The Man of Their Lives

  The Man of Their Lives

  By Françoise Bourdin

  Translated by Jean Charbonneau

  CHAPTER 1

  The technician on the other side of the window gave Louis the thumbs up. Louis lowered his steely gaze to the orchestra, who remained frozen anticipating his verdict.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. It was…”

  For a second he tried to come up with the words to express his satisfaction.

  “It was right on,” he finally said with a smile.

  He set his baton on the side of the lectern and gathered the score. The heavy soundproof door opened and the director barged into the studio, beaming.

  “Awesome!” he shouted. “I swear, you’re saving my movie. Actually, I’m going to use the score wall-to-wall. No use wracking my brain with post-production and those damned actors. They’re driving me nuts, every single one of them. The second theme, the one I told you I like so much, with all the violins? I want it to be swelling, you know? Like, haunting. Louis, we’re going to get tons of tears you and me!”

  In the spacious recording studio, the musicians were putting away their instruments. Some had worked with Louis before, and admired him unconditionally. If they gave him their best effort, they knew he’d be a pleasant conductor. Fussy but patient, demanding but always courteous. Louis preferred to record in Paris whenever the producers—and their budget—allowed. So he was popular with the local musicians’ union.

  “It was missing a bit of emotional impact, you know?” the director continued. “I couldn’t be more adamant about that. We need maximum emotional impact.”

  Louis nodded but said nothing. He thought the director had no talent whatsoever. His stupid film was going to tank at the box office in eight days, tops. No music in the world, no matter how amazing, could turn his pic into a masterpiece.

  “Buy you a drink?” the director said, clutching Louis’s arm.

  “Sorry, I have to go home. I promised my son I was going to spend the evening with him. I’ll see you on Monday for the mixing.”

  It wasn’t some lame excuse. He did need to speak to Frédéric. He’d neglected him too much these past few days. Though he knew better than to hold his breath, he wished that for once traffic wouldn’t be too heavy on the highway.

  Coming out of the studios, in front of the Palais des Congrès, Louis realized that the sun had already begun to set. The early evening was cold and dreary, matching his frame of mind to a T. He’d composed the music they’d recorded in just five days. It was perfectly melodramatic, both “swelling” and “haunting,” just as that moron director liked.

  Instantly he regretted thinking that. Looking down on the people who hired you only meant that you were belittling yourself. Of course, all movie directors wanted the same thing—for the audience to reach for the tissues. Like it or not, Louis excelled at exactly that kind of stuff. And, he’d been given a full orchestra to work with, something increasingly rare in this day and age. Why was he complaining?

  He got to his car and searched for his keys. They’d escaped through the hole in his jacket pocket and found their way in the lining. He took his time fishing the keys out, all the while admiring his brand new red coupe. A beautiful thing, as elegant and powerful as the manufacturer claimed. He’d managed to make Alix crazy with envy when he bought it. Their passion for sports cars would undoubtably ruin them one day if they didn’t stop trying to one up each other. Twenty years ago, their father had made the mistake of giving them driving lessons at the Montlhéry racetrack—both of his children had fallen in love with speed. Since then, despite their fair share of traffic violations and suspended licenses, nothing could to stifle their passion.

  Louis tossed his score on the backseat and slid behind the steering wheel. With a little luck he’d be able to make it to Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer in time for supper. Back at the house, Frédéric was probably scratching his head, wondering what to take out of the fridge.

  Louis was about to put the car in gear when someone rapped on the window. He lowered it.

  “I loved the recording! Musicians are always better when you’re the one conducting…”

  “Where were you hiding?” said Louis, staring at his sister.

  “In the booth, behind the consoles. And you know what? Everything was so incredibly tight, from beginning to end!”

  “Alix,” he reminded her, “you know nothing about music.”

  “Maybe. But everybody was happy. Here, you forgot the CD of the recording. You always leave too quickly.”

  “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “I had to be in this part of town for a meeting, and I thought I’d drop by to see how you were.”

  Leaning against the roof of the coupe, she looked at him with an unabashed tenderness.

  “Frédéric is waiting for me,” Louis said.

  “Go, then!”

  Alix backed away from the car looking sad so Louis said in a softer voice, “Are you coming over on Saturday?”

  “I’ll be there before lunch, but only if you let me try that new toy of yours.”

  Before driving off, he smiled at her with that incredibly youthful smile that moved her every time. Their resemblance wasn’t as striking as it used to be. When they were young twins, people misplaced them all the time, especially before she began to wear skirts and he shorts. Later, of course, their differences became more pronounced. Now, they both had the same dark eyes and straight nose. But Alix’s brown hair was now dyed blond and she’d put on a few extra pounds. Meanwhile Louis remained as thin as ever, almost looking emaciated because he was so tall. His attractiveness resided in his high cheekbones and narrow face, whose hard expression sometimes morphed into an irrepressible child-like smile. But Louis was clueless about all that.

