Chapter 1 #2
They went their separate ways in June, and July kept them apart.
Grieg tried in vain to rekindle their flame in September, but not even Vienna could seal the deal.
Their story came to an end in Madrid at the beginning of winter.
Ever since, every time Thomas had played Brahms’s Concerto No.
1, the conductor had had to instruct him to take his interpretation of the adagio down a notch.
“Are you staying?” his mother asked from the doorway.
Thomas stood and carried his plate to the sink.
“Leave it. I’ll take care of it. I like doing the dishes after you’ve gone. It makes me feel like you still live here.”
“I’m going to head home,” he said. “I need to get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.”
“Did you really put us in the eighth row?”
“They’re the best seats in the house.”
“Meaning, you’re sure you won’t see me sitting there, right?”
“You know why, Mom.”
“Just once, one time in your whole life, you thought you read disapproval in my eyes while you were playing. You were sixteen and still at the conservatory. Don’t you think it’s time you let that go?”
“I didn’t think I saw it, I did see it, and I blew my performance because of it.”
“Maybe my eyes weren’t lying then. Perhaps you had already messed up, from the very first notes. But you’ve more than made up for it in the years since, that’s for sure.”
“You know what they say: ‘An adult is just a child with debt.’”
“And you’ll be in my debt forever, sweetheart. In the meantime, you can stay as long as you like.”
“Do you have any cigarettes lying around, by any chance?”
“I thought you quit.”
“That’s why I don’t have any cigarettes.”
“You’ll find a pack in your father’s desk.
Colette smokes in secret during our Saturday-night dinners.
It’s rather pathetic at her age. She ‘forgets’ her pack, leaving it in the right-hand drawer, I think, or sometimes in the left-hand one, to spice up her next visit.
What do you think of my outfit? Have I still got it? ”
Thomas studied his mother’s black pencil skirt and white top. Age seemed to have had little impact on her graceful figure and her natural elegance, and even less on her impulse to provoke.
“That depends on the age of your date,” he answered innocently.
“How dare you!” she exclaimed, feigning outrage. “I’ll get you back the next time you need my advice, you’ll see. Fine, I’m leaving. I’m already late. Don’t have too much fun without me!”
She hummed as she left—an obviously deliberate, and successful, attempt to annoy her son.
Thomas stepped into the office and rifled through both drawers of the desk before finding the pack he was looking for under a pad of paper. He opened it and was surprised to find, rather than cigarettes, six masterfully rolled joints.
Thomas had only smoked pot once in his life.
Back when he was a preteen, his father had traumatized him with warnings about the devastating effects of drugs on young minds.
Wielding photographs and recent studies, he’d presented irrefutable proof that the consumption of illegal substances could damage the nervous system and dash Thomas’s hopes of becoming a concert pianist. Having a surgeon for a father was not without its drawbacks.
Since transgression is an integral part of life’s lessons, however, Thomas had risked it anyway—just once, on a weekend trip to Normandy with his friends.
Thomas had waited until the second night to commit his act of rebellion, to make sure those who had smoked the night before didn’t present any neuromotor deficiencies.
To be absolutely certain, he had made Serge and Francois complete a series of tests, including a three-legged race, a cup-and-ball game, and darts.
As revenge, his friends made his first joint extra-strong.
Thomas spent most of the evening with a goofy smile on his face as he admired what appeared to be a cow nestling between two of the ceiling beams in the manor they were staying in.
But tonight Thomas felt an irrepressible urge to smoke again, and since the joint he was holding belonged to Colette—his mother’s best friend, who had just celebrated her seventieth birthday—he figured it couldn’t be too dangerous.
Besides, he’d only take one puff, two max.
The end of the paper cone crackled as he moved the lighter’s flame closer.
The first puff filled his lungs, and since he’d never really quit smoking, he exhaled with a feeling of deep enjoyment.
The second delivered the calming effect he needed, and the third would be the last, he swore.
But then came the fourth. Thomas felt his head start to spin, and he stubbed out the joint in the ashtray.
He staggered as he stood up to get some air.
As he grasped the handle to the French doors, which remained closed, he heard a voice behind him suggest it would be unwise to lean over the balcony in his current state. His blood instantly froze in his veins, because he recognized that voice.
It was his father’s.