Brutal Telling

extraordinary offer of a solo show. The one that had the art world, from Montreal to Toronto, to New York and London, buzzing. About the new talent, the treasure, found buried in Quebec’s Eastern Townships.

And there it was, in front of them.

Clara Morrow had painted Ruth as the elderly, forgotten Virgin Mary. Angry, demented, the Ruth in the portrait was full of despair, of bitterness. Of a life left behind, of opportunities squandered, of loss and betrayals real and imagined and created and caused. She clutched at a rough blue shawl with emaciated hands. The shawl had slipped off one bony shoulder and the skin was sagging, like something nailed up and empty.

And yet the portrait was radiant, filling the room from one tiny point of light. In her eyes. Embittered, mad Ruth stared into the distance, at something very far off, approaching. More imagined than real.

Hope.

Clara had captured the moment despair turned to hope. The moment life began. She’d somehow captured Grace.

It took Gamache’s breath away and he could feel a burning in his eyes. He blinked and turned from it, as though from something so brilliant it blinded. He saw everyone else in the room also staring, their faces soft in the candlelight.

The next portrait was clearly Peter’s mother. Gamache had met her, and once met, never forgotten. Clara had painted her staring straight at the viewer. Not into the distance, like Ruth, but at something very close. Too close. Her white hair in a loose bun, her face a web of soft lines, as though a window had just shattered but not yet fallen. She was white and pink and healthy and lovely. She had a quiet, gentle smile that reached her tender blue eyes. Gamache could almost smell the talcum powder and cinnamon. And yet the portrait made him deeply uneasy. And then he saw it. The subtle turn of her hand, outward. The way her fingers seemed to reach beyond the canvas. At him. He had the impression this gentle, lovely elderly woman was going to touch him. And if she did, he’d know sorrow like never before. He’d know that empty place where nothing existed, not even pain.

She was repulsive. And yet he couldn’t help being drawn to her, like a person afraid of heights drawn to the edge.

And the third elderly woman he couldn’t place. He’d never seen her before and he wondered if she was Clara’s mother. There was something vaguely familiar about her.

He looked at it closely. Clara painted people’s souls, and he wanted to know what this soul held.

She looked happy. Smiling over her shoulder at something of great interest. Something she cared about deeply. She too had a shawl, this of old, rough, deep red wool. She seemed someone who was used to riches but suddenly poor. And yet it didn’t seem to matter to her.

Interesting, thought Gamache. She was heading in one direction but looking in the other. Behind her. From her he had an overwhelming feeling of yearning. He realized all he wanted to do was draw an armchair up to that portrait, pour a cup of coffee and stare at it for the rest of the evening. For the rest of his life. It was seductive. And dangerous.

With an effort he pulled his eyes away and found Clara standing in the darkness, watching her friends as they looked at her creations.

Peter was also watching. With a look of unmarred pride.

“Bon Dieu,” said Gabri. “C’est extraordinaire.”

“Felicitations, Clara,” said Olivier. “My God, they’re brilliant. Do you have more?”

“Do you mean, have I done you?” she asked with a laugh. “Non, mon beau. Only Ruth and Peter’s mother.”

“Who’s this one?” Lacoste pointed to the painting Gamache had been staring at.

Clara smiled. “I’m not telling. You have to guess.”

“Is it me?” asked Gabri.

“Yes, Gabri, it’s you,” said Clara.

“Really?” Too late he saw her smiling.

The funny thing was, thought Gamache, it almost could have been Gabri. He looked again at the portrait in the soft candlelight. Not physically, but emotionally. There was happiness there. But there was also something else. Something that didn’t quite fit with Gabri.

“So which one’s me?” asked Ruth, limping closer to the paintings.

“You old drunk,” said Gabri. “It’s this one.”

Ruth peered at her exact double. “I don’t see it. Looks more like you.”

“Hag,” muttered Gabri.

“Fag,” she mumbled back.

“Clara’s painted you as the Virgin Mary,” Olivier explained.

Ruth leaned closer and shook her head.

“Virgin?” Gabri whispered to Myrna. “Obviously the mind fucks don’t count.”

“Speaking of which,” Ruth looked over at Beauvoir, “Peter, do you have a piece of paper? I feel a poem coming on. Now, do you think it’s too much to put the words ‘asshole’ and ‘shithead’ in the same sentence?”

Beauvoir winced.

“Just close your eyes and think of England,” Ruth advised Beauvoir, who had actually been thinking of her English.