A Trick of the Light

TWO

“Remarkable, don’t you think?”

Armand Gamache turned to the distinguished older man beside him.

“I do,” nodded the Chief Inspector. Both men were silent for a moment, contemplating the painting in front of them. All around was the hubbub of the party in full swing, talking, laughing, friends getting caught up, strangers being introduced.

But the two men seemed to have formed a separate peace, a quiet little quartier.

In front of them on the wall was, either intentionally or naturally, the centerpiece of Clara Morrow’s solo show. Her works, mostly portraits, hung all around the white walls of the main gallery of the Musée d’Art Contemporain. Some were clustered close together, like a gathering. Some hung alone, isolated. Like this one.

The most modest of the portraits, on the largest of the walls.

Without competition, or company. An island nation. A sovereign portrait.

Alone.

“How do you feel when you look at it?” the man asked and turned his keen gaze on Gamache.

The Chief Inspector smiled. “Well, it isn’t the first time I’ve seen it. We’re friends of the Morrows. I was there when she first brought it out of her studio.”

“Lucky man.”

Gamache took a sip of the very good red wine and agreed. Lucky man.

“François Marois.” The older man put out his hand.

“Armand Gamache.”

Now his companion looked more closely at the Chief and nodded.

“Désolé. I should have recognized you, Chief Inspector.”

“Not at all. I’m always happier when people don’t,” smiled Gamache. “Are you an artist?”

He looked, in fact, more like a banker. A collector, perhaps? The other end of the artistic chain. He’d be in his early seventies, Gamache guessed. Prosperous, in a tailored suit and silk tie. There was a hint of expensive cologne about the man. Very subtle. He was balding, with hair immaculately and newly cut, clean-shaven, with intelligent blue eyes. All this Chief Inspector Gamache took in quickly and instinctively. François Marois seemed both vibrant and contained. At home in this rarified, and quite artificial, setting.

Gamache glanced into the body of the room, packed with men and women milling about and chatting, juggling hors d’oeuvres and wine. A couple of stylized, uncomfortable benches were installed in the middle of the cavernous space. More form than function. He saw Reine-Marie chatting with a woman across the room. He found Annie. David had arrived and was taking off his coat, then he went to join her. Gamache’s eyes swept the room until he found Gabri and Olivier, side-by-side. He wondered if he should go and speak with Olivier.

And do what? Apologize again?

Had Reine-Marie been right? Did he want forgiveness? Atonement? Did he want his mistake purged from his personal record? The one he kept deep inside, and wrote in each day.

The ledger.

Did he want that mistake stricken?

The fact was, he could live just fine without Olivier’s forgiveness. But now that he saw Olivier again he felt a slight frisson and wondered if he wanted that forgiveness. And he wondered if Olivier was ready to give it.

His eyes swept back to his companion.

It interested Gamache that while the best art reflected humanity and nature, human or otherwise, galleries themselves were often cold and austere. Neither inviting nor natural.

And yet, Monsieur Marois was comfortable. Marble and sharp edges appeared to be his natural habitat.

“No,” said Marois to Gamache’s question. “I’m not an artist.” He gave a little laugh. “Sadly, I’m not creative. Like most of my colleagues I dabbled in art as a callow youth and immediately discovered a profound, almost mystical lack of talent. Quite shocking, really.”

Gamache laughed. “So what brings you here?”

It was, as the Chief knew, a private cocktail party the night before the public opening of Clara’s big show. Only the select were invited to a vernissage, especially at the famous Musée in Montréal. The monied, the influential, the artist’s friends and family. And the artist. In that order.

Very little was expected of an artist at the vernissage. If they were clothed and sober most curators considered themselves fortunate. Gamache stole a glance at Clara, looking panicked and disheveled in a tailored power suit that had experienced a recent failure. The skirt was slightly twisted and the collar was riding high as though she’d tried to scratch the middle of her back.

