Chapter 14 Chapter Fourteen

Peter lay on the bed, clutching the edge of the mattress.The bed was too small for them.But when they first got married, they could only afford such a double bed.Peter and Clara were used to being very close to each other. So close that they touch each other, even on the sultry July night.They would lie naked on the bed with sheets kicked on the floor, their bodies slippery from sweat.But this way, they also touch each other.Not too much, like him putting his hands on her back, or her feet on his lap. touch. But tonight, he was holding on to the mattress on his side, and she was holding on to hers, as if there was a cliff ahead and behind, afraid of falling.

They've gone to bed early, so it's probably natural to be quiet, too. It's not natural. "Clara?" he whispered. Still silent.He knew what it looked like when Clara was asleep, but not this time.Sleeping Clara was almost as energetic as waking Clara.She doesn't toss and turn, but she grunts and sometimes rambles.At one point she muttered: "But Kevin Spacey was glued to the moon." When he told her the next morning, she didn't believe it at all, but he heard it perfectly. In fact, he said that she made all kinds of noises in her sleep at night, and she didn't believe it.Although the voice was not loud, Peter was used to Clara.He could hear her talking in her sleep, even if she couldn't hear herself.

But tonight she was quiet. "Clara?" he called again.He knew she was there, and he knew she was awake. "We need to talk." Then he heard her voice.Take a long, long breath, and then a sigh. "About what?" He sat up in bed, but didn't turn on the light.He would rather not see her face. "Sorry." She didn't move.He could see her, a bulge on the bed, squeezed at the edge of the world.She couldn't be farther away from him, and she would fall down. "You're always sorry." Her voice was low.She was talking to the mattress without even looking up.

What can he say?She was right.He thinks back on the past with her, always he said something stupid or did something stupid, and she was forgiving him, until today. Things have changed.He had thought that the greatest threat to their marriage would be Clara's exhibition.Her success, and his sudden failure. But he was wrong. "We gotta get things straight," Peter said, "we gotta talk." Clara sat up suddenly, trying to tear off the blanket wrapped around her body.Finally, she finally did, and turned to him. "Why? So I can forgive you again? Is it this? You think I don't know what you're thinking? Hope my show fails? Hope the critics hate my paintings and you're the real painter? I know you , Peter, I know what you're thinking. You never understood my paintings, you never cared. You thought they were childish. Portraits? Ridiculous." She lowered her voice, mimicking his tone.

"I never said that." "But you think so." "I don't." "Don't lie to me, Peter, at least not yet." The warning in her voice was clear, never before.They had quarreled before, but not like this time. Peter knew their marriage was either over or soon to be.Unless he can find the right words to say, the right things to do. If "I'm sorry" doesn't work, what does? "When you read the comments in the Ottawa Star, you must be dying of joy. They say I'm a tired old parrot imitating a real artist. Doesn't that please you, Peter?"

"How can you think that?" Peter asked.But it did make him happy, and relieved.It was the first time in a long time that he was truly happy. "The New York Times review matters, Clara, and that's what I care about." She stared at him.He felt the chill creep up his fingers and toes, up his arms and legs, as if his heart had failed to send blood that far. But he knew in his heart, had known it all along: he was weak. "Then give me a quote from The New York Times." "what?" "Stop pretending. If you're so impressed, if it's what you care about, then you're sure to remember even one sentence."

she waits. "Or a word?" she asked, her voice cold. Peter searched his memory, eager to remember something, a sentence from the New York Times.To prove to myself, not to mention Clara, that I really cared. But all he remembers, all he sees, are the comforting comments in the Ottawa paper. Her paintings, while good, lack vision and boldness. He had thought it would be bad enough that her drawings were stupid, only to find that her brilliant drawings were even worse.Because not only did he not follow suit, but he highlighted himself as a loser.Her work shines brightly, while his pales in comparison.So he read over and over the parrot parable comment, as if it was an antiseptic liquid to spread over his ego, and Clara's art was that germ.

But now he knew that it wasn't her art that turned into germs. "Guess you can't tell." Clara snapped, "You can't even say a word. Let me remind you that Clara Moreau's paintings are not only successful, they are brilliant. She redefines portraiture with bold, generous brushstrokes. I re-read it and memorized it. Not because I believe it's true, but because I can choose what to believe and not always have to choose the worst of." "And those calls," Clara went on. Peter slowly closed his eyes. Those calls came from all of Clara's supporters, from gallery owners, art dealers and curators around the world, from family and friends.

