A Trick of the Light

SEVEN

Armand Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir stepped down from the wide, sweeping verandah of the B and B onto the path.

It was a warm day and Beauvoir was thirsty.

“Drink?” he suggested to the Chief, knowing it was a pretty safe bet. But Gamache surprised him.

“In a few minutes. There’s something I need to do first.” The two men paused at the dirt road. The day was going from warm to almost hot. Some of the early white irises in the flower beds around the village green had opened fully, and then some. Almost exploding, exposing their black centers.

It seemed to Beauvoir a confirmation. Inside every living thing, no matter how beautiful, if opened fully enough was darkness.

“I find it interesting that Normand and Paulette knew Lillian Dyson,” said Gamache.

“Why’s that interesting?” asked Beauvoir. “Isn’t it what you’d expect? After all they hang around the same crowd. Did twenty-five years ago, and did a few months ago. It would’ve been surprising if they didn’t know each other.”

“True. What I find interesting is that neither François Marois nor André Castonguay admitted to knowing her. How could Normand and Paulette know Lillian, but Marois and Castonguay not?”

“They probably didn’t move in the same circles,” suggested Beauvoir.

They walked away from the B and B and toward the hill out of Three Pines. Beauvoir took off his jacket, but the Chief kept his on. It would take more than a merely warm day to get him to walk around in his shirtsleeves.

“There aren’t that many circles in the Québec art scene,” said Gamache. “And while the dealers might not be personal friends with everyone, they’d be sure to at least be aware of them. If not today, then back twenty years, when Lillian was a critic.”

“So they were lying,” said Beauvoir.

“That’s what I’m going to find out. I’d like you to check on progress at the Incident Room. Why don’t we meet at the bistro,” Gamache looked at his watch, “in about forty-five minutes.”

The two men parted, Beauvoir pausing to watch the Chief walk up the hill. His gait strong.

He himself made his way across the village green toward the Incident Room. As he walked across the grass he slowed, then veered off to his right. And sat on the bench.

“Hello, dick-head.”

“Hello, you old drunk.”

Ruth Zardo and Jean Guy Beauvoir sat side-by-side, a loaf of stale bread between them. Beauvoir took a piece, broke it up and threw it on the grass for the robins gathered there.

“What’re you doing? That’s my lunch.”

“We both know you haven’t chewed lunch in years,” Beauvoir snapped. Ruth chuckled.

“That is true. Still, you owe me a meal now.”

“I’ll buy you a beer later.”

“So what brings you back to Three Pines?” Ruth tossed more bread for the birds, or at the birds.

“The murder.”

“Oh, that.”

“Did you see her last night, at the party?” Beauvoir handed Ruth the photograph of the dead woman. She studied it then handed it back.

“Nope.”

“What was the party like?”

“The barbeque? Too many people. Too much noise.”

“But free booze,” said Beauvoir.

“It was free? Merde. I didn’t have to sneak it after all. Still, more fun to steal it.”

“Nothing strange happened? No arguments, no raised voices? All that drinking and no one got belligerent?”

“Drinking? Lead to belligerence? Where’d you get that idea, numb nuts?”

“Absolutely nothing unusual happened last night?”

“Not that I saw.” Ruth tore off another piece of bread and tossed it at a fat robin. “I’m sorry about your separation. Do you love her?”

“My wife?” Beauvoir wondered what prompted Ruth to ask. Was it caring or simply no sense of personal boundaries? “I think—”

“No, not your wife. The other one. The plain one.”

Beauvoir felt his heart spasm and the blood pour from his face.

“You’re drunk,” he said, getting to his feet.

“And belligerent,” she said. “But I’m also right. I saw how you looked at her. And I think I know who she is. You’re in trouble, young Mr. Beauvoir.”

“You know nothing.”

He walked away. Trying not to break into a run. Willing himself to stay slow, steady. Left, right. Left, right.

Ahead he could see the bridge, and the Incident Room beyond. Where he’d be safe.

But young Mr. Beauvoir was beginning to appreciate something.

There was no such place as “safe.” Not anymore.

“Did you read this?” Clara asked, putting her empty beer glass on the table and handing the Ottawa Star over to Myrna. “The Star hated the show.”

“You’re kidding.” Myrna took the paper and scanned it. It was, she had to admit, not a glowing review.

