The Long Way Home

Talking about art, Myrna thought. And she realized it had been a long time since she’d seen Peter bend down, to better hear Clara. And since she’d heard them talk about art, or anything, in the intimate way Clara and Chartrand were now talking.

“I like him,” said Myrna.

Beside her, Gamache put his hands behind his back, and held them there, rocking slightly as he walked.

“Do you think the tenth muse exists?” he asked.

Now it was Myrna’s turn to walk in silence. Considering.

“I think muses exist,” she said. “I think something happens when an artist or writer or musician meets someone who inspires them.”

“That’s not the same thing, and you know it,” said Gamache. “I’m not talking about a person who inspires an artist. I’m asking you about the tenth muse. You didn’t answer my question.”

“You noticed that, did you?” she smiled, and began to also rock slightly as she walked, in a rhythmic motion mirroring his. “I’ve never given the actual Muses any thought,” she said at last. “But now that I am, I have to say if I can believe in nine, I can stretch it to ten.”

Beside her, Gamache gave a low laugh. “And can you believe in nine? Or ten?”

Myrna was quiet for another few paces, watching Clara now look up at Chartrand as he spoke. Watching him gesture in ways Peter never did.

Myrna stopped, and Gamache stopped with her. The other two, not seeing this, continued on.

“Hundreds of millions of people believe in a God of some sort. They believe in karma, in angels, in spirits and ghosts. In reincarnation and heaven. And the soul. They pray and light candles and chant and carry good-luck charms and interpret events as omens. And I’m not talking about marginal people. This is the mainstream.”

Between the old homes they could see the river.

“Why not Muses?” she asked. “Besides, how else do you explain Ruth’s poetry? You can’t tell me that drunken old woman writes them without some supernatural help.”

Gamache laughed. “A ghost writer?”

“It really doesn’t matter if the Muses exist,” said Myrna. “What matters is that No Man believed it. He believed it so strongly he risked ridicule and even his job. That’s powerful, Armand, but it’s something else. That kind of passion, that kind of certainty, is very attractive. Especially to people who are directionless.”

“Are you coming?” Clara called.

She and Chartrand had stopped to wait for them.

Myrna and Gamache joined them and together they walked until they reached the archway that led to the hidden courtyard. It was where they’d first regrouped twenty-four hours ago. It seemed so long ago now, so much had happened.

While the others had been keen to join Jean-Guy at La Muse, Gamache had convinced them that Beauvoir might not do his best work with the four of them looking on.

So they found themselves in the now-familiar courtyard. The terrasse, which should have been crammed with tourists admiring the view, was all but empty.

This place seemed to exist only for them, and two lone backgammon players. Still there. Perhaps always there. Shabby guardians at a forgotten gate.

*   *   *

Beauvoir scanned the other servers, and his eyes fell on a middle-aged man who’d just appeared out of a door by the bar. Jean-Guy picked up his drink and moved to one of the stools. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Or, worse, he felt too comfortable. Too familiar.

He stood up.

“Salut,” he said to the older man, who was now behind the bar looking at order forms.

The man looked up and gave Beauvoir a quick, professional smile. “Salut.”

Then returned to what he was doing.

“Nice place,” said Beauvoir. “Interesting name. La Muse. Where does it come from?”

He had the man’s attention, though it was clear he considered Beauvoir feeble, or drunk, or lonely, or just a pain in the ass.

But the professional smile flashed again. “Been called that for as long as I’ve worked here.”

“And how long’s that?”

Beauvoir knew he was making a fool of himself. How useful flashing his Sûreté ID would be right about now. Such a difference between an inspector of homicide asking questions and a barfly asking them.

The man stopped what he was doing and put both hands firmly on the bar.

“Ten years, maybe more.”

“You the owner?”

“No.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“We’re not hiring.”