The Long Way Home(80)
“No, of course not.”
“Well, that’s what Professor Norman did. Ask your friend Clara how it felt. How it still feels. These are young people, Madame Gamache. They’re gifted, and many are fragile, having been marginalized most of their lives for being creative. We live in a society that doesn’t value being different. When they come here, to art college, it’s probably the first time in their lives they feel they belong. Safe. Not just valued, but precious.”
He held her eyes, his voice deep and calm, almost mesmerizing. And Reine-Marie felt again the pull of this man, even in his old age. How powerful he must have been in his prime.
And how comforting his message to the young, lost, wounded men and women who straggled into the college with their screw-you attitudes and piercings and broken hearts.
Here they were safe. To experiment, to explore. To fail and try again. Without fear of ridicule.
She looked at the worn sofa and could almost see the generations of young, excited artists lounging about in animated debate. Finally free.
Until Professor Norman got ahold of them. And then it was no longer safe.
The Salon des Refusés.
Reine-Marie was beginning to see just how vile that was.
“Would the college have Professor Norman’s address in their files?”
“They might. He was from Québec. I know that. He had a funny sort of accent.”
“Do you know where in Québec?” Reine-Marie asked, and he shook his head.
“Did Peter ask these questions, when he visited you?”
“About Professor Norman?” Massey was clearly both surprised and amused. “No. We talked about him briefly, but I think I was the one who brought him up.”
“Is it possible Peter’s looking for Professor Norman?” Reine-Marie asked.
“I doubt it,” said Massey. “He said nothing about that when he left. Why?”
“Clara and my husband and some others are trying to find Peter,” she said. “And it seems Peter was trying to find someone named Norman.”
“I’d be shocked if it was the same man,” said Massey. And he looked shocked. “I hope that’s not true.”
“Why?”
“If Sébastien Norman was insane thirty years ago, I hate to think what he is now.” Massey took a breath and shook his head. “When she left, I advised Clara to just go home. To get on with her life. And that Peter would come back, when he was ready.”
“Do you think he planned to return to her?” Reine-Marie asked.
“He didn’t mention it,” Massey admitted. “But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t going to do it.”
“Like looking for Norman, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.”
The professor’s gaze left Reine-Marie and found Ruth. She was down at the far end of his studio looking at another painting.
“I don’t suppose you have a picture of Professor Norman?”
“In my wallet?” Professor Massey smiled. “Actually, I might be able to find you one. In our yearbook.”
While Massey examined the bookcase, Reine-Marie walked over to Ruth.
“Is this the painting Myrna said was so good?” asked Reine-Marie. She looked at it and saw what Myrna meant. The rest were good. This was great. Mesmerizing.
She rallied herself and turned to Ruth. “Are you ready to leave or are you measuring the windows for curtains?”
“And would that be so laughable?” Ruth asked.
Reine-Marie was shocked into silence. Stunned not by what Ruth said, but by her own behavior. Belittling, even ridiculing, Ruth’s feelings for the professor.
“I’m so sorry,” said Reine-Marie. “That was stupid of me.”
Ruth looked over at the elderly man, pulling out yearbooks, examining them, then returning them.
The old poet drew herself up and said, “Noli timere.”
Reine-Marie sensed the words were not for her ears, just as the look on Ruth’s face was not for her eyes.
“Here it is.”
Professor Massey walked toward them holding up a yearbook in triumph. “I was afraid it’d gotten lost in the renovations. Or sealed up in the walls. You’d be surprised what they found when they took them down.”
“What?” asked Ruth, while Reine-Marie took the yearbook.
“Well, asbestos for one, but they expected to find that. That’s why they did the renovations. It was the other stuff that was a surprise.”
The yearbook was dusty and Reine-Marie turned to the professor. “Asbestos?”
“Yes.” He looked at her, then understood why she’d asked. He laughed. “Don’t worry. That’s just two decades of dust. No asbestos on it.”