Chapter 10 #2
“You don’t know the real story,” Raymond replied before launching into the tale of how he won Jeanne’s heart.
“I was a resident at Boucicaut Hospital. One night, when I was working in the emergency room, they brought in a young man who was in terrible shape. He’d had a motorcycle accident.
It was summer, and a lot of the doctors were on vacation, so I had to operate solo for the first time.
I did my best, but it wasn’t enough; he died on the table.
That first patient I lost had an impact on the rest of my life—it’s almost ironic, when you think about it.
It fell to me to tell his family. I took off my gloves, my surgical cap and gown, and I made my way to the waiting room.
But there wasn’t any family there to speak to, just a young woman alone on a bench.
I noticed her right away because she was strikingly beautiful.
When she looked up, I realized she was there for my patient.
When I shared the news, she took it with remarkable dignity, not showing any outward signs of emotion.
She thanked me and left. But at the end of my shift, I found her outside, curled up against a wall and crying every single tear from her body.
She’d spent the whole night out there. I have no idea why, but I walked over and asked her to follow me in an authoritative tone.
She got in my car—a Simca eleven hundred I should never have given up—and we drove all the way to Trouville without exchanging a single word.
I parked in front of Les Vapeurs restaurant, and we ordered two crepes, which we ate while gazing into each other’s eyes, still without breaking the silence.
We didn’t say a word throughout the entire meal, or during the two-hour drive home, either.
When I dropped her off in front of her building, she simply thanked me again. Funny story, huh?”
“Your definition of the word ‘funny’ doesn’t always line up with mine, but I will admit it’s an interesting way for two people to meet. What happened next?”
“Ah, I’m delighted to see you’re finally interested in your old dad’s life.”
“It was Mom’s life, too, right?”
“Yes, of course. Anyway, three years went by. It was March twenty-first—I remember because it was the first day of spring. I was supposed to attend a charity cocktail party; I had promised weeks before that I would go. But when the time came, I had no desire to keep my word. Fortunately, a pang of last-minute regret got me there. The event was taking place on the top floor of the Théatre des Champs-élysées. I was standing there, admiring the view, when your mother appeared in a red dress that fell just above her knees. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and I couldn’t help but stare.
She smiled, then disappeared into the crowd.
Your mother knew immediately that I hadn’t recognized her; don’t ask me how—a woman’s instinct is more of a mystery than creation itself.
In my defense, she looked nothing like the tearful young woman I had driven to Normandy.
Much time had passed. For over an hour, we played a game of cat and mouse.
I would walk toward a table where she was chatting with friends, and just before I got there, she would get up and move to another.
Whenever I neared the bar, where she was waiting for a drink, she would go back to her seat.
Then finally, suddenly, I heard a voice behind me say, ‘You have no idea who I am, do you?’ You should know that your becoming a pianist didn’t come out of nowhere.
You got your musical ear from me. Though my memory for faces is atrociously bad, I have never, ever forgotten a voice.
And I especially did not forget the voice of the woman who had thanked me twice in that grave and melodious tone.
Without turning around, I answered, ‘Maybe a chocolate crepe and a seaside view would jog my memory.’ It’s a real blow to my ego to admit this, but I actually won your mother’s heart with that idiotic line. ”
“Now, that I would call funny,” Thomas said. “Go on.”
“We exchanged numbers—landlines, because mobile phones only existed in the cars of government officials back then. I called her two days later only to learn she was heading out the door to go to Biarritz for a story. At the time, your mother worked for Paris Match. She promised to call when she got back, but she called from her hotel instead. It was a Friday. She’d been writing her article in a beachside bar and would be coming home Sunday.
She suggested we have dinner together then.
Since the only restaurants open on Sunday were terribly depressing places in train stations or tourist traps, I invited her to my small apartment on Rue de Bretagne.
I went to the market in the morning and spent the whole afternoon cooking.
Around five o’clock, the phone rang again.
Your mother said she was afraid the traffic around Orly Airport would be terrible on a Sunday night, and she’d decided to come back the next day instead. ”
“What did you do?” Thomas asked.
