Colette shot up from her seat and shouted “bravo,” further stirring the applause. The conductor climbed onto his platform and turned around to greet Thomas, who stood up from his bench and bowed in return. Marcel was at his post, bathing the Steinway in an almost celestial light.
The conductor lifted his baton. Thomas filled his lungs with air and raised his arms, then delivered the eight measures of slow chords that opened the piece, like a chorus of solemn bells. Then his fingers ran free over the ivory keys, producing a torrent of eighth notes. The violins soon joined him in a murmur that conjured a winter wind gusting across the steppe. Thomas closed his eyes. He was already elsewhere, in Russia, another world, another time, where nothing existed but this romantic fury.
As his hands made their way toward the high notes, Colette jumped up again, this time to get a better view of his agile fingers, which filledher godmother’s heart with pride. Jeanne grabbed hold of her and made her sit down.
Performing on a stage gave Thomas a feeling of rapture like nothing else he’d ever known. He was now in a deep discussion with the violins, and the oboes were about to join in. Rachmaninoff had written his Concerto No. 2 while undergoing hypnosis treatment, and the score tells the tale of a rebirth. At the beginning of the first movement, the composer emerges from his torpor, then majestically evokes the pain he has just relived. It was as if Thomas and Rachmaninoff were now one, as if the Russian’s ghost had sat down next to him to play, his fingers hovering above Thomas’s. It was almost as if ...
Thomas glanced furtively at the audience and saw his father sitting in the front row, levitating on the knees of a young woman who seemed totally oblivious to his presence.
The conductor showed visible surprise when he heard the pianist skip a few notes. Luckily, he was enough of a virtuoso that he caught up quickly. The orchestra was carrying the melody now, and the piano replied with graceful song. Thomas took advantage of the silence that followed the end of the first movement to wipe his brow. Then the adagio began, slowly, as the flutes and oboes exchanged secrets, the piano spying upon them. Another quick glance—his father had crossed his legs and was smiling proudly. The conductor turned around, intrigued by this second mistake during a wave of rising intensity dominated by the orchestra. Thomas pulled himself together to execute a masterly crescendo and an exquisite staccato.
“Something’s wrong,” said Colette.
“Yeah ... with you! Be quiet,” whispered Jeanne.
“It’s freezing in here, but he’s sweating like a pig.”
“It’s the spotlights,” said Jeanne. “You have to stop talking!”
“Look, he keeps shooting strange looks at that woman in the front row. I’m not making it up; surely you can see he’s not his usual self.”
“You’re the one who’s not acting normal. He’s fine and he’s playing like a god!”
“If you say so. I’ll leave it at that.”
“Shut up and listen.”
Their neighbors were visibly annoyed by their conversation. Jeanne smiled apologetically, gesturing at her friend in a manner that suggested she was a few marbles short.
“Go ahead, tell them I’m the crazy one,” muttered Colette.
When the third movement started, Thomas left the Russian steppe. The allegro began with a long passage carried by the orchestra, during which the pianist had a difficult time concentrating as he tried desperately not to look at Raymond, who kept crossing and uncrossing his legs. This habit had always annoyed Thomas. Was it even possible for ghosts to be uncomfortable?
A long solo was up next, and if he made even the slightest error, there would be no other instruments to mask his mistake. The intense look the conductor was giving Thomas said much about what awaited him after the concert. He had to hang in there until his backup—the flutes and oboes again—arrived. He had to reach the last measure despite the tingling in his fingers, the drops of sweat pearling on his brow, and a heart shaken by apparitions. He had to stop looking, had to forget the audience and think only of the impending visit from his mother and godmother in his dressing room. This was just another panic attack, like his father had said the night before ... but no, that was ridiculous.
His father couldn’t have said anything, because he’d been dead for five years.
Thomas played the final four chords, triumphantly ending the movement to the audience’s delight. Colette leapt out of her seat, again shouting “bravo,” a move replicated by the entire audience, whichshowered the musicians with thunderous applause. The conductor gestured toward the pianist, publicly recognizing his triumph, but when their eyes met, Thomas wasn’t fooled—he was furious.
The pianist walked to the edge of the stage and bowed three times to boisterous applause. Then it was the orchestra’s turn to stand up and receive its share of praise from the enchanted audience. The curtain fell and the house lights came on.
The conductor put away his baton and came backstage.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas explained. “I felt a little unwell.”
“I noticed. Nothing serious?”
“Nothing that could jeopardize tomorrow’s performance, I promise.”
“I hope not,” the man replied haughtily as he made his way toward his dressing room.
Thomas went to his own dressing room. He traded his tailcoat and black pants for jeans and a T-shirt, then sat down in the armchair across from the mirror, wondering whether he needed to see a professional. There came a knock at the door, which opened before he could answer. He was expecting to see his mother and godmother, but tonight was full of surprises—he found himself face-to-face with Sophie.
“I wasn’t sure you’d pull it off, but you did all right,” she said with a smile.
She was stunning in her long black dress. She’d worn her hair up, the way she did when she played, reminding Thomas of the times they’d performed together.
“I didn’t know you were in Paris,” he said as he got to his feet.
