The Long Way Home

*

Beauvoir scanned the other servers, and his eyes fell on a middle-aged man who’d just appeared out of a door by the bar. Jean-Guy picked up his drink and moved to one of the stools. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Or, worse, he felt too comfortable. Too familiar.

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 S?reté 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.”