Chapter 7
Thomas went straight home. His father hadn’t spoken a word the whole way. When they got inside, Thomas put the urn down on the table.
“Are you going to sulk all day?” he asked, breaking the long silence.
“Wrapped up in newspaper at the bottom of an old shopping bag! Have you no shame? What am I, the special of the day?”
“You’re overreacting, if you ask me.”
Thomas went to pack. He slipped his passport into his suitcase but held on to his toiletries bag for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“You never know,” he finally muttered, grabbing his cologne.
He then unwrapped the urn, opened the lid, and spritzed in some fragrance.
“What in the world are you doing? Have you lost your mind?” his father objected, jumping to his feet.
“When was the last time you flew?”
“I don’t know. What difference does it make?”
“Trust me. You’ll thank me for this. Anyway, it’s not like you can stop me.”
“Thomas, if I reek of patchouli when I’m reunited with Camille, I will never forgive you.”
“Don’t worry, the scent is vetiver. Now, I’m going out for dinner. Alone!”
“Harsh words. But you should know that this little adventure we’re about to embark on could make one of your dreams come true too.”
“Given the circumstances and what you’re asking me to do, I can’t for the life of me imagine what dream that would be.”
“Haven’t you always dreamed of performing at Carnegie Hall? Why don’t you audition during this trip?”
“Because Carnegie Hall is in New York, not California.”
Thomas saw no point in continuing the discussion. He grabbed his jacket and left, hurrying down the stairs two at a time.
The springtime scent of renewal wafted through the streets of Paris. The chestnut trees were in full bloom, and Thomas looked up to admire the red and pink petals peeking out from between the leaves.
As he walked, he decided to cross a square that was overrun with weeds and trash.
It always shocked him to see how dirty the most beautiful city in the world could become.
He’d strolled the streets of Amsterdam, Madrid, London, Prague, Vienna, Budapest, and Stockholm, and not a single one of them could compare to Paris’s trash.
Only Rome had been littered with as much garbage.
He’d mentioned this to Sophie one day, and she’d accused him of acting like an old man.
Thomas didn’t understand what clean streets had to do with age.
What she could have meant was just one of her many mysteries.
The memory of their argument reminded him of the many messages his friend Serge—who was always breaking up and getting back together with his girlfriend—had sent recently.
Thomas called him now to invite him to dinner at a bistro.
No doubt the evening wouldn’t be particularly cheery, but listening to a friend’s misery wouldn’t be all that bad.
Serge’s misfortunes might help him to see that his life wasn’t so terrible after all, and his heartaches would no doubt remind Thomas that the single life has its advantages.
They met at L’Ami Jean, Thomas’s favorite restaurant in Paris.
Serge complained at first about the shared, cafeteria-style table, which wasn’t ideal for serious discussions, but Thomas reassured him.
The people to their right were speaking Japanese, and the diners to the left were most likely Australian, given their accent.
Thomas displayed a remarkable stoicism throughout the meal.
If his neighbors had understood everything he was enduring in listening to Serge, they would have agreed.
Fortunately, Thomas had a gift for daydreaming.
He’d first discovered this talent while at school.
No bored math student had ever shown a greater ability to flee the classroom with their mind.
And this first gift had led to a second: Ever since he was very young, Thomas had imagined melodies so vividly it was as if he were hearing them in a concert hall.
They echoed through his head as if by magic, beckoning him to imaginary journeys.
While Serge listed the countless ways his girlfriend had displayed a lack of care for him, Thomas let himself be carried away by Schubert’s impromptus.
First, the one in C minor transported him to an evening in Stockholm made memorable because the Swedes are such wonderful listeners.
Next, Impromptu No. 2 evoked a fall afternoon in Paris and kisses with a law student. What had her name been again?
“Are you even listening to me?” asked Serge.
“Of course,” Thomas assured him as Impromptu No. 3 brought his father to mind. Thomas had performed the piece the day after Raymond’s death, without anyone in the audience knowing that his black tie and tails doubled as mourning attire.
He shouldn’t have left his father alone tonight; he was wasting such a rare, impossible opportunity.
Why, since his father had appeared, hadn’t he tried to have a real conversation with him?
He regretted all the silences there had been between them, all the things left unsaid. And yet here he was, with Serge.
