by Louise Penny
Some of the other guests had begun to recognize Abigail Robinson.
Phones were swinging from Haniya Daoud to the newcomer. Photos taken.
He turned back to Chancellor Roberge. “I’m not trying to stop her. I’m actually trying to keep her alive. Are you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He gestured toward the phones pointed at Abigail. A buzz had gone through the room.
“It’ll be all over social media in moments. If you have an ounce of reason left, you’ll tell her to meet whoever she came to see tomorrow. At your place. Privately.” He stared at her. “Go home, Colette.”
As he spoke, he noticed that Abigail Robinson was looking at someone in the crowd.
Haniya Daoud.
The Nobel nominee’s arms were folded tight across her body. And she was staring back.
Surely not her, thought Armand.
But …
Vincent Gilbert had asked why Madame Daoud was there. Maybe it wasn’t to visit Myrna. Maybe that was just the excuse. And this was the reason.
Was Professor Robinson here to meet Madame Daoud? And Haniya Daoud here to meet Abigail Robinson? But if so, to what end? What could the Hero of the Sudan and a woman proposing mass and targeted killing have to talk about?
Unless it wasn’t to talk.
Get out of my way, Haniya had said just last night.
Would I, this time? Step aside?
Armand felt a cold draft on the back of his neck and glanced at the front door, but it was closed.
“Is that Haniya Daoud?” Debbie Schneider asked. “Why would she be here?” There was a pause before she said, “My God, Abby. I think it is her. If we could get her endorsement…”
But Abigail’s eyes had moved on. She was no longer looking at Haniya. She was staring at the Asshole Saint. Vincent Gilbert.
Armand was behind her and couldn’t see her expression. He could, however, see Dr. Gilbert’s. He was staring beyond Abigail Robinson. At the Chancellor.
A silence had fallen like concrete over the crowd, slowly crushing the gaiety out of the New Year’s Eve celebrations. All eyes, even Gilbert’s, were now on Abigail Robinson.
Armand heard Dominique say to her husband, “Worst party ever.”
“It gets worse,” whispered Marc. “Dad’s here and Ruth’s found the booze.”
Armand saw Annie take Idola from Olivier, while Jean-Guy put his arm around them both. Reine-Marie joined her daughter and granddaughter.
One by one Daniel, Stephen, Clara, Olivier, Ruth, Myrna surrounded Idola. As though Professor Robinson’s very thoughts could harm the little girl. And, Armand knew, they could.
“Maybe we should leave,” said Chancellor Roberge, unsettled by the mood in the room.
“Maybe…,” Debbie muttered to Abby.
“No. We’ve come too far.”
Raising her arms slightly in what looked like surrender, Abby stepped forward and broke the silence.
“I know most of you recognize me, and that this isn’t necessarily a welcome surprise. I want you to know that our hosts didn’t invite me.”
She smiled. Just as at the event, her voice was soft, reasonable. Personable. Armand could feel the tension lower.
This wasn’t the monster they’d expected. The lunatic with the crazy ideas. This was someone just like them. Nice.
“So,” said Abigail. “No need to shoot them. Just me.”
At that there was some nervous laughter.
Armand had rarely seen a crowd turned so quickly. It didn’t mean anyone there was suddenly going to join the professor’s crusade, but he could see their own defenses dropping.
They liked her, if not her goals.
Though there was one other person in the room who’d managed to turn the crowd equally quickly, just in the opposite direction. Haniya Daoud had managed to turn almost everyone away.
From down the hallway there came a commotion, young voices raised in excitement.
It was 11:25. The rehearsal was over. The main event was about to begin.
* * *
“What is this?” Haniya asked Roslyn as the village kids excitedly shoved the adults off the raised foyer and took their places on what had become a stage.
“It’s a Québécois tradition,” Roslyn explained. She was watching her daughters take their places. “I did it when I was a child.”
