Chapter 7 Chapter VII

Armand Garmache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir descended from the wide balcony of the B&B. The weather was warm and Beauvoir was thirsty. "A drink?" he suggested to the Inspector, knowing the answer would be yes.But Gamache's answer was beyond his expectation. "Wait a few minutes, I have to do something first." The two stopped on the dirt road.The weather has almost gone from warm to hot.In the flower beds around the green area of ​​the village, some white irises have fully bloomed, while others have almost exploded, revealing black stamens. This seemed to Beauvoir a proof.In every living body, no matter how beautiful it is, if it is fully unfolded, there must be something black inside.

"I thought it was interesting that Normand and Paulette knew Lillian Dyson," said Garmash. "Why is it interesting?" asked Beauvoir. "Isn't that what you expected? After all, they are all part of a group. They were together 25 years ago, and they were together a few months ago. No wonder." "That's right. What I find interesting is that neither François Marois nor André Castonguet admit to knowing her. If Marois and Castonguet don't know her , how did Normand and Paulette know Lillian?" "Perhaps they don't move in the same circles?" de Beauvoir speculated.

They left the B&B and walked towards the hills outside Sansong Town.Beauvoir took off his coat, but Gamache kept it on.It just wasn't warm enough for him to walk around in his shirt. “There are not that many circles in the art world in Quebec,” Garmache said. “Dealers may not be personal friends of every painter, but they must at least be aware of the existence of painters. If not today, at least 20 years ago , which was the case when Lillian was a critic." "So they're lying?" Beauvoir asked. "That's exactly what I want to find out. I want you to go to the special case room to check the progress of the case. I'll meet you at the tavern later," Garmash looked at his watch, "in 45 minutes."

The two broke up.Beauvoir waited for a while, watching the inspector walk up the hill with a firm step. He was about to cross the village green back to the case room, but he noticed someone sitting on a bench over there, so he slowed down, turned right, walked over and sat down. "Hello, idiot." "Okay, you old drunkard." Ruth Sadow and Beauvoir sat side by side.There was a loaf of stale bread between them, and Beauvoir took a piece, tore it up, and threw it to a flock of robins gathered in the grass. "What are you doing? That's my lunch." "We all know that you haven't chewed your lunch for many years." Beauvoir said abruptly.Ruth giggled.

"Yes. But you still owe me a meal." "I'll buy you a beer later." "So, what's the wind that brought you to Three Pines again?" Ruth tore off more bread to feed the birds, or throw them at the birds. "Homicide case." "Oh, that." "Did you see her last night?" Beauvoir handed Ruth the photo of the deceased.She looked at it carefully for a while, then handed it back. "No." "How was the party?" "You mean a barbecue party? Too many people, it's too noisy." "But the wine is free," Beauvoir said.

"It's free? Damn it. Turns out I don't have to be sneaky at all. But stealing booze is more fun." "Didn't anything strange happen? No quarrels, no one raising their voices? So much drinking, no one making trouble?" "Drinking? Causing trouble? Where did you get that idea, idiot?" "Did anything unusual happen last night?" "I didn't see it anyway." Ruth tore off a piece of bread and threw it at a fat robin. "Sorry to hear you separated. Do you love her?" "My wife?" Beauvoir wondered what exactly reminded Ruth of this question.Is it caring or is there no sense of personal privacy at all? "I think--"

"No, not your wife. The other one, the plain one." Beauvoir felt his heart twitch, and the blood rushed to his face. "You're drunk." He said and raised his foot. "And AIDS," she continued, "but I was right. I saw the way you looked at her. I thought I knew who she was. You're in trouble, young Monsieur de Beauvoir." "You don't know anything." He walked away, trying not to run, trying to walk slowly and steady.about.about. Ahead, he saw the bridge and the project room over there.There he is safe. But the young Monsieur de Beauvoir began to realize something.

There's no such thing as a "safe" place anymore, not anymore. "Have you read this?" Clara asked, putting the empty beer glass on the table and handing the Ottawa Star to Myrna. "The paper didn't like my art exhibition." "Are you kidding me?" Myrna picked up the newspaper and glanced at it roughly.Indeed, she had to admit, it wasn't a glowing review. "What did they say about me?" Clara sat on the arm of Myrna's easy chair. "Here it is." She poked the newspaper with her finger. "Clara Moreau is a tired old parrot. , imitating real artists."

