Standing in front of the kitchen sink, Raymond was whistling his favorite old song, “Le Temps des cerises” (“The Time of Cherries”). Thomas felt like he was reliving a morning from his childhood, with him in the kitchen of his family’s apartment and his father making breakfast.
“Do you still like your bread just lightly toasted? I’m pretending I can actually touch things. Pretending is fun sometimes. It’s like being alive again for a minute, you know? You always used to sit at the table, where you would open your notebook and pretend too. You would act as if you were reading, but in reality, you were watching me. I could feel your eyes on my shoulder blades, and I enjoyed your silence. I would put the plate down in front of you, with the jam on the side, because that’s the way you liked it. You were already very particular about your food. I would unfold my newspaper, and then it was my turn to watch you, discreetly, as you ate. You would gulp down your milk and look me right in the eyes. Then you would take your plate to the sink, kiss my forehead without a word, and head to the stairwell to wait for me. Every time I walked you to school—”
“I would ask you what surgeries you had lined up for the day. Once, you tried to convince me that you were operating on a man born with two heads, and you had no idea how to choose which one to cut off. That story scared me to death.”
Raymond burst into laughter. “It wasn’t a total lie. Some other doctors, English ones, had just managed to separate twins conjoined by their occipital lobes. That’s where I got the idea. A crazy but rather funny one, I thought. So, have you made your decision?”
Thomas opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bag of sliced bread. He put two pieces on a plate alongside a spoonful of jam, grabbed his laptop, and sat down at the table. As he ate, he typed away at the computer, his father watching in fascination.
“You type so fast! I can’t believe I used to type my reports with two fingers. It took forever!”
“I’m a pianist. Quick fingers are part of the gig.”
“Who are you writing to, if I may ask?” asked Raymond.
“Okayabitz.”
“A foreign friend?”
“An online travel agency. Don’t get too excited. I’m just seeing if what you’re asking is even possible, and how much it would cost. When’s the funeral?”
“In three days.”
“I’m playing in Warsaw next Saturday, and there’s no way I can cancel at the last minute. If we were to leave tomorrow,” Thomas mused out loud, clicking through the flight options, “with the nine-hour time difference, we’d arrive the same day. That would give me over twenty-four hours to come up with a plan. Do you know where the funeral will be?”
“In a crematorium. Where else would a cremation take place?”
“Fantastic. Who doesn’t dream of visiting San Francisco and its famous crematoriums? And on Wednesday ... no, I’m not even going to think about what I would have to do on Wednesday. Then a flight back to Paris on Thursday, arriving Friday morning. And off to Warsaw on Saturday morning.”
“Is it very expensive?”
“It’s certainly not cheap.”
“But you can afford it?”
“A thousand euros, right next to the bathroom.”
“Flyingcoach?”
The look Thomas gave Raymond was answer enough.
“Plus, we have to find somewhere to stay—at least,Ido.”
“Oh, right. I didn’t think of that.”
“I did.” Thomas resumed his rapid typing.
“Who are you writing to now?”
“I’m on another website, looking for a room to rent in somebody’s apartment. Here’s an affordable one. Sixty dollars a night on the ground floor of a small Victorian on Green Street. They even speak French. Let’s just hope the crematorium isn’t on the other side of town.”
Thomas went and grabbed his wallet from the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging off the back of a chair.
“What are you doing?” Raymond asked.
“Good question! The answer, apparently, is that I’m getting ready to take a little trip with my dad while trying not to think about the fact that he’s been dead for five years.”
“Can I ask one more favor?”
