Chapter 2 Chapter two

"That's awesome, what do you think?" Garmash turned around, noticing that beside him was an older man who looked quite respectable. "Indeed." The inspector nodded.The two were silent for a while, watching the painting in front of them.There is a lot of noise all around, people talking, talking and laughing, old friends reminiscing about old ones, and making new ones. But these two people seem to have their own independent quiet space. Coincidentally, what hung on the wall in front of them was the main painting of Clara Moreau's solo exhibition.Her work, mostly portraits, hangs on the white walls around MoMA's main gallery.Some paintings are next to each other, like a small party; others hang alone, such as this one.

This is the most modest of all the portraits, and hangs on the most spacious wall. Without competition and without the company of other paintings, it's like an island nation in its own right. Dominate one side. "How do you feel when you see this painting?" the man asked, his eyes fixed on Garmash keenly. The inspector smiled, "Actually, this is not the first time I have seen it. We are friends with the Moreau family. I was there when she took the painting out of the studio for the first time." "Lucky one." Garmash took a sip of the excellent red wine in the glass and nodded in agreement.lucky one.

"François Marois." The elder introduced himself, holding out his hand. "Armand Garmache." Hearing this, the elder looked at the inspector more carefully and nodded. "I'm sorry, I should have recognized you long ago, Inspector." "Where is it? I hope people don't recognize me." Garmash smiled. "Are you a painter?" Actually, he looks more like a banker.Maybe an art collector?They belong to the other end of the art chain.He must be in his seventies, Gamash guessed.He looked well off, with his tailored suit, silk tie and faint smell of expensive cologne.He was bald, with well-trimmed and clean-shaven hair, and wise blue eyes.All this was quickly and instinctively noticed by Inspector Gamash.François Marois looked energetic and composed.In such an atmosphere full of man-made creations, he seems to be able to do a job with ease.

Garmash looked around the exhibition hall, where a room full of men and women shuttled back and forth, some were talking, some were eating fruits and snacks, and some were sipping wine.Two benches are placed in the center of the exhibition hall, but no one is sitting on them.He saw Rena Marie talking to a woman across the hall, and Annie.David had arrived, taking off his coat, and walking over to Anne.Gamache continued to scan until he saw Gabriel and Olivier standing side by side.He wondered if he should go and talk to Olivier. What do you say?Apologize again? Maybe Rena Marie is right?Does he need to be forgiven?Or redemption?Does he wish his mistakes were cleared from his personal files?That personal file that he hides in his heart every day and keeps adding new content.

ledger. He wants that bug gone? In fact, he's doing just fine without Olivier's forgiveness. But when he saw Olivier again, he felt a little trembling, wondering whether he needed forgiveness from the other party.He also wondered if Olivier would forgive him. His gaze returned to the man standing aside. Garmash has always found it interesting that, while good art reflects humanity, nature, humanity, or whatever, the galleries themselves are often cold and serious, neither engaging nor natural. Yet François Marois is comfortable here, with the marble and sharp frame corners seeming to be his natural habitat.

"No," Marois replied to Gamache's question, "I'm not a painter." He laughed. "Unfortunately, I'm not creative. Like most of my colleagues, I dabble in art like a kid, It turned out that I was terribly lacking in talent, surprisingly lacking. It was shocking, really." Garmash laughed, "Then why are you here?" Garmash knew that this was a private cocktail party on the eve of Clara's big public exhibition.Only a select few are invited to previews, especially at this prestigious museum of modern art.The rich, the powerful, the painter's friends and family, and the painter himself, in that order.

Don't expect anything from the painter in the preview.As long as they are dressed and sane, curators can rest easy.Garmash glanced at Clara. She looked nervous and her clothes were messy.The skirt was a little askew, and the collar of the shirt was pulled up, as if she had just reached out to scratch an out-of-reach spot on her back. "I'm an art dealer." The man handed out his business card, and Garmash took it.On a cream background, in simple embossed black lettering, with just the name and a phone number, nothing else.The paper is thick and has a clear grain, making it a high-quality business card.Undoubtedly, well suited for high-end business.

"You know Clara's work?" Garmash asked, stuffing his card into his breast pocket. "Not at all. But I'm friends with the curator of the Museum of Modern Art, and she slipped me some brochures. I was really surprised that Mrs. Moreau had been living in Quebec, she was almost 50 years old, but No one seemed to know her. She literally fell from the sky." "She's from Sansong Township." Garmash said, seeing the blank gaze of the other party, he explained, "It's a small village in the south, on the border of Vermont. Few people know about this place."