Myrna laughed. "Amusing you?" Clara asked. "Do you really take this comment seriously?" "Why not? If I take the comments that praise me seriously, why don't I take the criticism too?" "But look at those," Myrna pointed to the pile of papers on the coffee table, "The Times, The New York Times, The Obligation, they all admit that your art is new, exciting, wonderful. " "I heard that the critic of Le Monde was there, but he didn't even bother to write a review." Myrna stared at Clara, "I'm sure he will write, and he will agree with everyone. Your exhibition was a great success."

"Her paintings, while good, lack vision and audacity." Clara read over Myrna's shoulder. "They don't think it's a huge success." "Jesus, it's just one of the Ottawa Stars," Myrna said. "There's going to be people who don't like it. Thank God, it's them." Clara looked at the comments and smiled, "You're right." She sat back in her chair. "Did someone tell you that painters are fools?" "It's the first time I've heard of it." Outside the window, Myrna saw Ruth throwing chunks of bread at the birds.At the top of the hill, Dominique Gilbert rode back to the stables on an old moose-like horse.On the patio outside the bistro, Gabriel sits at a customer's table, eating dessert.

It's not the first time I've felt this way.To Myrna, Tripine Township was like a humanitarian community for the wounded, the unwanted. Here is the shelter.However, it is clear that there are no murder-free asylums. Dominique Gilbert brushes Buttercup's tail over and over again.This always reminds her of the scene in "Kung Fu Boy".Wax it, wipe it off.But now instead of chamois, brushes are used.The object is not a cart, but a horse. Buttercup was in the stable passage and had not yet entered his cubicle.Chester watched all this, dancing as if he had a Mexican band in his head.The macaroni is in the field, it has been combed by the owner, but it is rolling in the mud. Dominique rubbed the caked dry mud off the horse, saw the scabs, the scars, the patches of skin that would no longer grow hair.The scars are so deep. However, this tall horse was allowed to be petted, combed and ridden by her.The same goes for Chester and Macaroni.If any animal has earned the right to rebel, it's them.However, they chose to be the most gentle animals. She heard someone talking outside. "You've shown us the pictures." It was the voice of one of her guests, and Dominique knew who it was, gallery owner André Castongui.Most of the guests had left, but two art dealers, Castongui and Marois, stayed. "I want you to take another look." It's Inspector Gamache, and he's back.She happened to be hiding behind Buttercup's big ass, looking out from the end of the stable.She felt a little uncomfortable and hesitated to show up.They stood in the sun, leaning against the fence.Obviously, they know this is not a private space.Plus, she came first.Besides, she wanted to hear it too. So she said nothing, and went on grooming the Buttercup, which was good luck.Grooming takes a lot longer than it used to, though behind the extra attention to its ass is worry. "Perhaps we should look again." It was the voice of François Marois.He sounds reasonable, even friendly. There was no sound for a while.Dominique sees Garmash handing Marois and Castongui a photograph each.The two exchanged photos after watching it. "You say you don't know this woman," said Gamache.He also sounded relaxed, as if he was chatting with a friend. But Dominique was not deluded.She wondered if the two men had fallen for a trap.Castongui, maybe.But she suspected that Marois would not have it so easy. "I thought," continued Garmash, "that you might be surprised and need another look." "I didn't—" Castongui began, and Marois put a hand on his arm, and he stopped. "You're quite right, Mr. Inspector. I don't know about Andre, but I'm ashamed to say that I do know her. Lillian Dyson, isn't she?" "Well, I don't know her," Castongui said. "I think you need to do a thorough search of your memory," Garmash said.His voice was still friendly, but powerful, not as soft as before. Hiding behind Buttercup's ass, Dominique found herself praying for Castongui to take the rope from the Inspector.He'll see for what it is, a gift and not a trap. Castongui looked out across the fields.All three looked out over the field.Dominique couldn't see the fields from where she stood, but she knew the scenery well.She watches it every day.Often at the end of the day, she would sit on the back patio of the house, away from her guests, enjoying a gin and tonic, gazing out as she once did from the corner of her office on the 17th floor of the bank building. go the same. Now, the view