There was a depth, a meaning, a challenge to them.
For an hour or more Clara and Fortin talked, exchanging ideas about the show, about the direction of contemporary art, about exciting new artists, of which, Fortin was quick to assure Clara, she was in the forefront.
“I wasn’t going to tell you because it might not happen, but I sent your portfolio to FitzPatrick at MoMA. He’s an old friend and says he’ll come to the vernissage—”
Clara exclaimed and almost knocked her beer over. Fortin laughed and held up his hand.
“But wait, that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you. I suggested he spread the word and it looks as though Allyne from the New York Times will be there . . .”
He hesitated because it looked as though Clara was having a stroke. When she closed her mouth he continued. “And, as luck would have it, Destin Browne will be in New York that month setting up a show with MoMA and she’s shown interest.”
“Destin Browne? Vanessa Destin Browne? The chief curator at the Tate Modern in London?”
Fortin nodded and held tightly to his beer. But now, far from being in danger of knocking anything over, Clara appeared to have ground to a complete halt. She sat in the cheery little bistro, late summer light teeming through the mullioned windows. Beyond Fortin she saw the old homes, warming in the sun. The perennial beds with roses and clematis and hollyhocks. She saw the villagers, whose names she knew and whose habits she was familiar with. And she saw the three tall pines, like beacons. Impossible to miss, even surrounded by forest. If you knew what to look for, and needed a beacon.
Life was about to take her away from here. From the place where she’d become herself. This solid little village that never changed but helped its inhabitants to change. She’d arrived straight from art college full of avant-garde ideas, wearing shades of gray and seeing the world in black and white. So sure of herself. But here, in the middle of nowhere, she’d discovered color. And nuance. She’d learned this from the villagers, who’d been generous enough to lend her their souls to paint. Not as perfect human beings, but as flawed, struggling men and women. Filled with fear and uncertainty and, in at least one case, martinis.
But who remained standing. In the wilderness. Her graces, her stand of pines.
She was suddenly overcome with gratitude to her neighbors, and to whatever inspiration had allowed her to do them justice.
She closed her eyes and tilted her face into the sun.
“You all right?” he asked.
Clara opened her eyes. He seemed bathed in light, his blond hair glowing and a warm, patient smile on his face.
“You know, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but a few years ago no one wanted my works. Everyone just laughed. It was brutal. I almost gave up.”
“Most great artists have the same story,” he said, gently.
“I almost flunked out of art school, you know. I don’t tell many people that.”
“Another drink?” asked Gabri, taking Fortin’s empty glass.
“Not for me, merci,” he said, then turned back to Clara. “Between us? Most of the best people did flunk out. How can you test an artist?”
“I was always good at tests,” said Gabri, picking up Clara’s glass. “No, wait. That was testes.”
He gave Clara an arch look and swept away.
“Fucking queers,” said Fortin, taking a handful of cashews. “Doesn’t it make you want to vomit?”
Clara froze. She looked at Fortin to see if he was kidding. He wasn’t. But what he said was true. She suddenly wanted to throw up.
TWENTY-FOUR
Chief Inspector Gamache and Superintendent Brunel walked back to the cabin, each lost in thought.
“I told you what I found,” said the Superintendent, once back on the porch. “Now it’s your turn. What were you and Inspector Beauvoir whispering about in the corner, like naughty schoolboys?”
Not many people would consider calling Chief Inspector Gamache a naughty schoolboy. He smiled. Then he remembered the thing that had gleamed and mocked and clung to the corner of the cabin.
“Would you like to see?”
“No, I think I’ll go back to the garden and pick turnips. Of course I’d like to see,” she laughed and he took her over to the corner of the room, her eyes darting here and there, stealing glances at the masterpieces she was passing. Until they stopped in the darkest corner.
“I don’t see anything.”
Beauvoir joined them and switched on his flashlight. She followed it. Up the wall to the rafters.
“I still don’t see.”
“But you do,” said Gamache. As they waited Beauvoir thought about other words, left up to be found. Tacked to the door of his bedroom at the B and B that morning.
He’d asked Gabri if he knew anything about the piece of paper stuck into the wood with a thumbtack, but Gabri had looked perplexed and shaken his head.
Beauvoir had stuffed it into his pocket and only after the first café au lait of the day did he have the guts to read.
What upset Beauvoir most wasn’t the thought that the mad old poet had invaded the B and B and put that on his door. Nor was it that he didn’t understand a word of it. What upset him the most was the comma.
It meant there was more.
“I’m sorry, I really don’t see anything.” Superintendent Brunel’s voice brought Beauvoir back to the cabin.
“Do you see a spider’s web?” Gamache asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you see it. Look more closely.”
It took a moment but finally her face changed. Her eyes widened and her brows lifted. She tilted her head slightly as though she wasn’t seeing quite straight.
“But there’s a word up there, written in the web. What does it say? Woe? How is that possible? What kind of spider does that?” she asked, clearly not expecting an answer, and not getting one.
Just then the satellite phone rang and after answering it Agent Morin handed it to the Chief Inspector. “Agent Lacoste for you, sir.”
“Oui, allô?” he said, and listened for a few moments. “Really?” He listened some more, glancing around the room then up again at the web. “D’accord. Merci.”
Gamache hung up, thought a moment, then reached for the nearby stepladder.
“Would you like me . . .” Beauvoir gestured to it.
“Ce n’est pas necessaire.” Taking a breath Gamache started up the Annapurna ladder. Two steps up he put out an unsteady hand and Beauvoir moved forward until the large trembling fingers found his shoulder. Steadied, Gamache reached up and poked the web with a pen. Slowly, unseen by the people craning their necks below, he moved a single strand of the web.
“C’est ça,” he murmured.
Backing down the ladder and onto terra firma he nodded toward the corner. Beauvoir’s light shone on the web.
“How did you do that?” asked Beauvoir.
The web had changed its message. It no longer said Woe. Now it said Woo.
“A strand had come loose.”
“But how did you know it had?” Beauvoir persisted. They’d all taken a close look at the web. Clearly a spider hadn’t spun it. It appeared to be made from thread, perhaps nylon fishing line, made to look like a spider’s web. They’d take it down soon and have it properly analyzed. It had a great deal to tell them, though changing the word from Woe to Woo didn’t seem a move toward clarity.