  The Porte Maillot was clear, and traffic was smooth on the Boulevard Périphérique. A few minutes later, Louis emerged from the Saint-Cloud tunnel. He slipped the CD into the console and listened to the beginning, brows furrowed. There was a slight discordance with the violins, as he’d noticed while conducting, but nobody would notice. As a whole, the piece was pretty good, almost brilliant, and there was no doubt that the soundtrack was going to be a hit.

  Louis stepped on the gas on the other side of the Marly Forest, where the highway shrank to three lanes. The hum from the six cylinders was tremendous. Alix would absolutely go nuts when she took the Alfa Romeo for a spin tomorrow. At the Mantes tolls, he tossed a few coins in the collection basket and right away heard a nasal voice say, “Payment rejected.” He should’ve used the electronic payment lane. Two highway patrolmen on motorcycles glanced at him as he searched for more coins, but they seemed more interested in the slick hood of his sports car.

  A few miles later, he pulled off the highway to take the secondary road that ran along the Seine . Night had fallen and only a slight shimmer could be seen on the river. The clock on the dashboard read eight o’clock as Louis made a left after Port-Villez, heading for Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer. He took the road that snaked around the hill, the car’s headlights scanning the bushes on the roadsides without encountering another car all the way to the house. It was his favorite place in the world, and he knew he’d never let go of it. If he’d wanted to sell it, he would’ve right after Marianne died.

  In front of the tall wooden gate, Louis activated the remote control. When the doors opened, he saw that Frédéric had turned on all the lights in the house. More likely, he’d forgotten to switch them off in the morning.

  Inside, a synthesizer and drums blasted. He stood at the foot of the staircase with the onslaught of noise for two minutes, and then shrugged. Tomorrow morning, if Louis remembered correctly, was his son’s math test. Frédéric should be studying
instead of torturing the keyboard.

  Resigned, Louis ran up the stairs and into his son’s room. A teenager Louis had never met was beating the living daylights out of a drum set, while Frédéric pounded on the keyboard. The concert came to an abrupt end when the kids realized that Louis was standing there.

  “That was something else,” Louis said in a deadpan voice. “Let’s eat now, okay?”

  “Hey, Dad. You know Richard?”

  “No, I don’t. Hi, Richard. Are you joining us for dinner tonight?”

  “Gotta go,” the young man mumbled.

  One second later, he was gone.

  “How’s he getting home?”

  “He’s got a moped.”

  Frédéric’s room was an incredible mess, nothing new there.

  “We were having fun, and time just flew by. But I did put the Shepherd’s pie in the oven!”

  Shepherd’s pie was Frédéric’s favorite food, that and spaghetti and meatballs. Louis went over to his son, a look of concern on his face.

  “You didn’t study at all, did you?”

  “Well, you know, math... I don’t get it.”

  “You’re not trying to get it, that’s not the same thing!”

  “Dad...”

  Something in his son’s voice alerted him to the danger. After eight years of living alone with Frédéric, he’d learned to read him very well--his rebellious outbursts, his pangs of anxiety, his passions and fears. Life in high school was the root of a lot of his moodiness.

  “I’m famished,” he simply said.

  Relieved, the teenager passed him on the landing and ran down the stairs with his father on his heels, a game they played all the time. The kitchen was huge, and Frédéric had set a couple of plates, paper towels, and utensils on the table.

  “Did I scare off your friend Richard?”

  “Of course not! Well, actually, maybe...You know, you do intimidate them a bit.”

  Once in a while, Louis ran into kids who were so-called friends of Frédéric’s, and they’d ask him to sign CDs. They had wanted to make sure that Frédéric wasn’t messing with them, that his old man really was the Louis Neuville, who’d written the scores to Home of the Braves and Setting Sun, which had become cult favorites for their generation. Frédéric often showed the kids around the music room and sat at Louis’s piano and nonchalantly played a few famous bars. Even if he’d wanted to play correctly he couldn’t; Frédéric had given up his music lessons after two years of torture.

  Louis opened the oven door and saw that the pie’s creamy sauce was erupting from the top like some kind of volcano.

  “Let’s have some salad, too,” he said with forced enthusiasm.

  “The lettuce looked awful. I tossed the two bags in the garbage.”

  “We have to eat some vegetables,” Louis mumbled. “Or anything that has vitamins.”

  Frédéric felt bad so he fetched the fruit basket on the counter while his father opened a bottle of Chablis. During the week, they managed as well as they could. No matter how many time Louis went to the supermarket, something was always missing. Every Saturday morning, Louis’s youngest sister Laura inspected the contents of the fridge and cupboard. Then she’d launch into a speech on proper diet, before leaving to buy “real” food. Louis and Frédéric did indeed eat and live a whole lot better on the weekend. The house was full of people, the kitchen smelled wonderful, and three generations lived together with laughter and never-ending card games.

  Frédéric slouched on a chair. “Don’t worry,” he said, “Laura is going to cook something terrific tomorrow!”

