does he know you’re a tenor?”

“He’s my boss, and he sure suspects I’m an idiot. And he might be right. But what a glorious way to go. Singing myself into stupidity. Maybe Gregorian chants have the same effect. Make us all into happy morons. Scrambling our brains as we sing the chants. Forgetting our cares and worries. Letting the world slip away.” The younger man closed his eyes and seemed to go somewhere else. And then, just as quickly, he came back. Opening his eyes he looked at Gamache, and smiled. “Bliss.”

“Ecstasy,” said Gamache.

“Exactly.”

“But for monks it’s not just music,” said Gamache. “There’s also prayer. The chants are prayers. It’s a potent combination. Both mind altering, in their way.”

When the monk didn’t say anything, Gamache continued.

“I’ve sat here for a number of services now and watched the monks. To a man they go into a sort of reverie when singing the chants. Or even just listening to them. You did it just now, just thinking about the chants.”

“Meaning?”

“I’ve seen that look before, you know. On the faces of drug addicts.”

That seemed to shock Frère Sébastien, who stared at Gamache. “Are you suggesting we’re addicted?”

“I’m telling you what I’ve observed.”

The Dominican got to his feet. “What you might have missed is the genuine faith of these men. Their commitment to God, to the perfection of the heart. You diminish it, sir, when you describe their solemn commitment as simply an addiction. You turn the chants into a disease. Something that weakens us, rather than strengthens. To characterize Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups as no better than a crack den is absurd.”

He walked away, his feet, unlike the other slippered monks, rapping against the slate floor.

Gamache knew he might have gone too far. But in doing so he’d hit a nerve.

Frère Sébastien stood in the shadows. After stomping off he’d gone to the far door, opened it, then let it swing shut. Without going through it.

He’d stood in the crook of the church, the corner, and watched the Chief Inspector. Gamache had sat in the hard pew for a minute or so. Most people, the monk knew, had difficulty sitting still for thirty seconds. This quiet man seemed capable of sitting in the stillness for as long as he wanted.

Then the Chief Inspector had gotten up and without genuflecting, had left the Blessed Chapel. He’d walked to the door that led down the long corridor, to a locked door and the quiet young monk with the remarkable voice. Frère Luc.

Leaving Frère Sébastien alone in the Blessed Chapel.

It was now or never, the Dominican realized.

He started a slow, but steady search of the room. At the empty lectern he laid his hand on the worn wood, then continued the methodical search. Once he was satisfied the chapel was keeping no secrets, he stole down the corridor and into the prior’s office, which the police officers had made their headquarters. There he rifled drawers, looked in files, opened folders. He looked under the desk, behind the door.

The Dominican turned on the computer, knowing what he was looking for would never be there. But he was determined not to have come this far and leave a stone unturned. Unlike the Gilbertines, who seemed satisfied to stay in the sixteenth century, Frère Sébastien was a child of his times. He could never do his job if he didn’t know and admire technology. From planes, to cell phones, to laptops.

They were his tools, as crucial as a cross and holy water.

He scanned the files, though there wasn’t much to see. The laptop wasn’t connected, the satellite hookup too finicky. But before he could turn it off he heard a familiar whirr.

The DVD had kicked in.

Curious, the Dominican clicked and an image appeared. A video. The sound was turned down, which suited him. Besides, the images told the whole story.

He watched with growing dismay, repulsed by what he saw but unable to look away. Until the screen went dead.

He was surprised to find he wanted to watch it again. This horrible video.

What was it, he wondered not for the first time, about tragedy that made it so hard to look away? But the Dominican did. With a small but fervent prayer for the souls of those long lost, and those lost souls still walking among them, he turned off the machine.

Then he left the prior’s office, and continued his search of the abbey of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

He knew what he was looking for was there somewhere. It had to be. He’d heard it.