Chapter 3
The low rumbling of the crowd rolled through the house, barreling past the backstage curtains.
Like an ocean swelling in the wind, anticipation mounted in those who’d come to listen.
The orchestra members stood in a single-file line in the hallway that led to the stage.
The lights dimmed, and the musicians took their places.
They tuned their instruments in a joyful cacophony that hushed the audience.
Then it was the pianist’s turn to enter the stage.
Colette shot up from her seat and shouted “bravo,” further stirring the applause. The conductor climbed onto his platform and turned around to greet Thomas, who stood up from his bench and bowed in return. Marcel was at his post, bathing the Steinway in an almost celestial light.
The conductor lifted his baton. Thomas filled his lungs with air and raised his arms, then delivered the eight measures of slow chords that opened the piece, like a chorus of solemn bells.
Then his fingers ran free over the ivory keys, producing a torrent of eighth notes.
The violins soon joined him in a murmur that conjured a winter wind gusting across the steppe.
Thomas closed his eyes. He was already elsewhere, in Russia, another world, another time, where nothing existed but this romantic fury.
As his hands made their way toward the high notes, Colette jumped up again, this time to get a better view of his agile fingers, which filled her godmother’s heart with pride. Jeanne grabbed hold of her and made her sit down.
Performing on a stage gave Thomas a feeling of rapture like nothing else he’d ever known.
He was now in a deep discussion with the violins, and the oboes were about to join in.
Rachmaninoff had written his Concerto No.
2 while undergoing hypnosis treatment, and the score tells the tale of a rebirth.
At the beginning of the first movement, the composer emerges from his torpor, then majestically evokes the pain he has just relived.
It was as if Thomas and Rachmaninoff were now one, as if the Russian’s ghost had sat down next to him to play, his fingers hovering above Thomas’s. It was almost as if . . .
Thomas glanced furtively at the audience and saw his father sitting in the front row, levitating on the knees of a young woman who seemed totally oblivious to his presence.
The conductor showed visible surprise when he heard the pianist skip a few notes.
Luckily, he was enough of a virtuoso that he caught up quickly.
The orchestra was carrying the melody now, and the piano replied with graceful song.
Thomas took advantage of the silence that followed the end of the first movement to wipe his brow.
Then the adagio began, slowly, as the flutes and oboes exchanged secrets, the piano spying upon them.
Another quick glance—his father had crossed his legs and was smiling proudly.
The conductor turned around, intrigued by this second mistake during a wave of rising intensity dominated by the orchestra.
Thomas pulled himself together to execute a masterly crescendo and an exquisite staccato.
“Something’s wrong,” said Colette.
“Yeah . . . with you! Be quiet,” whispered Jeanne.
“It’s freezing in here, but he’s sweating like a pig.”
“It’s the spotlights,” said Jeanne. “You have to stop talking!”
“Look, he keeps shooting strange looks at that woman in the front row. I’m not making it up; surely you can see he’s not his usual self.”
“You’re the one who’s not acting normal. He’s fine and he’s playing like a god!”
“If you say so. I’ll leave it at that.”
“Shut up and listen.”
Their neighbors were visibly annoyed by their conversation. Jeanne smiled apologetically, gesturing at her friend in a manner that suggested she was a few marbles short.
“Go ahead, tell them I’m the crazy one,” muttered Colette.
When the third movement started, Thomas left the Russian steppe.
The allegro began with a long passage carried by the orchestra, during which the pianist had a difficult time concentrating as he tried desperately not to look at Raymond, who kept crossing and uncrossing his legs.
This habit had always annoyed Thomas. Was it even possible for ghosts to be uncomfortable?
A long solo was up next, and if he made even the slightest error, there would be no other instruments to mask his mistake.
The intense look the conductor was giving Thomas said much about what awaited him after the concert.
He had to hang in there until his backup—the flutes and oboes again—arrived.
He had to reach the last measure despite the tingling in his fingers, the drops of sweat pearling on his brow, and a heart shaken by apparitions.
He had to stop looking, had to forget the audience and think only of the impending visit from his mother and godmother in his dressing room.
