Chapter 6
As the morning light filtered in through the dormer windows, Thomas squinted and wondered briefly where he was. His memory of the night before was muddled.
Standing in front of the kitchen sink, Raymond was whistling his favorite old song, “Le Temps des cerises” (“The Time of Cherries”). Thomas felt like he was reliving a morning from his childhood, with him in the kitchen of his family’s apartment and his father making breakfast.
“Do you still like your bread just lightly toasted? I’m pretending I can actually touch things.
Pretending is fun sometimes. It’s like being alive again for a minute, you know?
You always used to sit at the table, where you would open your notebook and pretend too.
You would act as if you were reading, but in reality, you were watching me.
I could feel your eyes on my shoulder blades, and I enjoyed your silence.
I would put the plate down in front of you, with the jam on the side, because that’s the way you liked it.
You were already very particular about your food.
I would unfold my newspaper, and then it was my turn to watch you, discreetly, as you ate.
You would gulp down your milk and look me right in the eyes.
Then you would take your plate to the sink, kiss my forehead without a word, and head to the stairwell to wait for me. Every time I walked you to school—”
“I would ask you what surgeries you had lined up for the day. Once, you tried to convince me that you were operating on a man born with two heads, and you had no idea how to choose which one to cut off. That story scared me to death.”
Raymond burst into laughter. “It wasn’t a total lie. Some other doctors, English ones, had just managed to separate twins conjoined by their occipital lobes. That’s where I got the idea. A crazy but rather funny one, I thought. So, have you made your decision?”
Thomas opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bag of sliced bread. He put two pieces on a plate alongside a spoonful of jam, grabbed his laptop, and sat down at the table. As he ate, he typed away at the computer, his father watching in fascination.
“You type so fast! I can’t believe I used to type my reports with two fingers. It took forever!”
“I’m a pianist. Quick fingers are part of the gig.”
“Who are you writing to, if I may ask?” asked Raymond.
“Okayabitz.”
“A foreign friend?”
“An online travel agency. Don’t get too excited. I’m just seeing if what you’re asking is even possible, and how much it would cost. When’s the funeral?”
“In three days.”
“I’m playing in Warsaw next Saturday, and there’s no way I can cancel at the last minute.
If we were to leave tomorrow,” Thomas mused out loud, clicking through the flight options, “with the nine-hour time difference, we’d arrive the same day.
That would give me over twenty-four hours to come up with a plan. Do you know where the funeral will be?”
“In a crematorium. Where else would a cremation take place?”
“Fantastic. Who doesn’t dream of visiting San Francisco and its famous crematoriums? And on Wednesday . . . no, I’m not even going to think about what I would have to do on Wednesday. Then a flight back to Paris on Thursday, arriving Friday morning. And off to Warsaw on Saturday morning.”
“Is it very expensive?”
“It’s certainly not cheap.”
“But you can afford it?”
“A thousand euros, right next to the bathroom.”
“Flying coach?”
The look Thomas gave Raymond was answer enough.
“Plus, we have to find somewhere to stay—at least, I do.”
“Oh, right. I didn’t think of that.”
“I did.” Thomas resumed his rapid typing.
“Who are you writing to now?”
“I’m on another website, looking for a room to rent in somebody’s apartment. Here’s an affordable one. Sixty dollars a night on the ground floor of a small Victorian on Green Street. They even speak French. Let’s just hope the crematorium isn’t on the other side of town.”
Thomas went and grabbed his wallet from the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging off the back of a chair.
“What are you doing?” Raymond asked.
“Good question! The answer, apparently, is that I’m getting ready to take a little trip with my dad while trying not to think about the fact that he’s been dead for five years.”
“Can I ask one more favor?”
“Why not? What’s one more at this point?”
“Tell me how I look.”
“You look like yourself. I rarely saw you wear anything other than a straight-cut blazer, cuffed tweed pants, and freshly shined loafers, just like the ones you’re wearing now.”
