*
Jean-Guy Beauvoir stared at Frère Antoine.
It was like peeking into an alternate universe. The monk was thirty-eight years old. Beauvoir’s age. He was Beauvoir’s height. Beauvoir’s coloring. They even shared the same lean and athletic build.
And when he spoke, Frère Antoine’s voice had the same Québécois accent. From the same region. The streets of east end Montréal. Imperfectly hidden under layers of education and effort.
The two men stared, neither sure what to make of the other.
“Bonjour,” said Frère Antoine.
“Salut,” said Beauvoir.
The only difference was that one was a monk and the other a S?reté officer. It was as though they’d grown up in the same home, but in different rooms.
Beauvoir could understand the other monks. Most were older. They seemed of an intellectual, contemplative nature. But this lean man?
Beauvoir felt a slight vertigo. What could possibly have led Antoine to become Frère Antoine? Why not a cop, like Beauvoir. Or a teacher. Or work for Hydro-Québec. Or a bum, or a vagrant, or a burden to society?
Beauvoir could understand the path to all those things.
But a religious? A man of his own age? From the same streets?
No one Beauvoir knew even went to church, never mind dedicated his life to it.
“I understand you’re the soloist for the choir,” said Beauvoir. He stood as tall as he could, but still felt dwarfed by Frère Antoine. It was the robes, Beauvoir decided. They were an unfair advantage. Gave the impression of height and authority.
Perhaps the S?reté should consider it, if they ever redesigned the uniforms. He’d have to put it in the suggestion box, and sign Inspector Lacoste’s name to it.
“That’s true. I’m the soloist.”
Beauvoir was relieved this monk hadn’t called him “my son.” He wasn’t sure what he’d do if that happened, but he suspected it wouldn’t reflect well on the S?reté.
“I also understand you were about to be replaced.”
That got a reaction, though not the one Beauvoir expected and hoped for.
Frère Antoine smiled.
“You’ve been talking to Frère Luc, I see. I’m afraid he’s mistaken.”
“He seems quite certain.”
“Frère Luc is having difficulty separating what he hopes will happen from what actually will. Expectations from reality. He’s young.”
“I don’t think he’s much younger than Christ.”
“You’re not suggesting we have the second coming in the porter’s room?”
Beauvoir, who had a tenuous hold on anything biblical, gave the point to the monk.
“Frère Luc must have misunderstood the prior,” said Frère Antoine.
“Was that an easy thing to do?”
Frère Antoine hesitated then shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “The prior was quite a definite man.”
“Then why does Frère Luc believe the prior wanted him to be the soloist?”
“I can’t explain what people believe, Inspector Beauvoir. Can you?”
“No,” admitted Beauvoir. He was looking at a man his own age, in a gown and floppy hat, head shaved, in a community of men in the woods. They’d dedicated their lives to a church most in Québec had renounced and they found meaning in singing songs in a dead language with squiggles for notes.
No, he couldn’t explain it.
But Beauvoir knew one thing, after years of kneeling beside dead bodies. It was very, very dangerous to come between a person and their beliefs.
Frère Antoine handed Beauvoir a basket. The monk bent down and searched through thick elephant ear leaves.
“Why do you think Frère Luc is the portier?” the monk asked, not looking at Beauvoir.
“Punishment? Some sort of hazing ritual?”
Frère Antoine shook his head. “Every single one of us is assigned that little room when we first arrive.”
“Why?”
“So we can leave.”
Frère Antoine picked a plump squash and put it in Beauvoir’s basket.
“Religious life is hard, Inspector. And this is the hardest. Not many can cut it.”
He made it sound like the marines of religious orders. There’s no life like it. And Beauvoir discovered a small stirring of understanding. Of attraction even. This was a tough life. And only the tough made it. The few. The proud. The monks.
“Those of us who stay at Saint-Gilbert have been called here. But that means it’s voluntary. And we have to be sure.”
“So you test each new monk?”
“We don’t test him, the test is between himself and God. And there’s no wrong answer. Just the truth. He’s given the door to guard and the key to leave.”
“Free choice?” asked Beauvoir, and saw the monk smile again.
“Might as well make use of it.”
“Has anyone ever left?”
“Lots. More leave than stay.”
“And Brother Luc? He’s been here almost a year now. When’s his test over?”
“When he decides it’s over. When he asks to be taken out of the porter’s room and comes to join the rest of us. Or he uses the key and leaves.”
Another heavy gourd landed in Beauvoir’s basket.
Frère Antoine moved down the row.
“He’s in a sort of purgatory there,” said the monk, searching among the huge leaves for more squash. “Of his own making. It must be very painful. He seems paralyzed.”
“By what?”