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“I’ll be honest with you, it was something we struggled with. There are, in any free society, competing and sometimes contradictory needs. The need for freedom of expression, even those, especially those views we might not agree with. And the need for safety. A judgment was made that Professor Robinson’s thesis, though controversial, did not break any laws and therefore should proceed.”
Professor Robinson was revealing, not creating, the anger. The fear. And yes, perhaps even the cowardice they kept hidden away. She was like some genetic mutation awakening illnesses that would have normally lain dormant. She was the catalyst. But the potential, the sickness, was already there.
Otto Pascal was looking more and more agitated. This was far beyond his understanding, which stopped sometime around 600 BC and the Sack of Thebes.
“What’s the count now?” asked Ruth. “Sixty-three. What could they mean?” Reine-Marie asked Myrna, their resident psychologist. “Why would someone spend more than half a century secretly collecting monkeys?” “The question isn’t why monkeys,” said Ruth. “The question is why a secret?” “She’s right,” said Myrna, turning astonished eyes on the mad poet at the other end of the sofa.
Abigail Robinson had discovered, within moments of their meeting, a crack in her well-fortified wall. One she herself didn’t even know was there. Isabelle Lacoste, second-in-command in homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, also yearned for all to be well. Who didn’t? She knew then that the professor was dangerous not simply because of her views, but also because she was so very compelling. So very attractive. And, most dangerous of all, so very normal.
“Oh, you’d be surprised how clearly the heart can see. What I do know is that how we feel drives what we think, and that determines what we do. Our actions leave behind evidence, those facts you mention. But it all starts with an emotion.”
And Gamache remembered what the Chancellor had said, as he’d left her office. That while shocking, even abhorrent, Professor Robinson’s figures were actually correct. But correct and right were two different things. As were facts and truth.
“Wait a minute,” said Stephen. “Is it the study from those anthropologists in Japan?” “Yes. I’m not even sure it was a real study,” said Dr. Gilbert. “It seems like bullshit, and yet…” “Maybe not.” Stephen turned to the others with enthusiasm. “It was passed around in the investment community years ago. It’s pretty odd, but some think it explains why certain stocks, certain industries or products, like bitcoins, suddenly get hot. Why some ideas take hold, no matter how crazy, while other, even better ideas, just die.”
Appalled’ is the word. But then many were initially appalled with physician-assisted suicide. But once it became law, we got used to it. We can even see the virtue in it, to ease suffering.” They were walking toward the front door as they spoke. “It’s the mandatory aspect that’s troubling,” she said. “To say the least. It seems inconceivable that any government would allow what she’s suggesting.” “We’ve seen a lot of the inconceivable lately. Merci,” he said, shaking her hand.
It’s true, I would have little trouble killing Professor Robinson, but I wouldn’t make such a shit show of it. That is the expression, no? Shit show, shit storm. You seem to like your merde around here.”
She seemed tired, but also calm. “It’s good to be reminded now and then that such things exist.” “What things?” “Beauty. Peace.” She held his eyes. “Goodness. But they’re fragile and can so easily disappear, unless people are willing to do what’s necessary to defend them.”
“You’ve told me why you think I’d want to kill Professor Robinson. Now, let me tell you why I would not.” “I’m listening.” “Because, as satisfying as killing her might be, I know that murdering a person doesn’t kill the idea. In fact, just the opposite. If you want an idea to flourish, the best fertilizer is the body of a martyr. I don’t want her ideas to flourish, but someone else might. Something to think about, Chief Inspector.” “Merci,” said Gamache, who’d already considered exactly that, certainly when it came to the shooting in the gym. And maybe the attack that night.
I watched and listened and learned how things worked. How human nature works. It’s why I don’t much like humans. Or nature, for that matter.”
Whenever he approached the log cabin, he was reminded of Thoreau, who’d said of his own cabin on Walden Pond, “I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.” Vincent Gilbert had two chairs. He did not like society, and society did not like him.
She knew, though, as did Armand, that not everyone lost was fortunate enough to be found. Some came to the end of the world, and kept going. To the place where monsters and madness lived.
What is essential is invisible to the eye. Knowledge, ideas, thoughts. Imagination. All invisible. All lived in libraries.
“Oh, my God,” whispered Jean-Guy. He dropped his eyes to the smiling father figure in the photograph. And had it confirmed, yet again, that most monsters looked exactly like that. They didn’t hide in dark alcoves. The distinguished monsters sat among them. Secure in the knowledge that no one would condemn them, even if they knew.
As they trudged through the snow toward Clara’s pretty little cottage, Ruth lost her footing. Haniya grabbed her before she fell. She held Ruth’s hand for the rest of the way, and wondered if maybe the key was not in being held, but in holding.
Only a fool was deaf to the whispers in the halls of power, now emboldened by Professor Robinson’s success, that most of those who died in the pandemic had underlying conditions. They’d have died soon anyway. Perhaps, they whispered, it wasn’t such a bad thing. Perhaps it was a blessing. Perhaps the pandemic had, inadvertently, done them all a favor. Freed some to peace, freed the rest to get on with their lives. Everyone was quick to say what happened was heartbreaking. But really, privately, they considered the tragedies of the pandemic a cull. Of the weak.
