Chapter 26 Chapter Twenty Six

"So," Dennis Fortin asked, as they stood on the front porch, coffee and cognac in hand, "did you two find time to talk?" "About what?" Peter asked back.He was observing the village in the rain, when he heard this, he turned his attention to the gallery owner.The drizzle was still falling. Fortin looked at Clara, "You haven't talked to him yet?" "Not yet," Clara said, feeling guilty, "but I will." "What is it?" Peter asked again. "I came by today to ask if you and Clara would be interested in being represented by me. I know I screwed up the first time, and I'm really sorry. I just..." He paused, sorting out Looking thoughtfully, I looked at Peter, then at Clara, "I beg you to give me another chance. Please let me prove that I am sincere. I really think we will be a good team, the three of us .”

"What do you think?" Inspector Garmash looked out the window at the three people. Peter, Clara and Fortin were standing on the front porch. "They?" Myrna asked.It was impossible to hear what the three men were talking about, but it was easy to guess. "Can Fortin convince Clara to give him another chance?" the Inspector asked, taking a sip of his espresso. "It's not Fortin who needs a chance," Myrna replied. Gamache turned to her. "Peter?" But Myrna didn't answer, and Garmash wondered if Peter had told Clara of his role in that relentless and scathing review all those years ago.

"I think we need time to think about it," Clara said. "I understand," Fortin said, with a charming smile, "I'm not putting pressure on you. The only thing I would say is that you should consider signing with a younger gallery with more growth potential. People who will retire. Just an idea." "That makes sense," said Peter. If this matter had been placed not long ago, Clara would have agreed to Fortin without saying a word.Peter was clearly interested in Fortin.She believed that Peter was perfectly capable of making the choice that was best for them, for both of them.He will put her interests first.

And now, looking at the man she's lived with for 25 years, she realizes that she doesn't actually know what he's thinking.But she was sure that was definitely not in her interest. Clara didn't know what to do, but she knew things had to change. Peter was trying, she knew it.He is working very hard to change.Perhaps, it's her turn to work hard now. "He's still in pain, you know," Myrna said. "Peter?" asked Garmache, and it was only then that he met her gaze.She was no longer looking at the three people on the front porch.She was staring at Beauvoir, who was standing with Ruth and Susan.

Ruth seems to have fallen in love with the eccentric ex-alcoholic, who apparently has an endless recipe for distilling furniture. "I know," said Garmache calmly. "I spoke to Jean Guy this morning." "How did he say?" "To say he's fine, that he's getting better. But of course, that's not the case." Myrna was silent for a moment. "No, he didn't. Did he tell you why he was in pain?" Garmash stared at her. "I asked, but he didn't answer. I think it's because of his injuries and the loss of so many colleagues."

"Yes, but more specifically. Actually, I know, he told me." Gamache turned all his attention to her.Despite Castongui's raised irascible, capricious, complaining voice, there was nothing now to take Garmash's eyes from Merna. "What did Jean Guy say to you?" Mona looked at Garmash for a while, "You won't like it." "There's nothing I like about what's going on in the factory, but I need to know." "Yes." Myrna agreed, making up her mind. "He feels guilty." "Why?" asked Garmash, shocked.It was an answer he hadn't expected.

"Because he failed to save you. He saw you fall, but failed to save you, but you saved him. He can't get out of this circle." "But it's ridiculous. He can't save me." "You know, I know, even he knows, but what we know in our heads and what we feel in our hearts are two different things." Garmash's heart sank.He thought of the haggard young man in the project room in the early morning.The fluorescent light from the computer screen made Beauvoir's face even paler.The young police officer watched the hateful video over and over again. But it wasn't the scene of Gamash being shot down.Beauvoir was looking at footage of himself being shot.Gamash told Mona what he had seen.

