Page 126 of The Grey Wolf
“Why do college students watchThe Flintstones? It’s something we all do when under more pressure than usual.”
“You watchThe Flintstones?”
“Non.Pay attention, Barney. We find something that reminds us of a time without stress. When we were young and someone else was in charge. We reread favorite books, we listen to music we fell in love to. Neil Young. Beau Dommage. In your case, Celine. We watch shows that bring comfort. Allow us to revert to a younger, happier, simpler time.The Flintstones.La Petite Vie—”
“Oh, I love that.”
“I bet you still watch it.”
Armand was right. When he or Annie was particularly stressed, they’d watch an episode ofLa Petite Vietogether before bed. Sometimes two. Three. And howl with laughter, even though they knew each episode by heart.
Then they’d sleep, with lighter heads and hearts.
“I think those young men in the seminary, new teachers with all that pressure, took to watchingSesame Street,” said Armand. “It is as much a show for adults as kids.”
That was true, thought Jean-Guy. No kid would get the “Let It Be” reference, which was what made the song so funny.
“Okay, suppose you’re right, what good is it to us?”
Beauvoir was being shooed off the gangway so airport personnel could move it back from the plane.
“Sister Joan talked about a passion Sébastien and his friends shared.”
“Right.”
“One he was now putting to good use, but that back then had gotten him fired.”
Beauvoir, strolling through the airport, stopped so suddenly people behind him had to twist to avoid colliding with him. At least one man gave him the finger, but Jean-Guy was uncharacteristically oblivious to the insult.
“Singing. You think that was the passion.”
“I think the song ‘Letter B’ was a running joke among the three of them. ‘Let It Be’ is essentially a hymn, so monks might find theSesame Streetversion especially funny. Underlining theBin the message told Sébastien who it was from. One of his two friends who shared the joke. And the fallout.”
“I’ll call Sister Joan.”
“I have an update on the driver of the SUV,” said the senior agent at headquarters. “The one who was found dead in the landfill. I was just about to send it to you.”
“Yes?” Gamache sat forward and grabbed a pen on his study desk.
“His name was Paolo Parisi.”
“Spell it please.” He jotted the name down. “How do we know that? There wasn’t any ID on the body, and his DNA and fingerprints aren’t on file.”
“Interpol. I sent the information and they ID’d him.”
“What’s he wanted for?”
“Nothing.”
Gamache leaned back slightly, surprised by that answer. “So?”
“He’s the youngest child of a prominent Sicilian family.”
“Wait. That Parisi? The olive oil?”
The Gamaches had a can of it in their kitchen. They’d probably used it for the salad dressing that night for dinner. Very fine olive oil.
“Oui.He entered the US as a tourist at JFK two months ago.”
