“I’ve abused their hospitality enough already,” Thomas said as he stepped into the bathroom. “I’ll get an Uber.”
“A what?”
“A chauffeur,” Thomas replied while fixing his hair in front of the mirror.
“And all this time, you’ve been telling me you were broke,” Raymond muttered.
The car sped down Scott Street. Ten minutes later, they arrived at the funeral home gates.
A huge mausoleum built of white stone, with exquisite stained-glass windows and a copper dome, rose up from the center of a majestic park with freshly cut grass, groves of trees and shrubbery, and brightly colored flower beds. Long, equally majestic buildings stood on either side.
“Camille would have hated this place,” Raymond protested as they stepped through the gates.
“I think it’s beautiful,” Thomas told him.
“All this spectacle. It’s nothing like her. Her husband must have chosen this place to impress other people, as usual. When the four of us used to have dinner together, he was always bragging, even though he wasn’t even a millionaire at the time. His favorite topic of discussion was himself, and he could go on and on for days. He never asked anyone any questions, and he hadn’t the slightest interest in others.”
“He must have had a few good qualities, though. After all, Camille married him.”
“A youthful mistake. Maybe you’ve heard of such a thing?”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m committing one right now.”
One look at his father’s gloomy expression told Thomas that this was not the time for humor.
Raymond walked toward the Columbarium, and Thomas joined him. At the door, Thomas stopped to let his father in first, but Raymond didn’t move.
“Go ahead, go in,” he said. “I’ll wait here.”
Thomas entered the mausoleum. The combination of silence and light created an unusual atmosphere: serene, surprisingly joyous, and a little strange. The light that streamed in through the stained-glass windows created a mosaic on the floor. Six rows of varnished wooden chairs sat under the cupola, across from a modern marble altar. The rounded walls of the rotunda featured glass cabinets full of urns. Eight porticos led from the edges of the round room to more alcoves containing additional urns. Above the entrances were inscribed the names of Greek and Roman gods of the winds: Solanus, Eurus, Auster, Notus, Zephyrus, Olympus, Arktos, and Aquilo.
“Are you here to put in the lights?” said a voice behind Thomas. “The disco ball has to be installed in the center of the dome. It’s really important to my father.”
He turned around and saw a young woman about his age wearing black jeans, a fitted white blouse, and a cream-colored bolero jacket that added a touch of elegance to her delicate appearance.
“No, I’m not the lighting person,” he replied in hesitant English.
“Sound?”
“No.”
She looked at him curiously. Thomas felt an impulse to explain that he’d come to check the place out.
“Are you French?” she asked in perfect French.
“I’d have a hard time convincing you otherwise. Your French is incredible,” Thomas replied.
“My parents are French ... Well, my motherwasFrench, I should say. I grew up in San Francisco, though. That’s why I still have a slight accent when I speak French.”
“I didn’t notice one at all, and I’m a musician.”
“Have you lost someone too?”
“My father.”
“Which service are you doing? Dignity Memorial has so many options, it’s hard to choose.”
“What kind of service are you talking about?” asked Thomas, confused.
