The Long Way Home (31 page)

He stood up.

“
Salut
,” he said to the older man, who was now behind the bar looking at order forms.

The man looked up and gave Beauvoir a quick, professional smile. “
Salut
.”

Then returned to what he was doing.

“Nice place,” said Beauvoir. “Interesting name. La Muse. Where does it come from?”

He had the man’s attention, though it was clear he considered Beauvoir feeble, or drunk, or lonely, or just a pain in the ass.

But the professional smile flashed again. “Been called that for as long as I’ve worked here.”

“And how long’s that?”

Beauvoir knew he was making a fool of himself. How useful flashing his Sûreté ID would be right about now. Such a difference between an inspector of homicide asking questions and a barfly asking them.

The man stopped what he was doing and put both hands firmly on the bar.

“Ten years, maybe more.”

“You the owner?”

“No.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“We’re not hiring.”

“I already have a job.”

The man looked like he didn’t believe him.

Beauvoir longed to bring out the ID. Or the gun.

“Look, I know this is strange, but I’m trying to find someone who might’ve known an artist called No Man.”

The man’s stance changed. He pushed back from the bar and gave Beauvoir another assessing look.

“Why?”

“Well, I work at a gallery in Montréal and this No Man’s art has suddenly gone up in value. But no one seems to know much about him.”

Now he had this man’s full attention. By dumb luck Beauvoir had said the very thing guaranteed to get both a response and respect. Two things Jean-Guy sorely wanted.

“Really?”

“You seem surprised.”

“Well, I never saw any of this No Man’s paintings myself, but Luc led me to believe…”

“Yes?”

“Well, I guess Van Gogh was a little you-know-what.”

“What?”

“Fucking nuts.”

“Ahhh.” Now there was a description of an artist he could get behind. “And so was No Man?”

For that he got a stern look. “He called himself No Man. What do you think?”

“You have a point. Who’s this Luc?”

“He’s the owner here. Luc Vachon.”

“And he knew No Man?”

“Yeah, well, he lived at that place for a few years.”

“What did he say about it?” Beauvoir asked.

“Not much.”

“Come on, he lived there for years, he must’ve said something.”

“I asked a few times, but he never really wanted to talk about it.”

“Embarrassed, do you think?” asked Beauvoir.

“Maybe.”

“Come on, man, you can tell me,” said Beauvoir. “Must’ve been pretty weird.”

“I think he got kinda scared there at the end,” said the man. “Luc really didn’t want to talk about it. I do know he used to ship No Man’s paintings to his gallery, or someplace. You guys, I guess. And Luc used to get in the art supplies No Man used.”

“They must’ve been close.”

“Couldn’t have been that close. Luc said No Man just up and left one day. Took off.”

“Where to?”

“Don’t know.”

“Does Luc know? Is he still in touch with No Man?”

“I never asked. Never cared.”

“Was No Man from around here?”

“Don’t think so. Never heard of family or anything.”

“So he might’ve gone home?”

“I suppose.”

Jean-Guy sipped his ginger beer and thought about that.

“When did Luc open this place?”

“He bought the brasserie after he left the commune.”

“Why’d he call it La Muse?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of an artist’s muse?” the barman asked. “They all seem to either have one or want one. Me, all I want is peace and quiet.”

He stared at Beauvoir, but Jean-Guy ignored the hint.

“Does Luc have a muse?”

“Only her.”

The barman tapped the menu.

“Is she real?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” said the barman. “But no.” He leaned across the bar and whispered, as though sharing a confidence, “Muses aren’t real.”

“
Merci
,” said Beauvoir, and once again longed for the heft of his gun in his hand.

“The owner still paints?”

“
Oui
. Goes off a couple weeks of the year. That’s where he is now.” The man paused. “I don’t suppose his paintings will be worth something, since he studied with this No Man?”

It was clear he had a few of those, either by choice or because he had no choice.

“Maybe. But please don’t say anything. Let me tell him myself. Can I call him or email?”

“No. He doesn’t want to be disturbed. He normally goes off at the end of August, but this year he left early. Guess the weather was good. What’s the name of your gallery? Luc’ll want to know.”

