Chapter 4
Thomas had a hard time waking up. He opened his eyes, still heavy with sleep, and realized that his ringing phone had disturbed his dreams. He reached half-heartedly for his smartphone and looked at the screen.
There was no point in rejecting the call—his mother would keep at it until he finally answered.
She poured a flood of words into his ear. Fortunately, his mother’s voice was soothing. He put the phone down on his pillow and listened, occasionally mumbling a reply.
“Were you able to get some rest?”
“Mm-hm.”
“I’m sorry you felt so bad after smoking. I shouldn’t have joked about it. Everyone reacts differently. Your father always loved to make fun of my allergies, claiming they were all in my head. What if they are? Whether they originate in my head or my blood, the result’s the same, isn’t it?”
“Mm-hm.”
“The big one for me, sweetheart, is garlic. Just a hint of it in a dish and I can’t sleep all night. Or rather, my stomach can’t.”
“Mm-hm.”
“You looked so awful, I felt guilty. I hope the effects have all worn off. If they haven’t, you can try the usual hangover remedies.
There’s nothing like tomato juice when you wake up to get it out of your system.
Lemon juice works well too. In any case, as sick as you looked, you were still very handsome. ”
“Mm-hm.”
“Your godmother and I will attend the concert tonight, but I’ll make sure she doesn’t embarrass you. And don’t worry, we’ll be happy with whatever seats you give us. Don’t forget to leave the tickets at the box office. Two, of course!”
“Mm-hm.”
“I just realized I’m repeating myself since I already told you Colette was coming with me, or I guess I’m coming with her.
We’ll see you afterward, in your dressing room.
I’m so proud of you, you know. I’ll never be able to say that enough.
What time is it? Only eight. Oh God, still early.
I’ll let you get back to sleep. Love you, sweetheart, see you tonight. ”
Thomas let his phone drop onto the rug. He opened his eyes and looked around his room. To his relief, it was filled with silence and golden morning light. The delightful solitude awakened his senses.
Since his mother had asked for tickets for tonight, that meant she hadn’t attended the concert the night before.
And that meant the night he remembered had never happened.
No concert, no mistakes, no Sophie, and, above all, no ghost. Before he could fully rejoice, he still needed to check. He called out to his father.
“Dad? Dad, are you there? If you’re hiding somewhere to scare me, it’s not funny.”
A memory pushed its way to the surface. The game he’d played with his father from the time he was little—they would take turns hiding and trying to scare the other by jumping out at him.
The game had started around when he was six and continued until the end of his dad’s life.
They would hide behind trees at the end of the school day, in a school locker room, in the foyer of one or the other’s building, in elevators, backstage, even at the hospital, where Thomas once managed to sneak into his father’s office with the help of his secretary.
Almost anywhere was fair game—except for the stage and the operating room. Those two were off-limits.
“Dad?” he called out once again as he threw open the door to his closet. It contained nothing but a suitcase and a coat.
Satisfied that he was alone, he turned on the coffee maker and sat down at his kitchen table to have breakfast, feeling a little depressed.
Later, in the shower, Thomas felt the impulse to talk to someone about the dream. Perhaps if he shared the details, he would become free of it.
Sylvain was a friendly longtime acquaintance, almost a real friend, who was also a psychiatrist and a music lover. Thomas had given him tickets to several concerts. Maybe he could ask a favor in return.
He called Sylvain and invited him to lunch.
Sylvain was no fool—he said he could tell from Thomas’s voice that he needed to talk, not split a steak.
A brasserie wasn’t the ideal location for getting whatever it was off his chest. A love affair gone wrong?
“Psychiatrists aren’t couples’ counselors, you know,” he said.
“It’s something else,” Thomas assured him. “And you’re right. A quiet place would be better. What I have to tell you is truly insane.”
Sounding intrigued, Sylvain told him to come to his office later that morning.
Thomas chose an armchair instead of the couch.
“Even if this isn’t a real appointment, you still can’t tell anyone what I say, right?”
“I’m already discreet by nature, my friend. But yes, whatever you say here today will never leave this room. Now, if you want me to help you, you have to tell me why you’re here.”
Thomas told Sylvain about everything he’d been through—or thought he’d been through—in great detail.
