The Long Way Home

“We should all have a friend like you.”


Then he turned to Clara. “This should be the happiest time of your life. A time of celebration. Makes it all the more painful. It reminds me of Francis Bacon and his triptych.”

Then he brightened. “I’m an idiot. I just heard that one of our professors had to drop out because of illness. He taught painting and composition to first-year students. You’d be perfect for it. I know you should be teaching a much more advanced class”—he held up his hand as though to ward off Clara’s objections—“but believe me, by the time they get to third year they’re insufferable. But the new students? That’s exciting. And they’d adore you. Interested?”

Clara had a sudden image of standing in a large studio, like this. Her own studio at the college. Her own sofa, her own fridge stocked with contraband beer. Guiding eager young men and women. Emerging artists.

She’d make sure that what was done to her wasn’t done to them. She’d encourage them. Defend them. No Salon des Refusés for them. No mocking, no marginalizing. No pretending to encourage creativity, when all the college really wanted was conformity.

They’d come to her studio on Fridays and drink beer and talk nonsense. They’d throw around ideas, philosophies, predictions, bold and half-baked plans. It would be her own salon. A Salon des Acceptés.

And she would be the gleaming center. The world-renowned artist, nurturing them.

She would have arrived.

“Think about it,” Professor Massey said.

“I will,” said Clara. “Thank you.”

*

Dr. Vincent Gilbert lived in the heart of the forest. Away from human conflict, but also away from human contact. It was a compromise he was more than happy to make. As was the rest of humanity.

Gamache and Gilbert had met many times over the years and, against all odds, isolation and a life dedicated just to himself had not improved Dr. Gilbert’s people skills.

“What do you want?” Gilbert asked, looking out from under a straw hat he might have stolen from Beauvoir’s horse on an earlier visit.

He was in the vegetable garden and looked, to Gamache, more and more like a biblical prophet, or a madman. Gilbert wore a once white, now gray, nightshirt down to mid-calf, and plastic sandals he could hose off. Which was a good thing, because he was up to his ankles in compost.

“Can’t a neighbor come to visit?” asked Gamache, after securing his mount to a tree.

“What do you want?” Dr. Gilbert repeated, straightening up and walking toward them.

“Drop the act, Vincent,” said Gamache with a laugh. “I know you’re happy to see me.”

“Did you bring me anything?”

Gamache gestured toward Beauvoir, whose eyes widened.

“You know I’m a vegetarian,” said Gilbert. “Anything else?”

Gamache reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a brown paper bag and the map.

“Welcome, stranger,” said Gilbert. He grabbed the paper bag, opened it, and inhaled the aroma of the croissants.

Tossing one precious pastry into the woods, without explanation, he took the rest into his log cabin, followed by Gamache and Beauvoir.

*

The train lurched forward but was soon traveling swiftly and smoothly toward Montréal.

“What was that about Francis Bacon?” Myrna asked. The steward had taken their lunch order. “I’m presuming he meant the twentieth-century painter and not the sixteenth-century philosopher.”

Clara nodded but said nothing.

“What did Professor Massey mean?” Myrna pressed. It had clearly meant something.

Clara looked out the window, at the rear end of Toronto. For a moment Myrna wondered if she’d heard the question. But then Clara spoke. To the overflowing garbage bins. To the washing on the line. To the graffiti. Not actual art, but the artist’s name over and over. Declaring himself. Spray-painted in huge, bold, black letters. Over and over.

“Bacon often painted in threes.” Clara’s words created a fine fog on the window. “Triptychs. I think the one Professor Massey had in mind was George Dyer.”

That meant nothing to Myrna, but it clearly meant a great deal to Clara.

“Go on.”

“I think Professor Massey was trying to warn me.” Clara turned away from the window and looked at her friend.

“Tell me,” said Myrna, though it was clear Clara would have rather done just about anything else than put these thoughts into words.

“George Dyer and Bacon were lovers,” said Clara. “They went to Paris for a huge show of Bacon’s paintings. It was the first great triumph of his career. While Bacon was being celebrated—”

Clara stopped, and Myrna felt the blood rush from her own face.

“Tell me,” she repeated softly.

“Dyer killed himself in their hotel room.”

The words were barely audible. But Myrna heard them. And Clara heard them. Put out into the world.

The women stared at each other.