“What was it they called me?” demanded Clara, sitting on the arm of Myrna’s easy chair. “Here it is.” Clara jabbed a finger and poked the newspaper. “Clara Morrow is an old and tired parrot mimicking actual artists.”

Myrna laughed.

“You find that funny?” Clara asked.

“You’re not actually taking that comment seriously?”

“Why not? If I take the good ones seriously don’t I have to take the bad too?”

“But look at them,” said Myrna, waving to the papers on the coffee table. “The London Times, the New York Times, Le Devoir, all agree your art is new and exciting. Brilliant.”

“I hear the critic from Le Monde was there but he didn’t even bother to write a review.”

Myrna stared at her friend. “I’m sure he will, and he’ll agree with everyone else. The show’s a massive success.”

“Her art, while nice, was neither visionary nor bold,” Clara read over Myrna’s shoulder. “They don’t think it’s a massive success.”

“It’s the Ottawa Star, for God’s sake,” said Myrna. “Someone was bound to dislike it, thank heaven it was them.”

Clara looked at the review then smiled. “You’re right.”

She walked back to her chair in the bookshop. “Did anyone ever tell you that artists are nuts?”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

Out the window Myrna watched as Ruth pelted birds with hunks of bread. At the crest of the hill she saw Dominique Gilbert heading back to her barn, riding what looked like a moose. Outside the bistro, on the terrasse, Gabri was sitting at a customer’s table, eating her dessert.

Not for the first time Three Pines struck Myrna as the equivalent of the Humane Society. Taking in the wounded, the unwanted. The mad, the sore.

This was a shelter. Though, clearly, not a no-kill shelter.

Dominique Gilbert curried Buttercup’s rump. Around and around her hand went. It always reminded her of the scene in The Karate Kid. Wax goes on. Wax goes off. But instead of a shammy, this was a brush, and instead of a car, this was a horse. Sort of.

Buttercup was in the alley of the barn, outside his stall. Chester was watching this, doing his little dance as though he had a mariachi band in his head. Macaroni was in the field, having already been groomed, and was now rolling in the mud.

As she rubbed the caked and dried dirt off the huge horse, Dominique noticed the scabs, the scars, the patches of skin that would never grow horse hair, so deep were the wounds.

And yet, the massive horse let her touch him. Let her groom him. Let her ride him. As did Chester and Macaroni. If any creatures had earned the right to buck it was them. But instead, they chose to be the gentlest of beasts.

Outside now she could hear voices.

“You’ve already shown us the photograph.” It was one of her guests, and Dominique knew which one. André Castonguay. The gallery owner. Most of the guests had left but two remained. Messieurs Castonguay and Marois.

“I’d like you to look again.”

It was Chief Inspector Gamache, come back. She glanced out the square of light at the end of the barn, hiding slightly behind Buttercup’s enormous bottom. She felt a little uneasy and wondered if she should make her presence known. They were standing in the sunshine, leaning against the fence rails. Surely they knew this wasn’t a private place. Besides, she was there first. Besides, she wanted to hear.

So she said nothing, but continued to curry Buttercup, who couldn’t believe his luck. The grooming was going on so much longer than usual. Though what appeared to be undue fondness for his rump was worrisome.

“Perhaps we should look again,” came François Marois’s voice. He sounded reasonable. Friendly even.

There was a pause. Dominique could see Gamache hand a picture each to Marois and Castonguay. The men looked then exchanged photographs.

“You said you didn’t know the dead woman,” said Gamache. He also sounded relaxed. A casual conversation with friends.

But Dominique wasn’t fooled. She wondered if these two men were taken in. Castonguay, perhaps. But she doubted Marois was.

“I thought,” Gamache continued, “you might have been surprised and needed another look.”

“I don’t—” Castonguay began, but Marois laid a hand on his arm and he stopped.

“You’re quite right, Chief Inspector. I don’t know about André but I’m embarrassed to say I do know her. Lillian Dyson, right?”

“Well, I don’t know her,” said Castonguay.

“I think you need to search your memory more thoroughly,” said Gamache. His voice, still friendly, carried a weight. It wasn’t quite as light as a moment ago.

Behind Buttercup, Dominique found herself praying Castonguay would take the rope offered by the Chief Inspector. That he’d see it for what it was. A gift and not a trap.

Castonguay looked out into the field. All three did. Dominique couldn’t see the field from where she stood, but she knew that view well. Looked at it every day. Often sat on the patio at the back of their home, private from the guests, with a gin and tonic at the end of the day. And stared. The way she’d once stared out the window of her corner office on the seventeenth floor of the bank tower.

