‘And Li Bien itself, is that an ancient teaching, like Zen?’
‘Li Bien? Never heard of it. As far as I know, she made it up.’
Gamache, who’d read CC de Poitiers’s book, was interested to see that Mother, while strictly accurate, had left some crucial pieces out. Like the Li Bien ball. The basis of CC de Poitiers’s teachings and the one thing passed on to her from a long dead mother. She talked about it in some detail in the book and it had struck Gamache as the only part of her story that was actually meaningful to her. It was as though CC had indeed been given this gift from her mother and knew it to be precious, but didn’t know how or why. And so she’d manufactured an entire belief system around it.
She made the Li Bien ball into something holy. And now it was nowhere to be found. He’d had agents search her home in the Notre Dame de Grace quartier of Montreal. They’d come up with nothing, except a desire to leave its antiseptic atmosphere. Agents had again searched the old Hadley house, and found nothing.
Of course, it was possible he was wrong and the Li Bien ball never existed. Maybe Mother was right and she’d made that up too.
‘Wasn’t there something about light too?’ he asked, wondering what Mother would say to that.
‘Well, yes, but that was even more convoluted. She seemed to think anything light or white was spiritual and colors, like red or blue, were evil. She even went so far as to assign each color an emotion. Red was anger, blue was depression, yellow was cowardice or fear, something like that. I can’t remember, except that it was pretty weird. I don’t know if she believed it herself, but the message she was peddling was that the lighter and whiter you were the better.’
‘Was she a racist?’
Mother hesitated. It seemed to Gamache she was longing to paint CC in as bad a light as possible, and racist was pretty bad. But, to give her credit, she didn’t.
‘I don’t think so. I think she was talking about interior stuff. Emotions and feelings. Her idea was that if all our emotions are kept inside, and if they’re in alignment, then we’re balanced.’
‘What did she mean by alignment?’
‘You must remember science class? This is where CC was actually quite clever, and very dangerous in my opinion. She’d take something that had a bit of truth or fact and then stretch it beyond recognition. In science we learn that white is the presence of all colors. If you combine them all you get white, whereas black is the absence of color. So, according to CC, if emotions are colors and you’re emotional, angry, sad, jealous, whatever, then one color is dominant and you’re out of balance. The idea is to achieve white. All colors, all emotions, in alignment.’
All Beauvoir heard was blah, blah, blah. He’d long since stopped paying attention and was staring at a poster of India on the wall, trying to pretend he was standing on the barren mountain beside the man in the loincloth. Anything was better than this.
‘Was she right?’
Mother was taken aback by the simple question.
‘No, she wasn’t right. Her beliefs were ludicrous and insulting. She advised people to swallow their emotions. Her book, if followed by anyone, would lead to serious mental illness. She was nuts.’
Mother took a deep breath and tried to recover her own balance.
‘And yet,’ Gamache continued in a pleasant voice, ‘isn’t that what’s often taught in meditation? Not the absence of emotion, or swallowing them, but not allowing them to run the show? And isn’t one of the disciplines in meditation the chakras?’
‘Yes, that’s true, but that’s different. I myself teach the chakra method of meditation. I learned it from him.’ She pointed to the poster Beauvoir had entered. ‘In India. It’s a method for achieving balance, inside and out. There are seven centers in the body, from the top of your head to, well, your privates. Each has a color, and when they’re in alignment you’re balanced. If you’re interested, come to one of my classes. In fact, one’s about to start.’
She rocked herself out of the cushion and to her feet. Gamache also got up, but slightly less gracefully. She waddled toward the door, hurrying them out. Gamache stopped and looked more closely at the writing on the wall.
Be Calm, and know that I am God.
‘That’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘It sounds familiar.’
Did Mother hesitate a moment before answering?
‘It’s from Isaiah.’
‘You called your center Be Calm. Did you get the name from this?’ He nodded toward the wall.
‘Yes. I’m a little embarrassed about having what’s essentially a Christian saying on my walls, but this is an inclusive community. The people who come here to do yoga and meditate believe all sorts of things. Some are Christians, some Jews, some follow the Buddha, some lean more toward the Hindu teachings. We take what’s meaningful from each faith. We’re not dogmatic here.’
Gamache noticed that when she did it, it was a virtue, whereas when CC did it it was grotesque.
‘Though Isaiah is the Old Testament, so you’re off the Christian hook.’ Gamache smiled. ‘Why did you choose that particular saying?’
‘It’s actually quite close to the Buddhist belief that if we’re quiet and calm we’ll find God,’ Mother explained. ‘It’s a beautiful thought.’
‘It is indeed,’ said Gamache, and meant it. ‘Quiet and calm.’ He turned away from the saying and looked down directly into the eyes of the elderly woman beside him. ‘And still.’
Mother barely hesitated. ‘And still, Chief Inspector.’
‘Merci, Madame.’ He put a firm hand on Beauvoir’s arm and guided him to the door. Beauvoir didn’t even bother zipping his coat. He dived out the door and into the frigid evening feeling as though he’d plunged into a cold mountain stream. He coughed and sputtered as the freezing air hit his lungs, but he didn’t care. He was finally coming back to his senses.
‘Here, give me the keys.’ Gamache held out his hand and Beauvoir, without protest, dropped them in. ‘You all right?’ He got the Inspector into the passenger’s seat.
‘I’m fine. That woman, that place.’ He waved a weary hand around his head. He still felt nauseous and hoped he’d be able to hold it in until they got back to the B. & B. But he couldn’t.
Five minutes later Gamache was holding Beauvoir’s head at the side of the road as he vomited and coughed and cursed that woman and her cloying claustrophobic calm.