“Artists?” asked Fortin. “What could you possibly mean?”
He laughed. It was easy and light. Gamache couldn’t help but smile back. It was hard not to like him.
Charm was also a tool, he knew, of the art gallery trade. Fortin offered cheese and charm. When he chose.
“I suppose,” Fortin continued, “it depends what you compare them to. Now, compared to a rabid hyena or, say, a hungry cobra an artist comes off pretty well.”
“Doesn’t sound like you much like artists.”
“Actually, I do. I like them, but more importantly, I understand them. Their egos, their fears, their insecurities. There’re very few artists who are comfortable among other people. Most prefer to work away quietly in their studios. Whoever said, ‘Hell is other people’ must have been an artist.”
“It was Sartre,” said Gamache. “A writer.”
“I suspect if you speak with a publisher their experiences with writers would be the same. Here you have, in my case, artists who manage to capture on a small flat canvas not just the reality of life, but the mysteries, the spirit, the deep and conflicting emotions of being human. And yet most of them hate and fear other people. I understand that.”
“Do you? How?”
There was a slight strained silence then. Denis Fortin, for all his bonhomie, didn’t like penetrating questions. He preferred to lead the conversation rather than be led. He was used, Gamache realized, to being listened to, acquiesced to, fawned over. He was used to having his decisions and statements simply accepted. Denis Fortin was a powerful man in a world of vulnerable people.
“I have a theory, Chief Inspector,” said Fortin, crossing his legs and smoothing the material of his jeans. “That most jobs are self-selecting. We might grow into them, but for the most part we fall into a career because it suits what we’re good at. I love art. Can’t paint worth a damn. I know because I tried. I actually thought I wanted to be an artist, but that miserable failure led me to what I was always meant to do. Recognize talent in others. It’s a perfect match. I make a very good living and am surrounded by great art. And great artists. I get to be part of this culture of creativity without all the angst of actually creating it.”
“I expect your world isn’t without its angst.”
“True. If I choose to represent an artist and the show’s a bust, it can reflect badly on me. But then I just make sure word spreads that it simply means I’m daring and willing to take risks. Avant-garde. That plays well.”
“But the artist…” said Gamache, letting it hang there.
“Ah, there you have it. He gets it in the neck.”
Gamache looked at Fortin and tried not to let his distaste show. Like the street his gallery was on, Fortin had an attractive front, hiding quite a foul interior. He was opportunistic. He fed on the talent of others. Got rich on the talent of others. While most of the artists themselves barely scraped by, and took all the risks.
“Do you protect them?” Gamache asked. “Try to defend them against the critics?”
Fortin looked both astonished and amused. “They’re adults, Monsieur Gamache. They take the accolades when they come and they must take the criticism when it comes. Treating artists like children is never a good idea.”
“Not as children, perhaps,” said Gamache, “but as respected partners. Would you not stand by a respected partner if he was being attacked?”
“I have no partners,” said Fortin. The smile was still in place, but perhaps just a little too fixed. “It gets too messy. As you would know. Best not to have anyone to defend. It can throw off your judgment.”
“An interesting perspective,” said Gamache. He knew then that Fortin had seen the video of the attack in the factory. This was a veiled allusion to what had happened. Fortin, along with the rest of the world, had seen his failure to defend his own people. To save them.
“As you know, I wasn’t able to protect my own people,” said Gamache. “But at least I tried. You don’t?”
It was clear Fortin hadn’t expected the Chief Inspector to confront the event directly. It threw him off center.
Not quite as stable, Gamache thought, as you pretend to be. Perhaps you’re more like an artist than you like to believe.
“Fortunately people aren’t actually shooting at my artists,” said Fortin finally.
“No, but there’re other forms of attack. Of hurting. Even of killing. You can murder a person’s reputation. You can kill their drive and their desire, even their creativity, if you try hard enough.”