Roslyn hadn’t noticed that Haniya was staring at Abigail Robinson when she’d asked, What is this?
Now Haniya Daoud refocused on Roslyn. “Did what?”
“Les Fables de La Fontaine. Each New Year’s Eve the children choose one of his stories and act it out.”
“God,” said Haniya. “More torture.”
Clara caught Haniya’s eye and, just before Haniya turned away, Clara saw a smile. She’d, unexpectedly, made a joke. For just that moment Clara saw the young woman behind the scars. Whose wounds had momentarily healed at the sight of children in homemade costumes, pushing and shoving each other on the “stage.”
And then the moment passed, and the scars reappeared, deeper than ever.
Clara shifted her gaze to see what Haniya was now looking at.
Who she was looking at.
Abigail Robinson was making her way through the crowd, which parted as though the professor wore a tattered cloak and carried a scythe.
“Oh, this’s one of my favorites,” said Myrna, elbowing Clara. “‘Les Animaux Malades de la Peste.’”
“‘The Animals Sick of the Plague,’” Roslyn translated for Haniya.
Not with the plague, Haniya noted as she followed Abigail’s progress across the room, but of it.
She too was sick of it.
* * *
“Vincent Gilbert, is it not?” said Abigail Robinson, smiling.
He inclined his head but did not offer his hand. “Professor.”
“This’s my assistant, Deborah Schneider, and Colette Roberge—”
“The Chancellor of the University,” said Gilbert. “We’ve met.”
A commotion onstage caught their attention, and they turned toward it.
It generally took at least two minutes for the annual Fable de La Fontaine to descend into debacle, but this one had got there in record time.
The little girl playing the donkey was in tears. Despite Gabri’s reassurance that it was just an act, still the child took the dialogue personally as the other animals blamed her, or rather the donkey, for the outbreak of plague.
She was howling, “It’s not my fault.”
They paused while Gabri and the girl’s parents sorted it out.
In the unexpected intermission, Chancellor Roberge said, “I’m not sure if you know that Dr. Gilbert did landmark studies on the mind-body connection.”
“I know who he is,” said Abigail. “And I know about his research.”
“And I know about yours,” he said. “You’re making quite a splash in the scientific community. Maybe we can talk about it sometime.”
“Are you interested in endorsing my findings, Dr. Gilbert? We seem to have a lot in common.”
“How so?”
“I’ve often thought you didn’t get the proper recognition, especially for your early work. I’d be happy to try to get you what you deserve.”
Armand had positioned himself close to Professor Robinson. His back was to them, and while he listened closely to the conversation, his eyes remained on the stage, watching his grandchildren.
Honoré, in his first Fable, was wearing huge bunny ears and had dragged his toboggan onstage with him. Florence and Zora were both dressed as piglets and were trying to comfort the donkey. Saying the plague wasn’t her fault. They were just pretending.
“I’m retired now,” said Gilbert. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“The truth always matters,” said Professor Robinson.
“Truth?” Gilbert’s tone was amused. “No real scientist talks about the truth.”
There was a pause. “Are you saying
I’m not a real scientist?”
The chilly undercurrent had reached the surface.
“But then,” Abigail was saying, “I understand why you wouldn’t be a fan of the truth.”
“Actually,” said Gilbert, “I am. Now I have more time on my hands, I’m finding the truth far more interesting than facts. The truth is, no serious scientist is taking your conclusions seriously. The Royal Commission won’t even let you present them. And for good reason. It might not be intellectual madness, but it is moral insanity.”
There was a pause as a pit opened in the conversation.
Abigail filled it with a single hoot of laughter. “Moral insanity? You, of all people, would say that?”
Listening to this, Armand was trying to work out what exactly was happening. What was really being said. What was really going on. Because something was.
“You need help,” said Gilbert. “Look at those faces. Half the people here, given a chance and a gun, would pull the trigger.”
Professor Robinson looked at the crowd, then back to him.
