Oh, no, no, no.cried Clara Moreau inwardly as she walked toward the closed doors. Through the frosted glass of the door, she could see ghostly figures moving back and forth.Appears and then disappears.Although distorted, it is still humanoid. The dead were still lying on the ground moaning. This sentence has been lingering in her ears for a whole day, appearing, disappearing, and repeating itself.It was supposed to be from a poem, but she couldn't recall the full text.Scattered verses sometimes surface and sometimes sink.How could she not recall the main part of the poem. What are the rest of the verses?This seems to matter.Oh, no, no, no.

At the end of the long corridor, the vague figure is like cloud and fog.It's there, but it seems transparent.Fleeting.Fleeting. She wishes she could. That's it.The end of the journey.She and her husband Peter drove from a small village in Quebec to the Montreal Museum of Modern Art, a place they knew well.too familiar.How many times have they come here to marvel at its new exhibits?Are you here to support a friend or a colleague?Or just so they can sit quietly in a tidy gallery and soak up their art on a weekday when everyone else is busy at work? Art is their job.Not only that.It has to be.Otherwise, why endure so many years of loneliness and even failure?Why suffer the bewildering, even bewildering loneliness of the art world?

In a small studio in a remote village, she and Peter work every day and live a peaceful life.Although happy, they still yearn for more. Along this long white marble corridor, Clara took a few more steps. This is "more".Through those doors, she can reach the end of her life's hard work. Her first dream as a child, and her last dream that morning—almost fifty years later, at the end of this white marble corridor. They both thought Peter would go through those doors first.As an artist, he was far more successful, with a nuanced observation of life.The natural world becomes distorted and abstract under his penetrating gaze, making it difficult to discern.Peter draws from nature to create unnatural works of art.

That's exactly what people eat.Thank God.Because of this, there is food on the table, and the wolves of San Song Town who are constantly wandering around their small house can be kept out of the door.Thanks Peter and his art. He walked briskly ahead of her, and Clara caught a glimpse of a smile on his handsome face.She knew that anyone who met them for the first time would never think of her as his wife.They imagine his wife as a slender manager elegantly holding a glass of white wine.This is the beauty of a man and a woman, a natural match. There was no way this brilliant artist with silver-gray hair and aristocratic airs would have chosen such a woman—with a glass of beer in her rough hand.Curly hair stained with paint.The studio is filled with sculptures made from scrap tractor parts and paintings of cabbages with wings.

No.Peter Morrow would never have chosen her.That's a bit out of the ordinary. However, he did. And she also chose him. If she didn't feel so sick that she wanted to vomit, Clara should be smiling. Oh, no, no, no.she cried inwardly.She watched Peter make his way decisively to a closed door where the ghosts of art waited to judge her. Clara's hands were cold and numb. Pushed by an irresistible force, she moved forward slowly, mixed with excitement and fear.How she longed to rush to those doors, throw them open, and cry, "Here I come!" But more than anything she wanted to do was to turn around and run, fleeing down this artistically lit marble corridor, admitting that she had made a mistake.At first, she gave the wrong answer when asked if she would like to have a solo exhibition at an art museum; when asked if she wanted to realize her dream, she gave the wrong answer.She said yes, and here she is now.

Someone must have lied.At least not telling the whole truth.In her dream, her only dream, a dream that has recurred over and over again since she was a child, she did have a solo exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art.She walked down this corridor, graceful, poised, and witty. To the world full of applause and flowers. no fear.No nausea.There are no monsters hiding behind frosted glass doors waiting to devour her, disintegrate her, demean her and her work. Someone must have lied.Did not say what else was waiting for her. fail. Oh, no, no, no, Clara cried inwardly, the dead man still lay moaning on the ground.

