“Were you able to get some rest?”
“Mm-hm.”
“I’m sorry you felt so bad after smoking. I shouldn’t have joked about it. Everyone reacts differently. Your father always loved to make fun of my allergies, claiming they were all in my head. What if they are? Whether they originate in my head or my blood, the result’s the same, isn’t it?”
“Mm-hm.”
“The big one for me, sweetheart, is garlic. Just a hint of it in a dish and I can’t sleep all night. Or rather, my stomach can’t.”
“Mm-hm.”
“You looked so awful, I felt guilty. I hope the effects have all worn off. If they haven’t, you can try the usual hangover remedies. There’s nothing like tomato juice when you wake up to get it out of yoursystem. Lemon juice works well too. In any case, as sick as you looked, you were still very handsome.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Your godmother and I will attend the concert tonight, but I’ll make sure she doesn’t embarrass you. And don’t worry, we’ll be happy with whatever seats you give us. Don’t forget to leave the tickets at the box office. Two, of course!”
“Mm-hm.”
“I just realized I’m repeating myself since I already told you Colette was coming with me, or I guess I’m coming with her. We’ll see you afterward, in your dressing room. I’m so proud of you, you know. I’ll never be able to say that enough. What time is it? Only eight. Oh God, still early. I’ll let you get back to sleep. Love you, sweetheart, see you tonight.”
Thomas let his phone drop onto the rug. He opened his eyes and looked around his room. To his relief, it was filled with silence and golden morning light. The delightful solitude awakened his senses.
Since his mother had asked for tickets for tonight, that meant she hadn’t attended the concert the night before. And that meant the night he remembered had never happened. No concert, no mistakes, no Sophie, and, above all, no ghost. Before he could fully rejoice, he still needed to check. He called out to his father.
“Dad? Dad, are you there? If you’re hiding somewhere to scare me, it’s not funny.”
A memory pushed its way to the surface. The game he’d played with his father from the time he was little—they would take turns hiding and trying to scare the other by jumping out at him. The game had started around when he was six and continued until the end of his dad’s life. They would hide behind trees at the end of the school day, in a school locker room, in the foyer of one or the other’s building, in elevators, backstage, even at the hospital, where Thomas once managed to sneak into his father’s office with the help of his secretary. Almost anywherewas fair game—except for the stage and the operating room. Those two were off-limits.
“Dad?” he called out once again as he threw open the door to his closet. It contained nothing but a suitcase and a coat.
Satisfied that he was alone, he turned on the coffee maker and sat down at his kitchen table to have breakfast, feeling a little depressed.
Later, in the shower, Thomas felt the impulse to talk to someone about the dream. Perhaps if he shared the details, he would become free of it.
Sylvain was a friendly longtime acquaintance, almost a real friend, who was also a psychiatrist and a music lover. Thomas had given him tickets to several concerts. Maybe he could ask a favor in return.
He called Sylvain and invited him to lunch. Sylvain was no fool—he said he could tell from Thomas’s voice that he needed to talk, not split a steak. A brasserie wasn’t the ideal location for getting whatever it was off his chest. A love affair gone wrong? “Psychiatrists aren’t couples’ counselors, you know,” he said.
“It’s something else,” Thomas assured him. “And you’re right. A quiet place would be better. What I have to tell you is truly insane.”
Sounding intrigued, Sylvain told him to come to his office later that morning.
Thomas chose an armchair instead of the couch.
“Even if this isn’t a real appointment, you still can’t tell anyone what I say, right?”
“I’m already discreet by nature, my friend. But yes, whatever you say here today will never leave this room. Now, if you want me to help you, you have to tell me why you’re here.”
Thomas told Sylvain about everything he’d been through—or thought he’d been through—in great detail.
The doctor listened to him for an hour, taking notes but never interrupting. When Thomas finally finished, Sylvain urged him to try to put words to the question that had brought him to his office.
“None of what I’ve just told you makes any sense, but it seemed completely real. Do you think just one joint could have damaged my neurons so badly, enough to make me go crazy?”
“Don’t ever use the word ‘crazy’ in a psychiatrist’s office. It’s taboo,” Sylvain told him. “No one is crazy. Everyone has his or her own perception of reality, because reality is, as you may already know, subjective. When you play for an audience, for example, you’re physically present onstage, but your consciousness is elsewhere. Your mind projects itself as if in a dream, exactly like it does when you’re sleeping. When a dream is still very present upon waking, we have to try to separate the real from the imaginary. The dream haunts us until it fades.”
“What day is it?”
