‘You’re a trainee, here to learn,’ he said quietly, directly into the slightly pursed face. ‘Therefore a certain teaching is necessary. Do you enjoy learning?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And how do you learn?’
‘Sir?’
‘The question is clear. Think about it, please, and answer.’
His deep brown eyes, as always, were lively and warm. He spoke calmly, but firmly. Without hostility but with an expectation. His tone was clearly one of boss and trainee. She was taken aback. He had been so friendly yesterday, so courteous, she thought she could take advantage of that. Now she began to realise her mistake.
‘I learn by watching and listening, sir.’
‘And?’
And what? They sat there, Gamache looking as though he had all day, though she knew he had to conduct the public meeting in Three Pines in just two hours and they still had to drive there. Nichol’s mind froze. And ... and ...
‘Think about it. Tonight you can tell me what you’ve come up with. For now, though, let me tell you how I work. And what my expectations of you are.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I watch. I’m very good at observing. Noticing things. And listening. Actively listening to what people are saying, their choice of words, their tone. What they aren’t saying. And this, Agent Nichol, is the key. It’s choice.’
‘Choice?’
‘We choose our thoughts. We choose our perceptions. We choose our attitudes. We may not think so. We may not believe it, but we do. I absolutely know we do. I’ve seen enough evidence, time after time, tragedy after tragedy. Triumph after triumph. It’s about choice.’
‘Like choice of schools? Or dinner?’
‘Clothes, hairstyle, friends. Yes. It starts there. Life is choice. All day, everyday. Who we talk to, where we sit, what we say, how we say it. And our lives become defined by our choices. It’s as simple and as complex as that. And as powerful. So when I’m observing, that’s what I’m watching for. The choices people make.’
‘What can I do, sir?’
‘You can learn. You can watch and listen, and do as you’re told. You’re a trainee. Nobody expects you to know anything. If you pretend to know you aren’t going to actually learn.’
Nichol could feel herself blush and cursed her body, which had betrayed her for as long as she could remember. She was a blusher. Maybe, came some voice from deep down below blushing level, maybe if you stop pretending you’ll also stop blushing. But it was a very weak voice.
‘I watched you yesterday. You did some good work. You got us on to the arrow possibility early. Excellent. But you also have to listen. Listen to the villagers, listen to the suspects, listen to gossip, listen to your instincts and listen to your colleagues.’
Nichol liked the sound of that. Colleagues. She’d never had them before. In the Highway Division of the Sûreté she’d worked more or less on her own, and before that in the local Repentigny force she’d always felt people were waiting to undermine her. It would be nice to have colleagues. Gamache leaned toward her.
‘You need to learn that you have choices. There are four things that lead to wisdom. You ready for them?’
She nodded, wondering when the police work would begin.
‘They are four sentences we learn to say, and mean.’ Gamache held up his hand as a fist and raised a finger with each point. ‘I don’t know. I need help. I’m sorry. And one other.’ Gamache thought for a moment but couldn’t bring it to mind. ‘I forget. But we’ll talk more about it tonight, right?’
‘Right, sir. And thank you.’ Oddly enough, she realised she meant it.
After Gamache had left, Nichol brought out her notebook. She hadn’t wanted to take notes while he was talking. She figured it would make her look foolish. Now she quickly wrote: I’m sorry, I don’t know, I need help, I forget.
When Peter got out of the shower and came into the kitchen he noticed two things. The coffee was brewing and Clara was wrapped around Lucy who herself was a tight ball of Golden Retriever, her nose between her back legs.
‘It worked for me last night,’ said Clara, arching her head back to look at Peter’s slippers, and instinctively up his bathrobe.
Peter knelt down and kissed Clara. Then he kissed Lucy’s head. But the dog didn’t stir. ‘Poor one.’
‘I offered her some banana but she didn’t even look up.’
Everyday for Lucy’s entire dog life Jane had sliced a banana for breakfast and had miraculously dropped one of the perfect disks on to the floor where it sat for an instant before being gobbled up. Every morning Lucy’s prayers were answered, confirming her belief that God was old and clumsy and smelt like roses and lived in the kitchen.