After Garmash and Clara and the others left, after Lillian's body was taken away, he spent most of the morning answering the phone. Ding Lingling, Ding Lingling.The phone kept ringing.Every time the bell rang it demeaned him, stripped him of his manhood, his dignity, his self-worth.He jotted down well wishes and good things to say about the giants who run the art world.But all they knew was that he was Clara's husband. The insult is total. Eventually, he let the answering machine take over, and he retreated to his studio.Where he had been hiding all his life, from the monster. And now, he could feel it in the bedroom, feel its tail sweeping past him, feel its hot, rancid breath.

All along he thought that if he was quiet enough and small enough, it wouldn't see him.If he doesn't bother and make noise, it won't hear him, it won't hurt him.If he hides his cruelty with a gracious smile and good manners, it won't eat him up. But now, he realizes that he has nowhere to hide.It will always be there, and it will always find him. He is that monster. "You want to see me fail." "Absolutely not," said Peter. "I even thought in my heart, you're happy for me, you just need time to get used to it. But that's who you really are, isn't it?"

Denial was on Peter's lips again, almost blurting it out.But he stopped, something stopped it. He stared at her.Finally, the nails were torn and the blood was splashed out. He could no longer hold on to the thing that he had been clinging to all his life, so he let go. "The portrait of The Three Ladies," he said with difficulty, "I saw it, you know, before it was finished. I sneaked into your studio and took the paper from the easel." He paused, He tried to calm himself down, but it was too late, he was sinking rapidly. "I saw—" He searched for the right words, but in the end he realized he wasn't looking for it, he was avoiding it, "Brilliant. I saw brilliant, Clara, and love. It made I'm heartbroken." He looked at the twisted quilt in his hand and sighed. "At that time I knew that as a painter, you are much better than me, because you don't draw objects, you don't even draw people." He looked again at the portrait of Clara, three old friends, three elegant women: Emily, Beatrice and Kay.Neighbors in Sansong Town.They smiled and supported each other.Old, infirm, near death. They have every reason to be afraid. However, anyone who saw Clara's painting felt what these old women felt. rejoice. Looking at the portraits of the three old women, Peter knew at that moment that he was finished. He also knows something else.People who see Clara's outstanding creations may not be soberly aware of this thing, but they will feel it.It can be felt in their bones, in their marrow. There were no crosses, no sacrifices, and no Bibles.There are no clergy and no churches.Clara's paintings radiate subtle and secret convictions.It comes from a small bright spot in the eye, from the weather-beaten hands holding each other.Faith in precious life. What Clara draws is precious life. While the rest of the cynical art world paints the ugliest things, Clara paints the best. Because of this, she has been marginalized, ridiculed, and ostracized for years.Denied by the art establishment, and privately, by Peter. Peter draws objects, very well.He even claimed to paint God, and some art dealers believed him.good story.But he had never seen God at all, so how could he draw it? Not only has Clara seen God, she knows God, so she draws what she knows. "You're right, I've been jealous of you," he said, looking directly at her.Now that he has no fear and has moved beyond it, "I've been jealous of you since the moment I saw you and it never went away. I tried but it's always there and will even intensify over time. Oh , Clara, I love you. I hate myself for what I did to you." She was silent.The silence offered no consolation, but it no longer hurt. "But it's not your art that I'm jealous of. I thought it was, and that's why I ignore it, pretend not to understand. But I know very well what you do in your studio, what you try to capture. Over the years, I see you getting closer to God. It drives me crazy. Oh God. Clara, why can't I be happy for you?" She was silent. "Then, when I saw The Three Wives, I knew you had finally found it. And that portrait of Ruth. Oh, God." His shoulders slumped. "Who else could have put Where is Ruth painted as the Virgin Mary? Contempt, pain and disappointment." He opened his arms, then dropped them, exhaling. "And that little dot, that little white dot in her eye, eyes full of hate. Through that dot, you can see what's coming." Peter looked at Clara, who seemed so far away even though she was only on the other side of the bed. "It's not your art that I'm jealous of, never was." "You're lying, Peter," Clara whispered. "No, no, I'm not lying," Peter retorted, his voice rising an octave of desperation. "You criticized The Three Wives, you laughed at Ruth's painting," Clara cried, "and you want me to screw them up and destroy them." "Yes, but it's not your picture," cried