“And the other half, Doctor? They know that what I’m saying is rational and realistic. What scares people like you is that I’m just voicing what most are thinking.”
“Most?” said Gilbert. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re right. Not yet. But give it time. The Royal Commission might not listen to me, but others will. Others are. I have an appointment with the Premier next week. Now, you know my calculations are right. If you’d like to endorse what I am saying—”
“Your statistics might be right—”
“They are.”
“—but your conclusions are wrong. Don’t you care about that?”
“Right? Wrong? Suddenly you’re the arbiter? Such hypocrisy, Dr. Gilbert. After all, there were some pretty controversial studies out of your own university, I believe. Didn’t Ewen Cameron work at McGill?”
Now Armand did turn around and saw the surprise on Vincent Gilbert’s face.
“He was a monster,” said Gilbert.
“True. But monstrosities live a long time. And monsters beget other monsters.” She looked again at the other guests, including Jean-Guy and Annie, who were watching them. “All that’s missing are pitchforks and torches. But maybe I’m not the one they should be coming for.”
Now Armand was confused. Had she just called Vincent Gilbert a monster?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Gilbert.
Up onstage the play had resumed. A lion was reciting, “By history we find it noted / That lives have been just so devoted. / Then let us all turn eyes within, / and ferret out the hidden sin.”
“Abby Maria, maybe we should—” Debbie began but was interrupted by Gilbert’s laugh.
“Abby Maria? As in Ave Maria?” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Debbie began but was ignored.
“You call yourself Abby Maria?” Gilbert sneered. “You are out of control.”
“Come on,” said Debbie. “No one cares what he thinks.”
Though Armand thought that wasn’t true. He thought Abigail Robinson cared. She cared so much that she’d traveled thousands of miles to meet him.
He looked over at Colette, who’d been silent through all this. Was silence agreement? And if so, who did the Chancellor agree with?
“You have no moral authority to judge me.” Abigail Robinson’s voice was low, and it dropped further as she said, “Don’t think I don’t know.”
Up on stage, the Fable de La Fontaine was wrapping up, with all the animals turning to the audience and reciting the final lines.
Thus human courts acquit the strong,
And doom the weak, as therefore wrong.
CHAPTER 18
“You can stop pretending you’re not listening, Armand,” said Gilbert.
Colette and Debbie were heading down the corridor toward their coats. Preparing to leave.
But Professor Robinson was taking a different tack. She was heading straight for Annie and Jean-Guy.
Surely the professor could see she was sailing into a storm. But maybe, after that confrontation with Gilbert, that’s what she wanted, thought Armand. Needing to blow off steam and spoiling for a fight, she’d chosen the people most likely to give her one.
“You two were really going at it,” he said to Vincent. “What did she mean just now when she said she knows. What does she know?”
“Nothing. She’s a sociopath.”
Armand continued to watch Abigail Robinson. They all did, it seemed. Everyone in the room was riveted on her. While the Hero of the Sudan had all but disappeared.
It was twenty minutes to midnight.
* * *
“And what about Helen Keller?” said Annie, a few minutes later. “You can’t tell me she was a burden to society.”
“That’s a good point. A valid point,” said Abigail. She saw Debbie and Colette in their coats, standing by the front door, giving her the high sign. It was time to leave.
Abigail put up her hand in the “five minutes” signal, then turned back to the group.
* * *
“Yeah,” said Debbie. “There’s no way she’s leaving in five minutes. Now what? I’m getting hot.”
“Let’s get some fresh air,” said Colette.
“I’ll text to let her know we’re outside.” Debbie put Abigail’s coat down on the chair by reception, sent the text, then left with Chancellor Roberge.
* * *
Abigail refocused her attention, but her heart wasn’t really in these arguments anymore. She had other things on her mind.
Abby Maria. It was the last straw. Gilbert had repeated the name as though vomiting the words up.
Abby Maria. Full of grace.
