“The goddamned play,” said Myrna. “I’m going to quit and Antoinette’s going to have a fit. I feel like such a shit.”
“Did you realize that all rhymed?” asked Gabri. “Quit, fit, shit. Like a Shakespearean sonnet.”
“You feel you’re letting down a friend,” said Reine-Marie.
“Partly, but I run a bookstore,” said Myrna, looking at the row upon row of books, lining the walls and creating corridors in the open space. “So many of them were banned and burned. That one,” she pointed to the Fahrenheit 451 Clara still had in her hands. “To Kill a Mockingbird. The Adventures of Huck Finn. Even The Diary of Anne Frank. All banned by people who believed they were in the right. Could we be wrong?”
“You’re not banning it,” said Clara. “He’s allowed to write and you’re allowed to pull your support.”
“But it comes to the same thing. If Gabri and I pull out and tell the others, it’ll ruin the production. And you know what? I want it to. Once she knew who’d written the play, Antoinette should never have produced it. Right, Armand?”
“Right.”
If they were expecting a hesitation, some anguish over the answer, they were disappointed. His answer was quick and unequivocal.
Armand Gamache was in absolutely no doubt. This was a play that should never have seen the light of day. Just as its author should never again see the light of day.
“But other killers have written books, plays even,” said Myrna.
“John Fleming is different,” said Clara. “We all know it.”
“You’re an artist,” said Reine-Marie. “Do you think a work should be judged by its creator? Or should it stand on its own?”
Clara gave a huge sigh. “I know the right answer to that. And I know how I feel. Would I want a painting by Jeffrey Dahmer, or to serve a meal from the Stalin family cookbook? No.”
“That’s not the issue,” said Gabri. “It’s about options, letting people make their own choices. Maybe Antoinette should produce it, and let people decide if they’ll go or not.”
“Are you having second thoughts about quitting?” asked Myrna.
“Hell no,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere near that play again. The play was written by a shit and there’s shit all over it. Fair or not, that’s just the way it is.”
“Look at Wagner,” said Reine-Marie. “He’s so associated with the Nazis and the Holocaust that his music, however brilliant, is spoiled for many.”
“It doesn’t help that Wagner was also a raging anti-Semite,” said Gabri.
“But is that a reason not to perform music that is sublime?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Reason has very little to do with this,” said Myrna. “I’m the first to admit I’d lose every debate over whether Fleming’s play should be banned. Intellectually I know he has a right to write it, and any company has a right to produce it. I just don’t want to be a part of it. I can’t defend my feelings, they just are.”
“I go back to the question,” said Reine-Marie. “Should the creation be judged by its creator? Does it matter?”
“It matters,” said Gamache. “Sometimes censorship is justified.”
They looked at him, surprised by his certainty. Even Reine-Marie was taken aback.
“But, Armand, you’ve always championed free speech, even when it’s used against you.”
“There’re exceptions in a free society,” said Armand. “There are always exceptions.” And John Fleming, he knew, was exceptional.
“Is the play about the murders?” Clara asked.
“No,” admitted Gabri. “It’s actually quite funny. It’s about a guy who keeps winning the lottery and squandering the chances he’s been given. He keeps ending up at the same rooming house, with the same people.”
“It’s hilarious in places,” Myrna agreed. “But then you find yourself incredibly moved. I don’t know how he did it.”
“So it has nothing to do with Fleming and his crimes?” asked Reine-Marie. “Nothing to do with him as a man?”
“It has everything to do with him,” said Armand, his voice clipped, strained. They looked at him. Never had they heard him come even close to being upset with his wife. “If John Fleming created it, it’s grotesque. It can’t help but be. Maybe not obviously so, but he’s in every word, every action of the characters. The creator and the created are one.” He laced his fingers together. “This is how he escapes. Through the written word, and the decency of others. This is how John Fleming gets into your head. And you don’t want him there. Believe me.”
