To have a show at the Galerie Fortin in the Outremont quartier of Montreal was to have arrived. He chose only the very best, the most cutting edge, the most profound and daring of artists. And he was connected worldwide. Even…dare she think it? The Museum of Modern Art in New York. The MOMA. MOMA mia.
Clara imagined herself at the vernissage at Galerie Fortin. She’d be sparkling and witty, the center of awed attention, lesser artists and major critics hanging on her every insightful word. Peter would be standing slightly outside the circle of admirers, watching with a small smile. He’d be proud of her and finally see her as a fellow artist.
Crie sat on the snowy steps of Miss Edward’s School. It was dark now. Inside and out. She stared ahead, unseeing, the snow accumulating on her hat and shoulders. At her side was a bag containing her snowflake costume. Stuffed into it was her report card.
Straight As.
Her teachers had tsked and shaken their heads and bemoaned the fact that such brains had been wasted on someone so damaged. A crying shame, one of them had said and all had laughed at the witticism. Except Crie, who happened to be walking by.
The teachers all agreed they’d have to have a stern talk to whoever it was who’d hurt her so badly she could barely talk or meet an eye.
Eventually Crie got up and began cautiously walking toward downtown Montreal, her balance thrown off by the slippery, steep sidewalks and near unbearable weight of the chiffon snowflake.
FOUR
As Clara walked through Ogilvy’s she wasn’t sure what was worse, the stink of the wretched bum or the cloying smell of the perfumeries in the department store. After about the fifth time some slim young thing had sprayed her Clara had her answer. She was offending even herself.
‘It’s about fuckin’ time.’ Ruth Zardo limped over to Clara. ‘You look like a bag lady.’ She gave and received a kiss on each cheek. ‘And you stink.’
‘It’s not me, it’s Myrna,’ Clara whispered and nodded to her friend nearby, waving her hand under her nose. It was actually a warmer reception than she generally got from the poet.
‘Here, buy that.’ Ruth handed her a copy of her new book, I’m FINE. ‘I’ll even sign it for you. But you have to buy it first.’
Tall and dignified, leaning on her cane for support, Ruth Zardo limped back to her small desk in a corner of the huge store, to wait for someone to ask her to sign her book.
Clara went off and paid for the book then had it signed. She recognized everyone in the room. There were Gabri Dubeau and his partner Olivier Brulé. Gabri large and soft and clearly going to pot and loving every mouthful of it. He was in his mid-thirties and had decided he’d had enough of being young and buff and gay. Well, not really enough of being gay. Beside him stood Olivier, handsome and slim and elegant. Blond to his partner’s dark, he was picking a distressing strand of hair from his silk turtleneck, clearly wishing he could stick it back in.
Ruth needn’t have bothered coming all the way to Montreal for the launch. The only people who showed up were from Three Pines.
‘This’s a waste of time,’ she said, her short-cropped white head bending over Clara’s book. ‘No one from Montreal came, not a goddamned person. Just you lot. What a bore.’
‘Well, thank you very much, you old hack,’ said Gabri, holding a couple of books in his large hands.
‘Great.’ Ruth looked up. ‘This is a bookstore,’ she said, very slowly and loudly. ‘It’s for people who can read. It’s not a public bath.’
‘Too bad, really.’ Gabri looked at Clara.
‘It’s Myrna,’ she said, but since Myrna was across the way chatting with Émilie Longpré her credibility was lost.
‘At least you drown out the stink of Ruth’s poetry,’ said Gabri, holding I’m FINE away from him.
‘Fag,’ snapped Ruth.
‘Hag,’ snapped Gabri, winking at Clara. ‘Salut, ma chère.’
‘Salut, mon amour. What’s that other book you have?’ Clara asked.
‘CC de Poitiers’s. Did you know our new neighbor’s written a book?’
‘God, that means she’s written more books than she’s read,’ said Ruth.
‘I got it over there.’ He pointed to a pile of white books in the remainder bin. Ruth snorted then stopped herself, realizing it was probably just a matter of days before her small collection of exquisitely crafted poems joined CC’s shit in that literary coffin.
A few people were standing there including the Three Graces from Three Pines: Émilie Longpré, tiny and elegant in a slim skirt, shirt and silk scarf; Kaye Thompson, at over ninety years of age the oldest of the three friends, wizened and shriveled, smelling of Vapo-rub and looking like a potato; and Beatrice Mayer, her hair red and wild, her body soft and plump, and ill-concealed beneath a voluminous amber caftan with chunky jewelry about the neck. Mother Bea, as she was known, held a copy of CC’s book. She turned and glanced in Clara’s direction, only for a moment. But it was enough.
