“It must’ve been upsetting,” said Myrna.
“It was, a little. But you know, I was still happy. I was at the OCCA, doing art. In Toronto. It was exciting.”
“But you were upset about the Salon des Refusés,” said Professor Massey.
Clara nodded. “That was a professor doing it. It was humiliating. I remember staring at my work, front and center in the gallery reserved for failures. Where Professor Norman had put it. Peter came over, and he stood beside me. He didn’t say anything, he just stood there. For all to see.”
She smiled at the memory.
“Things changed after that. I wasn’t exactly accepted, but neither was I mocked. Not so much, anyway.”
Myrna had no idea Peter had done that. He’d always seemed slightly superficial to her. Handsome, physically strong. And he knew the right things to say, to appear thoughtful. But there was a weakness about the man.
“Can I give you some advice?” Professor Massey asked.
Clara nodded.
“Go home. Not to wait for him, but go home and get on with your life and your art. And trust that he’ll meet you there, when he’s found what he’s looking for.”
“But what’s he looking for? Did he tell you?” Clara asked.
Professor Massey shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Why Dumfries?” asked Myrna.
The two artists turned to her.
“I can understand Paris and the other places,” she continued. “But why a small town in Scotland? He’d just returned from there when he came to see you. Did he tell you about his trip?”
Again the professor shook his head.
“We talked about his time here, at the college,” he said.
“Is there anything that connects all those places he visited?” Clara asked.
“Not that I know of,” said the professor, looking perplexed. “As you say, Paris and Florence and Venice make sense for an artist. But then a small town in Scotland? Did he have family there?”
“No,” said Clara. “Then from here he went to Quebec City. Do you know why?”
“I’m sorry,” said the professor, and looked terribly sad. Myrna began to feel they were harassing the elderly man, haranguing him for answers he so clearly didn’t have.
She walked over. “I think we should be going. We have to catch the train back to Montréal.”
At the door, Professor Massey shook Myrna’s hand.
“We should all have a friend like you.”
Then he turned to Clara. “This should be the happiest time of your life. A time of celebration. Makes it all the more painful. It reminds me of Francis Bacon and his triptych.”
Then he brightened. “I’m an idiot. I just heard that one of our professors had to drop out because of illness. He taught painting and composition to first-year students. You’d be perfect for it. I know you should be teaching a much more advanced class”—he held up his hand as though to ward off Clara’s objections—“but believe me, by the time they get to third year they’re insufferable. But the new students? That’s exciting. And they’d adore you. Interested?”
Clara had a sudden image of standing in a large studio, like this. Her own studio at the college. Her own sofa, her own fridge stocked with contraband beer. Guiding eager young men and women. Emerging artists.
She’d make sure that what was done to her wasn’t done to them. She’d encourage them. Defend them. No Salon des Refusés for them. No mocking, no marginalizing. No pretending to encourage creativity, when all the college really wanted was conformity.
They’d come to her studio on Fridays and drink beer and talk nonsense. They’d throw around ideas, philosophies, predictions, bold and half-baked plans. It would be her own salon. A Salon des Acceptés.
And she would be the gleaming center. The world-renowned artist, nurturing them.
She would have arrived.
“Think about it,” Professor Massey said.
“I will,” said Clara. “Thank you.”
* * *
Dr. Vincent Gilbert lived in the heart of the forest. Away from human conflict, but also away from human contact. It was a compromise he was more than happy to make. As was the rest of humanity.
Gamache and Gilbert had met many times over the years and, against all odds, isolation and a life dedicated just to himself had not improved Dr. Gilbert’s people skills.
“What do you want?” Gilbert asked, looking out from under a straw hat he might have stolen from Beauvoir’s horse on an earlier visit.