“Don’t look so sad,” Serge continued. “Even if she leaves me, life goes on, right?”
“Yes and no,” said Thomas. Impromptu No.
4 arrived in time to rescue him, whisking him off to Tuscany, just before his twentieth birthday.
Her name had been Fabiola, and she’d had magnificent breasts, her skin as soft and inviting as fine linen.
Her hands were so gentle. Whatever had happened to her?
“Do you think I should make the first move?” asked Serge.
“Whatever happened to her?” Thomas said, out loud this time.
“Since yesterday? That’s a strange question.”
“Please stop. I’ve had enough of people calling me ‘strange’ for one day.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Thomas said. “Go on.”
“So, should I call her or not?”
At that moment, the Trio for Piano in E Major popped into his head—a delightful melody.
One morning at the conservatory, when their teacher had been late, he and some friends had messed around, playing it jazz-style.
They’d all stopped laughing instantly when their teacher, a vain conductor, had come in shouting that Schubert was rolling in his grave.
Thomas was punished for snapping back that they were simply providing an opportunity for the composer to roll back into his original position, after all the writhing he’d surely done while listening to the teacher conduct Symphony No. 3.
“Call her,” Thomas replied, still amused by his memory.
“Would you mind telling me what’s so funny?”
“I’m just happy to be having dinner with you.”
“I suppose you’re right. What’s the worst thing that can happen if I make the first move?”
“That you make the second move as well and then call me in a month to tell me you’re unhappy. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to skip dessert. I really need to get home. I’m leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”
“Where are you off to?”
“San Francisco.”
“Good for you!” exclaimed Serge. “You’ve been dreaming of playing on an American stage for forever.”
“It’s not for a concert.” Thomas gestured to the waiter to bring the check.
“I see. What’s her name, then?”
“You’re not even close. I’m actually taking my father on a trip,” Thomas continued, hunting for his credit card.
Serge watched him, a strange look on his face.
“That was a metaphor,” Thomas corrected himself. “Don’t look at me as if I’ve lost my mind. If you must know, I’m going on a kind of pilgrimage.”
“I don’t need to know. Shall we split the check?”
“No, I’ll let you get it this time. My plane ticket cleaned me out, but I promise it’s on me next time. And now, I really have to go. He’s waiting for me.”
Thomas waved goodbye and ran out to the street to catch a taxi, which shortly dropped him in front of his building.
He ran up the stairs and found his apartment empty.
Disappointed, he called to his father. He opened the door to the closet in the foolish hope that his father would be hiding there, then went into the bathroom and leaned out the window to get a good look at the rooftops.
“Maybe you’re out. If you can hear me, don’t stay out too late. The alarm is set for dawn. It’s going to be a long trip.”
Suddenly, Thomas felt very alone. He wondered, as he headed to bed, if perhaps he was losing his mind after all.
Thomas woke up from a restless sleep at the first ray of light. He rubbed his head as he opened his eyes and called out to his father, but all he could hear was a city employee whistling as he swept the sidewalk in front of the building.
If his suitcase weren’t sitting right there on the dresser, Thomas would have assumed he was simply emerging from a very strange dream.
“What game are you playing, Dad? Or are you simply sulking again? If you want to miss the plane, just tell me. It’ll be easier that way,” he called out.
When he received no reply, he shrugged and made his way to the shower. Then he got dressed, made coffee, and paced around the apartment.
“What joke are you trying to pull on me?”
Thomas began to wonder about his mental health once more. With a frown, he studied the urn sticking out of his bag.
“Have you abandoned me again? Do you want me to go on this trip alone?” he asked, a little hopelessly. “Fine. Have it your way.” He carried his suitcase outside and closed his front door. “I’ll see to your last wishes and then we’ll be even.”
A taxi was parked outside, waiting for him. On the drive to the airport, Thomas turned around at least ten times to watch Paris fade into the distance through the back window.
At the check-in counter, the airline employee asked if he was traveling alone and Thomas answered, “Mostly.”
He stopped at a magazine shop and bought a copy of the monthly music magazine Diapason (that is, “tuning fork”), which he then flipped through as he enjoyed a macaron from the Ladurée counter—Ladurée macarons were one of his favorite treats.