“I’m an art dealer.” The man produced his card and Gamache took it, examining the cream background with the simple embossed black lettering. Just the man’s name and a phone number. Nothing more. The paper was thick and textured. A fine-quality business card. No doubt for a fine-quality business.

“Do you know Clara’s work?” Gamache asked, tucking the card into his breast pocket.

“Not at all, but I’m friends with the chief curator of the Musée and she slipped me one of the brochures. I was frankly astonished. The description says Madame Morrow has been living in Québec all her life and is almost fifty. And yet no one seems to know her. She came out of nowhere.”

“She came out of Three Pines,” said Gamache and at the blank look from his companion, he explained. “It’s a tiny village south of here. By the Vermont border. Not many people know it.”

“Or know her. An unknown artist in an anonymous village. And yet—”

Monsieur Marois opened his arms in an elegant and eloquent gesture, to indicate the surroundings and the event.

They both went back to gazing at the portrait in front of them. It showed the head and scrawny shoulders of a very old woman. A veined and arthritic hand clutched a rough blue shawl to her throat. It had slipped to reveal skin stretched over collarbone and sinew.

But it was her face that captivated the men.

She looked straight at them. Into the gathering, with the clink of glasses, the lively conversations, the merriment.

She was angry. Filled with contempt. Hating what she heard and saw. The happiness all around her. The laughter. Hating the world that had left her behind. Left her alone on this wall. To see, to watch and to never be included.

Like Prometheus Bound, here was a great spirit endlessly tormented. Grown bitter and petty.

Beside him Gamache heard a small gasp and knew what it was. The art dealer, François Marois, had understood the painting. Not the obvious rage, there for all to see, but something more complex and subtle. Marois had got it. What Clara had really created.

“Mon Dieu,” Monsieur Marois exhaled. “My God.”

He looked from the painting to Gamache.

Across the room Clara nodded and smiled, and took in almost nothing.

There was a howl in her ears and a swirl before her eyes, her hands were numb. She was losing her senses.

Deep breath in, she repeated to herself. Deep breath out.

Peter had brought her a glass of wine and her friend Myrna had offered a plate of hors d’oeuvres, but Clara was shaking so badly she’d had to give them both back.

And now she concentrated on trying not to look demented. Her new suit itched and she realized she looked like an accountant. From the old Eastern Bloc. Or maybe a Maoist. A Maoist accountant.

It wasn’t the look she’d been going for when she’d bought the suit at a swank boutique on rue St-Denis in Montréal. She’d wanted a change, something different from her usual billowy skirts and dresses. Something sharp and sleek. Something minimalist and coordinated.

And in the store she’d looked just great, smiling at the smiling saleswoman in the mirror and telling her all about the upcoming solo show. She told everyone about it. Cab drivers, waiters, the kid sitting next to her on the bus, plugged into his iPod and deaf. Clara hadn’t cared. She’d told him anyway.

And now the day had finally arrived.

That morning, sitting in her garden in Three Pines, she’d dared to think this would be different. She’d imagined walking through those two huge, frosted glass doors at the end of the corridor to wild applause. Looking fabulous in her new suit. The art community would be dazzled. Critics and curators would rush over, anxious to spend a moment with her. Falling all over themselves to congratulate her. To find just the right words, les mots justes, to describe her paintings.

Formidable. Brilliant. Luminous. Genius.

Masterpieces, each and every one.

In her quiet garden that morning Clara had closed her eyes and tilted her face to the young sun, and smiled.

The dream come true.

Perfect strangers would hang on her every word. Some might even take notes. Ask advice. They’d listen, rapt, as she talked about her vision, her philosophy, her insights into the art world. Where it was going, where it had been.

She’d be adored and respected. Smart and beautiful. Elegant women would ask where she’d bought her outfit. She would start a movement. A trend.

