Chapter 11
The table brought together longtime friends and a new guest.
Though the Californian accent is fairly neutral, the conversations jumped around so quickly that Thomas had a hard time following all of them.
He didn’t mind, though; he was used to spending time with people whose languages he didn’t speak.
For the sake of appearances, he smiled every now and again, nodded, or opened his eyes wide with interest.
Paul kept glancing furtively at a piano that stood against one of the walls.
“Do you play?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, I started very young. I rented a piano when I was living in Paris, but I never played it. My heart wasn’t in it then. I started up again when we moved back here.”
“What neighborhood did you live in?” Thomas asked, making polite conversation.
“Rue de Bretagne. But I spent most of my time in Montmartre—so inspiring.”
“What a small world! My dad used to live on that street. Arthur tells me you’re a writer.”
“Supposedly. But I haven’t made any progress on my manuscript in months.”
“Why not?”
“I’m madly in love with Mia, and as if that weren’t bad enough, we’re happy.”
“I see,” Thomas replied.
“My editor won’t leave me alone. On a night like tonight, I should be sitting at my desk, but I always find an excuse to do something else. I’m afraid to finish it and even more afraid that people will read it. But that’s enough about me. Are you traveling for work?”
“No,” Thomas said hesitantly. “I’m actually here for my father.”
“Who lived on Rue de Bretagne! He’s in San Francisco now?”
“He’s no longer with us, but he wanted his ashes scattered at Golden Gate Park.”
Paul took a notebook out of his pocket and started jotting something down. “Go ahead. Tell me more,” he said, chewing on the end of his pen. “You’ve given me an idea.” Paul seemed to be waiting for Thomas to continue, his eyes focused on the paper.
“You don’t want to know. That’s only the tip of the iceberg. And no one would believe any of it, unless they’re into ghost stories.”
“Clearly, you have no idea who you’re talking to. I could have gotten a doctorate in ectoplasm studies with all I know about the subject. But what’s all this about ghosts? Is your father haunting you?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“That’s fantastic!” Paul exclaimed. “A father returned from the great beyond to work out differences with his loved ones. I’m telling you, now that’s a story.”
“If you say so. You’re the writer.”
Paul stared at Thomas and put away his pen. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate of me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not offended. You keep looking over at that piano. You should go play.”
“Yes, why not?” Paul agreed. “Mia would love that. Should I play some jazz or something classical?”
“Classical music might spoil the atmosphere.”
Paul winked knowingly at Thomas as he sat down on the piano bench. He uncovered the keys and began a ragtime number, turning toward his friends to see if they were listening.
They had in fact all gone quiet, as had several other tables, whose occupants were now focused on Paul. But not Lauren. She was looking at Thomas. “Do you play too?” she asked, leaning toward him.
“What makes you think that?”
“Your fingers have been drumming on the table ever since Paul started this little tune.”
Thomas nodded.
“Will you play something for us?”
“I’d rather not,” Thomas replied.
“Why? We’re all friends here.”
“Because this moment belongs to your friend. He’s doing quite well, in fact.”
“Are you really that good?”
Thomas glanced over at Mia, who was listening rapturously to Paul’s song.
“Didn’t she star in an English comedy? I forget what it was called, but I saw it four or five years ago, in London.”
“Did you live in London then?” asked Lauren.
“No, it was just a short stay for work.”
“Speaking of which, what exactly do you do?”
“How did Paul and Mia meet, anyway?”
“Do you always answer a question with another question?”
“Not always, but often.”
“Why?” asked Lauren.
“Now you’re doing it, I see,” Thomas said. “I’m not just being nosy, I promise. Actors travel a lot; so do musicians. I was in love with a violinist at the time, but I wasn’t able to maintain a long-distance relationship.”
“Paul and Mia met because of that movie,” Lauren said. “Don’t mention it to her, though. It brings up unpleasant memories. Her on-screen partner was also her partner in real life, but his loyalty was pure fiction. You didn’t hear that from me, though.”
“And since I’m deaf, I suppose Lauren’s secret is safe,” Mia cut in, turning toward them.
“I had gone to Montmartre and taken refuge in my best friend’s restaurant in Paris.
Paul was one of her regulars. And since we have no more secrets between us, let me give you a little friendly advice.
If you’re in love with a woman who travels, travel with her. That’s what I do with Paul.”
“Would you mind if I bowed out a bit early?” Thomas asked. “I’m exhausted and have a big day tomorrow.”
He took out his wallet, but Arthur waved a hand in the air, indicating that there was no need.
Outside, the night was cool and the sky full of stars. Thomas decided to walk back to the house on Green Street. He needed some time alone to think, and the half-hour stroll would do him a lot of good.
Raymond was pacing the Columbarium, taking in every tiny detail, just as he had always done before operating.
“I don’t like saying it, but I have to admit your husband knew you very well,” he said. He tried unsuccessfully to inhale the scent of a bouquet of wild roses that crowned the altar. “They barely have much of a scent, anyway, so I don’t mind that my sense of smell is gone,” he grumbled.
He walked up the aisle and sat down in the last row, to get an idea of what Camille’s guests would see the next day.
“This is a waste of time. Even if Thomas showed up last and sat way back here, Manon would eventually notice him. Think harder, old man, it’s tomorrow or never.”
He surveyed the room from the altar to the front door, his gaze halting on a chair reserved for Camille’s husband. He glanced past the front row to the electric organ, then to the door once more, before returning to the organ.
“Not the priest’s place, no. But this could do the trick,” he concluded, quite pleased with himself.
He stood up and ran his hands over the creases of his pants. As he did so, it occurred to him that not even death had put a stop to his old habits.
It turned out that he hadn’t wasted his evening after all. Feeling pleased, he happily walked right through the wall.
What use was there in doing things the same old way?
Raymond reappeared in Thomas’s room, then sat at the foot of the bed, looking down at his son.
“Are you asleep?” he whispered. “I found a solution to our little problem. We’ll need to leave a bit earlier than planned. A little before nine o’clock, at the latest. Should I wake you in the morning?”
Since he received no reply, Raymond moved closer to the pillow and whispered: “When you were little, you always pretended to be asleep when I came to tuck you in before I went to bed. You would close your eyes so tightly that I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I didn’t want to ruin the moment, given how much effort you put into it.
You would often forget to turn off your flashlight, and the light would shine through the sheets.
So, I’d go back to my office to read and wait for you to finally drift off, then come back and take it from you.
You know, Thomas, if I could stay longer, if I were allowed, I would make Camille wait.
I missed you so much during the last years of my life. I’ll miss you even more now.”
Raymond kissed Thomas’s forehead and placed his hands on the top edge of the sheet. Sadly, he found that he was unable to tuck his son in.