Chapter 6 Chapter Six

Through the window of the bookstore, Merna saw Armand Gamache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir walking down the dirt road towards the village. She turns around.Wooden bookshelves are filled with old and new books, and the interior has wide plank pine floors.Clara sat on the sofa by the window, facing the fireplace. She had arrived a few minutes earlier, holding the stack of newspapers in her arms like an Ellis Island immigrant clutching something old and precious. Myrna wondered if what Clara was holding was really that important. Nothing hallucinatory.Myrna was well aware of the contents of these newspapers.That was the comment made by people after seeing the preview of Clara's solo exhibition.

Myrna knew even more.She knew what was written in these beer-soaked newspapers. She got up early that morning too, crawling out of bed and trekking to the bathroom.I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and put on clean clothes.In the light of the new day, she got in the car and drove to Knowlton. To buy newspapers.She could have downloaded it from various websites, but Clara might have preferred to read the comments in the newspaper.So did Myrna. She didn't care what the world thought of Clara's art.Myrna knew they were works of genius. But she cared about Clara. Now, her friend was sprawled on the couch like a dough bag, and she sat in the armchair opposite.

"Beer?" Myrna asked, pointing to the stack of newspapers. "No, thank you," Clara laughed, "I've had enough." She pointed to her drenched chest. "You must be every man's dream," Myrna laughed, "Finally a woman made entirely of beer and croissants." "Drenched dreams," Clara agreed, smiling. "Have you read it?" Myrna no longer had to point to the stack of drunken newspapers, both of them knew what she was talking about. "Not yet. There have been obstacles." "Barrier?" Myrna asked. "A horrible corpse," Clara said, trying to hold back her emotions. "God, Myrna, I don't know what's wrong with me. I should be sad, sorry for what happened. I should be sorry for poor Leigh." Lian felt sad. But you know what I've been thinking about? The only thing I've been thinking about?"

"She ruined your big day." It's a statement.True enough, she ruined her big day.Of course it had to be admitted that Lillian herself was not having a good time.But that's for later. Clara stared at Myrna, waiting for her reprimand. "What's wrong with me?" "You didn't do anything wrong," Myrna said, leaning forward. "I think so too. Everyone does. We probably just won't admit it." She laughed. "If I was lying there—" But Myrna didn't go on.Clara quickly interrupted her. "You are not allowed to think that way."

Clara looked genuinely terrified, as if saying that would make it more likely, as if whatever deity she believed in would make it happen.But Mona knew that neither the gods Clara believed in nor the gods she believed in would be so confused that they would need or pay attention to such absurd suggestions. "If it were me," Myrna went on, "you would care." "Oh God, I'm going to pass out." "The papers are not important," said Myrna. "Yes, it doesn't matter." "If it's Gabriel or Peter or Ruth..." Both women stopped.That might have gone a little too far.

"...Anyway," Myrna continued, "even if it's a total stranger, you'll care." Clara nodded. "But Lillian is no stranger." "I wish she was," Clara said quietly. "I wish I had never met her." "Who is she?" Myrna asked.She'd heard the general idea, but now she wanted to know the details. Clara told her everything.About young Lillian, teenage Lillian, twenties Lillian.As the time of the narration stretched, Clara's voice sank, dawdling, and the more she spoke, the harder it was. Finally she stopped.Mona was silent for a while, watching her.

"She sounds like an angry vampire," Myrna finally said. "like what?" "I've met a few myself. People who can drink blood dry. We all know people like that. Just hang out with them and you're slowly being sucked dry." Clara nodded.She did know a few of them, though Sansong didn't.Not even Ruth, who can only drink up other people's liquor cabinets.But strangely enough, every time she visited the crazy old poet, she always felt refreshed and full of life. But there were others who sucked the life out of her. Lillian is one of them. "It wasn't always like that," Clara said, trying to be fair to herself. "She was a friend."

"It's often like this," Myrna nodded, "a frog in a frying pan." Clara didn't know how to answer.Are they still talking about Lillian, or has the conversation somehow shifted to some French cooking show? "You mean the angry vampire in the frying pan?" Clara asked.It was a sentence she was sure no one had ever said, or at least she hoped it was. Myrna laughed and leaned back in the armchair, putting her feet up on the cushions. "No, little one. Lillian is the angry vampire and you are the frog." "Sounds like the rejected Grimm's fairy tale, 'The Frog and the Angry Vampire'."