What is the rest of the poem?Why can't she remember? Now, with a few feet to the end of her journey, all she wanted to do was flee back to her home in Three Pine, push open the wooden gate, run down the path lined with apple blossoms, and slam the front door. Close it with a bang, then lock the door, lean on it, and shut the whole world out. Now, too late, she knows who lied to her. Herself. Clara's heart was pounding against her ribs, like a frightened animal in a cage desperate to escape.She realized she was holding her breath and wondered how long she was holding it.To compensate herself, she began to breathe rapidly.

Peter was talking, but his voice was ethereal and distant.The scream in her head and the beating of her heart drowned out his voice. And the bustle behind those doors, as they got closer. "It's going to be fun," said Peter, with an encouraging smile on his face. Clara let go, and the handbag clattered to the floor.It was almost empty, though, except for a tube of chewing gum and the little paintbrushes from her first toddler painting set that her grandmother had given her. Clara knelt down, pretending to pick up things she couldn't see.She lowered her head and tried her best to hold her breath, suspecting that she was about to faint.

"Inhale deeply," she heard, "exhale deeply." Clara looked away from the polished marble floor and saw a man crouching opposite. Not Peter. What she saw was Olivier Brulet, a friend and neighbor from Samson.He knelt down beside her and watched her, his kind eyes were like life jackets on the drowning woman.She caught them. "Take a deep breath," he whispered, his voice calm.This is their own personal crisis, their own personal rescue. She took a deep breath. "I think I'm dying." Clara leaned forward, almost fainting.She felt the wall press down on her, saw Peter's shiny black shoes walking on the floor ahead, and then stopped.He didn't leave her alone, but he didn't notice his wife kneeling on the floor either.

"I know," said Olivier, "but I know you too. You have to go through that door whether you're kneeling or standing." He nodded to the end of the corridor, keeping his eyes on her, "It's better to stand up and walk over." "But it's not too late." Clara tried to find the answer on his face.She saw his fine blond hair, and the wrinkles that could only be seen up close. A 38-year-old man should have fewer wrinkles than that. "I can get out of here. Go home." Olivier's kind face disappeared, and she saw her garden again, just as she had seen it that morning.The mist has not cleared, the dew is heavy under the rubber boots, and the early roses and dying peonies are moist and fragrant.She is sitting on a wooden bench in the backyard with a cup of coffee in her hand and thinking about the upcoming day.

But it never occurred to her that she would collapse and fall to the floor.Filled with terror, she was desperate to flee, back to her garden. But Olivier was right.She can't go back, not yet. Oh, no, no, no.She had to go through those doors, it was the only way home. "Exhale deeply," Olivier whispered, smiling. Clara smiled and exhaled, "You can be a good midwife." "What are you two doing there?" Gabriel looked at Clara and his gay partner Olivier, "I know what Olivier is usually doing in that position, but I hope not." He turned to Peter, " Although that may account for the laughter." "Ready?" Olivier handed the handbag to Clara, and the two stood up. Gabriel, who is inseparable from Olivier, gives Clara a bear hug. "Are you okay?" He looked at the other party carefully, and there was no displeasure on his face because of Olivier's behavior just now.He's big, but he prefers to call himself "burly." "I'm fine," Clara said. "Chaotic, insecure, neurotic and egotistical?" Gabriel asked. "That's right." "Great, me too, everyone in there." Gabriel said, pointing to a door, "And they are not top artists who can open a solo exhibition, so you should feel very good now right." "Come on?" Peter asked, smiling and waving to Clara. She hesitated, and grabbed Peter's hand.They walked down the corridor together, the echo of their loud footsteps drowning the laughter on the other end. They're laughing, Clara thought, they're laughing at my art. At that moment, the main body of the poem emerges, and so does the rest. Oh no, no, no, Clara cried inwardly: Sitting on his balcony, Armand Garmache could hear children playing in the distance and knew it was coming from the park across the road, though he couldn't see the children there through the late spring maple leaves.He liked to sit