A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2)

‘Well done.’ Clara came up beside him. ‘And that’s Mother.’ She indicated the next work. ‘I sold Émilie to Dr Harris a while ago but look over here.’ She pointed to the end wall where a huge canvas stood. ‘All three.’

Gamache stood in front of an image of three elderly women, arms entwined, cradling each other. It was an amazingly complex work, with layers of photographs and paintings and even some writing. Em, the woman in the middle, was leaning back precipitously, laughing with abandon, and the other two were supporting her and also laughing. It ached of intimacy, of a private moment caught in women’s lives. It captured their friendship and their dependence on each other. It sang of love and a caring that went beyond pleasant lunches and the remembrance of birthdays. Gamache felt as though he was looking into each of their souls, and the combination of the three was almost too much to bear.

‘I call it The Three Graces,’ said Clara.

‘Perfect,’ Gamache whispered.

‘Mother is Faith, Em is Hope and Kaye is Charity. I was tired of seeing the Graces always depicted as beautiful young things. I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.’

‘Is it finished? It looks as though there’s space for another.’

‘That’s very perceptive of you. It is finished, but in each of my works I try to leave a little space, a kind of crack.’

‘Why?’

‘Can you make out the writing on the wall behind them?’ She nodded toward her painting.

Gamache leaned in and put on his reading glasses.

‘Ring the bells that still can ring,

Forget your perfect offering,

There’s a crack in everything,

That’s how the light gets in.’

He read it out loud. ‘Beautiful. Madame Zardo?’ he asked.

‘No, Leonard Cohen. All my works have vessels of some sort. Containers. Sometimes it’s in the negative space, sometimes it’s more obvious. In The Three Graces it’s more obvious.’

It wasn’t obvious to Gamache. He stepped back from the work, then he saw what she meant. The vessel, like a vase, was formed by their bodies, and the space he’d noticed was the crack, to let the light in.

‘I do it for Peter,’ she said quietly. At first Gamache thought he might have misheard, but she continued as though speaking to herself. ‘He’s like a dog, like Lucy. He’s very loyal. He puts everything he has into one thing. One interest, one hobby, one friend, one love. I’m his love and it scares the shit out of me.’ She turned now to look into Gamache’s thoughtful brown eyes. ‘He’s poured all his love into me. I’m his vessel. But suppose I crack? Suppose I break? Suppose I die? What would he do?’

‘So all your art is exploring that theme?’

‘Mostly it’s about imperfection and impermanence. There’s a crack in everything.’

‘That’s how the light gets in,’ said Gamache. He thought of CC who’d written so much about light and enlightenment and illumination, and thought it came from perfection. But she couldn’t hold a candle to this bright woman beside him.

‘Peter doesn’t get it. Probably never will.’

‘Have you ever painted Ruth?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, frankly, if anyone’s cracked…’ He laughed and Clara joined him.

‘No, and you know why? I’m afraid to. I think she could be my masterpiece, and I’m afraid to try.’

‘In case you can’t do it?’

‘Got it in one. There’s also something scary about Ruth. I’m not sure I want to look that deeply into her.’

‘You will,’ he said, and she believed him. Gamache looked at her silently, his deep brown eyes calm and peaceful. She knew then all the horrible things he’d seen with those eyes. Murdered and mutilated women, children, husbands, wives. He saw violent death every day. She looked down at his hands, large and expressive, and knew then all the horrible things they’d had to do. Handle the bodies of people dead before their time. Fight for his own life and others. And perhaps the worst of all, those fingers had formed loose fists and knocked on the doors of loved ones. To break the news. To break their hearts.

Gamache walked over to the next wall and saw the most astonishing works of art. The vessels in this case were trees. Clara had painted them tall and gourd-shaped, voluptuous and ripe. And melting, as though their own internal heat was too much for them. They were luminous. Literally luminous. The colors were milken, like Venice at dawn, all warm and washed and venerable.