This was just another panic attack, like his father had said the night before . . . but no, that was ridiculous.
His father couldn’t have said anything, because he’d been dead for five years.
Thomas played the final four chords, triumphantly ending the movement to the audience’s delight.
Colette leapt out of her seat, again shouting “bravo,” a move replicated by the entire audience, which showered the musicians with thunderous applause.
The conductor gestured toward the pianist, publicly recognizing his triumph, but when their eyes met, Thomas wasn’t fooled—he was furious.
The pianist walked to the edge of the stage and bowed three times to boisterous applause. Then it was the orchestra’s turn to stand up and receive its share of praise from the enchanted audience. The curtain fell and the house lights came on.
The conductor put away his baton and came backstage.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas explained. “I felt a little unwell.”
“I noticed. Nothing serious?”
“Nothing that could jeopardize tomorrow’s performance, I promise.”
“I hope not,” the man replied haughtily as he made his way toward his dressing room.
Thomas went to his own dressing room. He traded his tailcoat and black pants for jeans and a T-shirt, then sat down in the armchair across from the mirror, wondering whether he needed to see a professional.
There came a knock at the door, which opened before he could answer.
He was expecting to see his mother and godmother, but tonight was full of surprises—he found himself face-to-face with Sophie.
“I wasn’t sure you’d pull it off, but you did all right,” she said with a smile.
She was stunning in her long black dress. She’d worn her hair up, the way she did when she played, reminding Thomas of the times they’d performed together.
“I didn’t know you were in Paris,” he said as he got to his feet.
“A coincidence. I’m leaving again tomorrow and wanted to stop by. I considered just texting you when I got back to Rome, but you seemed so bereft when you left the stage.”
“Well, it means a lot to me that you came.”
“I saw your name on the poster when I walked past this morning. No, that’s a lie. I still sometimes follow your tours. Don’t ask me why; I have no idea myself.”
“Do you want to get dinner somewhere?” he suggested.
“I’ve met someone, Thomas. Someone who makes me happy. I figured this was as good a time as any to tell you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know, but it’s better to be open about these things. You aren’t angry with me?”
“For being happy? Why would I be angry about that?”
“Because I was also happy with you. You lifted me up without ever truly sweeping me off my feet, held me without truly possessing me, and loved me without desiring me. Does that remind you of anything? Never mind, that’s life. I have no regrets.”
“César and Rosalie. We watched it over and over again when we were performing in Stockholm. It was dubbed in Swedish, but I recited the dialogue for you.”
“Without recognizing how much those words hit home.”
“Is he a musician, this guy you’re seeing?”
“No. Maybe that’s why we have a real chance at something. He owns a restaurant in Rome. Not very musical, I know, but you and I are like sailors. We’ll drown if we don’t have a port to call home.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
She walked over to him, gave him a tight hug, and gently touched his cheek.
“You deserve to be happy, too, Thomas. When you meet her, don’t let her leave like you did with me. Find the courage to actually want to love her.”
She kissed his forehead, turned to leave, and then looked back from the doorway. “If I’m not mistaken, you skipped a few notes in the adagio.”
And with that she was gone.
Thomas waited a few seconds, then returned to his chair facing the mirror, and to his thoughts.
“A masterful display of feminine genius!” exclaimed his father as he appeared in the mirror.
“She must have really planned out her revenge. I have to hand it to her: It was a consummate performance. Such cruelty! And the way she touched your cheek with that hint of maternal affection. Vicious and talented.” He mimed applause. “Checkmate, buddy, she got you good.”
“Would you please just leave me alone?” groaned Thomas.
“After what I just witnessed? No way. I had no idea I’d neglected your emotional education to such a degree.
I hope you’ll remember at least part of the lesson she’s just taught you.
It took her just two minutes and a few sentences to let you know you’re nothing but a memory.
She came right up to the net to let you hope there might still be something between you, and then she delivered the smash—you missed your chance at happiness, which of course she embodied.
There was no way you could hit that one back.
Magnificent, I must say. Then, not satisfied with having brought you to your knees, she added insult to injury with her mention of your mistake. A real dragon!”
“Are you done?”
“I said everything I had to say.”