The Brutal Telling - Page 118/160

Now she felt like a schoolgirl. Words like “nice” weren’t used very often in the art world. Unless it was as an insult.

“You’re not trying to censor me, are you?”

His voice had become like treacle. Clara could feel his words sticking to her. And his eyes, once thoughtful, were now hard. With warning.

“No, I’m just saying that I was surprised and I didn’t like hearing my friend called names.”

“But he is queer and a fag. You admitted it yourself.”

“I said he’s gay.” She could feel her cheeks sizzling and knew she must be beet red.

“Oh,” he sighed and shook his head. “I understand.” He looked at her with sadness now, as one might look at a sick pet. “It’s the small-town girl after all. You’ve been in that tiny village too long, Clara. It’s made you small-minded. You censor yourself and now you’re trying to stifle my voice. That’s very dangerous. Political correctness, Clara. An artist needs to break down boundaries, push, challenge, shock. You’re not willing to do that, are you?”

She stood staring, unable to grasp what he was saying.

“No, I didn’t think so,” he said. “I tell the truth, and I say it in a way that might shock, but is at least real. You’d prefer something just pretty. And nice.”

“You insulted a lovely man, behind his back,” she said. But she could feel the tears now. Of rage, but she knew how it must look. It must look like weakness.

“I’m going to have to reconsider the show,” he said. “I’m very disappointed. I thought you were the real deal, but obviously you were just pretending. Superficial. Trite. I can’t risk my gallery’s reputation on someone not willing to take artistic risks.”

There was a rare break in traffic and Denis Fortin darted across Saint-Urbain. On the other side he looked back and shook his head again. Then he walked briskly to his car.

Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir and Agent Morin approached the Parra home. Beauvoir had expected something traditional. Something a Czech woodsman might live in. A Swiss chalet perhaps. To Beauvoir there was Québécois and then “other.” Foreign. The Chinese were all alike, as were Africans. The South Americans, if he thought of them at all, looked the same, ate the same foods and lived in exactly the same homes. A place somewhat less attractive than his own. The English he knew to be all the same. Nuts.

Swiss, Czech, German, Norwegian, Swedish all blended nicely together. They were tall, blond, good athletes if slightly thick and lived in A-frame homes with lots of paneling and milk.

He slowed the car and it meandered to a stop in front of the Parra place. All he saw was glass, some gleaming in the sun, some reflecting the sky and clouds and birds and woods, the mountains beyond and a small white steeple. The church at Three Pines, in the distance, brought forward by this beautiful house that was a reflection of all life around it.

“You just caught me. I was heading back to work,” said Roar, opening the door.

He led Beauvoir and Morin into the house. It was filled with light. The floors were polished concrete. Firm, solid. It made the house feel very secure while allowing it to soar. And soar it did.

“Merde,” Beauvoir whispered, walking into the great room. The combination kitchen, dining area and living room. With walls of glass on three sides it felt as though there was no division between this world and the next. Between in and out. Between forest and home.

Where else would a Czech woodsman live but in the woods. In a home made of light.

Hanna Parra was at the sink, drying her hands, and Havoc was just putting away the lunch dishes. The place smelled of soup.

“Not working at the bistro?” Beauvoir asked Havoc.

“Split shift today. Olivier asked if I’d mind.”

“And do you?”

“Mind?” They walked over to the long dining table and sat. “No. I think he’s pretty stressed.”

“What’s he like to work for?” Beauvoir noticed Morin take out his notebook and a pen. He’d told the young agent to do that when they arrived. It rattled suspects and Beauvoir liked them rattled.

“He’s great, but I only have my dad to compare him to.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asked Roar. Beauvoir studied the small, powerful man for signs of aggression, but it seemed a running joke in the family.

“At least Olivier doesn’t make me work with saws and axes and machetes.”

“Olivier’s chocolate torte and ice cream are far more dangerous. At least you know to be careful with an axe.”