“Yes and no,” said Thomas. Impromptu No. 4 arrived in time to rescue him, whisking him off to Tuscany, just before his twentieth birthday. Her name had been Fabiola, and she’d had magnificent breasts, her skin as soft and inviting as fine linen. Her hands were so gentle. Whatever had happened to her?
“Do you think I should make the first move?” asked Serge.
“Whatever happened to her?” Thomas said, out loud this time.
“Since yesterday? That’s a strange question.”
“Please stop. I’ve had enough of people calling me ‘strange’ for one day.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Thomas said. “Go on.”
“So, should I call her or not?”
At that moment, the Trio for Piano in E Major popped into his head—a delightful melody. One morning at the conservatory, when their teacher had been late, he and some friends had messed around, playing it jazz-style. They’d all stopped laughing instantly when their teacher, a vain conductor, had come in shouting that Schubert was rolling in his grave. Thomas was punished for snapping back that they were simply providing an opportunity for the composer to roll back into his original position, after all the writhing he’d surely done while listening to the teacher conduct Symphony No. 3.
“Call her,” Thomas replied, still amused by his memory.
“Would you mind telling me what’s so funny?”
“I’m just happy to be having dinner with you.”
“I suppose you’re right. What’s the worst thing that can happen if I make the first move?”
“That you make the second move as well and then call me in a month to tell me you’re unhappy. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to skip dessert. I really need to get home. I’m leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”
“Where are you off to?”
“San Francisco.”
“Good for you!” exclaimed Serge. “You’ve been dreaming of playing on an American stage for forever.”
“It’s not for a concert.” Thomas gestured to the waiter to bring the check.
“I see. What’s her name, then?”
“You’re not even close. I’m actually taking my father on a trip,” Thomas continued, hunting for his credit card.
Serge watched him, a strange look on his face.
“That was a metaphor,” Thomas corrected himself. “Don’t look at me as if I’ve lost my mind. If you must know, I’m going on a kind of pilgrimage.”
“I don’t need to know. Shall we split the check?”
“No, I’ll let you get it this time. My plane ticket cleaned me out, but I promise it’s on me next time. And now, I really have to go. He’s waiting for me.”
Thomas waved goodbye and ran out to the street to catch a taxi, which shortly dropped him in front of his building. He ran up the stairs and found his apartment empty. Disappointed, he called to his father. He opened the door to the closet in the foolish hope that his father would be hiding there, then went into the bathroom and leaned out the window to get a good look at the rooftops.
“Maybe you’re out. If you can hear me, don’t stay out too late. The alarm is set for dawn. It’s going to be a long trip.”
Suddenly, Thomas felt very alone. He wondered, as he headed to bed, if perhaps he was losing his mind after all.
Thomas woke up from a restless sleep at the first ray of light. He rubbed his head as he opened his eyes and called out to his father, but all he could hear was a city employee whistling as he swept the sidewalk in front of the building.
If his suitcase weren’t sitting right there on the dresser, Thomas would have assumed he was simply emerging from a very strange dream.
“What game are you playing, Dad? Or are you simply sulking again? If you want to miss the plane, just tell me. It’ll be easier that way,” he called out.