The doctor listened to him for an hour, taking notes but never interrupting. When Thomas finally finished, Sylvain urged him to try to put words to the question that had brought him to his office.
“None of what I’ve just told you makes any sense, but it seemed completely real. Do you think just one joint could have damaged my neurons so badly, enough to make me go crazy?”
“Don’t ever use the word ‘crazy’ in a psychiatrist’s office.
It’s taboo,” Sylvain told him. “No one is crazy. Everyone has his or her own perception of reality, because reality is, as you may already know, subjective. When you play for an audience, for example, you’re physically present onstage, but your consciousness is elsewhere.
Your mind projects itself as if in a dream, exactly like it does when you’re sleeping.
When a dream is still very present upon waking, we have to try to separate the real from the imaginary. The dream haunts us until it fades.”
“What day is it?”
“Saturday.”
“Then yesterday was real!”
“Friday always comes before Saturday, my friend, that’s a fact!
But maybe you experienced it in a sort of hypnotic state.
That happens to a lot of people. Sometimes it only lasts a moment, like the feeling of déjà vu that troubles us all; other times it lasts a little longer.
Even a small emotional shock can provoke it.
Our brain chemistry is capable of far more than we suspect. ”
“Do you think a psychotropic drug could have long-lasting effects?”
“Depends on the drug. Your joint certainly didn’t cause your problem. Your high comes from a much stronger and more tenacious drug: Judeo-Christian guilt.”
“Hmm . . .”
“During this episode, did your father reproach you for anything?”
Thomas nodded.
“I suspected as much. Tell me more.”
“I don’t know what he said exactly. Something about me never having asked if he was happy, I think.”
“You see, talking about it is already helping the memory to fade. Who else came to you in the dream? We’ll talk more about your father later.”
“Sophie, like I said.”
“Sophie, whom you’re no longer with because you were unable to commit to a real relationship.”
“Yeah, well, I guess,” Thomas mumbled.
“Even though she was ready for a relationship and wanted to be with you.”
Another nod.
“Who else?”
“My mother and my godmother.”
“Two women you love unconditionally, whom you can never push away. Two women you’ve never been in competition with, the way you have with your father.”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”
“I do. Did anyone else talk to you?”
“No, no one. Well, except this guy in the street who didn’t make much sense. He gave my dad a good laugh, though. He alluded to some comedian I’m apparently too young to know about.”
“Young or not, you’re magnificently astute in the way you used this faceless stranger to evoke the wounds of childhood. A representation of inattentive adults who never really hear what children say. You see where I’m going with this? Do you feel better?”
“Maybe, though I’m not totally convinced.”
“One more question, then, to reassure you. Are you absolutely sure you didn’t leave anyone out?”
“Are you talking about the conductor?”
“The conductor! The physical embodiment of authority in all its glory. The only person you see as capable of judging and validating your talents. I remember our school days well enough to recall how you struggled with authority. We’re getting closer now, but we’re still missing someone.
And it’s hardly a coincidence that you’ve left him out. ”
“Honestly, Sylvain, I can’t think of anyone else.”
“Keep thinking.”
“Marcel?”
“Exactly. Marcel, the lighting engineer. The one who turns the lights on and off and ends his sentences with ‘believe you me.’”
“What does Marcel have to do with anything?”
“Marcel is your conscience. He’s your ego and your superego, which are in constant conflict.
The fact that this nightmare seemed so real and just happened to fall on the anniversary of your father’s death signals that it’s a reminder from your conscience.
It’s telling you, ‘My dear Thomas, you haven’t finished grieving for your father.
’ Even if Marcel says ‘believe you me,’ super-Marcel tells you not to believe him, because you still have a long way to go. ”
“Marcel is telling me all that?”
“Yes,” the psychiatrist answered calmly.
“If that’s what you really think, then I believe you.”
“You see, you’ve come full circle. You believe me, you believe Marcel, you believe everyone, but now what you have to do is believe in yourself and accept that your father isn’t here anymore to protect you.
You also have to accept your own mortality, and above all, you have to stop being afraid to commit to the next Sophie.
And now, as much as I’d like to spend the whole day with you, I have patients with much more complicated situations than yours.
Have fun tonight. You won’t make any mistakes, your mother will be delighted, and neither Sophie nor your father’s ghost will haunt you. ”