Salad and Little Lies

by Amy

“You didn’t recognize him?” asked Clara as she sliced some fresh bread from Sarah’s Boulangerie.

There was only one “him” Myrna’s friend could be talking about. Myrna shook her head and sliced tomatoes into the salad, then turned to the shallots, all freshly picked from Peter and Clara’s vegetable garden.”

When we talked about comfort food I mentioned how much I love bread. I make my own bread, but I buy bread, too. Bakeries are dangerous places.  I’ve stood at the counter eating fresh warm bread while preparing a meal…  I’ve stood at the kitchen counter eating warm bread way before mealtime just because the bread was there, it was warm… 

“She picked up a slice of baguette and chewed on it. The bread was warm, soft and fragrant. The outer crust was crispy.“For God’s sake,” said Clara, waving the knife at the half eaten bread in Myrna’s hand.”“Want some?” Myrna offered her a piece.The two women stood at the counter eating fresh warm bread…”

I didn’t make these baguettes. Unlike Libby, my culinary expertise should be rated as beginner level. Until I started to write this post it hadn’t even occurred to me to make the baguettes. I might try to eventually. I like baking bread. No one (not even Gabri & Olivier) make their own baguettes in the series. So I bought mine from the local bakery like everyone else does!

The Brutal Telling might be my favorite book of the series. Not because of the murder. Nor is it because of the mystery. I was squirming most of the way through the book because I spent most of the story imagining how Olivier felt.

“If the first victim of war was the truth, some of the first victims of a murder investigation were people’s lies. The lies they told themselves, the lies they told each other. The little lies that allowed them to get out of bed on cold, dark mornings.”

I winced when I read that. It’s not that I’m guilty of murder. It’s that I’m guilty of lying to myself. I suppose we all are.

“The police were at the door. Soon they’d be in their homes, in their kitchens and bedrooms. In their heads.”

I think it was when reading this book that I was truly struck by Louise Penny’s writing. I think her genius is that she’s actually a philosopher disguised as a mystery writer.

“Stories have a strange power of attraction. When we tell stories, we touch hearts. If we talk about theories or speak about ideas, the mind may assimilate them but the heart remains untouched.” (Jean Vanier - BECOMING HUMAN)

Olivier’s story is particularly touching. We all have “versions” of our lives, little lies we tell ourselves. This is a recurring theme in these books. “Lies are the first victims of murder investigations”. This is said more than once. They’re usually innocent lies. They can be coping strategies - more like self delusion than a lie. They can be very useful tools for surviving in the world.

Your mother’s kisses healed your scraped knees. It didn’t hurt when they called you names. If you press the snooze button just one more time you won’t be late. You didn’t even want the “whatever it was” you couldn’t afford. That extra piece of chocolate won’t make a difference. You don’t mind that your birthday was forgotten. You’re not jealous of the friend who effortlessly managed what you’ve been striving for years to do. You’re not afraid of heights. The airplane won’t crash today. Nothing bad will ever happen to anyone in your family. You’re not really sick, you can manage to go to work today. That can never happen to you. It's not your fault. It's not that late. You're not upset. It didn't hurt. You're fine. 

Then there are lies that go beyond coping. The little boy Olivier grew adept at keeping secrets and hiding his true self because he was convinced he wouldn’t be accepted or loved otherwise. Not that he knew unconditional love as a child. He created a character. He acted out this carefully crafted persona all through his life. He became convinced that there was a huge gap between the person inside and the one other people saw.

What he didn’t realize what that his friends knew him. They loved him. They saw the real him. Not that they knew what he had done to the hermit or the extent of his avarice. But they knew the potential for it. Ruth makes that clear. They knew he was greedy. They loved him in spite of it.

Another thing that he didn’t realize is that, in some ways, while the little lies we tell ourselves do not change the truth, they slowly change us. The change can be for the worse. At times it is those little lies that allow us to justify small wrongs and deny our own guilt. That’s when they can become a kind of rot that kills us slowly from the inside out. They change us in awful ways. Beauvoir and his addiction were a fascinating study down a terrible road. I digress… I’ll leave the subject of Beauvoir’s addiction for another post. The change can also mean improvement. Doesn't the saying go fake it till you make it? 