there sometimes, imagining that the laughter and noise were coming from his two granddaughters, Florence and Zora.He imagined his sons, Daniel and Roslyn, in the park, watching their children, and walking hand in hand across the quiet street in the middle of the big city to eat.Or he and Rena Marie would join them in a game of catch or chestnuts. He likes to imagine that they are not in Paris, thousands of kilometers away. But most of the time, he just listened to the children shouting, screaming and laughing nearby.He was smiling and relaxed. Gamash reached for his beer and dropped The Observer on his lap.His wife, Raina Marie, sat across from him.On this rare hot day in mid-June, she also holds a glass of cold beer in her hand, looking into the distance, and the "News" in front of her is folded on the table. "What are you thinking?" he asked. "I'm just distracted." He looked at her and said nothing for a moment.Her hair was gray, and so was his.She had dyed her hair auburn for many years and only recently stopped.He was happy about that.Like him, she is in her 50s.They are like most couples in this age group. Not like a model.No one will mistake them for models.Armand Garmache is not bulky, but strong.A stranger visiting the family might assume that M. Gammache is a scholar, a professor of history or literature at the Université de Montréal. But in fact, it's not. In their big apartment, there are books everywhere.History books, biographies, novels, studies of Quebec antiquities and poetry anthologies line neatly arranged shelves.Each table has at least one book on it, and usually several magazines.Weekend newspapers are scattered on the coffee table in front of the fireplace in the living room.Visitors who are observant enough to look into Garmash's study will discover the stories told by the books there. Visitors immediately realize that this is not the home of some retired French literature professor.The shelves are filled with medical and forensic books, tomes of Napoleonic and common law codes, and books on fingerprinting, the genetic code, trauma and weapons. Murder books.Garmash's study was filled with such books. But even with books on death everywhere, he made room for philosophy books and poetry collections. They sat together on the balcony, and Garmash watched Reyna Marie, convinced once again that his marriage was on the upswing.It wasn't a question of social status, nor did it mean academic attainment; but he couldn't help but be thankful that he was indeed very lucky in marriage. Garmash knows that his life is full of luck, but he has been in love with the same woman for 35 years and he must be the luckiest place in his life.If she can love him as deeply, then he has received too much favor from the god of luck. Now, her blue eyes turned to him, "Actually, I'm thinking of Clara's opening." "Oh?" "We should hurry up and go." "That's right." He looked at his watch, the time was 5:05.The opening ceremony of Clara Moreau's solo exhibition started at 5 o'clock and should end at 7 o'clock. "As soon as David arrives we'll go." Their son-in-law was already half an hour late, and Garmash glanced into the house.He vaguely saw his daughter Anne sitting in the living room reading a book. Opposite him was his deputy, Jean Guy Beauvoir, rubbing Henry's ear.A Garmash collie can sit like that all day, with a goofy grin on his face. Beauvoir and Anne have been ignoring each other.Garmash smiled.At least they weren't arguing, or worse, swearing loudly across the room. "Do you want to go?" Garmash suggested. "We can call David and tell him to meet there directly." "Why don't we give him a few more minutes." Garmash nodded, picked up a magazine, and put it down slowly. "Anything else?" Reina Marie hesitated for a moment, then smiled, "I was wondering how you would feel about the opening of the exhibition, and wondering if you were procrastinating." Armand raised his eyebrows in surprise. Beauvoir rubbed Henry's ears, staring at Anne opposite.He had known her for fifteen years, when he had just joined the force, and she, as a child, was clumsy and bossy. He doesn't like kids, and he doesn't like self-righteous teenagers much more.But he made an effort to like Anne Garmache because she was the chief's daughter. He tried, and tried, and tried.At last-- He succeeded. Now he's turning 40 soon, and she's approaching 30.Lawyer, married, but still clumsy and bossy.He tried so hard to like her that he saw something he hadn't seen before.He saw her laughing from the bottom of her heart, and she listened to the chatter of boring