The Long Way Home

They joined the men on the terrasse of La Muse and Clara wasted no time. She unrolled one of Peter’s paintings, while Myrna unfolded a map of Charlevoix.

“There.” Clara’s finger, like a bolt of lightning, hit the map. “This is where Peter painted that.”

They looked from the map to the lip painting, then back again.

“One of the galleries told you?” Gamache asked.

As he looked up from the map, he noticed a man across the terrasse staring at them. The man quickly looked away as soon as Gamache met his eyes.

The former Chief Inspector was used to that, after all the times he’d been on the news. Still, Gamache had the impression the man wasn’t so much staring at him as past him, to Clara.

“No, the galleries were mostly closed,” Clara was saying. “Myrna and I were on our way here when I suddenly thought about someone else to ask.”

“Who?” asked Beauvoir.

Gamache listened, but kept the man in his peripheral vision. He was again staring in their direction.

“Those two old guys playing backgammon,” said Myrna. “They looked like they’d been here forever—”

“And they have been.” Clara picked up the story. “Their families have been here for generations. As far back as anyone can remember. They even knew Clarence Gagnon. Split his wood for him when they were kids.” She was silent for a moment. “Imagine meeting Gagnon? He painted villages and landscapes, but unlike anything that was being done at the time. It was like Gagnon stripped the skin off the world and painted the muscle and sinew and veins of a place. I make it sound grotesque, but you know what I mean.”

“I know.”

But it wasn’t one of her companions who’d spoken. It was the man across the terrasse.

As Clara was talking, Gamache had noticed the man get up, drop some money on his table and then walk in their direction.

Gamache could see that Jean-Guy had also noticed. And was watching. Wary. Ready.

“Excusez-moi.” The man was now standing beside their table. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

He was casually dressed, but Gamache recognized the good cut of his shirt and trousers. Fifty years old, Gamache guessed, perhaps slightly younger.

The man looked at each of them, politely. His eyes paused on Gamache and there was a flicker of interest. But then his gaze came to rest on Clara.

“I heard you speak of Clarence Gagnon and wanted to introduce myself. I too am a fan of Gagnon’s works. May I join you?”

He was slightly shorter than Gamache, and slender. He wore glasses and behind those glasses were intelligent blue eyes.

Clara got up and smiled at him.

“I’m afraid we have to leave.”

“If there’s anything I can do during your stay in Baie-Saint-Paul, please let me know.”

He handed her a card.

“It would be a pleasure to talk. To compare thoughts on art,” he said, and with unexpected dignity, he bowed slightly and said, “Au revoir.”

Gamache watched him leave. And he watched Clara place his card in her pocket.

“Coming?” Myrna grabbed the paintings and the map from the table.

Within minutes they were driving out of Baie-Saint-Paul, heading east. But not along the well-traveled highway 138. Instead, Clara turned the car slightly south. Toward the river. And then along a much narrower, less-traveled road.

Highway 362 hugged the cliffs and followed the St. Lawrence. And just before the village of Les éboulements, she pulled over.

She knew it was obscenely stupid, but she half expected to see Peter silhouetted against the early evening sky. Standing at his easel. Painting.

And waiting. For her. As she’d waited for him weeks ago in their garden.

There was no Peter, but there was something else.

They got out of the car and Myrna reached over for Peter’s canvases, then stopped. She, Clara, Armand, and Jean-Guy took a few steps forward.

There was no need to consult the paintings. They were here. This was where Peter had stood.

The St. Lawrence stretched before them, even more magnificent than in the village. Here the grandeur, the wild splendor of the place was both obvious and impossible.

The four friends stood side by side on the bluff.

It was here, on this very spot, that a meteor had hurtled to earth. Had hit the earth. Three hundred million years ago. It had struck with such force it killed everything beneath it, and for miles and miles around. It struck with such violence that even now the impact site could be seen from space.

Earth, thrown up in waves, had petrified there, forming smooth mountains and a deep crater.

Nothing lived. All life was extinguished. The earth laid to waste. For thousands of years. Hundreds of thousands of years. Millions of years.

Barren. Empty. Nothing.

And then. And then. First water, then plants, then fish. Then trees started to grow, in the rich soil. Bugs, flies, bats, birds, bear, moose, deer.

What had been a wasteland became a cauldron, a crucible of life. So rich, so diverse, it created an ecosystem unique in the world.

Porpoises, seals, blue whales.

Men. Women. Children.

All drawn here. All made their home here. In the crater.