Instead, she felt like a messy bride at a wedding gone bad. Where the guests ignored her, concentrating instead on the food and drink. Where no one wanted to catch her bouquet or walk her down the aisle. Or dance with her. And she looked like a Maoist accountant.

She scratched her hip, and smoothed pâté into her hair. Then looked at her watch.

Dear God, another hour to go.

Oh, no no no, thought Clara. Now she was simply trying to survive. To keep her head above water. To not faint, or throw up, or pee. To remain conscious and continent was her new goal.

“At least you’re not on fire.”

“I’m sorry?” Clara turned to the very large black woman in the bright green caftan standing beside her. It was her friend and neighbor, Myrna Landers. A retired psychologist from Montréal, she now owned the new and used bookstore in Three Pines.

“Right now,” said Myrna. “You’re not on fire.”

“Very true. And perceptive. Nor am I flying. There’s quite a long list of things I’m not.”

“And a long list,” laughed Myrna, “of things you are.”

“Are you going to be rude now?” asked Clara.

Myrna paused and considered Clara for a moment. Almost every day Clara came across to Myrna’s bookstore to have a cup of tea and talk. Or Myrna would join Peter and Clara for dinner.

But today was like no other. No other day in Clara’s life had ever been like this, and it was possible none would ever be again. Myrna knew Clara’s fears, her failures, her disappointments. As Clara knew hers.

And they knew each other’s dreams too.

“I know this is difficult for you,” said Myrna. She stood right in front of Clara, her bulk blotting out the room, so that what had been a crowd scene was suddenly very intimate. Her body was a perfect green orb, blocking out the sights and sounds. They were in their own world.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” said Clara in a whisper, hoping she wasn’t about to cry. Where other little girls fantasized about their wedding day, Clara had dreamed of a solo art show. At the Musée. Here. She just hadn’t seen it in quite this way.

“And who gets to decide? What would make it perfect?”

Clara thought about that for a moment. “If I wasn’t so afraid.”

“And what’s the worst thing that can happen?” asked Myrna quietly.

“They’ll hate my art, decide I’m talentless, ridiculous. Laughable. That a terrible mistake was made. The show’ll be a failure and I’ll be a laughingstock.”

“Exactly,” said Myrna, with a smile. “All survivable. And then what’ll you do?”

Clara thought for a moment. “I’ll get into the car with Peter and drive back to Three Pines.”

“And?”

“Have the party there, with friends tonight.”

“And?”

“I’ll get up tomorrow morning…” Clara’s voice petered out as she saw her life post-apocalypse. She’d wake up tomorrow to her quiet life in the tiny village. A return to a life of walking the dog, and drinks on the terrasse, of café au lait and croissants in front of the fireplace at the bistro. Of intimate dinners with friends. Of sitting in her garden. Reading, thinking.

Painting.

Nothing that happened here would ever change that.

“At least I’m not on fire,” she said, and grinned.

Myrna took both of Clara’s hands in hers and held them for a moment. “Most people would kill for this day. Don’t let it go by without enjoying it. Your works are masterpieces, Clara.”

Clara squeezed her friend’s hand. All those years, those months, those quiet days when no one else noticed or cared what Clara did in her studio, Myrna had been there. And into that silence she’d whispered.

“Your works are masterpieces.”

And Clara had dared to believe her. And dared to keep moving forward. Urged on by her dreams, and that gentle, reassuring voice.

Myrna stepped aside then, revealing a whole new room. One filled with people, not threats. People having fun, enjoying themselves. There to celebrate Clara Morrow’s first solo show at the Musée.

“Merde,” shouted a man into the ear of the woman beside him, trying to raise his voice above the din of conversation. “This stuff is shit. Can you believe Clara Morrow got a solo show?”

The woman beside him shook her head and grimaced. She wore a flowing skirt and a tight T-shirt with scarves wrapped around her neck and shoulders. Her earrings were hoops and each of her fingers held rings.