The view from her windows now was more limited, but even more beautiful. Tall grasses, tender young wild flowers. Mountains and forests, and the broken-down old horses lumbering about in the fields.

In her view there was nothing more magnificent.

Dominique knew what the men were seeing, but not what they were thinking.

Though she could guess.

Chief Inspector Gamache had returned. To interview these two men again. Ask them the same questions he’d asked before. That much was clear. As was the conclusion.

They’d lied to him the first time.

François Marois opened his mouth to speak but Gamache silenced him with a movement.

No one would rescue Castonguay but himself.

“It’s true,” the gallery owner said at last. “I guess I do know her.”

“You guess, or you do?”

“I do, OK?”

Gamache gave him a stern look and replaced the photographs.

“Why did you lie?”

Castonguay sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t. I was tired, maybe a little hung-over. I didn’t take a good enough look at the picture the first time, that’s all. It wasn’t deliberate.”

Gamache doubted that was true but decided not to press it. It would be a waste of time and only make the man more defensive. “Did you know Lillian Dyson well?” he asked instead.

“Not well. I’d seen her at a few openings recently. She’d even approached me.” Castonguay said this as though she’d done something unsavory. “Said she had a portfolio of work and could she show me.”

“And what did you say?”

Castonguay looked at Gamache with astonishment. “I said no, of course. Do you have any idea how many artists send me their portfolios?”

Gamache remained silent, waiting for the haughty response.

“I get hundreds a month, from all over the world.”

“So you turned her down? But maybe her work was good,” suggested the Chief Inspector and was treated to another withering look.

“If she was any good I’d have heard of her by now. She wasn’t exactly a bright young thing. Most artists, if they’re going to do anything good, have done it by the time they’re in their thirties.”

“But not always,” persisted Gamache. “Clara Morrow’s the same age as Madame Dyson, and she’s only now being discovered.”

“Not by me. I still say her work stinks,” said Castonguay.

Gamache turned to François Marois. “And you, monsieur? How well did you know Lillian Dyson?”

“Not well. I’d seen her at vernissages in the last few months and knew who she was.”

“How did you know?”

“It’s a fairly small artistic community in Montréal. A lot of low-level, leisure artists. Quite a few of medium talent. Those who have the odd show. Who haven’t made a splash but are good, journeymen artists. Like Peter Morrow. Then there are a very few great artists. Like Clara Morrow.”

“And where did Lillian Dyson fit in there?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Marois. “Like André, she asked me to look at her portfolio but I just couldn’t agree. Too many other calls on my time.”

“Why did you decide to stay in Three Pines last night?” Gamache asked.

“As I told you before, it was a last-minute decision. I wanted to see where Clara creates her works.”

“Yes, you did,” said Gamache. “But you didn’t tell me to what end.”

“Does there have to be an end?” asked Marois. “Isn’t just seeing enough?”

“For most people, perhaps, but not for you, I suspect.”

Marois’s sharp eyes held Gamache. None too pleased.

“Look, Clara Morrow’s standing at a cross-roads,” said the art dealer. “She has to make a decision. She was just handed a phenomenal opportunity, so far the critics adore her, but tomorrow they’ll adore someone else. She needs someone to guide her. A mentor.”

Gamache looked bemused. “A mentor?”

He left it hanging there.

There was a long, charged, silence.

“Yes,” said Marois, his gracious manner enveloping him again. “I’m near the end of my career, I know that. I can guide one, perhaps two more remarkable artists. I need to choose carefully. I have no time to waste. I’ve spent the past year looking for that one artist, perhaps my last. Gone to hundreds of vernissages worldwide. Only to find Clara Morrow right here.”

The distinguished art dealer looked around. At the broken-down horse in the field, saved from slaughter. At the trees and at the forest.

“In my own backyard.”

“In the middle of nowhere, you mean,” said Castonguay, and went back to staring with displeasure at the scene.

“It’s clear Clara’s a remarkable artist,” said Marois, ignoring the gallery owner. “But the very gifts that make her that also make her unable to navigate the art world.”

“You might be underestimating Clara Morrow,” said Gamache.