through her window is less than before, but more beautiful.Tall grass, beautiful wildflowers, mountains and forests, and a few weak old horses moving slowly and clumsily in the fields. In her opinion, nothing could be more beautiful than this. Dominique knew what the men were seeing, but not what they were thinking. Although she can guess. Inspector Garmash came back and interviewed the two art dealers again, asking them the same questions they had asked.These are all obvious, and so are the conclusions. The first time they lied to him. François Marois opened his mouth to speak, but Garmache motioned him to be quiet. No one can save Castongui but himself. "Yes," said the gallery owner at last. "I guess I know her." "Guess? Or do you really know each other?" "I do know, okay?" Gamache gave him a stern look and retracted the photograph. "Why are you lying?" Castongui sighed and shook his head, "I didn't. I was tired, maybe a little hungover. The first time I didn't look at the photos carefully, that's all. I didn't mean to." Gamache doubted his words, but pressed no further.This can only be a waste of time and make him more vigilant. "Do you know Lillian Dyson?" the inspector changed his angle. “Not really. I’ve seen her at a few art exhibition openings recently. She’s even approached me,” Castongui said as if she’d done something disgraceful, “saying she had a portfolio , I wonder if I can see it." "Then how did you answer?" Castongui looked at Garmash in shock, "Of course I said no. Do you know how many painters send me their portfolios?" Gamache remained silent, waiting for his pride to continue. "Hundreds of copies a month, from all over the world." "So you turned her down? But maybe her work is good?" the inspector asked, but he saw the look of contempt again. "If she was any better, I'd have heard of her. She's not some bright young man. Most painters, if they can make results, will be in their 30s." "But that's not always the case," insisted Garmash. "Clara Moreau is about the same age as Mrs. Dyson. Hasn't she just been discovered?" "I didn't find out. I still don't think her work is great," Castongui replied. Garmache turned to François Marois. "And you, sir? How much do you know of Lillian Dyson?" "Not really. I've seen her at some previews in recent months and know who she is." "How do you know?" “The fine art scene in Montreal is really not that big. There are a lot of low-level casual painters, and a lot of mid-talented ones. These people have occasional exhibitions. There are also some skilled painters who haven’t made a big splash, but are good, such as Peter Moreau. There are only a few very good painters, such as Clara Moreau." "And where is Lillian Dyson's place?" "I don't know," Marois admitted. "Like André, she wanted me to see her portfolio, but I didn't. I was too busy." "How did you decide to stay in Sansong last night?" asked Garmash. "I told you last time that this is a temporary decision. I want to see where Clara makes her art." "Yes, you did," agreed Garmash, "but you didn't tell me what the purpose was." "Do you have to have a purpose?" Marois asked, "Is it just to see?" "For most people, maybe. But you're not, I doubt." Marois stared at Garmash sharply, with an expression of displeasure. "Listen, Clara Moreau is at a crossroads," said the dealer. "She's got to make a decision. She just had a great opportunity, and the critics like her now, but they'll like her again tomorrow." Someone else. She needs someone to guide her, a mentor." Gamash sounded ridiculous, "Mentor?" He didn't press on. "Yes," replied Marois, regaining his grace, "my career is coming to an end, I know that. I still have one or two fine painters to mentor. I have a good selection to spare, there is no time to waste .I have spent the past year looking for such a painter, maybe my last. I have visited hundreds of exhibitions all over the world and only found Clara Moreau, and here it is.” The famous art dealer looked around, saw the old horse in the field that had survived the slaughter, saw the trees, and the forest. "It's in my backyard." "You mean in the wilderness where there are no villages or shops in front of you, right?" Castongui retorted, turning his head to look at the scenery in front of him with an unhappy expression. "Clara is clearly a good painter," said Marois, ignoring the gallery owner, "but what made her a good painter made her difficult to navigate the art world." "You probably know Clara Moreau," said Gamache. "Maybe I understand. But you may be underestimating the art world. Don't be fooled by the facade of elegance and creativity. It's a murderous place, full of greed and insecurities. Fear and