people as if they had something very interesting to say.She looked as if she was genuinely happy to see them, as if they were important people.He'd seen her dance, arms flailing, head thrown back, eyes sparkling. Only once had her hand been in his. That was in the hospital.He seemed to have come back from a faraway place, through pain and darkness, to feel this strange and gentle touch.He knew that the touch was not his wife Enid's, that the bird's claw grip would not bring him back. This hand was bigger, firm and warm, inviting him back. He opened his eyes and saw Anne looking at him worriedly.Why is she here?He immediately knew the answer. Because she has nowhere else to go, no other bed to sit on. Because her father was dead, shot by gunmen in an abandoned factory.Beauvoir witnessed the scene, saw Gamache being shot, saw him lift his foot and fall to the concrete floor. not moving at all. Now Anne is holding his hand in the hospital because the man she really wanted to hold is gone. Beauvoir tried to open his eyes and saw Anne's sad face.His heart is broken.Then, he saw something else. joy. No one has ever looked at him like that before, the unconcealable, uncontrollable joy in the eyes. When he opened his eyes, Anne looked at him that way. He wanted to speak, but couldn't.But she guessed what he was going to say. She leaned over and whispered softly.He smelled her scent, a faint citron scent, fresh and natural, not the strong perfume that lingered on Enid.Annie smells like a lemon grove in early summer. "Daddy's still alive." He was so ashamed at that moment.There was so much shame waiting for him in the hospital, from bedpans to adult diapers to sponge baths, but nothing like this moment. He cried. Anne saw it.From that day on, Anne never mentioned it. Henry was confused, and Beauvoir stopped rubbing his ears and put one hand on top of the other.This is a habit that becomes natural. That was the feeling, the feeling of Annie's hand in his. That's all he has of her.The chief's married daughter. "Your husband is late," said Beauvoir, reproachfully. Slowly, slowly, Annie put down the newspaper and stared at him. "What's the meaning?" What does he mean? "We'll be late because of him." "Let's go, then. I don't care." It seemed that he had put the bullet in the gun, aimed it at his own head, and begged Anne to pull the trigger.Now those words seemed to pull the trigger, and the bullet drove straight into his head and exploded. I do not mind. He felt that pain seemed to be very comfortable.Maybe if he forced her to hurt him hard, he wouldn't feel the pain. "Listen," she said, leaning forward and softening her voice a little, "I'm sorry about you and Enid. About your separation." "Oh, that's not unusual. You're a lawyer, you know." She looked at him inquisitively, with eyes like her father's, and nodded. "It's not unusual," she said, calming down, as usual, "especially after all you've been through. I think it makes you think about your life. Would you like to talk about it?" Talk to Annie about Enid?Those unspeakable quarrels, those contempt and snubs, those scars and scabs.These memories made him sad, and it was immediately expressed in his expression.Annie was a little regretful, blushing, as if she had been slapped in the face by him. "Just pretend I didn't say anything." She squeezed out a sentence, picked up the newspaper to cover her face. He tried hard to find something to say, and built a small bridge, a plank road leading to her.The time is long, every minute feels like an hour. "The opening ceremony of the painting exhibition." Beauvoir finally blurted out.There was nothing in his mind at the moment, and it was the only word that came to mind.Like the magic eight ball game, when you stop shaking it, you only see one word.At this moment, the word is "painting exhibition opening ceremony". Anne lowered the newspaper, revealing her expressionless face. "Everyone in Sansong Town will go, you know." She remained expressionless. "That small village is in the eastern township," he roughly pointed out the window, "to the south of Montreal." "I know the township," she said. "The Clara Moreau show, I'm sure they'll all be there." She held up the newspaper again.From the opposite side he could read the newspaper headlines: Canadian Dollar Strong; Winter Potholes Still Not Repaired; Government Bribery Investigation. Nothing new. "Some of them hate your father." She put down the newspaper slowly, "What do you mean?" "Well..." Looking at her expression, he realized that he had said too much, "but it didn't hurt him