More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
There were enough nuts in the village, at least one of them grating, but not of the same sort.
The others grimaced. Even Rosa. But then, ducks often did.
Rosa nodded knowingly, as though this was familiar territory for a duck.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” agreed Rosa. A contrary fowl who rarely agreed with anything, this time there was no argument and no other word for it.
How nice it was, how peaceful, thought Reine-Marie, to live in a place where bumbling was a virtue. Even a necessity. And where lives were intertwined.
When did Jean-Guy begin to look after him, when it had long been the other way around?
Chief Inspector Gamache had, in effect, gone dumpster diving for his agents.
“Companies pollute all the time,” said Lacoste, “and don’t murder to cover it up.” “Unless it’s huge, ongoing, and involves high-ranking politicians in a cover-up,” said Beauvoir. It was possible, thought Gamache. Certainly the most likely scenario. Though there was another possibility. One he wouldn’t mention just yet. He needed to think. “If made public, this would not just shut down their operations and cost hundreds of millions in cleanup and fines,” said Beauvoir. “But they could end up in jail.” “It would cost politicians their jobs and maybe even cost the government the next election,”
...more
Reine-Marie knew his name, would never forget it. But she could not bring herself to say it. He was simply That Politician. The one who’d gone after her husband and teenage son years ago, when Armand had refused to drop vehicular homicide charges against The Daughter.
In unison they made the sign of the cross.
Instead of turning on his phone flashlight, he allowed his eyes to adjust. It was, he thought, a sort of metaphor. How easily humans could adjust to darkness. To dark thoughts and darker deeds. Until, finally, the darkness became normal. And they no longer missed, or looked for, or trusted, the light.
In the back seat, beside Simon, Jean-Guy was muttering. Armand turned around from his place in the copilot seat. “Are you praying?” “Only if there’s such a person as a Saint-Merde.” “Patron saint of homicide investigators,” said Armand, and heard Jean-Guy laugh.
As Sister Prejean said, No one of us is as bad as the worst thing we’ve done. Armand could see his worst approaching.
“‘Sébastien’ is one of our more common choices.” He made it sound like a pair of boots, or a vacation destination. “Guys love him. He’s the patron saint of soldiers and, for some reason, cyclists. Considered very manly, though he had to be rescued by a woman. Saint Irène. I think many of our Frère Sébastiens forget that part.”
Young priests, Gamache knew, were similar to medical interns and police rookies. Treated by their elders with a strange mix of gratitude and disdain. Any sign of respect that did not come from their mothers was appreciated.
Since Canada, as far as America’s political elite knew, did not really exist. And if it did, it was merely an inconvenient extension of their nation. A sort of annoying younger sibling that sometimes tried to assert itself but could always be put in its place.
Again, he smiled in a way that was, and was meant to be, disarming. It was the secret weapon of the man who controlled so many actual weapons.
“Political power, as you know, Inspector, lies in trust.” The General tapped the coaster in front of him, a caricature of a past president. “The only reason democracy works is that there’s a contract between elected and those electing. A consent to be governed.
But that contract is fragile.
“It could be used as an excuse to declare a nationwide state of emergency. Prompt mass arrests. The shutting down of news organizations and social media. Controlling all information. Curfews. Shoot-to-kill orders. Effectively a dictatorship.”
In many ways, in every way that mattered, feelings were more real, more powerful than thoughts. They were the engine of perception, which drove thought, which became words and prompted action.
“Klutz,” said Ruth, and Rosa nodded. But then ducks often do.
And there was still a storm.
How easy it was to slide into conspiracies. To mistake misjudgment for deceit. To see treacheries and plots and sedition where none existed. Gamache was very aware of the warning not to attribute to malice that which can be explained by stupidity. There was much more stupidity around than malice.