greed, that's what fills art shows." Things involve a lot of money, wealth, and a lot of self-esteem in it, all kinds of combinations.” Marois glanced furtively at Castongui, and then returned to the Inspector. "I know the world well. I can take them to the top." "They?" Castongui asked. Garmash thought that the gallery owner had lost interest and was just passively listening to their conversation, but it turned out that Castongui had been closely following their conversation.Garmash secretly reminded himself not to underestimate the horror of the art world, nor underestimate this arrogant gallery owner. At this time, Marois turned all his attention to Castongui, and he obviously didn't expect that the other party had been paying attention to him. "Yes, they." "Who are you referring to?" asked Castongui. "I mean the Moreaus. I want to take them both on the road." Castongui's eyes widened, his lips tightened, and his voice raised significantly, "What are you talking about greedy! Why do you want to occupy two people? You don't even like his paintings." "Then do you like it?" "I think his paintings are much better than his wife's. You can have Clara, but Peter is mine." Gamache listened, wondering if this was what the Paris Peace Conference was like after the First World War—when Europe was divided among the victors.Garmash wondered whether this discussion would have the same consequences. "I don't want just one," said Marois, his voice even, calm, rational. "I want both." "Damn bastard." Castongui cursed.But Marois doesn’t seem to care, and he turns to the inspector as if Kaston-gui just paid him a compliment. "So when yesterday were you sure that Clara Moreau was the one you wanted?" Garmash asked. "You were with me then, Inspector, when I saw the light in the eyes of the Virgin Mary." "I remember you thinking it might just be an illusion of light," recalls Garmash. "I still think so. But how amazing it was! Clara Moreau. She caught the essence of things. One man's hope is another man's cruelty. Is that light, or false promise?" Gamache turned to André Castongui, who seemed shocked by their conversation, as if they had been visiting different exhibitions. "I want to return to the subject of the dead," said Garmash, noticing Castongui's seeming loss.A murder clouded by greed and fear. "Were you surprised to see Lillian Dyson back in Montreal?" asked the Inspector. "Surprised?" said Castonguei. "I'm not surprised at anything about her. I don't think about her at all." "I'm afraid I feel the same, Inspector," agreed Marois. "It makes the same difference to me whether Mrs. Dyson is in Montreal or in New York." Gamash looked at him with interest, "How do you know she's been to New York?" For the first time Marois showed hesitation.His composure was seen through. "Someone must have brought it up. The art world is always full of gossip." The art world, Garmash thought, was full of everything else he could think of.This seems like a good example.He stared at Marois until the dealer lowered his eyes and brushed an invisible hair from his stiff shirt. "I heard that one of your colleagues was at the party, Dennis Fortin." "Yes," said Marois, "I was surprised to see him." "That's an understatement." Castonguei snorted. "Just after he did that to Clara Moreau. Did you hear about it?" "Tell me about it," said Gamache.Although he knew the story well, the two art dealers were so happy to remind him that it didn't hurt to listen. And so André Castongui gleefully described how Dennis Fortin had signed Clara to give her a solo exhibition, only to change his mind and let her go. "Not just dove her, but discredited her. Tell everyone she's worthless. I actually agree with him. But as you can imagine, when MoMA pushed her out , how surprised can he be?" Castongui liked the story because it belittled both Clara and his counterpart, Dennis Fortin. "Then why do you think he's there?" asked Garmash.Both are thinking about it. "Can't think of it," Kastongui admitted. "He's got to be invited," said Marois, "but I can't imagine him being on Clara Moreau's guest list." "Can people come uninvited?" asked Garmash. "Some do," Marois replied, "but most painters do it to make social connections." "For free drinks and food," Castongui muttered. "You say that Mrs. Dyson asked you to see her portfolio," said Garmash to Castonguey, "and you refused her. But I remember that she was a critic, not a painter." "That's right," Castongui replied. "She used to write for the News, but that was years ago. Then she disappeared and someone else took her place." He looked rude and bored. "Is she a good critic?" "How can you expect me to remember this?" "I also