“I wasn’t asking for a description. I’m asking, Is it elegant?”
“You’ve always looked elegant, even on the weekends. It impressed me very much when I was a kid.”
“That was the goal,” his father replied proudly. “I’m just asking because, well, if all goes to plan, Camille and I will be together again. And I want to make sure I look my best. It’s hard to keep up with style trends when you’re dead, you know.”
Suddenly, Thomas realized something shocking. His father appeared significantly younger than he had the day he died. He in fact looked like he had in his fifties, like he did in the picture Thomas always carried with him—a photograph of the two of them together, taken on vacation one summer.
“Your hair is a little bit messy, but it adds a nice rebel edge to your look.”
“Did you buy the plane tickets?” his father asked, impatient.
“I bought mine.”
“Of course! No need for the senior citizen discount now! I travel for free. My condition includes a few perks, don’t you think? When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. Now, I’m going to pack and take advantage of my last free day.”
“Don’t forget you have to pick up my urn from your mother’s house.”
“And just how am I supposed to explain why I’m borrowing your ashes?”
“Good question. We need a plan. Do you still have a key to her place?”
Jeanne was surprised to see Thomas again so soon.
“Aren’t you supposed to be playing in Vienna tonight?” she asked as she opened the door.
“No. No more concerts until Saturday, in Warsaw.”
“Vienna, Warsaw—it’s hard to keep track of all your dates and venues. I used to follow it all very closely, but I don’t have the time anymore.”
“I didn’t realize you were so busy,” Thomas said.
“Sweetheart, when you reach a certain age, time becomes unpredictable. It flies when you’re having fun and drags on when you’re bored. Since no one needs me anymore, I decided to simply have as much fun as possible for as long as possible.”
“You know I still need you,” Thomas said, giving her a hug.
“Stop, you’re tickling me,” she said with a laugh. “And you’re going to mess up my hair. I’m going out tonight.”
“Again?”
“And tomorrow too.”
“Are you seeing someone?”
“What do you mean ‘seeing someone’? I see lots of people.”
“Fine, don’t tell me.”
“So, what brings you here?”
“Can’t a son come see his mother without a reason?”
“It’s not to smoke one of my special cigarettes, is it?”
“No, I’ll leave those to you.”
“Hmm, what could it be then?” His mother glanced over to her two armchairs. She chose the one on the left and invited him to sit down in the other.
“You look worn out. Would you like me to make you something to eat?”
Thomas shook his head.
“Is it a broken heart?”
“No, I don’t have even one woman on my radar . . .”
“Thomas, you look exactly like your father, but other than that, you’re nothing like him. I don’t understand why you’re still single.”
“Why are you so obsessed with me settling down?”
“Because I’d like to be a grandmother.”
“There’s plenty of time for that.”
“Maybe for you.”
“Let’s not spend the whole day sitting here chatting about baby clothes,” his father stage-whispered from the couch.
“Could you please just let me do things at my own speed!”
“There’s no need to speak to me in that tone,” his mother said.
Thomas apologized. Jeanne looked confused by the angry glance he shot at the couch.
“Back in the day, whenever you were going through a breakup or were falling in love, you would call me, and we’d spend whole nights talking about it. I miss that a lot.”
“Ever since things ended with Sophie, my life has been a blur, my work taking me from city to city. Not exactly ideal conditions for—”
“And now we get the complete history of your personal life?” Raymond sighed. “Did you love this Sophie or not?”
“Yes. Well . . . I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” asked his mother.
“If I really loved Sophie.”
“In that case, you’re better off without her,” his parents both said, practically in unison.
“A smile at last!” rejoiced Jeanne. “I was beginning to think this was a funeral.”
“You have no idea!” Thomas blurted out without thinking.
“Really? Who died?” his mother asked, her curiosity obviously piqued.
“No one in particular. I mean, I imagine someone somewhere has died. Never mind. Let’s change the subject.”
“You’re acting very strange these days.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Why are you walking around with that old shopping bag?”