or anything else." "Dad talked about San Pine and the people there, but he never brought it up." She was clearly in a bad mood, and he wished he hadn't said anything.But at least the trick works and she starts talking to him again.Her father became the bridge between them. Anne put the newspaper back on the table and looked past Beauvoir to her parents, who were talking softly on the balcony. She was suddenly back to the child she had been when they first met.She would never be the prettiest woman in the room, and that was probably evident then.Anne is not that kind of slender girl.She's more athletic than elegant.Although she cares about clothes, she cares more about comfort. Opinionated, strong-willed, and physically strong.He can beat her in arm wrestling, because they have competed several times, but he really has to work hard. But with Enid, he'd have no problem.Of course she wouldn't compare with him at all. Annie not only proposed to compare with him, but also hoped to win him. She still can't break him.They all laughed after the comparison. The other women, including Enid, are cute, while Anne is lively. It was too late, too late, for Beauvoir to realize how important, how fascinating, how rare it is to be alive. Anne turned her head to Beauvoir, "Why would anyone hate Dad?" Beauvoir lowered his voice, "Well, listen, that's what happened." Annie leaned forward.They were two feet away, and Beauvoir could smell her.He fought the urge to hold her hand. "Clara's village, Three Pine Township, there was a murder—" "I know, Dad mentioned it. There seems to be a family workshop there." Beauvoir couldn't help laughing, "Where there is strong light, there must be heavy shadows." Anne's surprised expression made Beauvoir laugh again. "Let me see," she said, "you didn't make up that phrase, did you?" Beauvoir smiled and nodded, "A German said it. Your father said it too." "How many times have you said that?" "I say it so often that when I wake up from a dream at night, it's all I yell out of my mouth." Anne smiled, "I know. I was the only kid in school who could quote Leigh Hunter's poems." Her voice softened, "But what he loves most is a happy smiling face." Hearing laughter from the living room, Garmash smiled and turned his head to them, "They're finally reconciled, what do you think?" "Maybe it is, or it's a harbinger of the end of the world," said Raina Marie. "Imagine four horsemen galloping out, and you're alone, sir." "I'm still happy to hear him smile," Gamash said. Since separating from Enid, Beauvoir has taken the initiative to distance himself from others and become indifferent.Though he's never been ebullient, these days he's more reticent, as if he's thickening and heightening the walls between him and the outside world, while raising the narrow drawbridge to his own inner world. Gamache knew that building walls would do no good.People mistake captivity for security.And in a state of captivity, nothing thrives. "It's going to take time," Raina Marie said. "Time dilutes everything," Garmash agreed, though secretly skeptical.He knows that time heals, but time can also do more damage.A forest fire, if left to burn, can consume everything. Garmash took one last look at the two young men before continuing his conversation with Reina Marie. "Do you really think I don't want to go to the opening?" he asked. She thought for a moment, "I'm not sure, I can only say that you don't look like you're in a hurry." Gamash nodded and thought for a while, "I know everyone will go, and the scene may be more awkward then." "You arrested one of them for murder, and he wasn't the murderer," Raina Marie said.It wasn't an accusation, in fact, her tone was calm and gentle.She was trying to get her husband to talk about how he really felt, perhaps what he wasn't even aware of himself. "You think that's a social faux pas?" he asked with a smile. "More than a social faux pas, I'd say," she laughed.She was relieved to see the sense of humor on his face.The face was clean-shaven, with no mustache or gray beard.Armand was looking at her now with deep brown eyes.She almost forgot the scar on his left temple when their eyes met. After a while, he nodded, took a deep breath, and the smile faded from his face. "It's really brutal for a human being," he said. "But you didn't mean to, Armand." "That's right, but the time he spent in prison didn't make him any happier." Garmash thought for a moment, looking away from his wife's gentle face, and looked at the trees in the park, where there was a natural scenery .How he longed for it all, for