“I might, but you might be underestimating the art world. Don’t be fooled by the veneer of civility and creativity. It’s a vicious place, filled with insecure and greedy people. Fear and greed, that’s what shows up at vernissages. There’s a lot of money at stake. Fortunes. And a lot of egos involved. Volatile combination.”

Marois stole a quick glance at Castonguay, then back to the Chief Inspector.

“I know my way around. I can take them to the top.”

“Them?” asked Castonguay.

Gamache had assumed the gallery owner had lost interest and was barely listening, but he now realized Castonguay had been following the conversation very closely. And Gamache quietly warned himself not to underestimate either the venality of the art world, or this haughty man.

Marois turned his full attention on Castonguay, clearly surprised as well that he’d been paying attention.

“Yes. Them.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Castonguay.

“I mean both the Morrows. I want to take them both on.”

Castonguay’s eyes widened and his lips narrowed, and when he spoke his voice was raised. “You talk about greed. Why would you take both? You don’t even like his paintings.”

“And you do?”

“I think they’re far better than his wife’s. You can have Clara, and I’ll take Peter.”

Gamache listened and wondered if this was how the Paris Peace Conference was negotiated after the Great War. When Europe was divided up by the winners. And Gamache wondered if this would have the same disastrous results.

“I don’t want one,” said Marois. His voice was reasonable, silken, contained. “I want both.”

“Fucking bastard,” said Castonguay, but Marois didn’t seem to care. He turned back to the Chief Inspector as though Castonguay had just complimented him.

“At what point yesterday did you decide Clara Morrow was the one?” asked Gamache.

“You were with me, Chief Inspector. The moment I saw the light in the Virgin Mary’s eye.”

Gamache was quiet, recalling that moment. “As I remember you thought it might simply be a trick of the light.”

“I still do. But how remarkable is that? For Clara Morrow to, in essence, capture the human experience? One person’s hope is another person’s cruelty. Is it light, or a false promise?”

Gamache turned to André Castonguay, who seemed completely taken aback by their conversation, as though they’d been at different art shows.

“I want to get back to the dead woman,” said Gamache, and saw Castonguay looking lost for a moment. Murder eclipsed by greed. And fear.

“Were you surprised to see Lillian Dyson back in Montréal?” the Chief asked.

“Surprised?” asked Castonguay. “I felt nothing either way. Didn’t give her a second thought.”

“I’m afraid I felt the same way, Chief Inspector,” said Marois. “Madame Dyson in Montréal or Madame Dyson in New York was all the same to me.”

Gamache looked at him with interest. “How did you know she’d been in New York?”

For the first time Marois hesitated, his composure pierced.

“Someone must have mentioned it. The art world’s full of gossips.”

The art world, thought Gamache, was full of something else he could mention. And this seemed a fine example. He stared at Marois until the dealer dropped his eyes and brushed an invisible hair off his immaculate shirt.

“I hear another of your colleagues was here at the party. Denis Fortin.”

“That’s true,” said Marois. “I was surprised to see him.”

“Now there’s an understatement,” snorted Castonguay. “After how he treated Clara Morrow. Did you hear about that?”

“Tell me,” said Gamache, though he knew the story perfectly well himself, and the two artists had also just taken pleasure in reminding him.

And so, with glee, André Castonguay related how Denis Fortin had signed Clara to a solo show only to change his mind and drop her.

“And not just drop her, but treated her like shit. Told everyone she was worthless. I actually agree, but can you imagine his surprise when the Musée of all places picked her up?”

It was a story that appealed to Castonguay, since it belittled both Clara and his competitor, Denis Fortin.

“Then why do you think he was here?” asked Gamache. Both men considered it.

“Not a clue,” admitted Castonguay.

“He had to have been invited,” said Marois, “but I can’t see him being on Clara Morrow’s guest list.”

“Do people crash these parties?” asked Gamache.

“Some,” said Marois, “but mostly artists looking to make connections.”

“Looking for free booze and food,” mumbled Castonguay.

“You said Madame Dyson asked you to look at her portfolio,” Gamache said to Castonguay, “which you refused. But I was under the impression she was a critic, not an artist.”

“True,” said Castonguay. “She’d written for La Presse, but that was many years ago. Then she vanished and someone else took over.”

He seemed barely polite, bored.

“Was she a good critic?”

“How d’you expect me to remember that?”

“The same way I expected you to remember her from the photo, monsieur.” Gamache eyed the art gallery owner steadily. Castonguay’s already flushed face grew ruddier.