count on you to recognize her from the photograph, sir." Garmash stared firmly at the gallery owner.Castongui's already flushed face became even redder. "I remember her remark, Inspector," said Marois, turning to Castongui. "You remember it too." "I don't remember." Castongui gave him a hateful look. "He was a genius, and making art was like a biological function of him." "Impossible," laughed Castonguey. "It was written by Lillian Dyson? Damn it. With those two things, she might be a pretty good painter." "But who is she talking about?" Garmache asked the two. "Probably not some famous person, otherwise we should remember," Marois replied. "Maybe it's about some poor unknown painter." Overwhelmed by this comment, thought Garmash. "But what does it matter?" Castongui asked. "This was 20 years ago or more. Do you think a comment from decades ago had anything to do with her murder?" "I think murders have a long memory." "I'm sorry, I have a few calls to make," Andre Castongui said. Marois and Gamache watched him leave, heading for the spa hotel. "You know what he's up to, don't you?" Marois turned back. "He's going to call the Moreaus and ask them to meet him." Marois smiled. "Exactly." The two also slowly walked back to the hot spring hotel together. "Aren't you worried?" "I've never been worried about Andre. He's not a threat to me. If the Morrows are stupid enough to sign him, they're welcome." But Gamache was not convinced.François Marois' eyes were too piercing, too shrewd.His relaxed posture was also deliberately made. No, this person cares.He's rich, he's influential.So the point is not there. Fear and greed, they drive the art world.Gamash knew that was probably true.So if it's not greed for Marois, then maybe it's something else. fear. But what was the older, famous art dealer afraid of? "Will you come with me, monsieur?" Gamache invited Maroy, extending his hand. "I'm going to the village." Marois didn't want to go back to Samson, but he considered the invitation.This polite invitation was not quite an order, but it was close. The two slowly went down the mountain side by side and walked back to the village. "It's beautiful." Marois said, stopping to admire the town of Sansong, with a smile on his lips. "I can see why Clara Moreau chose to live here. It's a pleasant place." "I sometimes think how important a place of residence is to a painter." Garmash also looked at the quiet village, "So many people choose big cities, Paris, London, Venice, live in Soho and Cold-water apartments and lofts in Chelsea. For example, Lillian Dyson moved to New York, but Clara didn’t, and the Morrows lived here. Does where they live affect their work?” "Oh, there is no doubt about where they live and with whom. Clara's series of portraits could not have been done in any other place." "I find it very interesting that for her work, some people only see portraits of old women, traditional, and even old-fashioned, but you don't." "And so do you, Inspector. When you and I look at San Pine, we don't see more than a village." "And what did you see, Monsieur Marois?" "I saw a painting." "A picture?" "Yes, a beautiful painting. But all paintings, whether disturbing or beautifully detailed, are made of the same thing. The combination of light and shadow, that's what I see. Lots of light, But there's also a lot of dark shadows, which people just happen to miss in Clara's work. The light in there is so obvious, people get tricked. It takes some people a while to appreciate the shades of color inside, which I think It’s one of the great things about her. She’s subtle, yet subversive. She has a lot to say, but she reveals it slowly.” "Very interesting." Gamash nodded.There are parallels to his vision of Sansong Town.It takes a while to reveal itself.But Marois' metaphor has limitations.A painting, no matter how good it is, can only have two dimensions.Is this how Marois sees the world?Did he ignore a whole dimension? They move on.On the village green they saw Clara plop down beside Ruth, who picked up slices of stale bread and threw them at the birds.Not sure if she was feeding them or trying to kill them. François Marois narrowed his eyes, "That is the woman in Clara's portrait." "Yes, Ruth Sadow." "The poet? I thought she was dead." "Your thinking is understandable," said Garmash, waving to Ruth, who held out a finger to him. "Her brain seems to be all right, but her heart has stopped beating." The afternoon sun was hitting Marois directly, and he had to squint his eyes.Behind him is a long and clear shadow. "Why do you want both of the Moreaus?" asked Garmash, "and obviously you prefer Clara's paintings. Do you also like Peter Moreau's