The two women are lost in thought, imagining the illustrations in the story. Mona came to her senses first. “A frog in a frying pan is a psychological term, a phenomenon,” she said. “If you put a frog in a hot sizzling frying pan, what would happen to it?” "Jump out?" Clara replied. "Jumped out. But what if you put the frog in a frying pan and heated it slowly?" Clara thought for a while, "When the pot is hot, will it jump out?" Mera shook her head, "No." She took her feet off the cushion and leaned forward again, looking serious, "The frog will just sit there. The pot is getting hotter, but it doesn't move. It adapts, Get used to it, but don't leave."

"Never leave?" Clara asked quietly. "Never. It stays there until it dies." Clara took a long, deep breath, then let it out. “I have seen patients who have been physically or mentally abused for a long period of time. When two people first started dating, there was absolutely no violence or name-calling. Because if there was, there would be no second date. It was very painful in the beginning. Gentle, kind. Another person is attractive to you. Trust them, need them, and then they slowly change. Little by little, slowly warming up until you're stuck." "But Lillian wasn't a lover or a husband, she was just a friend."

"Friends can be abusive too. Friendships can change and become ugly," says Myrna. "She takes advantage of your gratitude, takes advantage of your insecurities, your love for her. But you do things she never expects." arrive." Clara waited. "You stood up for yourself. You left for your art. She hates you for it." "But why is she here?" Clara asked. "I haven't seen her in over 20 years. Why is she here? What does she want?" Mona shook her head, not saying what she suspected.Lillian was here for only one reason. To ruin Clara's big day. She did it too, just not in the way she planned. Of course, this raises another question: who planned all this? "Can I tell you something?" Myrna asked. Clara grimaced. "I hate it when people say that. It means something bad is going on. What is it?" "A new hope emerges among the modern masters." "I was wrong," Clara said, relieved, but puzzled. "It sounds confusing. Is this a new game? Can I play it? Or," Clara looked at Myrna suspiciously. , "Are you smoking again? I know they say marijuana isn't a high, but I still doubt it." "Clara Moreau's art makes the noise cool again." "Oh, illogical reasoning," Clara said. "It's like talking to Ruth, only without the swear words." Myrna smiled. "You know what I'm quoting?" "Those are quotes?" Clara asked. Myrna nodded, looking at the stack of wet newspapers.Clara's gaze followed her, then widened.Myrna got up and went upstairs to find her newspaper, clean and dry.Clara reached out, but her hands shook so badly that Myrna had to help her find the appropriate page. A portrait of Ruth, like the Virgin Mary, was featured on the front page of the New York Times art section.There is only one word above the picture, "rise".Below the painting is the title A New Hope Emerges in the Modern Masters. Clara put it down and grabbed the art-review section of The Times.On the front page was a photo of her at the preview, and below that was the quote Myrna had just quoted: "Clara Moreau's art makes the noise cool again." "They're crazy about you, Clara." Myrna smiled, grinning so hard that the corners of her mouth ached. Clara put down the newspaper in her hand and looked at Myrna. Clara stood up.Rise, she thought, rise. She hugged Myrna. Peter Morrow sat in his studio, completely ignoring the tinkling of the telephone. Ding zero.Ding zero.Ding zero. He returned home after lunch, hoping for a moment of peace and tranquility.Clara picked up the newspaper and left. She should have read it herself, so he didn't know what the critics were saying.But as soon as he stepped into the door, the phone started ringing, and it has hardly stopped since then, all calling to congratulate Clara. Word came from museum curators excited about the review and subsequent ticket sales.Vanessa Detan Brown, director of Tate Modern in London, also called to thank them for hosting the party and to congratulate Clara.She also wondered if they could discuss the art exhibition together. Hold an art exhibition for Clara. Finally he stopped answering the phone and let it ring on its own.He came to Clara's open studio door and saw the puppets.Clara had wanted to paint a series of these puppets. "Perhaps too political?" Clara had said. "Maybe," Peter said.But "political" wasn't the word that jumped to his mind. He saw the statue of Utrus the fighter piled up in a corner, left over from another failed art exhibition. "Perhaps not yet," Clara had said. "Perhaps," said Peter.But "until the time" is not what he thought. When she started writing "Three Ladies", she even asked three old friends to serve as models for her.He felt sorry for the old ladies, and thought Clara was selfish.These old ladies stand there, but the pictures