Brutal Telling

They appealed to Gamache, who was listening, and thinking. Then he sat forward and drew the photographs of the carvings to him. Particularly the one of the happy people building a new village, in their new home. Without the young man.

“Maybe Olivier isn’t the only one who lies,” he said, getting up. “Maybe the Hermit wasn’t alone when he came here. Maybe he had accomplices.”

“Who are still in Three Pines,” said Beauvoir.

Hanna Parra was clearing up lunch. She’d made a hearty soup and the place smelled of her mother’s home in her Czech village. Of broth and parsley and bay leaves, and garden vegetables.

Her own gleaming metal and glass home couldn’t be more different from the wooden chalet she’d grown up in. Full of wonderful aromas, and a hint of fear. Fear of attracting attention. Of standing out. Her parents, her aunts, her neighbors, had all lived comfortable lives of conformity. The fear of being found different, though, created a thin film between people.

But here everything really was transparent. She’d felt light as soon as they’d arrived in Canada. Where people minded their own business.

Or so she thought. Her hand hovered over the marble counter as some glint in the sun caught her eye. A car rolling up the drive.

Armand Gamache stared at the glass and metal cube in front of him. He’d read reports of the interviews with the Parras, including descriptions of their home, but still it took him aback.

The house gleamed in the sun. Not blinding, but it seemed to glow as though it lived in a world slightly different from theirs. A world of light.

“It’s beautiful,” said Gamache, almost under his breath.

“You should see inside.”

“I think I should,” Gamache nodded and the two men strolled across the yard.

Hanna Parra let them in and took their coats. “Chief Inspector, this is a pleasure.”

Her voice was slightly accented but her French was perfect. Someone who’d not just learned the language but loved it. And it showed with every syllable. Gamache knew it was impossible to split language from culture. That without one the other withered. To love the language was to respect the culture.

That was why he’d learned English so well.

“We’d like to speak to your husband and son as well, if possible.”

He spoke gently but somehow the very civility of the man lent his words weight.

“Havoc’s out in the woods, but Roar’s here.”

“Where in the woods, madame?” Beauvoir asked.

Hanna seemed slightly flustered. “Out back. Cutting deadwood for the winter.”

“Can you get him in, please?” said Beauvoir. His attempts at politeness simply made him seem sinister.

“We don’t know where he is.”

The voice came from behind them and both men turned to see Roar standing in the doorway to the mudroom. He was four-square, stocky and powerful. His hands were on his hips and his elbows out, like a threatened animal trying to make itself appear larger.

“Then perhaps we can speak to you,” said Gamache.

Roar didn’t budge.

“Please, come into the kitchen,” said Hanna. “It’s warmer there.”

She led them deeper into the house and shot Roar a warning look as she passed.

The kitchen was filled with natural warmth from the sun that spilled in.

“Mais, c’est formidable,” Gamache said. Out of the floor-to-ceiling windows he could see field then forest and in the distance St. Thomas’s steeple, in Three Pines. It felt as though they were living in nature, that the house was no intrusion at all. It was unexpected, certainly unusual. But it wasn’t foreign. Just the opposite. This home belonged here. It was perfect.

“Félicitations.” He turned to the Parras. “This is a magnificent achievement. It must’ve been something you’d dreamed of for a long time.”

Roar dropped his arms and indicated a seat at the glass table. Gamache accepted.

“We talked about it for a while. It wasn’t my first choice. I wanted something more traditional.”

Gamache looked at Hanna, who’d taken the chair at the head of the table. “Must’ve taken some convincing,” he smiled.

“He did,” she said, returning his smile. Hers was polite, without warmth or humor. “Took years. There’d been a cabin on the property and we lived there until Havoc was about six, but he was growing and I wanted a place that felt like ours.”

“Je comprends, but why this?”

“You don’t like it?” She didn’t sound defensive, only interested.

“Just the reverse. I think it really is magnificent. It feels as though it belongs here. But you must admit, it’s unusual. No one else has a place quite like it.”

“We wanted something completely different from where we grew up. We wanted a change.”

“We?” asked Gamache.

“I came around,” said Roar, his voice hard, his eyes wary. “What’s all this about?”

Gamache nodded and sat forward, splaying his large hands on the cool surface of the table. “Why did your son work for Olivier?”

“He needs the money,” said Hanna. Gamache nodded.

“I understand. But wouldn’t he make more money working in the woods? Or working construction? Surely a waiter is paid very little, even with the tips.”