Peter. "fart." "It is not--" "What?" Clara yelled, "Huh? What? Let me guess. Is it your mother's fault, or your father's fault? Is it because you have too much money or not enough? Is it because your teachers hurt you?" Is it because of your grandfather's drinking? What excuses are you making up now?" "No, you don't understand." "Of course I understand, Peter. I know you too well. As long as I stay in your shadow, we'll be fine." "No." Peter got off the bed and backed away until his back was against the wall, "You have to trust me." "No, I don't believe it. You don't love me, and love won't make you do such a thing." "Clara, no." The dizzying, disorienting, dreadful fall was finally over.Peter fell to the ground. "It's your belief." He yelled, collapsing on the ground, "Your belief, your hope." He choked up, his voice was hoarse, and panting, "It's scarier than your art. I hope I can draw like you just because it means I can see the world the way you do. Oh God. What I've always been jealous of, Clara, is your conviction." He wrapped his arms around his legs and pulled desperately toward his chest, shrinking himself as small as possible into a small ball.He swayed. Back and forth.Back and forth. Clara stared at him on the bed and remained silent, not out of anger, but out of surprise. Beauvoir picked up a pile of dirty laundry and threw it into a corner. "Come on," he smiled, "you're welcome." "Thank you," said Garmash, sitting down unsuspectingly, his knee almost hitting his shoulder. "Be careful with the sofa," Beauvoir called from the kitchen, "I think the springs must be broken." "It's possible," said Garmash, shifting into a more comfortable position.He wondered if that was what it felt like in prison.As Beauvoir prepares drinks, Garmache looks around the tenement in downtown Montreal. The only human things seemed to be the pile of dirty laundry that had just been thrown in the corner, and a stuffed animal, a lion, on the unmade bed, which looked strange, even childish.He would never associate Beauvoir with stuffed animals. They emerged from the café and walked the three blocks to Beauvoir's apartment, exchanging ideas in the crisp, cool evening. "Do you trust her?" Beauvoir asked. "You mean Susan said she didn't remember Lillian's secret?" Garmash thought.The trees lining the downtown streets had grown leaves and were about to turn from tender green to a darker color. "And you?" "I don't believe it at all." "I don't believe it either," said Garmash, "but the question is, did she lie on purpose to hide something, or did she need time to gather her thoughts?" "I think it was intentional." "you are always like this." Yes, Beauvoir always thought the worst, and it was safer to do so. Susan's explanation is that she has led many people, and each of them told her everything in life. "It's the fifth step in the AA process," she said at the time, before quoting, "Admitting to God, to ourselves, to another human being the nature of our mistakes. I'm the so-called 'other human being.'" She laughed again and made a face. "You don't like it?" Garmash asked, trying to guess the meaning of the grimace. "I liked it at the beginning, it was the first group of people I led. To be honest, I kind of wondered what kind of tricks were hidden in their alcoholic careers, if they were like me. It's amazing that someone can believe me that much. Excited. I gotta tell you, it doesn't happen that often when I'm drinking. You'd be an idiot if you believed me at the time, but it really doesn't get much fun afterward. Everyone thinks their secret It’s scary, but it’s pretty much the same for everyone.” "Like what?" asked the Inspector. "Things like affairs, closet homosexuality, stealing, horrible thoughts. Missing important family gatherings because of being drunk, disappointing a loved one, hurting a loved one, and sometimes being abusive. I'm not saying they do What was done was right, obviously not, which is why we hid it for so long. But it's not uncommon, not just one of them. You know what's the hardest part of step five?" "To ourselves?" asked Gamache. Beauvoir was amazed that the inspector could remember the exact words.It seemed to him like a whimpering farce.A group of drunks cry out for what they've done, seeking instant forgiveness. Beauvoir believed in forgiveness, but only after punishment. Susan laughed, "Yes. Maybe you think it would be easier to admit to yourself. After all, we were there when these things happened. But of course, we don't admit that what we did was so heinous. We have been Defending your actions while denying yourself at the same time." Garmash nodded thoughtfully. "Are the secrets often as dire as Brian's?" "You mean killing a child? Sometimes it is." "Has any of the people you led ever killed someone?" "A few of them admitted to killing people," she said finally. "It wasn't intentional. It wasn't murder. It was accidental. Most were drunk driving." "Including Lillian?" Garmash asked calmly. "I can't remember." "I don't believe you." Garmash said in a low voice, "No one will forget this confession." "Think what you will, Inspector." Garmash nodded and gave her his business card, "I'll be staying in Montreal tonight, but then we'll be heading back to Samson. We'll stay there until the killer of Lillian Dyson is found. If you remember If anything, just call me." "San Song Town?" Susan asked, taking the business card. "That's where Lillian was killed." He stood up, and Beauvoir followed suit. "You said your life depended on the truth," he said, "and now you forget." Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at Beauvoir's apartment.While Beauvoir was opening and closing the cupboard and muttering to himself, Garmache stood up with difficulty from the punishment-like sofa and paced in the living room.He sees a pizzeria across the street from his window, with a neon sign for "Super Pizza" standing out.Then he looked back inside, to the gray walls and Ikea furniture.Finally, his eyes fell on the phone and the pad beside him. "So you don't just eat pizza," Garmash said. "What did you say?" Beauvoir called from the kitchen. "Milos Restaurant," Garmash read the words on the pad, "very good." Beauvoir looked into the living room, his eyes fell directly on the table and the pad, and then at the inspector. "I was thinking of taking you and Madame Garmache there sometime." At that moment, with the lights in the room shining on his face, Beauvoir looked just like Brian.Not the swaggering young man who swaggered when he first started sharing, but the boy who bowed, humbled, confused, and made a mistake.human nature. vigilance. "To thank you for your continued support," Beauvoir said. "Separation from Enid, and other things. It's been a really hard few months." Gamache looked at the young man, surprised.One of the best seafood restaurants in Canada, certainly the most expensive, Milos was his and Rena Marie's favorite restaurant, though they only went there on very special occasions. "Thank you," he said finally, "but you know, we'd be happy eating pizza, too." Beauvoir smiled, took the pad off the table, and stuffed it into a drawer, "Then I won't go to Milos. But I must treat you to 'Super Pizza', don't argue with me." "Madame Gamache will be delighted," said Gamache, laughing. Beauvoir returned to the kitchen and came out with a drink.A glass of microbrew was given to the inspector, and a glass of water for himself. "No beer?" asked Garmash, raising his glass. "All this talk about booze kills my appetite. Water is fine." They sat down again.This time Garmash opted for a hard chair at the small glass dining table.He took a sip. "Will it work, do you think?" Beauvoir asked. Garmash paused, wondering what the other party was referring to. "AA?" Beauvoir nodded, "In my opinion, it is simply self-indulgence. How can revealing the secret keep them from drinking? Isn't it better to just forget about it than to find out about it? And these people are not trained. That Susan herself is a mess and I don't see how she can help anyone." The inspector looked at Beauvoir with a tired face, "I think the AA method is effective because no matter how well-meaning a person is, unless he has experienced it himself, he will not really understand the feeling of a certain experience. "Gamash said calmly, taking care not to lean forward and invade the opponent's space. "Like in that factory, that raid. No one knows what it was like except those of us who were there. Therapist Although he can provide a lot of help, he was not present at the scene after all." Gamache looked at Beauvoir, who seemed exhausted, "Do you often think of the incident at the factory?" Now it was Beauvoir's turn to think. "Sometimes." "Do you want to talk about it?" "What good is talking about it? I've told the investigators, I've told the therapist. It's past tense for you and me. I don't think we should both talk about it and move on. You don't Do you think so?" Gamache tilted his head to the side, staring at Beauvoir. "No, I don't think so. I think we should keep talking until it's all gone, until there's nothing unfinished." "What happened at the factory is over." Beauvoir said preemptively, but immediately controlled himself, "I'm sorry. I just think it's self-indulgent. I just want to get on with my life. The only unfinished business, The only thing that still bothers me, if you really want to know, is who leaked the video of the attack. How did it get on the Internet?" "Internet investigation said it was a hacker." "I know, I read the report. But you don't really believe it, do you?" "I have no choice," Garmash responded, "and neither do you." The warning in the inspector's voice was already obvious, but Beauvoir preferred not to hear it, or not to notice it. "That's not a hacker," he insisted. "Nobody even knew the video existed, except some other officers in the police department. Hackers don't steal this kind of video." "Enough, Jean Guy." They had had this conversation before.Video of the factory attack was posted on the Internet, where it went viral, and the edited footage was seen by millions of people around the