they draw never see the light of day. But these women don't care.They still seemed to find it very interesting, and the laughter from them prevented him from concentrating on painting. Now, the painting hangs in the Museum of Modern Art.And his finely crafted paintings are in someone's hallway, or maybe, if you're lucky, hanging over the fireplace. It was watched by several people for a year.As much as those wallpapers or curtains, it is the interior decoration of wealthy homes. How did Clara's portraits of ordinary women become masterpieces? Peter turned sideways and saw Clara's crystal feet bathed in the afternoon sun, seeming to be striding forward. "Maybe it's too complicated," Clara had said. "Perhaps," Peter murmured at the time. He closed the door and went back to his studio.The phone was still ringing in his ears. Inspector Garmash sat in the spacious drawing room of the B&B.The walls are painted cream and the furniture Gabriel chose from Olivier's antique collection.But he doesn't like heavy Victorian furniture, he likes a comfortable style.Two large sofas face each other on either side of the stone fireplace, along with several armchairs, creating a quiet conversation area.If Dominique's hot spring hotel is like a shining gem on the top of the mountain, then the Gabriel B&B hotel located in the valley is like a grandma's house. Although it is a bit dilapidated, it is quiet and pleasant. Gabriel and Olivier were still in the tavern, serving lunch to the guests and leaving the two police officers to talk to the hotel guests themselves. It was a difficult interview, even before they had crossed the threshold.They had barely set foot on the hotel porch when Beauvoir carefully pulled the inspector aside. "There's something I think you should know." Armand Garmache looked at Beauvoir with interest. "What did you do?" "What do you mean?" "You look like a teenage Daniel who got into trouble." "I got Peggy Sue's stomach big at the ball," Beauvoir replied. For a moment, Garmash looked surprised, then smiled again, "What's going on?" "I did something stupid." "Aha, does remind me of the good old days. Go on." "Ok--" "Monsieur de Beauvoir, what a pleasure to see you again." The screen door opened and a woman in her late sixties greeted him. Gamache turned to Beauvoir. "What have you done?" "I hope you remember me." She smiled flatteringly. "My name is Paulette. We met at the preview yesterday." The door opened again, and a middle-aged man appeared.Seeing Beauvoir, he grinned. "It really is you," he said, "I said I saw you walking over just now. I was looking for you at the barbecue party last night. Are you there?" Gamache examined Beauvoir inquiringly. Beauvoir turned his back to the smiling painters, "I told them I was the art critic of Le Monde." "Why do you do that?" the inspector asked. "It's a long story," Beauvoir replied. These are the two painters who once insulted the work of Clara Moreau, made fun of "The Three Ladies" like a clown.Although Beauvoir didn't like art very much, he liked Clara.He knows and appreciates the archetypal characters in "Three Wives". So at the preview, he turned to two self-righteous painters, said he liked the work very much, and borrowed some phrases he just heard at the cocktail party, what perspective, culture, and coloring, the more he said, the harder it was to stop down.And he noticed that the more absurd his words were, the more carefully the two men listened. Until finally, he threw a trump card. He used a word he had just heard the other day, one he had never heard before and had no idea what it meant.He turns to The Three Ladies, the three cheerful elderly women, and says: "The only thing I can think of, of course, is chiaroscuro." No doubt the two painters looked at him as if he had gone mad. It made him so angry that he said something he regretted the moment he said it. "I haven't introduced myself yet," he said in the most elegant French he could. "I'm Monsieur de Beauvoir, art critic for Le Monde." "Mr. Beauvoir?" The middle-aged man's eyes widened. "Well, Monsieur de Beauvoir. The last name is enough, the first name is not necessary. You have read my review, have you not?" The rest of the evening passed very well, as it was known that the famous Parisian critic "Monsieur de Beauvoir" was there.All agree that Clara's work is an excellent example of chiaroscuro. One day, he really has to look up what this word means. Two painters made their own introductions, "Normand" and "Paulette". "We only use names." He had the feeling at the time that they were joking, but clearly they weren't.And now, they're showing up again. Normand, still wearing yesterday's slacks, tweed jacket, and a scarf.His wife, Paulette, was in the same country girl dress, blouse and scarf. Now their eyes turned to Garmache, and then back to Beauvoir. "I have two bad news," said Garmache, leading them into the room. "There has been a murder. This is not M. de Beauvoir, the critic of Le