A Trick of the Light

“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.

EIGHT