“
Désolé.
I’m trying to be here incognito.”

“Ahh,” said the man.

“Are there any other members of No Man’s art colony still around?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Anyone you know have any of No Man’s paintings?”

“No. He had Luc mail them all down south, to his gallery.” The man paused and thrust out his lower lip. “How can Luc get in touch with you, if you’re incognito?”

It sounded pretty silly. And the man himself sounded suspicious. Beauvoir gave him his cell phone number.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask again,” said Beauvoir. “Have you ever heard your boss talk about a muse? His own, maybe, or one that influenced the colony?” He held up the menu.

“
Non.
”

Beauvoir got up and, waving the menu at the barman, he left. Taking the menu with him.

*   *   *

“Find what you were looking for?” one of the backgammon players asked.

Clara was momentarily taken aback, wondering how they knew about Peter. But Myrna remembered.

“We did, and you were right. That picture was painted exactly where you said it was.”

And then Clara remembered that she and Myrna had asked these two men for help in finding out where Peter had done the lip painting. And they had helped.

“Strange painting,” said one.

“Strange place,” said the other.

Clara, Myrna, Chartrand, and Gamache took the table by the edge of the
terrasse
and ordered drinks. While they waited, Gamache excused himself and returned to the two men.

“What did you mean just now when you called it a strange place? You mean the river, where that painting was done?”

“Nah, I mean the one she had in her other hand.”

“You knew where that was painted too?” asked Gamache.

“Oh yes. Been there years ago. Helped take down some of the trees.”

“In the woods.” Gamache waved vaguely in the direction of the forest.

“
Oui
. Recognized it.”

“But you didn’t say anything?” Gamache asked.

“Wasn’t asked. She only asked about the river painting. Funny pictures.”

“I liked them,” the other man said, studying the backgammon board.

“Do you know anything about the art colony that was built in the woods?” Gamache asked.

“Nothing. I cleared the trees, then left. Saw the guy a few times in the village here. Grew pretty big, I heard. His artist retreat. And then it ended. Everyone left.”

“Do you know why?”

“Like all the others, I suppose,” said the elderly man. “It’d run its course.”

Gamache thought about that. “You called it a strange place. Why?”

The other elderly man looked up from the board and examined Gamache with a clear eye. “I know you. You’re that cop. Seen you on TV.”

Gamache nodded and smiled. “Not anymore. We’re just here trying to find a friend. The man who painted those pictures. His name’s Peter Morrow.”

They shook their heads.

“Tall,” said Gamache. “Middle-aged. Anglo?” But the two men just gave him blank stares. “He was interested in the fellow who ran that art colony. Norman. Or No Man.”

“No Man,” the elderly man repeated. “I remember now. Strange name.”

“Strange man?” asked Gamache.

The backgammon player considered that. “No more than the rest. Perhaps less. Kept to himself. Seemed to want to be left alone.”

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“So many artists here are desperate for students. They advertise and hold shows and offer all sorts of courses. But this guy builds a small cabin in that clearing, says nothing, and students flock to him.”

“You know why?” Gamache asked. “Was he charismatic?”

That brought another laugh. “Anything but. I can tell you one thing, he didn’t look like an artist. Most are pretty scruffy. He seemed, well, more like you.”

The elderly man eyed him, and Gamache was far from convinced that was a compliment.

“Can you describe him? What did he look like?”

The elderly man considered. “Small guy. Wiry. About my age. My age back then, I mean.”

“Were there ever any women?”

“Are you suggesting there were orgies?”

“You made the clearing for orgies, Léon? Wait ’til your wife finds out.”

“If there were, I wasn’t invited.”

“No,” said Gamache, pretty sure they were having fun with him. “I’m just asking if it seemed that No Man was married or had a companion.”

“Not that I ever saw.”

“No muses?” asked Gamache, and watched their response. But there was no response, except that the one elderly man finally made his move.

The other man shook his head and clicked his tongue.

“You said the place was strange. What did you mean?” Gamache asked again.

“Where it was, for one thing. Is that where you’d choose to live, if you could’ve had that?”

He waved at the river.