She just wanted this to be over.
Pray for us sinners.
Abigail realized they were waiting for her to say something. To defend herself. She sighed.
“What I’m saying is that resources are limited. That’s just a fact. We need to save those who can be saved, and give the rest a dignified, merciful, and, yes, swift end.”
She noticed the child in the young woman’s arms.
“Oooh, a baby.” Abigail leaned forward. “May I?”
* * *
Across the room, Ruth and Stephen had joined the Asshole Saint and Armand.
The gathering had returned to a party atmosphere. The play, and the happy children leaping off the “stage” to wild applause, had helped. And now there was the thrum of pleasant conversation, outbursts of laughter, and anticipation as the clock counted down the final minutes of a year both trying and triumphant.
The teenagers in the group were getting a little rowdy, and Armand knew why. If they were anything like he was at that age, and Daniel and Annie for that matter, they’d stashed some beer or cider in the woods, and were enjoying their first drunk.
Tomorrow morning, he also knew from experience, would be a lot less enjoyable.
“Is Reine-Marie still finding monkeys?” asked Ruth.
“Oui,” said Armand. He’d been glancing over to see how his family was coping with Abigail Robinson.
Judging by Jean-Guy’s face, not well.
“Monkeys?” asked Vincent Gilbert. “Have I missed something?”
“It’s what Reine-Marie does now,” said Ruth.
“Looks for monkeys? And she finds them? Here?”
“No, you idiot,” said Ruth. “They’re not real monkeys.”
“She’s finding imaginary ones?” Dr. Gilbert turned to Armand. “That can’t be good.”
“A family has asked Reine-Marie to go through their mother’s things,” Armand explained. “The woman died a few months ago, and in cleaning out the house, they’ve come across boxes in the attic filled with letters, documents—”
“And monkeys,” said Stephen.
“How many so far?” Ruth asked.
“Eighty-six at last count,” said Armand.
“Monkeys?” repeated the Asshole Saint.
“Not real ones,” snapped Ruth. “And not imaginary.”
Now Vincent Gilbert was genuinely interested. “Then what are they?”
“Drawings mostly,” said Stephen. “Poor one must’ve lost her mind.”
“A lot of that going around,” said Gilbert, glancing over at Abigail Robinson.
Armand gave a small hum. In his experience there was almost always a reason for what people did. And often a rational one, if they could just find it.
“I wonder if there’ll be a hundred monkeys,” said Gilbert. “That would be interesting.”
“And eighty-six isn’t?” asked Ruth.
* * *
Jean-Guy moved to step between Abigail and Idola. But Annie put a hand on his arm and whispered, “Ça va bien aller.”
It’ll be okay.
He held her gaze, then stepped aside.
* * *
“Why do you say a hundred monkeys would be interesting?” Stephen asked.
Seeing Abigail Robinson reach out to move the blanket around Idola, Ruth started forward, clutching her cane and her duck. Rosa was looking very determined. A battle duck.
But Armand put out his hand. “Non. Let them.”
“Idola—” Ruth began.
“Is safe.” Though he didn’t take his eyes off them. He wasn’t sure what he was afraid of. He knew Abigail Robinson wasn’t going to harm his granddaughter. Not there. Not then.
They watched Robinson lean in. They watched her straighten up. They watched as she said something to Annie and Jean-Guy. And Annie responded.
Armand saw Reine-Marie smile. Only then did he return his attention to Gilbert.
“The hundredth monkey theory?” Vincent Gilbert was saying. “Never heard of it?”
“Should we have?” Stephen asked.
Gilbert laughed. “I guess not. Living on my own gives me time to read obscure articles. This one’s on human nature and crowd mentality.”
“Wait a minute,” said Stephen. “Is it the study from those anthropologists in Japan?”
“Yes. I’m not even sure it was a real study,” said Dr. Gilbert. “It seems like bullshit, and yet…”
