“Jacqueline’s only been here a few months,” Reine-Marie pointed out. “Maybe she’ll catch on.”
“Sarah says with baguette you either have it or you don’t,” said Clara. “Something to do with touch, but also the temperature of your hands.”
“Hot or cold?” asked Armand.
“I don’t know,” said Clara. “It was already too much information. I want to believe baguettes are magic, not some accident of birth.” She put down the bread knife. “Soup’s almost ready. While it warms up, would you like to see my latest work?”
It was unlike Clara to offer to show her work, especially those in progress. At least, as Armand and Reine-Marie reluctantly walked across the kitchen to her studio, they hoped there’d been progress.
Normally they’d have leapt at the rare chance to see Clara’s work, as she painted her astonishing portraits. But just recently it had become clear that her idea of “finished” and everyone else’s was very different.
Armand wondered what she saw that they did not.
The studio was in darkness, the windows only letting in the north light, and on a cloudy November day there was precious little of that.
“Those are done,” she said, waving into the gloom at the canvases leaning against one wall. She switched on the light.
It was all Reine-Marie could do not to ask, “Are you sure?”
Some of the portraits looked close, but the hair was just a pencil outline. Or the hands were blotches, blobs.
The portraits, for the most part, were recognizable. Myrna. Olivier.
Armand went up to Sarah, the baker, lounging against the wall.
She was the most complete. Her lined face filled with that desire to help that Armand recognized. A dignity, almost standoffish. And yet Clara had managed to capture the baker’s vulnerability. As though she feared the viewer would ask for something she didn’t have.
Yes, her face, her hands, her attitude, all so finely realized. And yet. Her smock was dashed on, missing all detail. It was as though Clara had lost interest.
Gracie and her littermate, Leo, were wrestling on the concrete floor, and Reine-Marie stooped to pet them.
“What is that?” Everyone spasmed a little on hearing the querulous voice.
Ruth stood there, holding Rosa and pointing into the studio.
“Jesus, it’s awful,” said the old poet. “What a mess. Ugly doesn’t begin to describe it.”
“Ruth,” said Reine-Marie. “You of all people should know that creation is a process.”
“And not always a successful one. I’m serious. What is it?”
“It’s called art,” said Armand. “And you don’t have to like it.”
“Art?” Ruth looked dubious. “Really?” She bent down and said, “Come here, Art. Come here.”
They looked at each other. Even for demented old Ruth, this was odd.
And then Clara began to laugh. “She means Gracie.”
She pointed to the little thing, rolling on the floor with Leo.
Though they’d been found together, in the garbage, Clara’s Leo was growing into a very handsome dog. Golden, with short hair on his lean body, and slightly longer hair around his neck. Leo was tall and gangly right now, but already regal.
Gracie was not. She was, not to put too fine a point on it, the runt of the litter. Literally. And perhaps not even a dog.
No one had been quite sure when Reine-Marie had brought her home months earlier. And time had not proven helpful.
Almost completely hairless, except for tufts of different colors here and there. One ear stood boldly up, the other flopped. Her head seemed to be evolving daily and she had grown very little. Some days, to Reine-Marie’s eyes, Gracie seemed to have shrunk.
But her eyes were bright. And she seemed to know she’d been saved. Her adoration of Reine-Marie knew no bounds.
“Come here, Art,” Ruth tried again, then stood up. “Not only ugly but stupid. Doesn’t know its name.”
“Gracie,” said Armand. “Her name’s Gracie.”
“For Christ’s sake, why did you say it was Art?” She looked at him as though he were the demented one.
They returned to the kitchen, where Clara stirred the soup and Armand kissed Reine-Marie and walked to the door.
“Not so fast, Tintin,” said Ruth. “You haven’t told us about that thing in the middle of the village. I saw you speaking to him. What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Clearly for Ruth the concept of keeping the mouth shut was completely foreign.
“But why’s he still here?” asked Clara, all pretense of not caring gone. “What does he want? Did he stand there all night? Can’t you do something?”
“Why’s the sky blue?” asked Ruth. “Is pizza really Italian? Have you ever eaten a crayon?”
They looked at her.
“Aren’t we tossing out stupid questions? For what it’s worth, the answers to your questions are, don’t know, don’t know, and Edmonton.”
“The guy’s wearing a mask,” Clara said to Armand, ignoring Ruth. “That can’t be right. He can’t be right. In the head.”
She spun her finger at her temple.
“There’s nothing I can do,” he said. “It’s not against the law in Québec to cover your face.”
“That isn’t a burka,” said Clara.
“For heaven’s sake,” said Ruth. “What’s the big deal? Haven’t you seen Phantom of the Opera? He might burst into song at any moment and we have front row seats.”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” said Clara.
“But I am. I’m just not afraid. Though ignorance scares me.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Clara.
“Ignorance,” Ruth repeated, either missing or pretending to miss the warning in Clara’s voice. “Anything different, anything you don’t understand, you immediately believe is threatening.”
“And you’re the poster child for tolerance?” asked Clara.
“Come on,” said Ruth. “There’s a difference between scary and threatening. He might be frightening, I’ll give you that. But he hasn’t actually done anything. If he was going to, he probably would’ve by now.”
Ruth turned to Gamache to back her up, but he didn’t respond.
“Someone puts on a Halloween costume as a joke,” she continued. “In broad daylight, and you get all scared. Puh. You’d have done well in Salem.”
“You got closer than any of us,” Reine-Marie said to her husband. “What do you think it is?”
He looked down at the dogs, intertwined on the floor, sprawled against Henri, who snored and muttered. More than once Armand had envied Henri. Until Henri’s kibble was lowered next to his water bowl. There the envy ended.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll be gone soon.”
“Don’t patronize us,” said Clara, her smile only slightly softening the annoyance in her tone. “I showed you mine”—she pointed toward her studio—“now you show me yours.”
“It’s just an impression,” he said. “Meaningless. I have no real idea who or what he is.”
“Armand,” Clara warned.
And he relented.
“Death,” he said, and looked over at Reine-Marie. “That’s what I thought.”
“The Grim Reaper?” asked Ruth with a hoot. “Did he point a crooked finger?”