The Long Way Home

“I wanted to ask you something Reine-Marie couldn’t answer.”

“What?” came the impatient voice, but he could hear the note of curiosity in it.

“That couplet of yours keeps coming up.”

“Which one, Miss Marple? I’ve written hundreds of poems.”

“You know which one, ma belle.” He could almost hear her cringe. Gamache had long ago learned that if you wanted to endear yourself to Ruth, you gave as good as you got. But if you wanted to terrify her, be kind. “I just sit where I’m put … That one.”

“So?”

“So Reine-Marie said you and Professor Massey quoted it together today. I’ve never heard you do that before. You must have liked him.”

“What’s your point?”

“Reine-Marie says he was quite taken with you.”

“You sound surprised.”

“And you with him.” That brought a pause. “And that when she asked you about it you said something. She thought it was in Latin. What was it?”

“None of your business. Is it so laughable that two old people could find each other attractive? Is it so unbelievable?”

Something else that was inexplicable?

Far from being angry, Ruth sounded on the verge of tears. Gamache remembered then, though it was never far from the surface, some of the things he despised about his job.

“What did you say, Ruth, when Reine-Marie asked you about your feelings for Professor Massey?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“I was quoting one of my favorite poets,” she said. “And no, it wasn’t me.”

“Who was it?”

“Seamus Heaney.”

“A line from one of his poems?” Gamache asked.

“No. It was the last thing he said. Before dying. He said it to his wife. Noli timere.”

Gamache felt a lump in his throat but pressed forward.

“The poem you and Professor Massey quoted,” he said. “I just sit where I’m put, composed of stone and wishful thinking.”

He waited for her to complete it, as she had with the elderly professor. But she didn’t, and Gamache finished it himself.

“That the deity who kills for pleasure will also heal.”

“What of it?”

Gamache looked back to the house and saw Clara and Chartrand framed by the panes, their heads bowed together over the meal they were preparing.

Noli timere, he thought.

“Who was that poem written for?” he asked Ruth.

“Does it matter?”

“I think it might.”

“I think you already know.”

“Peter.”

“Yes. How’d you know?”

“A few things,” said Gamache. “It occurred to me that in French ‘stone’ is ‘pierre.’ And Pierre is Peter. It’s a play on his name, but it’s far more than that. You wrote it years ago. You could see it even then?”

“That he was made of stone and wishful thinking? Yes.”

“And that there was a deity that killed for pleasure,” said Gamache. “But that it could also heal.”

“That’s what I believe,” said Ruth. “Peter didn’t. Here was a man who was given everything. Talent, love, a peaceful place to live and create. And all he had to do was appreciate it.”

“And if he didn’t?”

“He would remain stone. And the deities would turn on him. They do, you know. They’re generous, but they demand gratitude. Peter thought all his great good fortune was because of himself.”

Unseen by Ruth, Gamache nodded.

“Peter always had a ‘best before’ date stamped on his forehead,” said Ruth. “People who live in their heads do. They start out well enough, but eventually they run out of ideas. And if there’s no imagination, no inspiration to fall back on? Then what?”

“What?”

“In the words of Emily Dickinson, you’re screwed. What happens when the stone shatters, when even the wishful thinking disappears?”

Gamache felt in his pocket, like a weight, the small book. And the smaller bookmark. Marking a spot beyond which he’d never been.

“Their creations eventually die of neglect, of malnourishment,” said Ruth, answering her own question. “And sometimes, when that happens, the artist also dies.”

“Driven to it by a deity who kills for pleasure,” said Gamache.

“Yes.”

“But it also heals? How?”