There was a slight strained silence then. Denis Fortin, for all his bonhomie, didn’t like penetrating questions. He preferred to lead the conversation rather than be led. He was used, Gamache realized, to being listened to, acquiesced to, fawned over. He was used to having his decisions and statements simply accepted. Denis Fortin was a powerful man in a world of vulnerable people.
“I have a theory, Chief Inspector,” said Fortin, crossing his legs and smoothing the material of his jeans. “That most jobs are self-selecting. We might grow into them, but for the most part we fall into a career because it suits what we’re good at. I love art. Can’t paint worth a damn. I know because I tried. I actually thought I wanted to be an artist, but that miserable failure led me to what I was always meant to do. Recognize talent in others. It’s a perfect match. I make a very good living and am surrounded by great art. And great artists. I get to be part of this culture of creativity without all the angst of actually creating it.”
“I expect your world isn’t without its angst.”
“True. If I choose to represent an artist and the show’s a bust, it can reflect badly on me. But then I just make sure word spreads that it simply means I’m daring and willing to take risks. Avant-garde. That plays well.”
“But the artist…” said Gamache, letting it hang there.
“Ah, there you have it. He gets it in the neck.”
Gamache looked at Fortin and tried not to let his distaste show. Like the street his gallery was on, Fortin had an attractive front, hiding quite a foul interior. He was opportunistic. He fed on the talent of others. Got rich on the talent of others. While most of the artists themselves barely scraped by, and took all the risks.
“Do you protect them?” Gamache asked. “Try to defend them against the critics?”
Fortin looked both astonished and amused. “They’re adults, Monsieur Gamache. They take the accolades when they come and they must take the criticism when it comes. Treating artists like children is never a good idea.”
“Not as children, perhaps,” said Gamache, “but as respected partners. Would you not stand by a respected partner if he was being attacked?”
“I have no partners,” said Fortin. The smile was still in place, but perhaps just a little too fixed. “It gets too messy. As you would know. Best not to have anyone to defend. It can throw off your judgment.”
“An interesting perspective,” said Gamache. He knew then that Fortin had seen the video of the attack in the factory. This was a veiled allusion to what had happened. Fortin, along with the rest of the world, had seen his failure to defend his own people. To save them.
“As you know, I wasn’t able to protect my own people,” said Gamache. “But at least I tried. You don’t?”
It was clear Fortin hadn’t expected the Chief Inspector to confront the event directly. It threw him off center.
Not quite as stable, Gamache thought, as you pretend to be. Perhaps you’re more like an artist than you like to believe.
“Fortunately people aren’t actually shooting at my artists,” said Fortin finally.
“No, but there’re other forms of attack. Of hurting. Even of killing. You can murder a person’s reputation. You can kill their drive and their desire, even their creativity, if you try hard enough.”
Fortin laughed. “If an artist is that fragile he should either find something else to do or not venture beyond his door. Just toss the canvases out and lock up quick. But most artists I know have huge egos. And huge ambition. They want that praise, they want that recognition. That’s their problem. That’s what makes them vulnerable. Not their talent, but their egos.”
“But you agree they’re vulnerable, for whatever reason?”
“I do. I’ve already said that.”
“And do you agree that being so vulnerable can make some artists fearful?”
Fortin hesitated a moment, sensing a trap but not sure where it lay. He nodded.
“And that fearful people can lash out?”
“I suppose so. What’re we talking about? I’m guessing this isn’t just a pleasant Sunday afternoon chat. And I guess you aren’t in the market for one of my paintings.”
Suddenly they’d become “my” paintings, Gamache noticed.
“Non, monsieur. I’ll tell you in a moment, if you’ll indulge me.”
Fortin looked at his watch. All subtlety, all charm, gone.
“I’m wondering why you went to Clara Morrow’s celebration yesterday.”
Far from being the last shove to throw Fortin completely off, Gamache’s question made the art dealer first gape then laugh.
“Is that what this is about? I don’t understand. I can’t have broken any law. Besides, Clara herself invited me.”
“Vraiment? But you weren’t on the guest list.”
“No, I know. I’d heard of course about her vernissage at the Musée and decided to go.”
“Why? You’d dropped her as an artist and split under not very good conditions. In fact you quite humiliated her.”
“Did she tell you that?”
Gamache was silent, staring at the other man.
“Of course she did. Where else would you have heard it? I remember now. You two are friends. Is that why you’re here? To threaten me?”
“Am I being threatening? I think you might find it difficult to convince anyone of that.” Gamache tilted his beer glass toward the still astonished gallery owner.
“There are other ways of threatening besides putting a gun in my face,” snapped Fortin.
“Quite so. My point earlier. There’re different forms of violence. Different ways to kill while keeping the body alive. But I’m not here to threaten you.”
Was he really so easily threatened? Gamache wondered. Was Fortin himself so vulnerable that a simple conversation with a police officer would feel like an attack? Perhaps Fortin really was more like the artists he represented than he believed. And perhaps he lived in more fear than he admitted.
“I’m almost finished and then I’ll leave you to what’s left of your Sunday,” said Gamache, his voice pleasant. “Why, if you’d decided Clara Morrow’s art wasn’t worth your while, did you go to her vernissage?”
Fortin took a deep, deep breath, held it for a moment while staring at Gamache, then let it out in a long beer-infused exhale.
“I went because I wanted to apologize to her.”
Now it was Gamache’s turn to be surprised. Fortin didn’t seem the sort to admit fault easily.
Fortin took another deep breath. This was clearly taking a toll.
“When I was in Three Pines last summer to discuss the show, Clara and I had drinks at that bistro and a large man served us. Anyway, I said something stupid about him when he’d left. Clara later called me on it and I’m afraid I was so annoyed at her doing that I lashed out. Canceled her show. It was a stupid thing to do and I almost immediately regretted it. But by then it was too late. I’d already announced it and I couldn’t go back.”
Armand Gamache stared at Denis Fortin, trying to decide if he believed him. But there was an easy way to confirm his story. Just ask Clara.
“So you went to the opening to apologize to Clara? Why bother?”
Now Fortin colored slightly and looked to his right, out the window, into the early evening light. Outside, people would be gathering on the terrasses up and down St-Denis for beers and martinis, for wine and pitchers of sangria. Enjoying one of the first really warm, sunny days of spring.
Inside the quiet gallery, though, the atmosphere was neither warm nor sunny.
“I knew she was going to be big. I’d offered her a solo show because her art is like no other out there. Have you seen it?”
Fortin leaned forward, toward Gamache. No longer wrapped up in his own anxiety, no longer defensive. Now he was almost giddy. Excited. Energized talking about great works of art.
Here, Gamache realized, was a man who truly loved art. He might be a businessman, might be opportunistic. Might be a ranting egoist.
But he knew and loved great art. Clara’s art.
Lillian Dyson’s art?
“I have,” said the Chief Inspector. “And I agree. She’s remarkable.”
Fortin launched into a passionate dissection of Clara’s portraits. The nuances, right down to the use of tiny strokes within longer, languid strokes of her brush. It was fascinating for Gamache to hear. And he found himself enjoying this time with Fortin, despite himself.
But he hadn’t come to discuss Clara’s painting.
“As I remember, you called Gabri a ‘fucking queer.’”
The words had the desired effect. They weren’t simply shocking, they were disgusting, disgraceful. Especially in light of what Fortin was just describing. The light and grace and hope Clara had created.
“I did,” Fortin admitted. “It’s something I say often. Said often. I don’t anymore.”
“Why would you say it at all?”