“I had dinner for one and remained as calm and composed as she’d been the first two times we met. I was sure that was the end of it.”
“But it wasn’t . . .”
“Brilliant observation, son. You wouldn’t be here if it had been. The next day, as I was leaving for work, I found a small package on my welcome mat. It was a Basque cake wrapped in parchment paper, upon which your mother had written that she hoped I’d have a good day.”
“So, she came home on Sunday night after all?”
“Obviously.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Which only proves that you have a lot to learn about women. She didn’t want our first date to take place with just the two of us in my apartment.”
“So, what did you do after you found the cake?”
“I ate it during my shift.”
“I mean, what did you do about Mom! Did you call her?”
“Better. I sent her flowers at work.”
“Not bad. Romantic, even.”
“No, not romantic. Vengeful and calculating. Sending them to her office was a refined way of getting her back. Can you imagine what her colleagues must have said when the bouquet showed up?”
“Why calculating?”
“Because I knew those same colleagues would try all week to get information out of her about the man who had sent the flowers. There was no way she could forget me, even if she wanted to! My ploy worked. We saw each other again soon, and after that first date, we were inseparable.”
“Up until the summer you met Camille, you mean,” Thomas corrected him.
“Fifteen years later. And I don’t regret a single day I spent with your mother.”
Thomas turned toward his father and noticed he was staring strangely at him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Look behind me,” said Raymond.
When Thomas did, he noticed the facade of San Francisco’s Davies Symphony Hall, one of the most beautiful concert halls in the world.
“Why do you think I’ve dragged myself all over the city telling you my life story? If I’d told you where I was taking you, you would have said no. Come on, let’s go in.”
“It’s a lovely gesture, but a person can’t just walk into a place like that.”
“How do you know? Whenever I traveled, I loved visiting hospitals and seeing where my colleagues worked. Your lack of curiosity worries me, son.”
Thomas walked over to read the poster hanging on one of the columns: “Daniel Harding, Mikhail Pletnev conducting the Russian National Orchestra, Anne-Sophie Mutter, Jean-Yves Thibaudet . . .” The list of concerts scheduled for the next several weeks made him imagine himself performing there one day.
He pushed through the door.
The lobby was empty, except for a single employee at the ticket counter.
“I really must teach you to be stealthier,” his father said under his breath. “Ask him if you can visit the auditorium. Introduce yourself. A renowned French musician visiting San Francisco. I’m sure he’ll let you go in.”
“I’m just a pianist, and hardly a renowned one,” Thomas protested.
“Not yet you aren’t. Now, come on. Make your old man proud.”
The employee asked Thomas to wait a moment and then picked up the phone. Within minutes, the public relations manager came down. Just as Raymond had predicted, he was delighted to give Thomas a tour.
As they walked, the man asked Thomas about his career—an elegant way to make sure he wasn’t a fake.
Thomas spoke about his most recent concerts, and to his great surprise, the PR manager told him he’d heard great things about Thomas’s interpretation of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No.
23 at the performance he’d given in Stockholm in December, which the queen had attended.
“I can’t tell you how nervous I was when I learned that Queen Silvia would be there,” Thomas told him humbly.
The man took him through the backstage area to the main stage, which looked out over twenty-seven hundred seats.
He proudly explained that the concave panels hanging from the ceiling were modular sound reflectors that could change the acoustics of the auditorium to suit the composition, the orchestra, and even the audience.
Thomas couldn’t help but think that Marcel would find it all extraordinary.
“The wall hangings on either side can also be removed,” the PR manager added.
“We can even modify the reverb. I would have loved to let you try out all these marvels of modern technology, but the engineers are already hard at work on tonight’s concert.
Now come with me. I have one last thing to show you. ”
Thomas followed the man, and his father trailed behind him with an admiring look on his face. They left the stage via a door on the opposite side and headed down a hallway to an adjacent building.
“We have two auditoriums for rehearsals, which are also worth seeing,” the PR manager explained as he stopped in front of a light oak door.
Inside, Thomas was surprised yet again. The rehearsal room was big enough for a full philharmonic orchestra.