The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)

The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8) Page 51

Bernard came to a large duck and stroked her head, whispering words Gamache couldn’t hear but recognized as endearments. Then Frère Bernard kissed the top of her head and moved on. Without taking away any of her eggs.

“With the abbot. They were best friends, two halves of a whole. Dom Philippe the aesthetic, the prior a man of action. Together they led the monastery. Without the abbot there would never have been a recording. He supported it completely. Helped with the connections with the outside world. Was as joyful about it as the rest.”

“And the prior?”

“It was his baby. He was the undisputed leader of the choir and the recording. He chose the music, the arrangements, the soloists, the order in which they’d be recorded. It was all done in a single morning, in the Blessed Chapel, using an old tape machine the abbot borrowed on a trip to the abbey at Saint-Benoit-du-lac.”

It was, Gamache knew from listening to the CD many times, not of good quality. But that added a sort of sheen to it, a legitimacy. No digital editing, no multiple tracks. No tricks or fakery. It was real.

And it was beautiful. It had captured what Frère Bernard had described. When people listened it was as though they too belonged. Were less alone. Were still individuals, but part of a community. Part of everything. People, animals, trees, rocks. There was suddenly no distinction.

It felt as though the Gregorian chants entered people’s bodies and rearranged their DNA, so that they were part of everything around them. There was no anger, no competition, no winners or losers. Everything was splendid and everything was equal.

And everyone was at peace.

No wonder people wanted more. Cried for more. Demanded more. Showed up at the monastery, and pounded on the door, almost hysterical to be let in. And given more.

And the monks had refused.

Bernard had been quiet for a few moments, walking slowly around the perimeter of the enclosure.

“Tell me,” said Gamache. There was more, he knew. There was always more. Bernard had followed him into the showers, with one purpose. To tell Gamache something, and so far while interesting, this wasn’t it.

There was more.

“It was the vow of silence.”

Gamache waited, then finally prodded. “Go on.”

Frère Bernard hesitated, trying to find the words to explain something that didn’t exist in the outside world. “Our vow of silence isn’t absolute. It’s also known as a rule of silence. We’re allowed to talk to each other sometimes, but it disturbs the peace of the abbey, and the peace of the monk. Silence is seen as both voluntary and deeply spiritual.”

“But you are allowed to talk?”

“Our tongues aren’t cut out when we sign up,” said the monk with a smile. “But it isn’t encouraged. A chatty man would never make a monk. There’re times of the day where quiet is more important. Night, for instance. That’s called the Great Silence. Some monasteries have relaxed the vow of silence, but here at Saint-Gilbert we try to maintain a great silence most of the day.”

Great silence, thought Gamache. That was what he’d experienced a few hours ago, when he’d risen and walked into the corridor. It had felt like a void into which he might fall. And if he had, what would he have met there?

“The greater the silence the louder the voice of God?” asked Gamache.

“Well, the better chance we have of hearing it. Some of the monks wanted the vow lifted so that we could go into the world and speak to people about the music. Maybe do concerts. We were getting all sorts of invitations. There was even a rumor that we’d been invited to the Vatican, but the abbot had declined.”

“How did people feel about that?”

“Some were angry. Some were relieved.”

“Some supported the abbot, and some didn’t?”

Bernard nodded. “You have to understand, an abbot is more than a boss. Our allegiance isn’t to the bishop or archbishop. It’s to the abbot. And the abbey. We elect him and he keeps that job until he either dies or steps down. He’s our pope.”

“And is he considered infallible?”

Bernard stopped walking and crossed his arms, laying his free hand protectively and instinctively on the eggs.

“No. But the happiest abbeys are where the monks don’t question their abbot. And the best abbots are open to suggestions. Discuss everything in Chapter. Then they make a decision. And everyone accepts. It’s seen as an act of humility and of grace. It’s not about winning or losing, but voicing your opinion. And letting God and the community decide.”