"Few people know about her. An unknown artist from an unknown town, but..." François Marois gestures gracefully and convincingly with his arms outstretched, beckoning to everything around him. Both of them took a step back and carefully looked at the portrait in front of them.It showed the head of an old woman with skinny shoulders.Vein-exposed, arthritic hands are at the throat, clutching a rough blue shawl.The shawl slipped off, exposing tendons and skin up to the collarbone. But it was her face that caught the eyes of the two of them. She looked directly at them, at the crowd in front of her, and the conversation was lively and jubilant.

She was angry, anger mixed with contempt.She hated everything she saw and heard, the joy around her, the laughter.Hate the world that had left her behind.Let her be alone on the wall, to see, to observe, and never blend in with the crowd. Just like Prometheus, this is a great soul tortured endlessly, sad and humble. Garmash heard the gasp from the man next to him and knew what had happened.The art dealer François Marois understood the painting.Not the obvious anger, which is visible to all, but something more complex and subtle.Marois saw it, saw what Clara had really created. "My fellow," exclaimed François Marois, "God!"

He shifted his gaze from the painting to Gamache. At the other end of the exhibition hall, Clara nodded and smiled, but actually didn't listen to anything. There was a lot of noise in her ears, and there was chaos in front of her eyes; her hands were numb.About to lose consciousness. Take a deep breath, she kept telling herself, take a deep breath. Peter handed her a glass of wine and her friend Myrna a plate of pastries, but Clara was shaking so much she had to push both back. She tried not to look crazy.Her new suit tickled her, and she felt like an accountant. It wasn't what she wanted when she bought the suit at the boutique on Denis Avenue in Montreal.She wanted a different style from the baggy skirts she usually wears.The style should be clean and stylish, simple and harmonious. In the store, when she smiled at the smiling salesperson in the mirror and told her about her upcoming solo exhibition, she looked exactly how she wanted to be.She told everyone about the exhibition, the taxi driver, the waiter, the kid sitting next to her on the bus, even though he was listening to music with headphones in his ears and couldn't hear what she said.Clara didn't care, just tell him anyway. Now, that day has finally come. That morning, sitting in her garden in Sansong Township, she imagined a completely different picture from the present.She pictured herself walking through the two huge frosted glass doors at the end of the corridor, surrounded by cheers.She's so chic in her new suit that the art world will be stunned.Critics and art museum directors would flock to her, eager to pick on her, flattering her with all their might, trying to find the right words to describe her paintings. Shocking.Beautiful.shining brightly.Ingenious workmanship. A masterpiece a masterpiece, each one is. In the quiet garden that morning, Clara closed her eyes, looked up at the rising sun, and smiled. The dream finally came true. People who didn't know her at all listened to her every word, and some even took notes.They would ask her for advice, they would listen intently to her ideas, her philosophies, her insights into the art world, her interpretations of where art is going and where it has been. She will be respected and admired.She was smart and beautiful, and elegant ladies would ask her where to buy their suits.She would start a movement, a trend. However, now she felt like a bride with messy makeup at a wedding, going crazy.The guests in the exhibition hall paid no attention to her at all, only food and drink in their eyes.There was no scrambling to grab the bouquet she threw, or walk her down the aisle, or ask her to dance.She just looks like an accountant. She scratched her ass, rubbed cheese into her hair, and checked her watch. Gosh, there's still an hour left. Oh, no, no, no.Clara yelled inwardly.All she wanted now was to live, to keep her head above the water, not to pass out, not throw up, or pee her pants.Staying sober is her new goal. "At least you're not on fire." "What?" Clara turned her head, and beside her stood a large black woman in a bright green robe.This is her friend and neighbor, Myrna Landers, a retired Montreal counselor who now runs a new bookstore in San Pine. "Right now," Myrna said, "you're not on fire." "Yes, exactly. I didn't fly either, and there's a long list of things I didn't do." "There's a long list of things, too," Myrna said with a smile, "and a long list of things you did." "Are you going to mess with me?" Clara asked. Myrna stopped and looked at Clara.Clara would go to Myrna's bookstore almost every day to drink a cup of tea and chat.Or Myrna would have a meal with Peter and Clara. But today is different than usual.There has never been a day in Clara's life like this one, nor will it ever happen again.Myrna knew Clara's fears, her failures, her disappointments, just as Clara knew Myrna. They also know each other's dreams. "I know it's hard for you," Myrna said.She stood directly in front of Clara, her body covering the rest of the exhibition hall.So what was once a noisy and bustling place suddenly