In another place and time she’d have been considered a gypsy. Here she was recognized for what she was. A mildly successful artist.

Beside her her husband, also an artist and dressed in cords and a worn jacket with a rakish scarf at the neck, turned back to the painting.

“Dreadful.”

“Poor Clara,” agreed his wife. “The critics’ll savage her.”

Jean Guy Beauvoir, who was standing beside the two artists, his back to the painting, turned to glance at it.

On the wall among a cluster of portraits was the largest piece. Three women, all very old, stood together in a group, laughing.

They looked at each other, and touched each other, holding each other’s hands, or gripping an arm, tipping their heads together. Whatever had made them laugh, it was to each other they turned. As they equally would if something terrible had happened. As they naturally would whatever happened.

More than friendship, more than joy, more than even love this painting ached of intimacy.

Jean Guy quickly turned his back on it. Unable to look. He scanned the room until he found her again.

“Look at them,” the man was saying, dissecting the portrait. “Not very attractive.”

Annie Gamache was across the crowded gallery, standing next to her husband, David. They were listening to an older man. David looked distracted, disinterested. But Annie’s eyes were bright. Taking it in. Fascinated.

Beauvoir felt a flash of jealousy, wanting her to look at him that way.

Here, Beauvoir’s mind commanded. Look over here.

“And they’re laughing,” said the man behind Beauvoir, looking disapprovingly at Clara’s portrait of the three old women. “Not much nuance in that. Might as well paint clowns.”

The woman beside him snickered.

Across the room, Annie Gamache laid a hand on her husband’s arm, but he seemed oblivious.

Beauvoir put his hand on his own arm, gently. That’s what it would feel like.

“There you are, Clara,” said the chief curator of the Musée, taking her by the arm and leading her away from Myrna. “Congratulations. It’s a triumph!”

Clara had been around enough artistic people to know what they call “a triumph” others might call simply an event. Still, it was better than a kick in the shins.

“Is it?”

“Absolument. People are loving it.” The woman gave Clara an enthusiastic hug. Her glasses were small rectangles over her eyes. Clara wondered if there was a permanent slash of frame across her world, like an astigmatism. Her hair was short and angular, as were her clothes. Her face was impossibly pale. She was a walking installation.

But she was kind, and Clara liked her.

“Very nice,” said the curator, stepping back to take in Clara’s new look. “I like it. Very retro, very chic. You look like…” She moved her hands around in a contained circle, trying to find the right name.

“Audrey Hepburn?”

“C’est ça,” clapped the curator and laughed. “You’re sure to start a trend.”

Clara laughed too, and fell in love just a little. Across the room she saw Olivier standing, as always, beside Gabri. But while Gabri was gabbing away to a complete stranger, Olivier was staring through the crowd.

Clara followed his sharp gaze. It ended at Armand Gamache.

“So,” said the curator, putting her arm around Clara’s waist. “Who do you know?”

Before Clara could answer, the woman was pointing out various people in the crowded room.

“You probably know them.” She nodded to the middle-aged couple behind Beauvoir. They seemed riveted by Clara’s painting of the Three Graces. “Husband and wife team. Normand and Paulette. He draws the works and she does the fine detailing.”

“Like the Renaissance masters, working as a team.”

“Sort of,” said the curator. “More like Christo and Jeanne-Claude. Very rare to find a couple of artists so in sync. They’re actually very good. And I see they adore your painting.”

Clara did know them, and suspected “adore” wasn’t the word they themselves would use.

“Who’s that?” Clara asked, pointing to the distinguished man beside Gamache.

“François Marois.”

Clara’s eyes widened and she looked around the crowded room. Why was there no stampede to speak to the prominent art dealer? Why was Armand Gamache, who wasn’t even an artist, the only one speaking to Monsieur Marois? If these vernissages were for one thing it wasn’t to celebrate the artist. It was to network. And there was no greater catch than François Marois. Then she realized few in the room probably even knew who he was.