Mona breathed out, "I feel like he is forcing himself, like self-mutilation. He hurt himself with a knife, but the knife is the video." Video, Garmash thought, feeling the rage rush to his forehead.damn video.It had done so much damage, and now it was going to kill a young man he loved. "I've ordered him back for counseling—" "Order?" "It started out as a suggestion," said the Inspector, "but in the end it became an order." "Did he resist?" "Quite resistant." "He loves you," Myrna said. "That's his way home."

Gamache looked at Beauvoir from afar and waved to him.Again the inspector saw him fall, on the ground. Beauvoir, on the other side of the living room, smiled and waved. He saw that Garmash was paying attention to him, and his eyes were full of concern. Then left. "God!" Castongui said in disgust, pointing across the room, "this is it, the end of the world, the end of civilization." He took a sip of his drink and turned to Brian, "He tattooed the biker 'Mother,' and calls herself a painter. It's bloody." "Okay," said Thierry Pinault, "let's get some fresh air."

Pinault took Castonguei's elbow and tried to lead him to the front door, but Castonguei shook him off. "I haven't seen a good painter in years. She's not." He pointed at Clara, who had just come from the front porch. "She hasn't done anything new in years. Stuff that's stale and sentimental. Portraiture." He Almost spit out the word with his saliva. People shunned from him. "And him," Castongui said, choosing his next victim.It's Peter. "His stuff is okay and traditional. I could sell it to Kelly Foods and bury it in their office in Guatemala. Depends on how drunk I can get their buyers. Pity damn Kelly doesn't allow booze," says That would ruin the image of the company. So I guess I can't sell your painting, Moreau. But neither can he."