Monde either, but de Beauvoir." Officer, Criminal Investigator of the Quebec Police Service." They already knew about the murder, so what frustrates them most now is Beauvoir's real identity.Gamache watched their complaints about Beauvoir and found it ridiculous. Beauvoir noticed Gamache's smile and whispered to him: "I have to tell you, I told them that you are Monsieur Gamache, curator of the Louvre. Have a nice day!" Oh, no wonder he received so many invitations to the art exhibition during the preview, it was beyond his expectation.He thought to himself that he must never show up at these art exhibitions. "When did you decide to stay overnight?" the inspector asked after they had vented their anger. "We were going to go home after the party, but it was too late, and..." Paulette turned to Normand, as if to imply that he had had too much to drink. "The owner of the hotel gave us toiletries and bathrobes," Normand explained. "We're leaving for Cowensville in a few minutes to buy some clothes." "Not going back to Montreal anymore?" asked Garmache. "There's no rush to go back. We plan to stay for a day or two and treat it as a vacation." At Gamache's invitation, they sat down in the comfortable living room.The two painters sat side by side on one sofa, and Beauvoir and the inspector sat on the opposite sofa. "Then who was killed?" asked Paulette. "It wasn't Clara?" She had a faint gloating look on her face. "No," Beauvoir replied, "are you friends?" Although the answer seemed obvious. The question drew a snort from Normand. "You obviously don't know painters, Inspector. We can be civilized, even friendly. But friends? You might as well be friends with wolves." "Then, if you have no friendship with Clara, why are you here?" Beauvoir asked. "Free food and booze, lots and lots of booze," Normand said, brushing his hair out of his eyes.He had a worldly air about him, as if he'd been through it all and nothing made him laugh or feel bad. "So it wasn't to celebrate her success?" Beauvoir asked. "She's not a bad picture," Paulette replied, "better than she was ten years ago." "Too much chiaroscuro," said Normand, apparently forgetting who first mentioned the word. "She made progress in yesterday's exhibition," Normand went on, "although it's not difficult to improve. Who can forget her previous exhibition of Crystal Feet?" "But seriously, Normand," said Paulette, "portraits? What self-respecting artist paints portraits these days?" Normand nodded, "Her paintings lack creativity and are of little value. Although the facial features of the characters are obvious and the brushes are well handled, there is really no breakthrough, nothing original and eye-catching. We can see it in any second-rate provincial gallery in Slovenia." "If her paintings are so bad, why is the Museum of Modern Art giving her a solo exhibition?" Beauvoir asked. "And who knows," Normand said, "relationships? Politics? These big institutions don't care about real art at all, and they don't take risks. They play it safe." Paulette nodded frequently. "Since Clara Moreau is not your friend and you think her paintings are crappy, why are you here?" Beauvoir asked Normand. Visiting the preview, but traveling so far to come here...?" He stopped the man.Both men know this. It took Normand a moment to answer: "Because there are critics here, as are gallerists and art dealers. Detan Brown at Tate Modern, Castongui, Fortin, Bishop at the Museum. The point of the preview and the art show is not what's on the wall, it's the people standing in the room. That's the point. I'm here to build relationships. I don't know how the Moreaus do it, but it does It is a great opportunity for critics and curators to gather together." "Fortin?" Garmash asked in surprise, "is it Denis Fortin?" Now it was Normand's turn to be surprised that the old hat cop knew who Dennis Fortin was. "That's right," he said, "owner of the Fortin Gallery." "Did Dennis Fortin visit the preview in Montreal," Garmash asked immediately, "or is he here?" "They're all there. I wanted to find a chance to chat with him, but he's too busy." He paused for a moment, the sophisticated painter seemed a little depressed, depressed because he couldn't get a word with Fortin. "It's strange that Fortin is here," Paulette said, "given what he's done to Clara." The conversation stops there, leading to the next question.Both Paulette and Normand looked eagerly at the two officers like hungry children at a piece of cake. To Beauvoir's delight, Inspector Garmache did not take up the conversation.In fact, they all knew what Dennis Fortin had done to Clara.That's why his appearance surprised the duo so much. Beauvoir looked at Normand and Paulette, both of whom looked weak.But the Inspector was curious about their weariness.Tired of a long night with free food and drinks?Or tired of longer hours of hopelessly socializing under the guise of a party?Or are you just tired of the harsh reality of struggling to stay