Now she felt like a schoolgirl. Words like “nice” weren’t used very often in the art world. Unless it was as an insult.
“You’re not trying to censor me, are you?”
His voice had become like treacle. Clara could feel his words sticking to her. And his eyes, once thoughtful, were now hard. With warning.
“No, I’m just saying that I was surprised and I didn’t like hearing my friend called names.”
“But he is queer and a fag. You admitted it yourself.”
“I said he’s gay.” She could feel her cheeks sizzling and knew she must be beet red.
“Oh,” he sighed and shook his head. “I understand.” He looked at her with sadness now, as one might look at a sick pet. “It’s the small-town girl after all. You’ve been in that tiny village too long, Clara. It’s made you small-minded. You censor yourself and now you’re trying to stifle my voice. That’s very dangerous. Political correctness, Clara. An artist needs to break down boundaries, push, challenge, shock. You’re not willing to do that, are you?”
She stood staring, unable to grasp what he was saying.
“No, I didn’t think so,” he said. “I tell the truth, and I say it in a way that might shock, but is at least real. You’d prefer something just pretty. And nice.”
“You insulted a lovely man, behind his back,” she said. But she could feel the tears now. Of rage, but she knew how it must look. It must look like weakness.
“I’m going to have to reconsider the show,” he said. “I’m very disappointed. I thought you were the real deal, but obviously you were just pretending. Superficial. Trite. I can’t risk my gallery’s reputation on someone not willing to take artistic risks.”
There was a rare break in traffic and Denis Fortin darted across Saint-Urbain. On the other side he looked back and shook his head again. Then he walked briskly to his car.
Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir and Agent Morin approached the Parra home. Beauvoir had expected something traditional. Something a Czech woodsman might live in. A Swiss chalet perhaps. To Beauvoir there was Québécois and then “other.” Foreign. The Chinese were all alike, as were Africans. The South Americans, if he thought of them at all, looked the same, ate the same foods and lived in exactly the same homes. A place somewhat less attractive than his own. The English he knew to be all the same. Nuts.