Thomas’s eyes widened as he watched his father’s form float from the armchair to the mantel, then to the wall across from him, and finally to the corner of the desk.
“Not bad!” his father exclaimed, delighted by his own performance. “I know this must all seem strange, but I promise you’re not hallucinating. I really am here, believe you me.”
“I feel like I’m talking to Marcel.”
“Who’s Marcel?” asked Raymond.
“The head lighting engineer at Pleyel. Whenever he critiques my performances, he punctuates his sentence with a ‘believe you me, Mr. Thomas.’”
“Doyou believe him, this lighting engineer?”
“Yes, he’s a great music lover.”
“But you don’t trust your father?”
“Marcel is alive. That may seem like a minor detail to you, but it’s a major one to me!” Thomas felt his heart begin to race. “Why am I even answering you? What did I smoke?”
“Look, I figured it would take a while to get through to you, and I’m prepared to be patient, even if we’re running out of time. Now, think back to your childhood. When I sat on your bed and told you bedtime stories full of fairies, demons, and creatures with incredible powers from faraway lands, you listened to my voice in the dark, right? And you let yourself believe in my imaginary worlds, didn’t you?”
Thomas nodded.
“So, why not believe me now?”
“You’re going to stay in this room. I’m going to get up, go into the bathroom, and wash my face, and when I come back, you’ll be gone, okay?”
“So stubborn! Aren’t you happy to see me?”
Thomas didn’t answer. Instead, he gathered his strength to stand up and did what he’d said he would do, carefully closing the office door behind him. After he’d splashed his face with water, he lay down on the couch in the living room, his head still spinning. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The jingling of keys woke him up. Thomas sat up and saw his mother looking at him tenderly.
“You know you still have a room here, right?” she asked.
“I hadn’t planned to stay,” he answered as he stretched.
Once he’d shaken his drowsiness, he suddenly turned his head, scanning the room like a hunted animal.
“What’s going on?” Jeanne sounded worried.
“Nothing,” he answered, rubbing his head. “Did you know that the ‘cigarettes’ your best friend hides here are actually joints? No wonder she smokes them in secret!”
Jeanne inhaled deeply. “Ah!” she said regretfully. “You may have gotten them from the wrong drawer. Colette’s cigarettes were probably in the right-hand drawer after all.”
“And in the other?”
“Don’t give me that disapproving look. At my age, I can do what I please!”
“Please tell me it’s medicinal?”
“There you go jumping to conclusions again. How on earth did I give birth to such a serious son? Where did I go wrong?”
“Normal parents usually have the opposite concern, don’t they?”
“Normal parents are boring, admit it. Before I became your mother, I was a sixties girl! We rode in cars without seatbelts, our hair blowing in the wind. We drank, we smoked, and we laughed about everything—especiallyourselves—without worrying about offending anyone. We protested for more freedom, not less, and we knew that private lives were best kept private. Some of us died much younger, but in the meantime, we truly lived!”
“What exactly do you put in your joints?” Thomas made an effort to keep his voice calm.
“What do you think? Weed. Very good weed. It’s like with wine—you should only get drunk off excellent vintages. It’s true, they’re a little strong for someone who doesn’t often smoke. Your head might be a little fuzzy when you wake up in the morning, but don’t worry, it’s nothing that would jeopardize your concert. I’m sure my joint isn’t what put you in this state you’re in, though. What’s wrong?”
