Page 17 of The Grey Wolf
No, thought Gamache. He didn’t look stupid, but he did look like a man trying desperately to appear calm, in control.
“I paid some homeless guy to do it.”
“And yet here you are, in full view.” Armand’s voice was pleasant, also trying to appear calm, while every part of him was hyperalert. “So why the game at Sûreté headquarters?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d come. I didn’t want to expose myself before I had to.”
“You’re not planning to expose yourself, are you?”
The man stared at him for a moment, then smiled. And, as with most people, the smile transformed his face. The burly man suddenly looked younger, more innocent.
“Not unless I have to.”
Vito’s hand appeared over the man’s shoulder, and he startled, giving a quick spasm, and almost knocking the cannoli off the plate.
“I didn’t order this,” he snapped, embarrassed by his reaction.
“I did.Grazie, Vito,” said Gamache. “Would you like a coffee?”
When his guest just stared, as though not understanding the question, Gamache asked Vito to bring a cappuccino. “Perhaps decaf.”
“Non.I don’t want any coffee.”
Vito filled his water glass, but the man pushed it away.
When Vito left, after giving Armand a look, the man asked, “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“You know. Buying me food.”
“I thought you might be hungry. You looked thinner on the tape. And younger.”
The man gave a grunt of laughter. “I have put on weight since this morning, and a few years.”
“So have I.” Armand also smiled, trying to keep this easy, cordial. As though he met with people who broke into his home every day.
Gamache’s companion spoke with a joual accent. The old, almost ancient patois that had come over on wooden ships with Jacques Cartier and Samuel de Champlain. It had been transplanted from the slums of Paris and taken root in the New World.
It still thrived in pockets of Montréal.
Like cockney, it had evolved. Not just the odd word or phrase,but the perception. Joual had gone from the back alleys of East End Montréal, to main street and the main stage of renowned theaters. It was heard in university classrooms and boardrooms.
Armand very much liked hearing the sound, the inflections. The words. Not all of which he understood. Though “poutine” he knew. It was joual for pudding.
The language was guttural, almost harsh. If a Québec winter could speak, it would be in joual.
Hearing it now, Gamache felt a sort of affection for this stranger. It was instinctive.
That too was something to guard against, and he wondered in passing if this young man was doing it on purpose. Joual was a trigger, a code that told another Québécois that the speaker, while perhaps rough, was salt of the earth. He or she could be trusted. As you’d trust a grandparent.
Gamache glanced at the elderly man, who was now sitting at a table and gently wiping whipped cream off his granddaughter’s hands. Yes, trust was a powerful instinct. And weapon.
“Do you live in the area?” Gamache asked.
“Non.”
The man picked up the pastry and bit down. The thick whipped cream oozed out of both ends of the roll and onto his fingers.
