“Who else would it be directed at? Didn’t you hear Sylvain say I hadn’t completed the grieving process? And by the way ... your criticism of psychiatrists is pathetic.”
“Have you got some kind of psychological problem?” asked the driver, a hint of worry in his voice.
“See what you’ve gotten me into?” Thomas complained to his father.
“I didn’t get you into anything,” protested the driver. “You’re the one talking to me.”
“Who was calling who this morning in your apartment? ‘Dad? Dad?’ I had given you your space so you could get a good night’s sleep. Your mother’s the one who woke you up, not me.”
“She woke me up from a nightmare that I thought was over!”
“We’re pretty close to Pompidou hospital. I can drop you off, if you’d like,” offered the driver. “We’re less than ten minutes away. There’s no traffic.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need to go to the hospital.”
“If you say so, but you don’t exactly seem well. It’s your call. But no mental breakdowns in my taxi, okay?”
“I’m sorry, I was practicing my lines for a play.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” The driver sighed in relief. “What play? My wife loves the theater.”
“A Father’s Past.A complicated story about a father-son relationship.”
“Go ahead, joke about it,” Raymond cut in. “Mock me all you want. But if you wanted to kill your father, the way psychiatrists always suggest, you missed your chance. I’m already dead.”
“Hilarious.”
“Oh, even better, I love comedy,” said the driver. “I find dramatic plays depressing, but my wife loves them, and I love my wife, so what’s a guy to do? Who’s in the play with you?”
“I don’t have a good answer to that.”
“Is it a one-man show?”
“Sort of, yes.”
After that, Thomas remained silent. His father kept his eyes glued to the road, his arms crossed and a frown on his face.
When the car stopped in front of the Salle Pleyel, the driver turned to Thomas and asked for an autograph as he handed him his change.
His father followed him to the stage door.
“All right, I’ll stay here,” he said. “I’ll keep away from the concert, to avoid distracting you. But you have to agree to listen to me afterward. I really need you. You’re my son. You’re the only person I can count on, and time is running out.”
Thomas felt moved by his father’s distress. He’d never seen such sadness in his father’s eyes before. Raymond was a proud man, the kind to hide his emotions and always insist he was fine. And his son knew better than anyone that Raymond was not fine now.
“All right,” Thomas said. “Meet me here after the concert and we’ll go to my place. This time I’ll listen.”
Raymond wrapped his arms around Thomas, who could feel his father’s tenderness in the gesture. He hesitated for a moment, then returned the hug, which filled him with a feeling of satisfaction that was as strange as it was welcome.
The driver, who was watching from a distance, put his foot on the gas. “That’s actors for you,” he said. “Real pieces of work. Every last one of them.”
5
His father was waiting outside the stage door, his back against a lamppost. Thomas stopped to watch him for a moment. Raymond was wearing his usual blazer, tweed pants, and polished loafers. He looked up and smiled warmly at his son.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Not a single mistake,” replied Thomas.