“Most of the other artist retreats or communities or whatever you call them take advantage of the view. And why not?”

Gamache considered that. “Why not?” he asked.

The elderly man shrugged. “Privacy, I guess.”

“Or secrecy,” said the other man, his head bowed, studying the board. He looked across at his friend. “For orgies.”

They laughed and Gamache returned to the table, and considered what a fine line it was, between privacy and secrecy.

Their drinks had arrived by then.

“What were you talking about?” Myrna nodded toward the backgammon players.

“They knew No Man,” said Gamache. “And recognized the place from Peter’s painting.”

“Did they know Peter?” asked Clara.

“No.” He told them what the players had said, then he pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket and set them on the table. “Where’re we at?”

He looked for his pen, but Clara had taken it and turned her paper place mat over.

Gamache remembered then who was in charge. And who wasn’t.

THIRTY

“Did Peter ever talk to you about Scotland?” Clara asked Chartrand.

“Scotland?”

“Dumfries, actually,” said Myrna.

“The Garden of Cosmic Speculation,” said Gamache.

Chartrand looked momentarily startled, as though his companions had turned into lunatics.

“Or hares,” said Clara.

“Hair hair?” Chartrand touched his head. “Or the musical?”

“The rabbit,” said Myrna, and could see it wasn’t really a clarification.

“What’re you talking about?”

“None of this sounds familiar?” asked Gamache.

“No, it doesn’t sound familiar,” said Chartrand, exasperated. “It doesn’t even sound sensible.” He turned to Clara. “What did you mean about Scotland?”

“He was there last winter. Visited a garden.”

Clara explained what they’d learned about Peter and the Garden of Cosmic Speculation, expecting any moment to hear Chartrand laugh.

But he didn’t. He listened and nodded.

“The rabbit turned from flesh to stone, and back again,” said Chartrand, as though that was a perfectly reasonable thing for a rabbit to do. “Peter’s river turns from sorrow to joy, and back again. He’s learned the miracle of transformation. He can turn his pain into paint. And his painting into ecstasy.”

“It’s what makes a great artist,” said Clara.

“Not many get there,” said Chartrand. “But I think if Peter’s courage holds and he keeps exploring, he’ll be like few others. Van Gogh, Picasso, Vermeer, Gagnon. Clara Morrow. Creating a whole new form, one that doesn’t distinguish between thought and emotion. Between natural and manufactured. Water, and stone, and living tissue. All one. Peter will be among the greats.”

“It took a hare in the Garden of Cosmic Speculation for him to see it,” said Myrna.

“It took Peter growing into a brave man,” said Gamache. “Brave enough not to explain it away.”

“If we find No Man, we find Peter,” said Myrna.

“And maybe the tenth muse,” said Clara. “I’d like to meet her.”

“You already have,” said Chartrand. “You might not know who she is, but she’s someone in your life.”

“Ruth?” Clara mouthed to Myrna, and opened her eyes wide in mock-horror.

“Rosa?” Myrna mouthed back.

Clara chuckled at the thought and looked over the railing, to the woods and the rocks and the river. She wondered if the tenth muse could be a place. Like Charlevoix was for Gagnon. Home.

“I don’t understand why the Greeks would erase the tenth muse,” Myrna said. “You’d think she’d be more important than the other nine Muses, since the Greeks revered art.”

“Maybe that’s why,” said Gamache.

Across the
terrasse,
the backgammon players stopped rolling the dice and looked at him.

“Power,” he said. “Maybe the tenth muse was too powerful. Maybe she was banished because she was a threat. And what could be more threatening than freedom? Isn’t that what inspiration is? It can’t be locked up, or even channeled. It can’t be contained or controlled. And that’s what the tenth muse was offering.”

He looked from one to the other and rested his eyes on Clara.

“Isn’t that what Professor Norman, or No Man, was also offering? Inspiration? Freedom? No more rigid rules, no lockstep, no conformity. He was offering to help the young artists break away. Find their own way. And when their works were rejected by the establishment, he honored them.” Gamache held Clara’s eyes. “With their own Salon. And for his troubles he was despised, laughed at, marginalized.”