“It’s all yours. He asked the two of us to keep the urn and its contents, but he never said which of us was ultimately responsible for them. It’s your turn now, and good riddance from me. It will do you good to reconnect with him. The two of you grew apart toward the end of his life. What? Why are you looking at me like that? What did I say this time?”
“Sometimes I can’t decide whether you or Dad was the crazier one.”
“Funny. Have you seen what you look like carrying that thing? Plus, why do you think the two of us got married in the first place? If your father hadn’t been at least a little nuts, you wouldn’t exist, my darling. Now, go on, get out of here. Have a little chat with him. I have to get ready.”
7
Thomas went straight home. His father hadn’t spoken a word the whole way. When they got inside, Thomas put the urn down on the table.
“Are you going to sulk all day?” he asked, breaking the long silence.
“Wrapped up in newspaper at the bottom of an old shopping bag! Have you no shame? What am I, the special of the day?”
“You’re overreacting, if you ask me.”
Thomas went to pack. He slipped his passport into his suitcase but held on to his toiletries bag for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“You never know,” he finally muttered, grabbing his cologne.
He then unwrapped the urn, opened the lid, and spritzed in some fragrance.
“What in the world are you doing? Have you lost your mind?” his father objected, jumping to his feet.
“When was the last time you flew?”
“I don’t know. What difference does it make?”
“Trust me. You’ll thank me for this. Anyway, it’s not like you can stop me.”
“Thomas, if I reek of patchouli when I’m reunited with Camille, I will never forgive you.”
“Don’t worry, the scent is vetiver. Now, I’m going out for dinner. Alone!”
“Harsh words. But you should know that this little adventure we’re about to embark on could make one of your dreams come true too.”
“Given the circumstances and what you’re asking me to do, I can’t for the life of me imagine what dream that would be.”
“Haven’t you always dreamed of performing at Carnegie Hall? Why don’t you audition during this trip?”
“Because Carnegie Hall is in New York, not California.”
Thomas saw no point in continuing the discussion. He grabbed his jacket and left, hurrying down the stairs two at a time.
The springtime scent of renewal wafted through the streets of Paris. The chestnut trees were in full bloom, and Thomas looked up to admire the red and pink petals peeking out from between the leaves.
As he walked, he decided to cross a square that was overrun with weeds and trash. It always shocked him to see how dirty the most beautiful city in the world could become. He’d strolled the streets of Amsterdam, Madrid, London, Prague, Vienna, Budapest, and Stockholm, and not a single one of them could compare to Paris’s trash. Only Rome had been littered with as much garbage. He’d mentioned this to Sophie one day, and she’d accused him of acting like an old man. Thomas didn’t understand what clean streets had to do with age. What she could have meant was just one of her many mysteries. The memory of their argument reminded him of the many messages his friend Serge—who was always breaking up and getting back together with his girlfriend—had sent recently. Thomas called him now to invite him to dinner at a bistro. No doubt the evening wouldn’t be particularly cheery, but listening to a friend’s misery wouldn’t be all that bad. Serge’s misfortunes might help him to see that his life wasn’t so terrible after all, and his heartaches would no doubt remind Thomas that the single life has its advantages.
They met at L’Ami Jean, Thomas’s favorite restaurant in Paris. Serge complained at first about the shared, cafeteria-style table, which wasn’t ideal for serious discussions, but Thomas reassured him. The people to their right were speaking Japanese, and the diners to the left were most likely Australian, given their accent.
Thomas displayed a remarkable stoicism throughout the meal. If his neighbors had understood everything he was enduring in listening to Serge, they would have agreed. Fortunately, Thomas had a gift for daydreaming. He’d first discovered this talent while at school. No bored math student had ever shown a greater ability to flee the classroom with their mind. And this first gift had led to a second: Ever since he was very young, Thomas had imagined melodies so vividly it was as if he were hearing them in a concert hall. They echoed through his head as if by magic, beckoning him to imaginary journeys. While Serge listed the countless ways his girlfriend had displayed a lack of care for him, Thomas let himself be carried away by Schubert’s impromptus. First, the one in C minor transported him to an evening in Stockholm made memorable because the Swedes are such wonderful listeners. Next, Impromptu No. 2 evoked a fall afternoon in Paris and kisses with a law student. What had her name been again?
“Are you even listening to me?” asked Serge.
“Of course,” Thomas assured him as Impromptu No. 3 brought his father to mind. Thomas had performed the piece the day after Raymond’s death, without anyone in the audience knowing that his black tie and tails doubled as mourning attire.
He shouldn’t have left his father alone tonight; he was wasting such a rare, impossible opportunity. Why, since his father had appeared, hadn’t he tried to have a real conversation with him? He regretted all the silences there had been between them, all the things left unsaid. And yet here he was, with Serge.
“Don’t look so sad,” Serge continued. “Even if she leaves me, life goes on, right?”