“As you know, he almost never comes to shows, but I gave him one of the catalogs and he thought your works were fabulous.”

“Really?”

Even allowing for the translation from “art” fabulous to “normal people” fabulous, it was a compliment.

“François knows everyone with money and taste,” said the curator. “This really is a coup. If he likes your works, you’re made.” The curator peered more closely. “I don’t know the man he’s talking to. Probably some professor of art history.”

Before Clara could say the man wasn’t a professor she saw Marois turn from the portrait to Armand Gamache. A look of shock on his face.

Clara wondered what he’d just seen. And what it meant.

“Now,” said the curator, pointing Clara in the opposite direction. “André Castonguay over there’s another catch.” Across the room Clara saw a familiar figure on the Québec art scene. Where François Marois was private and retiring, André Castonguay was ever-present, the éminence grise of Québec art. Slightly younger than Marois, slightly taller, slightly heavier, Monsieur Castonguay was surrounded by rings of people. The inner circle was made up of critics from various powerful newspapers. Radiating out from there were rings of lesser gallery owners and critics. And finally, in the outer circle, were the artists.

They were the satellites and André Castonguay the sun.

“Let me introduce you.”

“Fabulous,” said Clara. In her head she translated that “fabulous” into what she really meant. Oh merde.

“Is it possible?” François Marois asked, searching Chief Inspector Gamache’s face.

Gamache looked at the older man, and smiling slightly he nodded.

Marois turned back to the portrait.

The din in the gallery was almost deafening as more and more guests crowded into the vernissage.

But François Marois had eyes for only one face. The disappointed elderly woman on the wall. So full of censure and despair.

“It’s Mary, isn’t it?” asked Marois, almost in a whisper.

Chief Inspector Gamache wasn’t sure the art dealer was talking to him, so he said nothing. Marois had seen what few others grasped.

Clara’s portrait wasn’t simply of an angry old woman. She’d in fact painted the Virgin Mary. Elderly. Abandoned by a world weary and wary of miracles. A world too busy to notice a stone rolled back. It had moved on to other wonders.

This was Mary in the final years. Forgotten. Alone.

Glaring out at a room filled with bright people sipping good wine. And walking right by her.

Except for François Marois, who now tore his eyes from the painting to look at Gamache once again.

“What has Clara done?” he asked quietly.

Gamache was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts before answering.

“Hello, numb nuts.” Ruth Zardo slipped a thin arm through Jean Guy Beauvoir’s. “Tell me how you are.”

It was a command. Few had the fortitude to ignore Ruth. But then, few were ever asked how they were, by Ruth.

“I’m doing well.”

“Bullshit,” said the old poet. “You look like crap. Thin. Pale. Wrinkled.”

“You’re describing yourself, you old drunk.”

Ruth Zardo cackled. “True. You look like a bitter old woman. And that’s not the compliment it might seem.”

Beauvoir smiled. He’d actually been looking forward to seeing Ruth again. He examined the tall, thin, elderly woman leaning on her cane. Ruth’s hair was white and thin and cut close to her head, so that it looked like her skull was exposed. Which seemed to Beauvoir about right. Nothing inside Ruth’s head was ever unexposed or unexpressed. It was her heart she kept hidden.

But it came out in her poetry. Somehow, and Beauvoir couldn’t begin to guess how, Ruth Zardo had won the Governor General’s Award for poetry. None of which he understood. Fortunately, Ruth in person was a lot easier to decode.

“Why’re you here?” she demanded and fixed him with a steady look.

“Why’re you? You can’t tell me you came all the way from Three Pines to support Clara.”

Ruth looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Of course not. I’m here for the same reason everyone else is. Free food and drink. But I’ve had my fill now. Are you coming back to the party in Three Pines later?”

“We were invited, but I don’t think so.”

Ruth nodded. “Good. More for me. I heard about your divorce. I suppose she cheated on you. Only natural.”

