The gallery was small, near the Black Sheep Inn. Not much more than a room with windows, above a bakery in Wakefield, Quebec. Word had spread: a retrospective of Jay Baillergeon, who never sold a canvas in his life but had played mandolin like a raccoon rifling through snacks, clever and slightly chaotic. Kurt painted alongside Jay in years past and played mandolin in the same old-time band, recordings no one put aside to enjoy in later years. Now Jay was gone. Cancer, but he left behind paintings and some tunes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The gallery was quiet. People came and went. The walls were hung with horizon lines that trailed off, a boot on a porch, a barn dissolving in fog and in the corner a battered mandolin. A small speaker played one of Jay\u2019s old recordings, in D minor. A reel slowed to half its speed. Kurt stood before a canvas titled \u201cLast Chord\u201d which was nothing but a grey field with one diagonal line. It looked off-center, like a string waiting to be plucked. A young woman approached him.
\u201cDid you know Jay?\u201d
\u201cYes.\u201d
\u201cWhat kind of painter was he?\u201d
Kurt looked up like trying to recall a shopping list.
\u201cWhat about his mandolin playing?\u201d she asked, \u201cthey say he was a genius.\u201d
Kurt answered. \u201cHe was unique. He just listened for the note that was already there.\u201d
The woman blinked.
\u201cSo\u2026 what made him great?\u201d
Kurt looked again at the diagonal line on the canvas.
\u201cHe knew when not to finish.\u201d
After a moment, Kurt walked to the mandolin case. The label said, Do not touch. He bowed slightly toward it. Then he left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That evening, back in his apartment, Kurt tuned his own mandolin. He played a tune he and Jay wrote long ago and stopped just before it resolved.
He let the last note hang.
Then he smiled, and poured himself a cup of tea.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"