paintings?" "No, I don't like it. I think they're superficial, too elaborate. He's a good painter, but he'd be a great painter if he used more intuition than skill. He's a very Good draftsman." There is no malice in the words, but it makes this calm analysis even more deadly, and it may be right. "You said you had only this time and energy," insisted Garmash, "I understand why you chose Clara. But why Peter? You don't even like him." Marois hesitated, "It's easier to operate this way. We can make career choices for both of us. I hope Clara will be happy. I think she must be happier if Peter can also be taken care of." Gamache looked at the dealer.That's a tricky way of saying it, and it doesn't go deep enough.Marois plots Clara and Peter's happiness but deflects the problem. The inspector recalled again the story told by Marois, his first client, the old painter who had been surpassed by his wife.As a result, the woman never painted again in order to protect her husband's fragile ego. Is this what Marois is worried about?Afraid of losing his last client, his last discovery, because Clara loved Peter even more than she loved art? Maybe it has nothing to do with Clara or Peter or Art?Is François Marois simply afraid of losing? André Castonguet owns the paintings, but François Marois owns the painters.Who is stronger?But more vulnerable at the same time? The picture in the frame cannot get up and leave, but the painter can. What was François Marois afraid of?Garmash asked himself again. "Why are you here?" Marois was surprised. "I've told you, Inspector, twice. I'm here to sign the Moreaus." "Yet you claim that you would not mind if Mr. Castonguey got ahead of him." "I can't control other people's stupidity," Marois said with a smile. Garmash thought about this sentence, and the dealer's smile began to waver. "I'm going back to drink, sir," said Gamache cheerfully. "If there's nothing else to talk about, I must go." He turned and walked towards the tavern. "Some bread?" Ruth handed Clara something that looked and felt like a brick. Both of them broke off a piece.Ruth threw it at the robins, and the birds ran away in panic.Clara dropped the bread on the ground at her feet. Bang, bang, plop. "I've heard the critics saw something in your painting that I certainly didn't," Ruth said. "What's the meaning?" "They love your drawings!" Plop, plop, plop. "No." Clara laughed. "The Ottawa Star said my drawing was okay, but lacked vision and creativity." "Ah, the Ottawa Star, the tabloids. I remember the Drummondville Post saying my poems were boring and uninteresting." Ruth snorted. "Look, I'm going to hit that one." She aimed A great blue jay.Clara didn't move, and Ruth threw a stone-like piece of bread. "Nearly hit," Ruth said.But Clara doubted that if she really wanted to hit the bird, she wouldn't miss it. "They say I'm a tired old parrot imitating real artists," Clara said. "Nonsense," said Ruth. "Parrots don't imitate. Starlings do. Parrots learn words and say them in their own way." "Interesting," Clara muttered. "I'll have to write a serious letter to correct them." "The Kamloops Chronicle complained that my poems didn't rhyme," Ruth said. "You remember all the comments?" Clara asked. "I just remember the bad reviews." "why?" Ruth turned around and looked directly at Clara. There was neither anger, indifference, nor malice in her eyes, but full of doubts. "I don't know. Maybe that's the price of poetry, and obviously the price of art." "What does that mean?" "Art hurts us. No pain, no fruit." "You believe this?" Clara asked. "Aren't you? What does the New York Times say about your paintings?" Clara thought back.She knew the comments were good, and what about hope and rising. "Welcome to the bench," Ruth said. "You're early. I thought it was 10 years, but here you are." At that moment, Ruth looked like a character in Clara's portrait.resentment, disappointment.Sitting in the sun, but remembering, reviewing, and repeating every insult.Every cold word, take them out, look at them like a disappointing birthday present. Oh, no, no, no, Clara thought, the dead were still lying on the ground moaning.Is that how it started? She saw Ruth throw an inedible piece of bread at the birds again. Clara stood up and left. "A new hope emerges among the modern masters." Clara turned to look at Ruth, the sun was shining on her sticky eyes. "That's what the New York Times said," Ruth said. "The Times said Clara Moreau's art made the noise calm again. Don't forget, Clara," she whispered. Ruth turned her back and sat upright by herself with a hard, rocky bread in her hand, full of thoughts.From time to time, she looked up at the distant sky.