Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(69)

‘And a croissant?’ Philippe looked at her playfully. They could smell the croissants baking in the shop next door, the connecting door open and eloquent.

‘Perhaps just one.’

‘Monsieur?’

Gamache ordered and within minutes he had a plate of sausages and French toast. A jug of local maple syrup was at his elbow and a basket of croissants steamed between them, accompanied by jars of homemade jams. The two ate and talked and sipped their coffees in front of the lively and warm fire.

‘So what did you think of CC?’ he asked.

‘She struck me as a very lonely woman. I felt sorry for her.’

‘Others have described her as selfish, petty, hurtful and frankly a little stupid. Not someone you’d choose to be with.’

‘They’re right, of course. She was desperately unhappy and took it out on others. People do, don’t they? They can’t stand it when others are happy.’

‘Yet you invited her to your home.’

This was the question he’d wanted to ask since she’d mentioned it on their walk. But he’d needed to be able to watch her face.

‘I’ve been desperately unhappy in my life.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘Have you, Chief Inspector?’

It wasn’t a response he could have predicted. He nodded.

‘I thought so. I think people who have had that experience and survived have a responsibility to help others. We can’t let someone drown where we were saved.’

Now the room was very still and Gamache realized he was holding his breath.

‘I understand, madame, and I agree,’ he said finally. Gently he asked, ‘Could you tell me about your sadness?’

She met his eyes. Then she reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a ball of white Kleenex, and something else. On the table between them she placed a small black and white photograph, cracked and dusty from the tissues. She caressed it clean with one practiced finger.

‘This is Gus, my husband, and my son David.’

A tall man had his arm across the shoulder of a lanky young man, a boy really. He looked to be a teenager, with long shaggy hair and a coat with wide lapels. His tie was also wide, as was the car behind them.

‘This was just before Christmas 1976. David was a violinist. Well, actually, he only played one piece.’ She laughed. ‘Extraordinary, really. He heard it when he was a child, little more than a baby. Gus and I had it on the hi-fi and David suddenly stopped what he was doing and went right over to the console. He made us play it over and over. As soon as he had the words he asked for a violin. We thought he was kidding, of course. But he wasn’t. One day I heard him practicing in the basement. It was shaky, and squeaky, but sure enough, it was the same piece.’

Gamache could feel the blood run from his hands and feet and into his heart, which gave a squeeze.

‘David had taught himself the piece. He was six. His teacher eventually quit since David refused to practice or play anything else. Just the one piece. Willful child. Gus’s side of the family.’ She smiled.

‘What was it?’

‘Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D Major.’

Gamache couldn’t bring it to mind.

‘David was a normal teenager. He played goalie on his hockey team, dated one of the Chartrand girls for most of high school, wanted to go to the Université de Montréal to study forestry. He was a lovely boy, but not an extraordinary one, except in that one feature.’

She closed her eyes and after a moment one hand turned upward, exposing her slim wrist, blue with veins. The hand moved fluidly back and forth. The ghost notes filled the space between them and surrounded the table and eventually the entire bistro seemed filled with music Gamache couldn’t hear but could imagine. And knew Em heard perfectly clearly.

‘Lucky boy, to have found such a passion,’ he said quietly.

‘That’s exactly it. If I hadn’t ever met the divine I’d have known it in his face as he played. He was blessed, and so were we. Still, I don’t think he planned to take it any further, but then something happened. He came home just before his Christmas exams with a notice. Every year the Lycée held a competition. All the musicians had to play the same piece, chosen by the committee. That year,’ she nodded to the photo, ‘it was Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D Major. David was beside himself. It was to be held the fifteenth of December in Gaspé. Gus decided to drive him there. They could have taken the train or flown, but Gus wanted some time alone with David. You know what it’s like, perhaps, with teenagers? David was seventeen and a typical boy. Not very talkative about his feelings. Gus wanted to let him know, in his own way, that his father loved him and would do anything in the world for him. This picture was taken just before they left.’

Em gazed down and her finger crept along the wooden table toward it, but stopped just short.

‘David came in second in the competition. He called, so excited.’ She could hear him still, breathless, as though unable to contain his happiness. ‘They were thinking of staying to hear some other contestants but I’d been watching the weather and there was a storm coming in, so I convinced them to leave right away. You can guess the rest. It was a beautiful day, like today. Clear and cold. But it proved to be too cold, too bright. Black ice, they said. And the sun right in Gus’s face. Too much light.’