“I remember her reviews, Chief Inspector,” Marois said and turned to Castonguay. “And so do you.”

“I do not.” Castonguay shot him a look of loathing.

“He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.”

“No,” laughed Castonguay. “Lillian Dyson wrote that? Merde. With that sort of bile she might’ve been a decent artist after all.”

“But who was the line written about?” Gamache asked both men.

“It can’t have been anyone famous or we’d have remembered,” said Marois. “Probably some poor artist who sank into oblivion.”

Tied to this rock of a review, thought Gamache.

“Does it matter?” asked Castonguay. “It was twenty years ago or more. You think a review from decades ago has anything to do with her murder?”

“I think murder has a long memory.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make,” said André Castonguay.

Marois and Gamache watched him walk off toward the inn and spa.

“You know what he’s doing, don’t you?” Marois turned back to his companion.

“He’s calling the Morrows, to convince them to meet with him.”

Marois smiled. “Exactement.”

The two men strolled back toward the inn and spa themselves.

“Aren’t you worried?”

“I’m never worried about André. He’s no threat to me. If the Morrows are foolish enough to sign with him then he’s welcome to them.”

But Gamache didn’t believe it for a moment. François Marois’s eyes were too sharp, too shrewd for that. His relaxed manner too studied.

No, this man cared a great deal. He was wealthy. He was powerful. So it wasn’t about that.

Fear and greed. That was what drove the art world. And Gamache knew it was probably true. So if it wasn’t greed on Marois’s part, then the other must be true.

It was fear.

But what could this elderly, eminent dealer be afraid of?

“Will you join me, monsieur?” Armand Gamache extended his arm, inviting François Marois to walk with him. “I’m going into the village.”

Marois, who had had no intention of walking down into Three Pines again, considered the invitation and recognized it for what it was. A polite request. Not quite a command, but close enough.

He took his place beside the Chief Inspector and both walked slowly down the slope and into the village.

“Very pretty,” said Marois. He stopped and surveyed Three Pines, a smile on his lips. “I can see why Clara Morrow chose to live here. It is magical.”

“I sometimes wonder how important place is to an artist.” Gamache also looked out over the quiet village. “So many choose the great cities. Paris, London, Venice. Cold water flats and lofts in Soho and Chelsea. Lillian Dyson moved to New York, for instance. But Clara didn’t. The Morrows chose here. Does where they live affect what they create?”

“Oh, without a doubt. Where they live and who they spend time with. I don’t think Clara’s series of portraits could have been created any place other than here.”

“It’s fascinating to me that some look at her work and see just nice portraits of mostly elderly women. Traditional, staid even. But you don’t.”

“Neither do you, Chief Inspector, any more than when you and I look at Three Pines we see a village.”

“And what do you see, Monsieur Marois?”

“I see a painting.”

“A painting?”

“A beautiful one, to be sure. But all paintings, the most disturbing and the most exquisite, are made up of the same thing. The play of light and dark. That’s what I see. A whole lot of light, but a whole lot of dark too. That’s what people miss in Clara’s works. The light is so obvious they get fooled by it. It takes some people a while to appreciate the shading. I think that’s one of the things that makes her brilliant. She’s very subtle, but very subversive. She has a lot to say, and takes her time revealing it.”

“C’est intéressant, ça,” Gamache nodded. It wasn’t unlike what he’d been thinking about Three Pines. It too took a while to reveal itself. But Marois’s analogy had its limits. A painting, no matter how spectacular, would only ever be two dimensional. Is that how Marois saw the world? Was there an entire dimension he missed?

They started walking again. On the village green they noticed Clara plunking down beside Ruth. They watched as Ruth fired chunks of stale bread at the birds. It was unclear if she was trying to feed them or kill them.

François Marois’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the woman in Clara’s portrait,” he said.

“It is. Ruth Zardo.”

“The poet? I thought she was dead.”

“It’s a natural mistake,” said Gamache, waving at Ruth, who gave him the finger. “Her brain seems fine, it’s only her heart that’s stopped.”

The afternoon sun was directly on François Marois, forcing the dealer to squint. But behind him there extended a long and definite shadow.

“Why do you want both Morrows,” Gamache asked, “when you obviously prefer Clara’s works? Do you even like Peter Morrow’s paintings?”

“No, I don’t. I find them very superficial. Calculated. He’s a good artist, but I think he could be a great one, if he could use more instinct and less technique. He’s a very good draftsman.”

