A Trick of the Light

“Mais, non,” said the Chief, bowing slightly. “The pleasure is mine. Thank you for seeing me so late.”

“Gave me a chance to catch up on some work. You know what it’s like.” Fortin carefully locked the door and waved the Chief deeper into the gallery. “My office is upstairs.”

Gamache followed the younger man. They’d met a few times before, when Fortin had been in Three Pines considering Clara for a show. Fortin was perhaps forty, with a bright and attractive manner. He wore a finely tailored coat, open-collar ironed shirt and black jeans. Smart and stylish.

Up the stairs they walked and Gamache listened while Fortin described with great animation some of the works on his walls. The Chief, while listening closely, also scanned the gallery for a painting by Lillian Dyson. Her style was so singular it would declare itself. But the walls, while containing some clearly brilliant works, didn’t proclaim a Dyson.

“Café?” Fortin indicated a cappuccino maker just outside his office.

“Non, merci.”

“A beer, perhaps? It’s turned into a warm day.”

“That would be nice,” said the Chief, and made himself comfortable in Fortin’s office. Once Fortin was out of sight, Gamache leaned over his desk and scanned the papers. Contracts for artists. Some publicity mock-ups for upcoming shows. One for a famous Québec artist, one for someone Gamache had not heard of. An up-and-comer, presumably.

But no mention, in his quick scan, of Lillian Dyson. Or Clara Morrow.

Gamache heard the soft tread and took his seat just as Fortin walked through his office door.

“Here we go.” The gallery owner was carrying a tray with two beers and some cheese. “We always have a stock of wine and beer and cheese. The tools of the trade.”

“Not canvas and brushes?” asked the Chief Inspector, taking the cold beer in the frosted glass.

“Those are for the creative ones. I’m just a lowly businessman. A bridge between talent and money.”

“À votre santé.” The Chief raised his glass, as did Fortin, then both men took a satisfying sip.

“Creative,” said Gamache, lowering his glass and accepting a piece of fragrant Stilton. “But artists are also emotional, unstable at times, I imagine.”

“Artists?” asked Fortin. “What could you possibly mean?”

He laughed. It was easy and light. Gamache couldn’t help but smile back. It was hard not to like him.

Charm was also a tool, he knew, of the art gallery trade. Fortin offered cheese and charm. When he chose.

“I suppose,” Fortin continued, “it depends what you compare them to. Now, compared to a rabid hyena or, say, a hungry cobra an artist comes off pretty well.”

“Doesn’t sound like you much like artists.”

“Actually, I do. I like them, but more importantly, I understand them. Their egos, their fears, their insecurities. There’re very few artists who are comfortable among other people. Most prefer to work away quietly in their studios. Whoever said, ‘Hell is other people’ must have been an artist.”

“It was Sartre,” said Gamache. “A writer.”

“I suspect if you speak with a publisher their experiences with writers would be the same. Here you have, in my case, artists who manage to capture on a small flat canvas not just the reality of life, but the mysteries, the spirit, the deep and conflicting emotions of being human. And yet most of them hate and fear other people. I understand that.”

“Do you? How?”

There was a slight strained silence then. Denis Fortin, for all his bonhomie, didn’t like penetrating questions. He preferred to lead the conversation rather than be led. He was used, Gamache realized, to being listened to, acquiesced to, fawned over. He was used to having his decisions and statements simply accepted. Denis Fortin was a powerful man in a world of vulnerable people.

“I have a theory, Chief Inspector,” said Fortin, crossing his legs and smoothing the material of his jeans. “That most jobs are self-selecting. We might grow into them, but for the most part we fall into a career because it suits what we’re good at. I love art. Can’t paint worth a damn. I know because I tried. I actually thought I wanted to be an artist, but that miserable failure led me to what I was always meant to do. Recognize talent in others. It’s a perfect match. I make a very good living and am surrounded by great art. And great artists. I get to be part of this culture of creativity without all the angst of actually creating it.”

“I expect your world isn’t without its angst.”

“True. If I choose to represent an artist and the show’s a bust, it can reflect badly on me. But then I just make sure word spreads that it simply means I’m daring and willing to take risks. Avant-garde. That plays well.”

“But the artist…” said Gamache, letting it hang there.

“Ah, there you have it. He gets it in the neck.”