“Hag,” muttered Beauvoir.

“Dick-head,” said Ruth. Beauvoir’s eyes had wandered and Ruth followed his stare. To the young woman across the room.

“You can do better than her,” said Ruth and felt the arm she was holding tense. Her companion was silent. She turned sharp eyes on him then looked once again at the woman Beauvoir was staring at.

Mid to late twenties, not fat, but not thin either. Not pretty, but not dirt ugly either. Not tall, but not short either.

She would appear to be completely average, completely unremarkable. Except for one thing.

The young woman radiated well-being.

As Ruth watched an older woman approached the group and put an arm around the younger woman’s waist and kissed her.

Reine-Marie Gamache. Ruth had met her a few times.

Now the wizened old poet looked at Beauvoir with heightened interest.

Peter Morrow was chatting up a few gallery owners. Minor figures in the art world but best to keep them happy.

He knew André Castonguay, of the Galerie Castonguay, was there and Peter was dying to meet him. He’d also noticed the critics for the New York Times and Le Figaro. He glanced across the room and saw a photographer taking Clara’s picture.

She looked away for a moment and caught his eye, shrugging. He lifted his wine in salute, and smiled.

Should he go over and introduce himself to Castonguay? But there was such a crowd around him, Peter didn’t want to look pathetic. Hovering. Better to stay away, as though he didn’t care, didn’t need André Castonguay.

Peter brought his attention back to the owner of a small gallery, who was explaining they’d love to do a show for Peter, but were all booked.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rings around Castonguay part, and make way for Clara.

“You asked how I feel when I see this painting,” said Armand Gamache. The two men were looking at the portrait. “I feel calm. Comforted.”

François Marois looked at him with amazement.

“Comforted? But how? Happy maybe that you aren’t so angry yourself? Does her own immense rage make yours more acceptable? What does Madame Morrow call this painting?” Marois removed his glasses and leaned into the description stenciled on the wall.

Then he stepped back, his face more perplexed than ever.

“It’s called Still Life. I wonder why.”

As the art dealer concentrated on the portrait Gamache noticed Olivier across the room. Staring at him. The Chief Inspector smiled a greeting and wasn’t surprised when Olivier turned away.

He at least had his answer.

Beside him Marois exhaled. “I see.”

Gamache turned back to the art dealer. Marois was no longer surprised. His veneer of civility and sophistication had slipped, and a genuine smile broke through.

“It’s in her eyes, isn’t it.”

Gamache nodded.

Then Marois cocked his head to one side, looking not at the portrait but into the crowd. Puzzled. He looked back to the painting, then again into the crowd.

Gamache followed his gaze, and wasn’t surprised to see it resting on the elderly woman speaking with Jean Guy Beauvoir.

Ruth Zardo.

Beauvoir was looking vexed, annoyed, as one so often does around Ruth. But Ruth herself was looking quite pleased.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” asked Marois, his voice excited and low as though not wanting to let anyone else in on their secret.

Gamache nodded. “A neighbor of Clara’s in Three Pines.”

Marois watched Ruth, fascinated. It was as though the painting had come alive. Then he and Gamache both turned back to the portrait.

Clara had painted her as the forgotten and belligerent Virgin Mary. Worn down by age and rage, by resentments real and manufactured. By friendships soured. By entitlements denied and love withheld. But there was something else. A vague suggestion in those weary eyes. Not even seen really. More a promise. A rumor in the distance.

Amid all the brush strokes, all the elements, all the color and nuance in the portrait, it came down to one tiny detail. A single white dot.

In her eyes.

Clara Morrow had painted the moment despair became hope.

François Marois stepped back half a pace and nodded gravely.

“It’s remarkable. Beautiful.” He turned to Gamache then. “Unless, of course, it’s a ruse.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gamache.

“Maybe it isn’t hope at all,” said Marois, “but merely a trick of the light.”