“A pastry chef?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, it’s just that you’re the first pastry chef I’ve ever met.”
“Sorry, I was just messing with you. Actually, I run a bookstore near Union Square. But please, I beg you, don’t ask me who my favorite author is. It would ruin everything.”
“What do you mean by ‘everything’?”
“Our conversation, which already barely makes sense. It is somehow helping me forget why I’m here, though.”
Raymond stood by the buffet, looking impatient. Thomas realized it was because of him. He told Manon he was going to get more food and promised to make sure no one came over while he was gone.
He joined his father and filled his plate with a few more macarons, which were somehow slightly less appetizing to him now.
“When you’re done flirting—and don’t even try to say you’re not—maybe the word ‘bookstore’ will remind you of something?”
“Were you spying on me?”
“I was wandering around, since no one can talk to me. I tried to listen in on Bartel’s conversations, but I couldn’t bear it. No wonder Camille died. That man could bore the life out of anyone. So, now, ‘bookstore’—does that word bring anything to mind?”
“Books?”
“Excellent. You’re on the right track. And when you buy books, what do you put them in to take them home? A bag! And what else can a bag hold? My ashes, which you forgot inside the Columbarium!”
“Oh shit!”
“Oh shit, indeed.”
“I’ll go get them right now.”
“I would have begun by telling you to do just that, but the guard has locked the doors. Hopefully, he’ll open them up again this afternoon. In the meantime, you can go back to flirting, now that you’ve essentially buried your father.”
“I ‘buried’ you five years ago!”
“And you’re insolent too. In any case, Operation Urn is turning out to be a disaster.”
“‘Operation Urn’? Really?”
But Raymond had disappeared, leaving Thomas frowning at the spot where he’d been.
“Who were you talking to?” Manon asked as she approached.
“To myself. Pianists are lonely people.”
A friend of Camille’s came over and helped herself to a large glass of white wine. She was wearing a large Afro wig dyed in psychedelic colors and winked conspicuously at them as she left.
“I imagine your father’s funeral was more conventional than this?”
“As ordinary as an unfinished symphony.”
An hour passed, the guests slowly trickling out. When the room was almost empty, Thomas noticed Mr. Bartel sitting on a chair, his gaze lost in the distance.
“I feel like your father might need you,” he whispered to Manon.
She looked over at him.
“He couldn’t stand visiting her in that home where we locked her up. Or maybe he just couldn’t stand the fact that he couldn’t keep his wife in their home. My father has always gotten what he wants, all without cheating, lying, or sucking up. Hard work and determination have always been enough to do the trick. At his level of accomplishment, that’s not as common as you’d think. His high principles don’t exactly make him easy to live with, but I also don’t know anyone who’s as honest as he is. That said, I could never figure out how my parents fit together. They loved and respected one another, even admired each other, but they were always distant. There was no affection between them, which is absurd—Mom was such a joyful person. She was so full of life that I often wondered what they had in common. Maybe it’s like they say—opposites attract. Were your parents happy together?”