became a private space.Her body is like a big green ball, shielding the surrounding sight and noise.They are in their own world. "I thought it would be perfect." Clara whispered, hoping she wouldn't cry out.While other little girls fantasize about their own weddings, Clara fantasizes about her solo exhibition.In the art museum, here, but not in this scene. "Who gets to decide? What will make it perfect?" Clara thought for a moment, "If only I wasn't so scared." "So what's the worst thing that could happen?" Myrna asked quietly. "They didn't like my paintings, they thought I was untalented, absurd, ridiculous. A big mistake. The exhibition failed and I would be the butt of everyone's laughing stock." "That's right," Myrna replied, with a smile on her face, "That's all you can't die. Then what will you do?" Clara thought for a while, "I'll get in the car and return to Sansong Town with Peter." "and then?" "Have a party with friends tonight." "and then?" "Wake up the next morning..." Clara's voice trailed off as she saw a post-apocalyptic vision of her life.The next morning, she would wake up and continue her peaceful life in the small village.She would go back to her old life, walk the dog, have a drink in the terrace cafe, eat a croissant in front of the fireplace in the bistro, drink coffee with milk, have a meal with friends, sit in her garden and read and think . painting. Nothing that happens here will change her life. "At least I'm not on fire," she said, grinning. Myrna held Clara's hands tightly, "Most people would rather die for this day. Don't let it go to waste. Your works are masterpieces, Clara." Clara also squeezed her friend's hand tightly.During these years, during those peaceful days, no one noticed or cared what Clara was doing in the studio, except Myrna. Mona is always on the sidelines cheering her on, "Your works are masterpieces." Clara believed Mona, so she kept going.What pushed her forward was not only her own dreams, but also Mona's gentle and trusting voice. Mona took a step aside, and what Clara presented was a brand new exhibition hall.The people in the house were no longer a threat.Laughing and laughing, the crowd celebrates Clara Moreau's first solo exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. "Shit," a man yelled at the woman next to him, raising his voice to try to drown out the conversation around him, "this is rubbish. Can you believe Clara Moreau has a solo exhibition?" The woman beside him shook her head and made a pained expression.She was wearing a long dress, a tight T-shirt, a scarf wrapped around her neck and shoulders, large earrings and rings on each finger. In another time and place, she would have been considered a gypsy.And here, her identity cannot be mistaken.To put it mildly, she was a successful painter. It was her husband, also a painter, in corduroy trousers, an old jacket and a scarf around his neck.He turned back to look at the painting. "so terrible." "Poor Clara," echoed his wife, "the critics will kill her." Beauvoir was standing next to the two artists at this time, with his back to the painting, he couldn't help turning around to take a look. It is the largest one hanging among a pile of portraits.Three old women who had experienced vicissitudes of life stood together and laughed. They looked at each other, touched each other, held hands or arms, and put their heads together.Whatever made them laugh, they looked at each other.Even if something terrible happened, they would do it.No matter what happened, it was their natural reaction. More than friendship, more than merriment, there is even more intimacy than love in this painting. Beauvoir immediately turned his back on it.He can no longer watch.He scanned the entire exhibition hall until he spotted her again. "Look at them," said the man, commenting on the painting at length. "They're not very pretty." Anne Garmash stands next to her husband David on the other side of the crowded exhibition hall.They are listening to an elderly man speak.David didn't seem very interested, a little distracted.But Annie's eyes were bright, and she was completely attracted. Beauvoir felt jealous and wished she could look at him that way. Here, Beauvoir cried inwardly, look at me. "They're laughing." The man behind Beauvoir commented, as if he didn't agree with Clara's portrait of the three old women. "There's no charm, it's better to draw some clowns." The woman beside him snickered. Across the room, Annie puts a hand on her husband's, but David doesn't seem to be bothered. Beauvoir put his hand gently on his other arm.It must be this feeling. "There you are, Clara," the museum curator called, pulling her arm away from Myrna. "Congratulations. What a colossal achievement!" Clara was around the arts a lot, and knew that what they called "achievement" might be seen as nothing more than an event by others.Still, it's better than getting kicked in the shin. "yes?" "Of course. People love your paintings so much." She gave Clara a warm hug.The lenses of her glasses were small rectangles, and Clara wondered if the world she saw was all shrunk into the narrow frames.Her hair was short and stiff, as were her clothes, and her face was deathly pale.She's like a walking dummy. But she was kind, and Clara liked her. "Very good," said the curator, taking a step back to appreciate Clara's