Chapter 12
“Why are we leaving so early?” Thomas asked as he knotted his tie.
“Because,” replied his father tersely.
“Feeling impatient?”
“I’ve waited more than twenty years for this. I don’t think impatient is the right word.”
“Nervous, then?”
“Wouldn’t you be, in my place? Go ahead, laugh at my expense, but I still remember your face when that Sophie turned up in your dressing room.”
“Fine, but the service doesn’t start for another two hours. Waiting outside the front door isn’t the best tactic if we want to be discreet.”
“That’s just it. I don’t want you to be discreet. Instead of sneaking in, you’re going to be invited.”
“Just what planet do you live on? Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. But, seriously, no one invites strangers to their mother’s funeral. It’s not a surprise party.”
“Just wait until we get there. You’ll see. Trust me.”
“Do I really have a choice? Besides, I like this better. This way, if your plan fails, at least I won’t have to be rude.”
Raymond looked at his son, a little smirk on his face.
“Rude to who?” he asked.
“To Camille’s daughter, for starters.”
“Manon, you mean. Did you forget her name?”
“Fine. Manon, if you prefer.”
“Oh, it makes no difference to me.”
“All right, well, let’s go, then. There’s no point in standing around and guessing what will happen.”
“There’s one detail we have to take care of first,” Raymond said. “And it’s an important one. How are you going to transport my urn? Not in a shopping bag again, I hope!”
Thomas looked around. His suitcase was too big and would attract attention. He went into the bedroom and rifled through the closets.
“I found something,” he told his father as he made his way back to the living room. He was carrying a canvas bag emblazoned with the logo of a bookstore.
Raymond complained that it was too plain for the task at hand.
“It’s not plain, it’s discreet. Anyway, it’s not like you’ll be stuck in it forever,” Thomas reminded him.
Raymond checked to make sure the bag was clean on the inside, then agreed, since time was ticking away.
The car dropped them off in front of the park gates. Thomas walked down the path and stopped about fifty yards from the Columbarium.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
“We go for a stroll,” his father replied.
“A stroll?”
“You’re a little young to be losing your hearing, aren’t you? Yes, a stroll. You put one foot in front of the other. It’s not that complicated.”
“But where? And don’t talk to me like that. Remember, I could be enjoying a quiet week at home in Paris instead of ‘strolling’ about, as you put it.”
“Maybe. But that would be deadly boring.”
“And you think this place is so full of life?”
“Don’t just stand there in one place. It looks strange. Go sit on that bench and play with your phone or count sheep if you prefer. Whatever you do, just act natural. That’s all I ask.”
Thomas shot his father a dirty look and went to sit on a bench in the middle of the lawn, across from the mausoleum.
He took out his phone and checked his messages.
Serge had sent a message informing Thomas that his girlfriend had moved back in, but that they’d fought again the night before.
Philippe had shared more news from the filming of his commercial.
He said he wanted to show Thomas the dailies.
Thomas’s mother was worried because she couldn’t reach him and wanted to know if he’d left on tour without stopping to say goodbye.
“They didn’t give up, either.” Raymond chuckled as he appeared next to his son.
“Who are you talking about?”
“The people who designed the bench you’re resting your rear end on. It’s an urn of sorts, if you can believe it. I bet they mixed ashes with the concrete. This poor Gerald fellow is stuck in that bench for eternity. Here, look at the plaque; I’m not making it up. Read it for yourself.”
Thomas leaned over to read the inscription on the bench.
In Loving Memory of
Gerald Filmoore (1949–2008)
Rest In Peace
“Maybe he spent his whole life standing up,” Raymond mused.
Thomas raised his eyes to see Manon looking his way from the entrance to the mausoleum.
“I think I’ve been spotted,” he whispered.
“About time,” his father replied, sounding relieved.
“She’s staring right at me,” Thomas fretted.
Manon walked over and stopped in front of the bench, then asked if she could sit down. Looking overwhelmed, she twisted her hands together without saying a word. Thomas remained quiet, hesitant to speak first.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she finally asked, breaking the silence.
“To be honest, I don’t know what I’m looking for here.”
He had hoped to make her smile, but he was unsuccessful.
“Is something wrong?” Thomas asked.