world. Saw everything that happened. Everything that happened to them, and what happened to other officers.Millions of people saw it as if it was a TV show, an entertainment show. After several months of investigation, the police department confirmed that it was the work of hackers. "Why didn't they find that guy?" Beauvoir questioned. "We have a whole department that investigates cybercrime. And yet, according to their own reports, they can't find who the bastard did it?" "Let it be, Jean Guy," said Garmache sternly. "We've got to find the truth, sir," said Beauvoir, leaning forward. "We know the truth," Garmash said. "What we need to do is learn to accept it." "You don't want to investigate anymore? Are you going to accept it?" "Yes, and you should too. Promise me, Jean Guy. It's someone else's problem, not ours." The two men stared at each other for a while, until Beauvoir finally nodded curtly. "Okay." Garmash said, drank the wine in the glass, and then walked to the kitchen with the glass, "It's time to go, we need to return to Sansong Town early." After saying goodnight to Beauvoir, Gamache walked slowly on the night street.It was a bit chilly, and he was glad he had his coat on.He was about to hail a taxi, but found himself walking along the Urbain Street all the way to the Laurier Avenue. As he walked, he thought about AA, Lillian, and Susan; he thought about the chief judge, and the painters and art dealers who were asleep in Sanpine Town at this time. But most of all he thought about the corrosive effect of secrets, including his own. He lied to Beauvoir.It wasn't over, and he wouldn't let it just pass. Beauvoir washed his beer glasses and went to the bedroom. Go on, you must go on, he begged himself, just go a few more steps. But he stopped as usual.He's been like that every night since that video came out. As long as it's online, it's always, never gone, always there.Forgotten perhaps, but still out there, waiting to be discovered again, to surface again. Like a secret, it's never quite hidden, it's never quite forgotten. And this video is far from being forgotten, not yet. Beauvoir sat heavily on the chair and turned on the computer.The link is stored in favorites, but he changed the label on purpose. His eyelids were heavy with sleepiness, and his body ached.He finally clicked on the link. The video appeared again. He hit the play button and it started playing.Then it came again. He watched the video over and over again.The picture is clear, and so is the sound.Explosions, shooting, and yelling, "Officers get down! Get down!" It was Garmash's voice, calm and dignified.With clear orders to unite everyone, the tactical SWAT team approached the factory step by step, keeping the chaos under control.Push the shooter to a corner.Far more shooters than expected. Over and over, Beauvoir watched as he was shot in the stomach.Over and over, he watched worse happen.Inspector Garmash, arms out, back arched.Arched, and fell again.He fell heavily to the ground, motionless. Chaos looms. The video is finally over.He forced himself off the screen, ready to sleep.Wash your face, brush your teeth.Taking out the medicine box, he took out an OxyContin. Then he tucked another vial under his pillow in case he needed it in the middle of the night.It's safer to keep it there, out of sight, like a weapon, last resort. A bottle of paracetamol. Just in case OxyContin wasn't enough. In bed, in the dark, he waited quietly for the painkillers to kick in.He could feel the day slowly disappearing before his eyes.Those worries, those anxieties, the scenes gradually receded.He was hugging the plush lion and was about to lose consciousness, but there was a picture floating in front of his eyes all the time.It wasn't him who got hit, or even saw the Inspector get hit, go down. All of that faded away, swallowed by OxyContin. But one thing was always in sight, following him. Milos restaurant.That phone number is now hidden in a desk drawer.Every week for the past three months he has called Milos and made a reservation, a table for two, a Saturday night table.The table at the back is next to a white wall. But every Saturday afternoon, he would cancel the reservation.He wondered if they would waste time taking his name down.Maybe they're just pretending, like him. But tomorrow, he was sure, things would be different. He will definitely call her.She will say yes.He would take Anne Garmache to the Milos dining room, where there were crystal glasses and white tablecloths.She'll have Dover plaice, he'll have lobster. She would listen to him and watch him with those eager eyes of hers.He would ask her how her day was, her life, her hobbies, her feelings, everything.He wants to know everything. Every night, he would go to sleep with such a picture.Annie sat across from him and looked at him.Then, he would reach out and put his hand on hers.She will agree. Just before falling asleep, he would put one hand on top of the other.That's how it should feel. Then, OxyContin reigns supreme.Jean-Guy Beauvoir lost all consciousness.