How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,73
and Gamache held her blazing eyes, looking beyond the flame to the charred core.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gilles broke the silence. “An old sailor and a tuna?”
“That’s albacore,” said Olivier.
“Oh, for chrissake,” snapped Ruth, and flicked her hand so that the flame went out. “One day I’ll be dead and then what’ll you do for cultured conversation, you stupid shits?”
“Touché,” said Myrna.
Ruth gave Gamache one final, stern look, then turned to the rest of the room.
“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?” When that was met with blank stares she went on. “Epic poem. Coleridge?”
Gilles leaned toward Olivier and whispered, “She’s not going to recite it, is she? I get enough poetry at home.”
“Right,” said Ruth. “People are always confusing Odile’s work with Coleridge.”
“At least they both rhyme,” said Gabri.
“Not always,” Gilles confided. “In her latest, Odile has ‘turnip’ rhyming with ‘cowshed.’”
Ruth sighed so violently her latest match blew out.
“OK, I’ll bite,” said Olivier. “Why does any of this remind you of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?”
Ruth looked around. “Don’t tell me Clouseau and I are the only ones with classical educations?”
“Wait a minute,” said Gabri. “I remember now. Didn’t the ancient mariner and Ellen DeGeneres save Nemo from a fish tank in Australia?”
“I think that was the Little Mermaid,” said Clara.
“Really?” Gabri turned to her. “Because I seem to remember—”
“Stop it.” Ruth waved them to be quiet. “The Ancient Mariner carried his secret, like a dead albatross, around his neck. He knew the only way to get rid of it was to tell others. To unburden himself. So he stopped a stranger, a wedding guest, and told him everything.”
“And what was his secret?” asked Gilles.
“The mariner had killed an albatross at sea,” said Gamache, stepping into the kitchen and taking the breadbasket to the table. “As a consequence of this cruel act, God took the lives of the entire crew.”
“Jeez,” said Gilles. “I’m no fan of hunting, but a bit of an overreaction, wouldn’t you say?”
“Only the mariner was spared,” said Gamache. “To stew. When he was finally rescued he realized that he could only be free if he talked about what had happened.”
“That a bird died?” asked Gilles, still trying to wrap his mind around it.
“That an innocent creature was killed,” said Gamache. “That he’d killed it.”
“You’d think God should also have to answer for slaughtering the entire crew,” Gilles suggested.
“Oh, shut up,” snapped Ruth. “The Ancient Mariner brought the curse on himself and them. It was his fault, and he had to admit it, or carry it the rest of his life. Got it?”
“Still doesn’t make sense to me,” mumbled Gilles.
“If you think this is difficult, try reading The Faerie Queene,” said Myrna.
“Fairy Queen?” asked Gabri, hopefully. “Sounds like bedtime reading to me.”
They sat down for dinner, the guests jockeying not to sit next to Ruth, or the duck.
Gamache lost.
Or perhaps he wasn’t playing.
Or perhaps he won.
“You think Constance had an albatross around her neck?” he asked Ruth as he spooned chicken and dumplings onto her plate.
“Ironic, don’t you think?” Ruth asked, without thanking him. “Talking about the killing of an innocent bird while eating chicken?”
Gabri and Clara put down their forks. The rest pretended they hadn’t heard. It was, after all, very tasty.
“So what was Constance’s albatross?” asked Olivier.
“Why ask me, numb nuts? How would I know?”
“But you think she had a secret?” Myrna persevered. “Something she felt guilty about?”
“Look.” Ruth laid down her cutlery and stared across at Myrna. “If I was a fortune-teller, what would I say to people? I’d look them in the eye and say…” She turned to Gamache and moved her spiny hands back and forth in front of his amused face. She took on a vague eastern European accent and lowered her voice. “You carry a heavy burden. A secret. Something you’ve told no living soul. Your heart is breaking, but you must let it go.”
Ruth dropped her hands but continued to stare at Gamache. He gave nothing away, but became very still.
“Who doesn’t have a secret?” Ruth asked quietly, speaking directly to the Chief.
“You’re right, of course,” said Gamache, taking a forkful of the delicious casserole. “We all carry secrets. Most to the grave.”
“But some secrets are heavier than others,” said the old poet. “Some stagger us, slow us. And instead of taking them to the grave, the grave comes to us.”
“You think that’s what happened with Constance?” asked Myrna.
Ruth held Gamache’s thoughtful brown eyes for a moment longer, then broke off to stare across the table.