“I was going to buy groceries.”
“This is all a waste of time!” Raymond cut in. “Tell your mother you’re hungry. While she’s in the kitchen, you can steal the urn. We can’t spend all day here.”
“Would you please make me a sandwich?” asked Thomas.
“Of course, sweetheart. That’s what mothers are for. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“To the office, hurry!” Raymond exclaimed.
Thomas obeyed his father. To be safe, he peeked his head into the hallway before going in, to make sure his mother wasn’t hanging around nearby. He could hear her humming in the kitchen.
“Operation Office!” his father announced, as if they were high-ranking military officials.
“Operation Ridiculous, if you ask me,” grumbled Thomas.
Raymond’s former office hadn’t changed a bit.
It was a large, inviting room with French doors that opened onto a wide balcony.
The walls—covered in expensive beige wallpaper—perfectly complemented the oak floor.
Massive bookcases stood on either side of a fireplace that hadn’t heated the room in quite some time.
“Look on the top shelf,” his father suggested. “Probably near the window.”
Thomas stood on his tiptoes and reached up, feeling around behind the books for the urn.
Jeanne assembled a quick sandwich with cold cuts from the fridge. When she came back to the living room, carrying the tray, she was surprised to see it empty. The noise in the next room led her to leave the tray on the coffee table and quietly pad into the office.
She was even more intrigued when she found Thomas perched on his tiptoes.
“Are you looking for a particular book?” she asked.
Thomas jumped and turned around.
“Where are Dad’s ashes?” he asked abruptly.
“That’s one way to do it,” muttered his father.
“I used them to test my new bagless vacuum. Oh, don’t look at me like that, I was joking! I’m sure they’re where they’ve always been, though I’ve never checked. Still, I doubt your father’s escaped. Funny, he never spent this much time at home when he was alive.”
“Do you ever miss him?”
“Would you mind saving this kind of conversation for another day?” Raymond protested. “One when I’m not around, for example . . .”
“Well, then, go away!” whispered Thomas.
“Excuse me?” his mother replied. “You are really acting very strange today. And by the way, you’re looking in the wrong place.
Your father is on the other side of the fireplace, on the top shelf, behind Madame Bovary.
It was my little act of revenge. Here, use the armchair to climb up.
I don’t feel like going back to the kitchen for the step stool. ”
Raymond buttoned his jacket and disappeared, clearly troubled.
Thomas pushed an armchair—the one in which his father’s ghost had first appeared to him—over to the bookcase.
There, he finally found what he was looking for.
Reaching behind A Sentimental Education, which was just as dusty as the neighboring copy of Madame Bovary, he finally got his hands on the urn.
“There’s a small wooden box next to it,” his mother said. “Take that while you’re at it. If you feel like diving into your father’s history, or worshiping his memory, its contents will no doubt tell you more about him than his ashes will.”
“Can I take his urn with me?” asked Thomas.
“You may as well, given that you were planning to hide it in your shopping bag anyway. Remind me: How old are you, again?”
Thomas had the uncomfortable feeling that he was eight years old again, and had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Come on, let’s go back to the living room,” she said. “This office depresses me. I never stay long.”
Obviously intuiting that Thomas didn’t want to stay any longer, his mother led him to the kitchen, where she wrapped the urn in newspaper and placed it in the shopping bag, smiling the whole time.
“It’s all yours. He asked the two of us to keep the urn and its contents, but he never said which of us was ultimately responsible for them.
It’s your turn now, and good riddance from me.
It will do you good to reconnect with him.
The two of you grew apart toward the end of his life.
What? Why are you looking at me like that? What did I say this time?”
“Sometimes I can’t decide whether you or Dad was the crazier one.”
“Funny. Have you seen what you look like carrying that thing? Plus, why do you think the two of us got married in the first place? If your father hadn’t been at least a little nuts, you wouldn’t exist, my darling. Now, go on, get out of here. Have a little chat with him. I have to get ready.”