his life was always full of chasing after the unnatural.Murderers, those who take the lives of others, usually in brutal and horrific ways.Armand Garmache is the Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Unit of the Quebec Police Service.He is very competent. But he's not perfect. He arrested Olivier Brulet for a murder that he was not the murderer. "And what happened?" Annie asked. "Well, you know almost everything, don't you? It's all in the newspapers." "Of course I read the reports and I talked to my dad. But he never mentioned that someone might still hate him." "You know, that was almost a year ago," said Beauvoir, "somebody died in a tavern in Three Pines. We did an investigation and the evidence was solid. We found fingerprints, the murder weapon, and There were things stolen from the family of the deceased in the wood cabin. All these things were hidden in the tavern. We arrested Olivier, he was tried and found guilty." "Do you think he did it?" Beauvoir nodded. "I'm sure. It's not just your father's idea." "Then why did you change your mind again? Has anyone turned himself in?" "No. Do you remember the attack at that factory a few months ago? Your father had just returned to Quebec City." Annie nodded. "From then on, he became suspicious and asked me to go back to Sansong Town with him to investigate." "you go." Beauvoir nodded.Of course he would, and he would do anything the Inspector asked him to do, though he had no such doubts himself.He was convinced that the guilty man was in prison, but he did his research and found something that really shocked him. The real murderer, and the real reason for the murder. "But you also returned to Sansong Town after arresting Olivier," Reina Marie said, "this is not the first time you have met them." She'd been to Three Pines herself, and befriended Clara, Peter, and the others, though she hadn't seen them in a while.Haven't seen it since it happened. "That's right," said Garmache. "Olivier and I sent him back when he was released." "It's hard to imagine how he would feel." Gamash didn't speak, he seemed to see the sunlight reflected on the snow hill.Through the window pane he saw the villagers gathered in the tavern, where it was warm and safe.A cheerful fire was lit, a big mug of beer, a small bowl of Ole coffee, and laughter. Olivier stopped, staring at the door at two feet. Beauvoir tried to open the door, but Garmache put his hand on his arm.In the biting wind, they waited, waited, waited for Olivier to take the first step. It seemed like a century had passed, but maybe it was just a few heartbeats. Olivier took a step, paused, and opened the door. "I wish I could have seen Gabriel's face," Reina Marie said, imagining the expressive, bulky man when he saw his partner return. Gamash described the scene to Reina Marie when he got home, but he knew that no matter how ecstatic Rena Marie imagined people, the actual excitement was greater than imagination, at least for Gabriel .The other villagers were also very happy to see Olivier, but— "What's wrong?" Rena Marie asked. "Olivier didn't kill, but you know, there were a lot of unpleasant things during the interrogation. Olivier definitely stole from Hemet, took advantage of their friendship and his Fragile state of mind. Turns out Olivier used the stolen money to secretly buy a lot of real estate in Three Pine without Gabriel even knowing about it." Reina Marie did not speak, thinking about everything she had just heard. "I don't know how his friends feel about it," Reina Marie said finally. Garmash wondered too. "Olivier is the one who hated my father?" Anne asked. "But how? Dad got him out of prison and sent him back to Three Pines." "Yes, but as far as Olivier is concerned, I got him out of prison, and your father sent him to prison." Anne stared at Beauvoir and shook her head. Beauvoir continued: "Your father apologized, in front of everyone in the bistro. He said to Olivier that he was sorry for what he had done." "And what did Olivier say?" "He can't forgive your father, at least not yet." Annie imagined the scene at that time, "How did Dad react?" "He's not surprised, he's not upset. I actually think he'd be surprised if Olivier suddenly decided to forgive everything. Because, well, it wouldn't be sincere." Beauvoir knew that the only thing worse than no apology was an insincere apology. Beauvoir gave Olivier just such an apology.Olivier didn't seem to accept it, but finally told the truth.He was hurt too deeply and was not ready to forgive. "Now?" Annie asked. "Then we'll have to wait and see."