new image, "I like it very much. It's very retro, very chic. You look like..." She gesticulated with her hands, trying to find a suitable metaphor. "Audrey Hepburn?" "That's right." The curator clapped his hands and smiled, "You are bound to set off a new trend." Clara laughed too, feeling a little better.At the other end of the hall, she saw Olivier standing next to Gabriel, as usual.But Gabriel was chatting with a stranger, and Olivier was watching the crowd. Clara followed his sharp gaze and finally landed on Garmash. "So," asked the curator, wrapping her arms around Clara's waist, "who do you know?" Before Clara could answer, the curator pointed to the crowded crowd in the exhibition hall and started introducing. "You may know them." She nodded to the middle-aged couple behind Beauvoir, who seemed to be attracted by Clara's painting "Three Ladies". "That's Normand and Paulette. The two Joint creation, the husband draws the outlines, and the wife is good at detailing." "Like the masters of the Renaissance, teamwork?" "It's similar," said the curator. "It's more like Christo and Jeanne-Claude. It's rare to find such a couple of painters. They paint very well. I can see that they like your paintings." Clara knew them, and wondered if they themselves might not have chosen the word "favorite." "Who is that?" Clara asked, pointing to the distinguished gentleman beside Garmash. "Francois Marois." Clara's eyes widened and she looked around at the crowd.Why didn't anyone rush to strike up a conversation with this famous art dealer?Why was it that Armand Garmache, who had nothing to do with art, was the only one who spoke to François Marois?If there is any important function of the preview, it is not to celebrate the painter's success, but to provide a social occasion and establish a network of relationships.Well, no one stands out more than François Marois.Then she realized that maybe few people in the exhibition hall knew who he was. "You know, he hardly goes to art exhibitions, but I gave him a catalog and he thinks your work is very good." "real?" Even if the "very good" in "artistic meaning" is understood as "very good" in the ordinary population, this is still a compliment. "François knows everyone with money and taste," said the curator. "This is indeed a remarkable achievement. If he likes your work, then you're done." The curator narrowed his eyes and looked carefully. Looking at the man next to the art dealer, "I don't know the guy talking to him. Maybe some professor of art history?" Before Clara could correct that the man was not a professor, Marois turned his eyes from the portrait to Gamache in surprise.He looked shocked. Clara wondered what he had just seen, and what else that look meant. "Also," the curator continued, pointing in another direction, "Andre Castongui over there is also a big man." Clara saw a familiar figure on the Quebec art stage.If François Marois is a low-key outlier, André Castonguet is the ubiquitous behind-the-scenes power of the Quebec art scene.He was younger, taller, and fatter than Marois.Andre Castongui was surrounded by a circle of people.The inner circle is the critics of the major newspapers, the middle circle is the owners of smaller galleries and tabloid critics, and the outer circle is the painters. They are the satellites, and André Castongui is the sun. "Let me introduce you." "Great," Clara called.But in her heart, she translated "great" into her true feeling: oh shit. "Is it possible?" asked François Marois, trying to find the answer in the face of Inspector Gamache. Gamash looked at the elder, smiled and nodded. Marois turned his head to re-examine the portrait. As more and more people crowded in, the noise in the gallery became almost deafening. But François Marois's eyes rested on only one face.The disappointed old woman on the wall.Her face was full of condemnation and despair. "It's Mary, isn't it?" asked Marois, in a voice that was barely audible. Inspector Gamache was not sure whether the dealer was addressing him, so he remained silent.Marois saw something that few saw. Clara's portrait is more than just an angry old woman.What she was painting was actually the Virgin Mary, aged Mary, abandoned by a world weary of miracles and wary of them.The world is too busy to notice the rock rolling backwards.It has moved on, towards other miracles. This is Mary in her dying years, forgotten and alone. With sharp eyes, she watched the people in the room happily tasting the fine wine and walking past her. Except François Marois.At this moment, he tried to move his eyes away from the painting, and looked at Garmash again. "What did Clara do?" he asked quietly. Garmash was silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Hello, idiot." Ruth Sadow inserted a thin arm into Beauvoir's. "Tell me, are you okay?" This is an order.Few could ignore Ruth.However, almost no one was greeted by Ruth like this. "I'm very good." "Fart," said the old poet, "you look like a wimp, thin, pale, and wrinkled." "You're describing yourself, you old drunkard." Ruth Sadow giggled. "Yeah, you look like a bitter old lady. Don't take that as a compliment." Beauvoir smiled.He actually always wanted to see Ruth.The tall, thin old lady was on crutches.Her white hair is very thin, clinging to the scalp, it seems that the shape of the skull can be seen clearly.This