“I’m burying my mom. Everything’s perfect.”
“Was that sarcasm? Of course it was.”
“As if losing her wasn’t hard enough, now I have to carry out her last wishes. She put me in charge of them instead of my father! You’d think that a parent could at least try to make their child’s life a little bit easier when it comes to their death.”
“Amen,” Thomas said.
“I’m sorry to be so direct, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Am I right in remembering that you told me you were a musician? What instrument do you play?”
“I’m a pianist.”
“You’re a godsend!”
“I promise, God isn’t the one who sent me . . .”
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you, but I have a huge favor to ask.” Manon turned toward him. “I’ll pay you, of course.”
“What kind of favor?”
“The organist we hired had some sort of an attack this morning. Today of all days!”
“Now he’s dead too?”
“No, not that kind of attack, more like a sudden onset of dementia. His partner said he screamed while he was in the bathroom, then ran out, shouting as if he were being chased by the devil, and then fell. His leg is broken, and he has a concussion. So, is there any chance you could fill in at the last minute? I don’t understand why you’re smiling. ”
“A broken leg, huh? I’m sorry. It’s a nervous tic.”
Thomas glanced at his father, who was fiddling with his cuticles and doing a poor job of hiding his satisfaction.
“No need to give me a dirty look,” Manon protested. “I’m only asking because I don’t have any other options. My father is going to be very upset!”
“So is mine, but that will come a little later.”
“I thought he was—”
“Where is your father now?” asked Thomas.
“He’s attending the cremation.” Manon gestured toward the other end of the park, where the roof of an isolated building rose up from behind an evergreen hedge. “I couldn’t bear it,” she added quietly.
“I’ll do it,” Thomas said. “But I won’t let you pay me. What would you like me to play?”
Manon unexpectedly rested her head on his shoulder a moment, her eyes filled with tears. Thomas didn’t dare take her hand. Instead, he pulled out a pack of tissues and held them out to her.
“Here.”
Manon wiped her eyes and looked closely at him for a second.
“What is it?” Thomas asked.
“A feeling of déjà vu. Come on, I’ll show you where to go.”
They started toward the mausoleum. Raymond followed, lighter on his feet than ever. Halfway there, Thomas doubled back to get the canvas bag he’d forgotten at the foot of the bench.
Manon had accompanied Thomas to the organ, then abruptly abandoned him.
The arrival of the first guests had cut short her explanation of the funeral schedule.
Luckily, the organist had left his music on the stand in the correct order, alongside a page detailing the cues for the pieces he was to play.
Thomas would have liked to practice first, but a crowd was already gathering under the dome.
He leaned over the keyboard and studied the various buttons used to change the sound output.
Violins, trumpet, guitar, clarinet, percussion, and oboe .
. . the electric organ could simulate the sounds of an entire orchestra.
Thomas selected the button for grand piano and played a perfect chord.
“Not bad,” he mumbled as he adjusted the volume.
His foot touched the fabric bag containing his father’s urn, which he then quickly hid behind the altar before returning to his place. He continued to familiarize himself with the new instrument by gently touching the keys, as quietly as possible.
The room had filled up. The guests stood in front of their chairs, silently paying their respects. Manon was watching the door. Her light dress fluttered in the breeze. Then she turned her red eyes to Thomas and gestured that it was time to begin.
The first piece he played was Debussy’s “Clair de lune,” and since he’d played it so many times before, he performed from memory.
His fingers moved gracefully, solemnly accompanying Camille’s ashes as they were carried into the mausoleum.
Mr. Bartel handed the urn to his daughter, who placed it on the altar.
Then he made his way to the podium and delivered a pompous reading of Lamartine.
What good these valleys, these cottages, these palaces,
Vain objects that for me have lost their charm and grace,
These rivers, rocks, and forests, solitudes once so dear,
A single person is missing, and all becomes a barren waste!
Whether the sun’s journey is beginning or ending,
I follow its course with an indifferent gaze;
In cloudy sky, or in brilliant azure, it may set or rise,
What matters the sun? I expect nothing from days.
“Dear friends, we are gathered here today to accompany my wife to her final resting place . . .”