It was said without malice, making the cold analysis all the more damning. And perhaps true.

“You said you had only so much time and energy left,” persisted Gamache. “I can see why you’d choose Clara. But why Peter, an artist you don’t even like?”

Marois hesitated. “It’s just easier to manage. We can make career decisions for both of them. I want Clara to be happy, and I think she’s happiest if Peter is also looked after.”

Gamache looked at the art dealer. It was an astute observation. But it didn’t go far enough. Marois had made it about Clara and Peter’s happiness. Deflecting the question.

Then the Chief Inspector remembered the story Marois told, of his first client. The elderly artist whose wife overtook him. And, to protect her husband’s fragile ego the woman had never painted again.

Was that what Marois was afraid of? Losing his final client, his final find, because Clara’s love for Peter was greater than her love for art?

Or was it, again, even more personal? Did it have nothing to do with Clara, with Peter, with art? Was François Marois simply afraid of losing?

André Castonguay owned art. But François Marois owned the artists. Who was the more powerful? But also the more vulnerable?

Framed paintings couldn’t get up and leave. But the artists could.

What was François Marois afraid of? Gamache asked himself again.

“Why are you here?”

Marois looked surprised. “I’ve already told you, Chief Inspector. Twice. I’m here to try to sign Peter and Clara Morrow.”

“And yet you claim not to care if Monsieur Castonguay gets there first.”

“I can’t control other people’s stupidity,” smiled Marois.

Gamache considered the man, and as he did the art dealer’s smile wavered.

“I’m late for drinks, monsieur,” said Gamache pleasantly. “If we have nothing more to talk about I’ll be going.”

He turned and walked toward the bistro.

“Bread?” Ruth offered Clara what looked and felt like a brick.

They each hacked off pieces. Ruth tossed them at the robins, who darted away. Clara just pelted the ground at her feet.

Thump, thump, thud.

“I hear the critics saw something in your paintings I sure don’t see,” said Ruth.

“What d’you mean?”

“They liked them.”

Thud, thud, thud.

“Not all,” laughed Clara. “The Ottawa Star said my art was nice, but neither visionary nor bold.”

“Ahh, the Ottawa Star. The journal of note. I remember the Drummondville Post once called my poetry both dull and uninteresting.” Ruth snorted. “Look, get that one.” She pointed to a particularly bold blue jay. When Clara didn’t move Ruth tossed a bread stone at him.

“Almost got him,” said Ruth, though Clara suspected if she’d wanted to hit the bird she wouldn’t have missed.

“They called me an old and tired parrot mimicking actual artists,” said Clara.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Ruth. “Parrots don’t mimic. Mynah birds mimic. Parrots learn the words and say them in their own way.”

“Fascinating,” mumbled Clara. “I’ll have to write a stern letter correcting them.”

“The Kamloops Record complained that my poetry doesn’t rhyme,” said Ruth.

“Do you remember all your reviews?” asked Clara.

“Only the bad ones.”

“Why?”

Ruth turned to look at her directly. Her eyes weren’t angry or cold, not filled with malice. They were filled with wonder.

“I don’t know. Perhaps that’s the price of poetry. And, apparently, art.”

“What d’you mean?”

“We get hurt into it. No pain, no product.”

“You believe that?” asked Clara.

“Don’t you? What did the New York Times say about your art?”

Clara searched her brain. She knew it was good. Something about hope and rising up.

“Welcome to the bench,” said Ruth. “You’re early. I’d have thought it would take another ten years. But here you are.”

And for a moment Ruth looked exactly like Clara’s portrait. Embittered, disappointed. Sitting in the sun but remembering, reviewing, replaying every insult. Every unkind word, bringing them out and examining them like disappointing birthday gifts.

Oh, no no no, thought Clara. Still the dead one lay moaning. Is this how it starts?

She watched as Ruth again pelted a bird with a chunk of inedible bread.

Clara got up to leave.

“Hope takes its place among the modern masters.”

Clara turned back to Ruth, looking at her, the sun just catching her rheumy eyes.

“That’s what the New York Times said,” said Ruth. “And the London Times said, Clara Morrow’s art makes rejoicing cool again. Don’t forget, Clara,” she whispered.

Ruth turned away again and sat ramrod straight, alone with her thoughts and her heavy, stone bread. Glancing, occasionally, into the empty sky.