seems reasonable to Beauvoir.There was nothing in Ruth's head that was unexposed, unexpressed.What she is covering and hiding is her heart. But she expressed it in her poems.Somehow, Beauvoir could not help guessing how Ruth Sadow won the Governor-General's Prize for Poetry.He couldn't understand a single one of those poems.Luckily, Ruth herself is much easier to read. "How did you get here?" she asked, staring at him. "What about you? Don't tell me that you came all the way from Sansong Town just to support Clara." Ruth looked at him like he was crazy, "Of course not. I'm here for the same reasons as everyone else: free food and drink. But I'm full now. You'll be back in Three Pine later Party?" "We're invited, but I probably won't be going." Ruth nodded, "Okay, give me some more. I heard that you are divorced, so she probably cheated on you. It's natural." "Woman," Beauvoir murmured. "Idiot," said Ruth.Beauvoir's eyes wandered away, and Ruth followed his gaze, and saw the young woman at the other end of the exhibition hall. "You can find someone better than her," Ruth said, feeling the arm tighten.He was silent.She looked at him sharply, then at the woman Beauvoir was staring at. He looks about twenty-five or sixteen years old, not more than thirty years old.Not fat, but not skinny either.Not pretty, but not ugly either.Not tall, but not short either. She's a perfectly normal person, nothing special about her except for one thing. The young woman radiated happiness. Ruth saw an older woman approach, wrap her arms around the younger woman's waist, and kiss her. Raina Marie Gamache.Ruth had seen her a few times. Now the wizened old poet looked at Beauvoir with interest. Peter Morrow is talking to several gallery owners.They aren't exactly big names in the art world, but it's best to keep them happy. He knew that Andre Castongui, the owner of the Castongue Gallery, was there, and he was eager to meet the bigwig.He also took note of the critics of The New York Times and Le Figaro.He looked around the exhibition hall and saw a photographer taking pictures of Clara. She looked away, met his gaze, and shrugged.He smiled and raised his glass in greeting. Should he take the initiative to go over to Castongui and introduce himself?But there were already a lot of people around the boss, and Peter didn't want to look pitiful.He lingers.Better to leave as if he didn't care and didn't need Andre Castongui. Peter turned his attention back to a small gallery owner in front of him, who was explaining that they would like to hold a solo exhibition for Peter, but the gallery was fully booked. Out of the corner of his eye Peter noticed that the crowd around Castongui made way for Clara. "You ask me what it feels like to look at this painting?" Gamash said.The two men look at the portrait again at the same time. "I feel calm, comfortable." François Marois looked at him in surprise. "Comfortable? How is it possible? Is it because you are not angry like her? Is it because her anger makes you feel that your emotions are still acceptable? What did Mrs. Moreau name this painting?" Marois adjusted his glasses and leaned over to read the description engraved in the stencil on the wall. Then he stepped back, looking even more confused. "It's called A Quiet Life. Why?" While the art dealer was concentrating on the painting, Garmache noticed Olivier on the other side of the exhibition hall.The other party was staring at him.The inspector smiled, but Olivier turned away.This is also expected. He at least responded to the Inspector. Marois beside him breathed out, "I understand." Gamache turned to look at the art dealer.Marois no longer looked surprised.The politeness and sophistication that he used to hang on his face disappeared, and he showed a sincere smile. "It's her eyes, isn't it?" Gamash nodded. Marois tilted his head to one side, and instead of staring at the painting, turned his eyes to the crowd.Confusion showed on his face again.Then he looked back at the painting, and once again cast his eyes on the crowd. Garmache followed his gaze, and sure enough, it fell on the old woman who was talking to Beauvoir. Ruth Sadow. Beauvoir looked irritable and depressed, as people around Ruth often have expressions; but Ruth looked very happy. "It's her, isn't it?" Maroire asked, trying to suppress his overwhelming excitement, as if he didn't want anyone to know their secret. Garmash nodded, "She is Clara's neighbor in Sansong Town." Marois looked at Ruth in ecstasy, as if the painting had come to life.Then he and Gamache stared back at the portrait again. Clara painted her as the forgotten and pugnacious Virgin Mary.Age and anger made her look old, real or fake anger, bad friendships, disenfranchised rights, and suppressed love.But there is something else.There was a vague hint in those tired eyes, not even discernible, more like a prediction.Rumors from afar. In all the strokes, all the elements, all the color and the verve of this painting, there is a subtle detail, a little white dot. in her eyes. Clara Moreau captures the moment when despair becomes hope. François Marois took a half step back and nodded solemnly. "Brilliant, beautiful." He turned to Garmache. "Unless, of course, it's a ruse." "What do you mean?" asked Garmash. "Maybe it's not hope at all," Marois replied, "just an illusion of light."