Thomas took advantage of the speech to look for his father. Raymond was sitting in the third row, his eyes focused on the altar, visibly moved.
As Mr. Bartel’s speech was drawing to a close, Thomas checked the schedule. He put away the first piece of sheet music and was surprised when he saw the second behind it.
“Huh. Vivaldi’s Gloria on the piano?”
Remembering that his instrument was more like a synthesizer than a Steinway, he pushed the “Violins” button, curious to hear the result.
He was not disappointed. The chords he played on the keyboard set an ensemble of violins playing different parts in perfect harmony.
Thomas delivered a spirited rendition, perfectly mastering the piece’s jolting rhythm.
Right when the choir would have made its entrance, the guests stood up and started singing, “Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, Gloria in excelsis Deo,” as if they’d done it a thousand times before.
Hearing them, Thomas played even more enthusiastically.
He felt like he was conducting an orchestra—one of his longest-held dreams—and the result was so magnificent that, at the end of the piece, the entire audience applauded.
Out of habit, he stood up from his bench and bowed respectfully, despite Mr. Bartel’s angry scowl.
Next, one of Camille’s oldest friends came to the front to say a few words. He spoke of her in tender, admiring, even humorous terms and said that he was convinced she was watching them from “up there.”
Thomas stopped listening as he placed the third piece on his stand. He froze upon reading the first measures. He quickly made a small gesture in Manon’s direction, then a series of larger gestures to get her attention.
“I think the pianist is calling you,” a guest whispered loudly.
Manon waved back, then realized Thomas actually needed her. As Camille’s friend continued his speech, she got up discreetly and joined Thomas.
“I think there must be a mistake for the next piece . . .”
“No, not at all. This is exactly what we planned.”
Thomas looked back to the sheet music. “‘Stayin’ Alive’? Really?”
“Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to warn you.
Mom wanted her funeral to be full of joy, like she was.
Like the second-line parades in New Orleans with the brass bands, where the music carries you off to another world.
Or like another life, in which all your dreams come true.
Mom wasn’t a big fan of jazz, but she loved disco music.
I know the choice is a little unorthodox.
My father didn’t want to do it, but I insisted, and her friends backed me up, so he gave in.
Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. And you’re playing great—bravo. It’s been perfect.”
When Manon returned to her place, Thomas—who, until that point, had been focused on the music—belatedly noticed that the guests had removed their everyday coats, revealing the surprising, retro-style outfits they’d worn underneath.
A woman in the second row was wearing a 1970s jumpsuit; her neighbor was dressed in green bell-bottoms. Further down the row sat a guy in an orange shirt with a huge collar, paired with bright-blue pants and leg warmers.
To the left, Thomas saw a woman in a bell-sleeve hippie dress and, behind her, a man in a silver shirt under a plaid suit jacket.
A few rows back, a man wore a ruffled top with silver sequins.
A pair of neon leggings jutted out into the center aisle.
Scattered around the room were gold gloves, huge thick-rimmed glasses, sequined ties, bright fedoras, and shiny baseball caps. It was like Halloween.
“What were you saying earlier? Oh yes, that we weren’t going to a surprise party,” his father joked, sitting on the altar.
The disco ball started spinning in the center of the dome, projecting its shimmering lights on the walls and stained-glass windows. The urns in the glass cabinets sparkled as it turned.
Thomas shook his head in amazement. “When she said Dignity Memorial had a wide selection of services, she wasn’t kidding,” he said.
But he was there to replace the organist and play whatever songs Manon had requested, so that’s exactly what he did. He was surprised one more time, however, when the guests pushed back their chairs and started dancing to “YMCA.”
Mr. Bartel danced, too, and even Raymond joined the crowd, swinging his hips as his son looked on, astounded. His father winked back gleefully.
The ambiance was unbelievable. Thomas played song after song from the sheet music in front of him: “Let’s All Chant,” “Just an Illusion,” “Hang On in There Baby,” “Ring My Bell,” “Don’t Leave Me This Way,” “Heaven Must Have Sent You,” “I’m So Excited,” and—the big finale—“I Will Survive.”
Then, when they’d reached the end, the guests gathered before the altar, across from the urn, and applauded loudly as they all threw their hats, scarves, and caps high into the air.