Olivier’s case was a bit more complex, though. The lies he told and the secrets he felt compelled to keep weren’t as bad as he thought. He was so afraid of being eschewed by his friends and community that he continued to hide the person he believed they could never love. He had no idea. They loved him – although they were all hurt and a bit shocked – even when they believed him to be a murderer. A greedy secretive hoarder of treasures seems so much easier to accept than a murderer.

Although he had that “other side”, the horrible side, the hidden side of himself, the hidden Olivier wasn't the "true" one. It was just one part of the whole. He spent so much time hiding behind a carefully groomed image (a sort of lie he told himself) he didn’t realize that the little (big) lie had slowly become as much a part of him as the needy void he was so keen on hiding from his friends.

I think most of us will agree that while he was greedy, he wasn’t selfish. He was stingy with money and with treasures, but he was generous in his time and kindness. He was frequently the first to see someone’s need and to find a way to help. Many times he does so with ulterior motives, but still… 

Remember the whole storyline with the elderly lady who sold her antiques at a bargain and got Ikea in exchange? She was happy. He might have cheated her, in a way, but they both felt it had been a fair exchange.

It puts me in mind of one of Neil Gaiman’s tumbler posts. Someone asked how he could become a better person. Neil answered that he should fake it. Everyone is horrible at times. None of us are truly altruistic all the time (and probably not even most of the time). Gaiman’s suggestion is to fake it and, eventually, it will become habit. (Here’s the link: http://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/116751720466/dear-neil-i-am-a-horrible-person-how-to-be)

I think Olivier created a lie. He created a character that he could live with and he faked it. He was loved and he loved in return, but he wasn’t free. It took a murder and painful deconstruction of his lie to expose the vulnerable, scarred, frightened man that lived within the groomed exterior. It wasn’t his murder. The investigation, in truth, wasn’t about him. Nor would such full disclosure have become necessary had he been confident enough to tell the truth from the start. But then it was the greed that started the secrecy regarding the hermit, not lack of confidence.

“Myrna and Clara joined Peter at the table and as the women talked Peter thought of the man in charge of the investigation. He was dangerous, Peter knew. Dangerous to whoever had killed that man next door. He wondered whether the murderer knew what sort of man was after him. But Peter was afraid the murderer knew all too well.”

I think Peter’s discomfort in this scene, eating salad and bread, is telling. The characters who most lie to themselves and who are most afraid of being vulnerable and of exposing their souls are the ones who most fear Gamache, even when they are not murderers. Peter, Olivier, Ruth… and it is the unmaskings that have us turning the pages of the Inspector Gamache books.

I find myself reflecting on this idea again and again. In a way, ever since I first read it, this book has never left me. I find myself questioning what lies I tell myself and how harmless, damaging, or maybe even worthy they are. Some of them are useful to help me cope (I absolutely DO need a snooze button and 10 extra minutes before I get up). Some of them help me fake it into becoming the person I would like to be – even when I don’t feel like it (I love running early in the morning! Of course I want to talk about Pokemon and play with LEGOs for the thousandth time!) Others aren’t harmless – to me or others. Those are the ones I want to be brave enough to confront. Olivier’s story tells me that the people who love me don’t need those lies – they can handle the imperfect, vulnerable, and scared parts of me, too.

Salad

I had my gardening assistant (8 year old son) help me pick tomatoes from the garden. We also picked lettuce, arugula, mint leaves, and basil. I added chicken cubes which I’d grilled on an open pan earlier the same day. I cubed a Fuji apple and drenched it in the juice of one lime (it keeps it from becoming brown and adds flavor to the salad). 

All quotes, unless otherwise specified, are from THE BRUTAL TELLING, the scene that begins on page 28 of the paperback edition.