Brutal Telling

It was enlightened self-interest. The best kind, as far as Clara could see. No one was the martyr, no one was owed or owing. She was under no illusion that the reason Denis Fortin held a St. Amboise beer in Olivier’s Bistro in Three Pines was not because he thought there was something in it for him.

And the only reason Clara was there, besides unbridled ego, was to get something from Fortin. Namely fame and fortune.

At the very least a free beer.

But there was something she needed to do before she got caught up in the unparalleled glory that was Clara Morrow. Reaching into her bag she brought out the balled-up towel. “I was asked to show you this. A man was found dead here a couple of days ago. Murdered.”

“Really? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Not as unusual as you might think. What was unusual is that no one knew him. But the police just found a cabin in the woods, and this was inside it. The head of the investigation asked me to show it to you, in case you could tell us anything about it.”

“A clue?” He looked keen and watched closely as she unwrapped the bundle. Soon the little men and women were standing on the shore, looking across the expanse of wood to the micro-brew in front of Fortin.

Clara watched him. His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to the work, pursing his lips in concentration.

“Very nice. Good technique, I’d say. Detailed, each face quite different, with character. Yes, all in all I’d say a competent piece of carving. Slightly primitive, but what you’d expect from a backwoods whittler.”

“Really?” said Clara. “I thought it was very good. Excellent even.”

He leaned back and smiled at her. Not patronizing, but as one friend smiles at another, a kinder, friend.

“Perhaps I’m being too harsh, but I’ve seen so many of these in my career.”

“These? Exactly the same?”

“No, but close enough. Carved images of people fishing or smoking a pipe or riding a horse. They’re the most valuable. You can always find a buyer for a good horse or dog. Or pig. Pigs are popular.”

“Good to know. There’s something written underneath.” Clara turned it over and handed it to Fortin.

He squinted then putting on his glasses he read, frowned and handed it back. “I wonder what it means.”

“Any guesses?” Clara wasn’t about to give up. She wanted to take something back to Gamache.

“Almost certainly a signature, or a lot number. Something to identify it. Was this the only one?”

“There’re two. How much would this be worth?”

“Hard to say.” He picked it up again. “It’s quite good, for what it is. It’s no pig, though.”

“Pity.”

“Hmm.” Fortin considered for a moment. “I’d say two hundred, maybe two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Is that all?”

“I might be wrong.”

Clara could tell he was being polite, but getting bored. She rewrapped the carving and put it in her bag.

“Now.” Denis Fortin leaned forward, an eager look on his handsome face. “Let’s talk about really great art. How would you like your work to be hung?”

“I’ve done a few sketches.” Clara handed him her notebook and after a few minutes Fortin lifted his head, his eyes intelligent and bright.

“This is wonderful. I like the way you’ve clustered the paintings then left a space. It’s like a breath, isn’t it?”

Clara nodded. It was such a relief talking to someone who didn’t need everything explained.

“I particularly like that you haven’t placed the three old women together. That would be the obvious choice, but you’ve spread them around, each anchoring her own wall.”

“I wanted to surround them with other works,” said Clara excitedly.

“Like acolytes, or friends, or critics,” said Fortin, excited himself. “It’s not clear what their intentions are.”

“And how they might change,” said Clara, leaning forward. She’d shown Peter her ideas, and he’d been polite and encouraging, but she could tell he really didn’t understand what she was getting at. At first glance her design for the exhibition might seem unbalanced. And it was. Intentionally. Clara wanted people to walk in, see the works that appeared quite traditional and slowly appreciate that they weren’t.

There was a depth, a meaning, a challenge to them.

For an hour or more Clara and Fortin talked, exchanging ideas about the show, about the direction of contemporary art, about exciting new artists, of which, Fortin was quick to assure Clara, she was in the forefront.

“I wasn’t going to tell you because it might not happen, but I sent your portfolio to FitzPatrick at MoMA. He’s an old friend and says he’ll come to the vernissage—”

Clara exclaimed and almost knocked her beer over. Fortin laughed and held up his hand.

“But wait, that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you. I suggested he spread the word and it looks as though Allyne from the New York Times will be there . . .”

He hesitated because it looked as though Clara was having a stroke. When she closed her mouth he continued. “And, as luck would have it, Destin Browne will be in New York that month setting up a show with MoMA and she’s shown interest.”