Castongui looked at Dennis Fortin provocatively, "What did he promise you? A solo exhibition? A joint exhibition? Or maybe just a joint one? From what he knows about art, he can sell furniture. Level stinks Terrific. Now he's a gallerist and it stinks. The only thing he's good at is his brain." Gamache and Beauvoir met eyes, and the latter gestured to Lacoste again.The three officers surrounded Castongui, but continued to let him speak. François Marois appears beside Castonguet. "Stop it." He whispered. "He did nothing wrong," said the Inspector. "He's humiliating himself," Marois replied, looking agitated. "He shouldn't be. He's sick." "Now, it's up to you two." Castongui turned around, lost his balance, and hit the sofa. "Look," said Ruth, "who doesn't hate a drinker?" Castongui steadied himself and continued to turn to Normand and Paulette, "Don't think we don't know why you two are here." "We're coming to Clara's party," Paulette said. "Hush—" Normand stopped, "don't encourage him." But it was too late, Castongui had already targeted her. "But why did you stay? Not to support Clara," he spouted laughing. "The only people who hate each other a little less than poets are painters." He turned to Ruth, bowing exaggeratedly. With a bow, "Ma'am." "Damn idiot," Ruth said, and turned to Gabriel, "but he's right." "You hate Clara, you hate her paintings, you hate all painters," Castonguet approached Paulette and Normand, "you two may even hate each other, and you may hate yourself. You must hate the dead woman." , for good reason.” "There," said Marois, coming to Castongui, "it's time to say good-bye to these lovely people and go back to bed." "I'm not going anywhere," growled Castongui, wriggling away from Marois. Gamache, Beauvoir, and Lacoste all took a step closer, while the others took a step back. "You thought well. You wanted me to go away. But I found her first, and she should sign with me. In the end, you stole her." His voice rose.Castongui threw the glass at Marois so violently that it swished past his ear and smashed against the wall. Castongui rushed forward again, grabbed Marois by the throat with his powerful hands, and the strength made the bodies of both of them shake. The officers jumped up behind them.Gamache and Beauvoir go to capture Castonguet, while Lacoste tries to squeeze himself between two fighting art dealers.In the end, Castongui's hand was ripped from Marois' neck. François Marois rubbed his throat and stared dumbfounded at his colleague.Not only him, but everyone in the room stared at Castongui.He was arrested and taken away. Armand Garmache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir returned to Peter and Clara's house an hour later.This time, Garmache accepted a glass of wine and sat down in a large armchair Gabriel had brought. Everyone was still here, just as he expected.What happened one after another made them too nervous and excited, too many questions waiting to be answered.They can't go back to sleep, they can't rest now. Neither can he. "Ah—" he took a sip of the cognac, "it tastes so good." "What a day!" exclaimed Peter. "It's not over yet. Detective Lacoste is watching over Mr. Castongue, taking notes." "Just her?" Mona asked, looking from Gamache to Beauvoir. "She knew what she was doing," said the Inspector.But Myrna's eyes said she wanted the inspector to know what he was doing. "So, what's the matter?" Clara asked. "I'm confused." Gamash sat in a chair.Everyone sat down, or perched on the arms of the easy chairs.Only Beauvoir and Peter were still standing.Peter was a good host, and Beauvoir a good police officer. Outside, the rain was falling fast, and the sound of raindrops hitting the glass windows could be heard.The door to the front porch was left open for fresh air, so everyone could hear the rain on the leaves of the plants outside. "This murder is all about contrasts," said Garmash, his voice low and soft. "Sober and drunk. Appearance and reality. Shifts to good, or shifts to bad. The play of light and dark." He looked at everyone's attentive faces. "There's a word in your exhibition." He turned to Clara. "It describes your work." "I'm afraid to ask anymore," she said, with a weary smile. "Chiaroscuro, which means the contrast of light and dark, the juxtaposition of contrasts. You use it in your portraits, Clara. In the colors you use, in the shadows, and in the emotions your paintings evoke. Especially It's the portrait of Ruth—" "And my portrait?" "There's stark contrast. Dark tones, trees in the background. Part of her face is in shadow. She's scowling, except for one tiny dot. The tiniest light, in her eyes." "Hope," Myrna said. "Hope. Or no." Garmache turned to François Marois. "When we stood before that portrait, you said something curious. Do you remember?" The art dealer looked confused, "What else did I say that was useful?" "do not you remember?" Marois thought for a moment.He is one of those few people who can make others wait without being impatient.Finally he laughed. "I asked you if you thought it was true," Marois replied. "Yes." Inspector Garmash nodded. "Is this true, or is it just an illusion caused by light? It gave people hope, and then denied it. It's very cruel." He looked around at the people. "This is what this murder is all about. How real is this light? Is this person really happy, or is it just faking it?" "Not waving, but calling for help." Clara said, once again noticing the kind eyes of Garmash under the deep scar. "Nobody heard him," Clara quoted, "but, "The dead still lie on the ground moaning: "I'm not what you think "Not waving, but asking for help." But this time, when Clara quotes the poem, Peter doesn't enter her head.This time Clara thought of someone else. Herself.For a lifetime.Always looking on the bright side, but never really feeling it.But not anymore, things will change. The room was quiet, save for the gentle beating of raindrops. "That's right," said Garmash. "How many times do we mistake one for the other? Too scared, or too anxious to see what's really going on? Not to see someone drowning?" "But drowning people are sometimes saved." All eyes turned from Garmache to the speaker.It's that young man, Brian. Garmash watched him silently for a moment, watching the tattoos, the holes in his body, the studs on his clothes, see through his skin.The inspector nodded slowly, then turned his gaze to the others. "The question we've been trying to figure out is whether Lillian Dyson was saved. Did she change? Or was it just a hope? She was a drunk, a cruel, mean, selfish woman. She hurt everyone she knew. her people." "But she wasn't always like that," Clara said. "She was nice. A good friend. Was." "Most people are like that," Susan said. "At first. Most people aren't born in jail, or under a bridge, or in a drug stop. They're made to be." "People can be bad," said Garmash, "but how many people are really good?" "I'm sure we will," said Susan. "Has Lillian changed?" Garmash asked her. "I think so. At least, she's trying." "What about you?" he asked. "Me what?" Susan asked, though she must have understood what he meant. "Have you changed?" Long pause. "I hope so," Susan replied. Garmash lowered his voice so that they would have to strain their ears to hear. "Is it really hope? Or is it just an illusion caused by the light?"