underwater? Gamash took out a photo from his pocket, "I have a photo of the deceased here, I want you to take a look." He handed the photo to Normand, who immediately raised an eyebrow. "This is Lillian Dyson." "No kidding," Paulette said, leaning forward to grab the photo.After a while, she nodded, "Yes, it's her." Paulette looked up at the Inspector, her eyes sharp and witty, not as immature as she had been at first.If she looked like a child, she was a crafty child. "So you two knew Mrs. Dyson?" asked Beauvoir. "Well, not actually," Normand replied.Garmash felt like he was fluid, able to adjust himself at any time with the flow. "So, what's going on?" Beauvoir asked. "We've known her for a long time, and then we haven't seen her for a while. But last winter, she appeared again at several exhibitions." "Painting exhibition?" Beauvoir asked. "Of course," Normand replied, "what else could there be?" As if no other form of culture existed or mattered. "I've seen her too," said Paulette, afraid of being left behind.What, Garmache wondered, could they have created for such a couple? "At a couple of art shows. I didn't recognize her at first. She had to introduce herself before I recognized her. She dyed her hair. It used to be red, or orange to be exact, and now it's blond. And People are also fatter than before." "Is she still a critic?" asked Garmache. "Then I don't know. I don't know what she's doing," Paulette replied. Garmash stared at her for a moment, "Are you friends?" Paulette hesitated, "Not now." "Before? Before she left?" asked the Inspector. "I think so," Paulette replied. "At that time my career was just getting started, and I had a little success. Normand and I had just met and were considering whether we could work together. rare." "It was a mistake for you to ask Lillian for advice," Normand said. "What's her opinion?" asked Beauvoir. "I don't know what she thinks, but I can tell you how she does it," Paulette replied, with anger evident in her voice and eyes, "she told me that Normand was at the recent exhibition Said bad things about me once. He laughed at my drawings and said he would rather work with a gorilla. Lillian said she told me as a friend and told me to be careful with him.” "Lillian came to me again shortly after that," Normand continued, "said Paulette accused me of plagiarizing her work, of stealing her ideas. Lillian said she knew it wasn't true, but it was just Wanted me to know how Paulette slandered me in front of other people." "And the result?" asked Garmash.The air around them suddenly turned sour, and old gossip and resentment gathered again. "My God," Paulette replied, "we both believed her. We fell out. We didn't find out until years later that Lillian had lied to both of us." "But now we're together." Normand put a hand gently on Paulette's, and looked at her with a smile, "Although many years have been wasted." Gamache looked at them and thought, Maybe that's what got Normand tired -- stuck in the memory. Unlike Beauvoir, Inspector Garmache had great respect for painters.They are sensitive, narcissistic, and not suitable for living in a civilized society.Some, he suspected, were even in a state of insanity.This life is not easy.Living on the margins, often destitute.ignored or even ridiculed.Ignored and ridiculed by society, funding agencies, and even other painters. The Magritte mentioned by François Marois was not an isolated phenomenon.The man and woman sitting here at this moment, in this B&B, are Magrittes.They are struggling to be heard, seen, respected and accepted by others. This kind of life is hard for anyone, let alone sensitive people like painters. Such a life, he suspected, created fear.Fear breeds anger, and enough anger accumulated over a long enough period of time resulted in the creation of the dead woman in the garden. Yes, Armand Garmache had enough time to deal with painters, but he was well aware of their abilities.Great creativity, great destructive power. "When did Lillian leave Montreal?" Beauvoir asked. "I don't know, and I don't care," Paulette replied. "So now that she's back, do you care?" Beauvoir asked. "Do you care?" Paulette gave Beauvoir a look. "I keep her distance. We all know what she did and what she might do. We don't want anything to do with her." "He's a genius, and making art is like a biological function of him," Normand said from the sidelines. "What did you say?" Beauvoir asked. "It's a line from her commentary," Paulette replied. "It's famous, it was quoted by the news agencies, and the commentary is known all over the world." "Who is she talking about?" asked Beauvoir. "It's funny," Paulette replied, "everyone knows that saying, but no one remembers who it's about." Both Beauvoir and Gamache knew this was not true. He was a genius, and making art was like a biological function to him. Clever, almost a compliment, but it can suddenly turn into a biting criticism. Someone will surely remember this review.painter himself.