Kingdom of the Blind (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #14)

by Louise Penny

The memory of the heart was far stronger than whatever was kept in the mind. The question was, what did people keep in their heart?

That wasn’t exactly what he was thinking. A will, an estate, could become about more than money, property, possessions. Who was left the most could be interpreted as who was loved the most. There were different sorts of greed. Of need.

Yes, the real danger always came from the thing you couldn’t see.

“What I was going to say is that my mentor had this theory that our lives are like an aboriginal longhouse. Just one huge room.” He swept one arm out to illustrate scope. “He said that if we thought we could compartmentalize things, we were deluding ourselves. Everyone we meet, every word we speak, every action taken or not taken lives in our longhouse. With us. Always. Never to be expelled or locked away.”

‘Be very, very careful who you let into your life. And learn to make peace with whatever happens. You can’t erase the past. It’s trapped in there with you. But you can make peace with it. If you don’t,’ he said, ‘you’ll be at perpetual war.’”

But just as I was leaving, he said, ‘And the enemy you’ll be fighting is yourself.’”

There was grace in second chances and foolishness in third. And perhaps worse than foolishness. There was, or could be, outright danger. Believing a person capable of redemption when they’d proven they were not.

The Commander wondered if the Chief Superintendent had planted the drugs himself. Knowing this would happen.

“It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.”

The Chief often said that everything could be solved by walking. For himself, Beauvoir was pretty sure everything could be solved in the kitchen with a piece of cake.

His therapists had taught him something he tried to pass along to all agents in the Sûreté. The need to talk about what had happened. The physical, but also the emotional wounds.

Chief Superintendent Gamache had asked great sacrifices of his people before. Had placed himself in danger, many times. But it had always been with knowledge and consent. They knew what they were in for. This was different. Very different. The man in front of Beauvoir was using a troubled young cadet, without her consent. Placing her in danger. Without her consent.

Entitlement was, she knew, a terrible thing. It chained the person to their victimhood. It gobbled up all the air around it. Until the person lived in a vacuum, where nothing good could flourish.

In the kingdom of the blind, Amelia recited to herself as she trudged along— —the one-eyed man is king, Gamache read.

Cournoyer had more or less said that the person at the center of it all wasn’t some vindictive politician. Wasn’t some shadowy government operative. It was Gamache. He wasn’t the target, he was the sharpshooter. He wasn’t the victim, he was the perpetrator. And he knew perfectly well what was happening. Why. And where it was leading.

It amounted to a code of conduct. It started with the four statements that lead to wisdom: I don’t know. I need help. I was wrong. I’m sorry. And ended with him saying, simply, “Matthew 10:36.” “You can take all of what I’ve said to heart,” the Chief had said, leading the young agent to the door. “Or none. It’s your choice. As are the consequences, of course.”

And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household. Far from inspirational, it was a harsh warning in a gentle voice. A whisper out of the darkness. Be careful.

Ruth’s hat was so black it was white.

When he’d been head of homicide, Gamache learned that people reacted to sudden death differently. The emotional could become restrained. Holding themselves back, for fear of what would happen if they cracked. The restrained became emotional, not skilled at managing feelings. The strong collapsed. The weak strengthened. In grief people were themselves and not themselves.

Where other investigators pressed and pushed during interrogations, especially when finding a weak spot, Gamache had taught his agents the power of silence. It could be, often was, far more threatening than shouting.

Once an action has been entered, you cannot hesitate. Once committed, you cannot second-guess. Never look back.

Loved. Beaten. Cared for. Neglected. University graduate or dropout. All ended up in the gutter. Thanks to the great leveler that was fentanyl.

As humans, we invest not just money. We spend time. We spend effort. There’s a reason it’s put like that. Life’s short, and time is precious and limited. We need to pick and choose where we put it.”

Just as a rape isn’t about sex, a murder is rarely about money, even when money’s involved. It’s about power. And fear. It’s about revenge. And rage. It’s about feelings, not a bank balance. Follow the money, certainly. But I can guarantee when you find it, it’ll stink of some emotion gone putrid.”

“As a good rule of thumb, if you have to lie, you might be doing something wrong.”

His courage. Laughter. I realized, too, that the books are far more than Michael. Far more than Gamache. They’re the common yearning for community. For belonging. They’re about kindness, acceptance. Gratitude. They’re not so much about death, as life. And the consequences of the choices we make.

We are very fortunate, aren’t we? To have found each other in Three Pines.