The Long Way Home(90)

Myrna stopped, and Gamache stopped with her. The other two, not seeing this, continued on.

“Hundreds of millions of people believe in a God of some sort. They believe in karma, in angels, in spirits and ghosts. In reincarnation and heaven. And the soul. They pray and light candles and chant and carry good-luck charms and interpret events as omens. And I’m not talking about marginal people. This is the mainstream.”

Between the old homes they could see the river.

“Why not Muses?” she asked. “Besides, how else do you explain Ruth’s poetry? You can’t tell me that drunken old woman writes them without some supernatural help.”

Gamache laughed. “A ghost writer?”

“It really doesn’t matter if the Muses exist,” said Myrna. “What matters is that No Man believed it. He believed it so strongly he risked ridicule and even his job. That’s powerful, Armand, but it’s something else. That kind of passion, that kind of certainty, is very attractive. Especially to people who are directionless.”

“Are you coming?” Clara called.

She and Chartrand had stopped to wait for them.

Myrna and Gamache joined them and together they walked until they reached the archway that led to the hidden courtyard. It was where they’d first regrouped twenty-four hours ago. It seemed so long ago now, so much had happened.

While the others had been keen to join Jean-Guy at La Muse, Gamache had convinced them that Beauvoir might not do his best work with the four of them looking on.

So they found themselves in the now-familiar courtyard. The terrasse, which should have been crammed with tourists admiring the view, was all but empty.

This place seemed to exist only for them, and two lone backgammon players. Still there. Perhaps always there. Shabby guardians at a forgotten gate.

* * *

Beauvoir scanned the other servers, and his eyes fell on a middle-aged man who’d just appeared out of a door by the bar. Jean-Guy picked up his drink and moved to one of the stools. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Or, worse, he felt too comfortable. Too familiar.

He stood up.

“Salut,” he said to the older man, who was now behind the bar looking at order forms.

The man looked up and gave Beauvoir a quick, professional smile. “Salut.”

Then returned to what he was doing.

“Nice place,” said Beauvoir. “Interesting name. La Muse. Where does it come from?”

He had the man’s attention, though it was clear he considered Beauvoir feeble, or drunk, or lonely, or just a pain in the ass.

But the professional smile flashed again. “Been called that for as long as I’ve worked here.”

“And how long’s that?”

Beauvoir knew he was making a fool of himself. How useful flashing his Sûreté ID would be right about now. Such a difference between an inspector of homicide asking questions and a barfly asking them.

The man stopped what he was doing and put both hands firmly on the bar.

“Ten years, maybe more.”

“You the owner?”

“No.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“We’re not hiring.”

“I already have a job.”

The man looked like he didn’t believe him.

Beauvoir longed to bring out the ID. Or the gun.

“Look, I know this is strange, but I’m trying to find someone who might’ve known an artist called No Man.”

The man’s stance changed. He pushed back from the bar and gave Beauvoir another assessing look.

“Why?”

“Well, I work at a gallery in Montréal and this No Man’s art has suddenly gone up in value. But no one seems to know much about him.”

Now he had this man’s full attention. By dumb luck Beauvoir had said the very thing guaranteed to get both a response and respect. Two things Jean-Guy sorely wanted.

“Really?”

“You seem surprised.”

“Well, I never saw any of this No Man’s paintings myself, but Luc led me to believe…”

“Yes?”

“Well, I guess Van Gogh was a little you-know-what.”

“What?”

“Fucking nuts.”

“Ahhh.” Now there was a description of an artist he could get behind. “And so was No Man?”

For that he got a stern look. “He called himself No Man. What do you think?”

“You have a point. Who’s this Luc?”

“He’s the owner here. Luc Vachon.”

“And he knew No Man?”

“Yeah, well, he lived at that place for a few years.”

“What did he say about it?” Beauvoir asked.

“Not much.”

“Come on, he lived there for years, he must’ve said something.”

“I asked a few times, but he never really wanted to talk about it.”