No, this man cared a great deal. He was wealthy. He was powerful. So it wasn’t about that.
Fear and greed. That was what drove the art world. And Gamache knew it was probably true. So if it wasn’t greed on Marois’s part, then the other must be true.
It was fear.
But what could this elderly, eminent dealer be afraid of?
“Will you join me, monsieur?” Armand Gamache extended his arm, inviting François Marois to walk with him. “I’m going into the village.”
Marois, who had had no intention of walking down into Three Pines again, considered the invitation and recognized it for what it was. A polite request. Not quite a command, but close enough.
He took his place beside the Chief Inspector and both walked slowly down the slope and into the village.
“Very pretty,” said Marois. He stopped and surveyed Three Pines, a smile on his lips. “I can see why Clara Morrow chose to live here. It is magical.”
“I sometimes wonder how important place is to an artist.” Gamache also looked out over the quiet village. “So many choose the great cities. Paris, London, Venice. Cold water flats and lofts in Soho and Chelsea. Lillian Dyson moved to New York, for instance. But Clara didn’t. The Morrows chose here. Does where they live affect what they create?”
“Oh, without a doubt. Where they live and who they spend time with. I don’t think Clara’s series of portraits could have been created any place other than here.”
“It’s fascinating to me that some look at her work and see just nice portraits of mostly elderly women. Traditional, staid even. But you don’t.”
“Neither do you, Chief Inspector, any more than when you and I look at Three Pines we see a village.”
“And what do you see, Monsieur Marois?”
“I see a painting.”
“A painting?”
“A beautiful one, to be sure. But all paintings, the most disturbing and the most exquisite, are made up of the same thing. The play of light and dark. That’s what I see. A whole lot of light, but a whole lot of dark too. That’s what people miss in Clara’s works. The light is so obvious they get fooled by it. It takes some people a while to appreciate the shading. I think that’s one of the things that makes her brilliant. She’s very subtle, but very subversive. She has a lot to say, and takes her time revealing it.”
“C’est intéressant, ça,” Gamache nodded. It wasn’t unlike what he’d been thinking about Three Pines. It too took a while to reveal itself. But Marois’s analogy had its limits. A painting, no matter how spectacular, would only ever be two dimensional. Is that how Marois saw the world? Was there an entire dimension he missed?
They started walking again. On the village green they noticed Clara plunking down beside Ruth. They watched as Ruth fired chunks of stale bread at the birds. It was unclear if she was trying to feed them or kill them.
François Marois’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the woman in Clara’s portrait,” he said.
“It is. Ruth Zardo.”
“The poet? I thought she was dead.”
“It’s a natural mistake,” said Gamache, waving at Ruth, who gave him the finger. “Her brain seems fine, it’s only her heart that’s stopped.”
The afternoon sun was directly on François Marois, forcing the dealer to squint. But behind him there extended a long and definite shadow.
“Why do you want both Morrows,” Gamache asked, “when you obviously prefer Clara’s works? Do you even like Peter Morrow’s paintings?”
“No, I don’t. I find them very superficial. Calculated. He’s a good artist, but I think he could be a great one, if he could use more instinct and less technique. He’s a very good draftsman.”
It was said without malice, making the cold analysis all the more damning. And perhaps true.
“You said you had only so much time and energy left,” persisted Gamache. “I can see why you’d choose Clara. But why Peter, an artist you don’t even like?”
Marois hesitated. “It’s just easier to manage. We can make career decisions for both of them. I want Clara to be happy, and I think she’s happiest if Peter is also looked after.”
Gamache looked at the art dealer. It was an astute observation. But it didn’t go far enough. Marois had made it about Clara and Peter’s happiness. Deflecting the question.
Then the Chief Inspector remembered the story Marois told, of his first client. The elderly artist whose wife overtook him. And, to protect her husband’s fragile ego the woman had never painted again.
Was that what Marois was afraid of? Losing his final client, his final find, because Clara’s love for Peter was greater than her love for art?
Or was it, again, even more personal? Did it have nothing to do with Clara, with Peter, with art? Was François Marois simply afraid of losing?
André Castonguay owned art. But François Marois owned the artists. Who was the more powerful? But also the more vulnerable?
Framed paintings couldn’t get up and leave. But the artists could.
What was François Marois afraid of? Gamache asked himself again.
“Why are you here?”
Marois looked surprised. “I’ve already told you, Chief Inspector. Twice. I’m here to try to sign Peter and Clara Morrow.”
“And yet you claim not to care if Monsieur Castonguay gets there first.”
“I can’t control other people’s stupidity,” smiled Marois.
Gamache considered the man, and as he did the art dealer’s smile wavered.
“I’m late for drinks, monsieur,” said Gamache pleasantly. “If we have nothing more to talk about I’ll be going.”
He turned and walked toward the bistro.
“Bread?” Ruth offered Clara what looked and felt like a brick.
They each hacked off pieces. Ruth tossed them at the robins, who darted away. Clara just pelted the ground at her feet.
Thump, thump, thud.
“I hear the critics saw something in your paintings I sure don’t see,” said Ruth.
“What d’you mean?”
“They liked them.”
Thud, thud, thud.
“Not all,” laughed Clara. “The Ottawa Star said my art was nice, but neither visionary nor bold.”
“Ahh, the Ottawa Star. The journal of note. I remember the Drummondville Post once called my poetry both dull and uninteresting.” Ruth snorted. “Look, get that one.” She pointed to a particularly bold blue jay. When Clara didn’t move Ruth tossed a bread stone at him.
“Almost got him,” said Ruth, though Clara suspected if she’d wanted to hit the bird she wouldn’t have missed.
“They called me an old and tired parrot mimicking actual artists,” said Clara.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Ruth. “Parrots don’t mimic. Mynah birds mimic. Parrots learn the words and say them in their own way.”
“Fascinating,” mumbled Clara. “I’ll have to write a stern letter correcting them.”
“The Kamloops Record complained that my poetry doesn’t rhyme,” said Ruth.
“Do you remember all your reviews?” asked Clara.
“Only the bad ones.”
“Why?”
Ruth turned to look at her directly. Her eyes weren’t angry or cold, not filled with malice. They were filled with wonder.
“I don’t know. Perhaps that’s the price of poetry. And, apparently, art.”
“What d’you mean?”
“We get hurt into it. No pain, no product.”
“You believe that?” asked Clara.
“Don’t you? What did the New York Times say about your art?”
Clara searched her brain. She knew it was good. Something about hope and rising up.
“Welcome to the bench,” said Ruth. “You’re early. I’d have thought it would take another ten years. But here you are.”