  He liked his aunt Laura a lot because she was so nice to him. Actually, he also liked his other aunt Alix, his uncle, his grandfather, and his two little cousins. He always hated Sunday evening, when everybody left after supper. This succession of solitary weeks and family weekends had started seven years ago. Frédéric knew that he was spoiled, pampered like a baby even, because his mother was dead. His father had the difficult role of trying to impose some discipline in his only son when it came to his education. Monday to Friday, it was up to his father to find the time to be with him despite a very demanding profession. He’d managed to finish his days at a decent hour to attend parent-teacher meetings, drive Frédéric to fencing practice or the dentist, and be around at supper time. Every evening, Louis would horse around with Frédéric, ask him questions about his life, and try as hard as possible to replace the absent parent.

  “How did the recording go?” asked the teenager between two bites of apple.

  “A-OK, as they say.”

  Louis didn’t want to drift away from the topic he intended to tackle with his son. He swallowed hard and said, “Your last report card was a disaster.”

  “Yeah…” Frédéric admitted with a pout.

  “You could at least have good grades in French? And history—all you have to do is learn and remember. How can you fail that?”

  “Oh, that teacher is a moron! He’s a stickler for dates. We’re not in grammar school anymore...”

  “And a D in English, that’s also the teacher’s fault? Quit giving me your BS ! You’re never going to make it to college if you keep this up! I’m telling you, if you don’t shape up you’re going to spend the summer in England. I’ll find an English language program for you there, and it’s not going to be some silly summer camp, let me tell you.”

  Head down, the teenager said nothing. After a few seconds of silence, Louis got up to retrieve the shepherd’s pie in the oven. Frédéric remained quiet, brooding.

  “Go ahead,” Louis said. “Help yourself…”

  Barely sixteen was a delicate age for a boy. A few facial hairs, exhausting growing pains, the posturing of a rebel, and very little common sense.

  “Why are you upset with me? You should be upset with yourself.”

  “We always talk about the same thing,” Frédéric said.

  “But it’s my job. Who else is going to do it?”

  “I hate studying. I hate high school. I hate the teachers, and their grades! I’ll never be a good student, and you might as well get used to it!”

  “You want me to get used it? You think that this has to do with me? We’re talking about your life, your future. Not mine!”

  “Dad… Please don’t yell…”

  Louis was about to explode but he caught himself just in time. Raising his voice at Frédéric had never amounted to anything good. The kid wasn’t a good fit in the school system, though it was best not to acknowledge that fact in front of him. And seeing his father angry only made Frédéric want to retreat into his shell.

  “Sorry, Fred. Come on, eat. It’s going to get cold…”

  Louis had a sip of Chablis while his son helped himself to a gooey slice of pie. Maybe Laura would be better at talking to him about school. A victim of her professional training, she usually spoke like a psychoanalyst in obscure and abstruse terms. Despite that, she had a really nice touch with Frédéric, unlike Louis despite all his efforts. He poked the pot pie with his fork, giving it a gloomy look.

  “You would’ve preferred something else, right?” his son asked, trying to be nice. “I’m sorry…”

  Sure, but what? What could Frédéric cook? And, more importantly, what could he do?

  “Don’t you have a fencing match coming up?”

  “End of April.”

  Louis kicked himself for having forgotten about the date. He couldn’t afford to be like those parents who always seemed out to lunch. Frédéric really was counting on him.

  “I wouldn’t mind watching a movie tonight,” Louis said. “It’s still kind of early...”

  In front of the giant flat-screen TV, father and son, shoulder to shoulder, often sprawled on the couch, laughing at the same jokes, feeling moved by the same emotional scenes.

  They wolfed down the rest of the pie, filled the dishwasher, put the pot in the sink to soak, and headed for the TV room. Frédéric wasn’t quite as tall as his father, but it wouldn�
�t be long before he caught up. Tall and lanky, elegant, brown hair cut like a teen pop star, he was beginning to attract girl’s attention.

  In the semi-dark room, Louis watched his son as he inserted the DVD in the player. A good-looking teenager, no doubt, but fragile and vulnerable for all his cool demeanor.

  “Check out the opening credits,” Frédéric said with a wink. “The music is awesome.”

  Vaguely annoyed by his opinion, Louis listened to the music for a minute and then said, “Seven notes. The guy played around with the same freakin’ sequence of seven notes...”

  Frédéric gave him a loving punch on the knee to shut him up.

  * * *

  Three hours later, his son had long gone upstairs to bed, but Louis was still hanging out in the music room. It was by far his favorite room, not just because he did good work in there. When he’d decided to buy Alix and Laura’s shares of the house, his father had been enthusiastic about the idea. Neuville House was very expensive to maintain and the old man didn’t have the will or the energy to deal with it anymore. He’d gotten the house from his wife, who had inherited it from her parents, who had come to this area from Belgium with a number of countrymen at the beginning of the 20th century. A few of the more stately houses in the area were still inhabited by the descendents of those pioneers.

  Louis had wanted a house that was not too far from Paris, where he could live with his wife and son. He dreamed of a place where he could isolate himself to compose his music without disturbing anyone. Alix, tired of watching her brother struggling to find a new place, had told him what he was looking for was right under his nose. The entire family had loved the solution, and after two meetings at the notary, the papers were signed and funds allocated equitably. In principle, it was Louis’s home. But quickly he realized that he couldn’t prevent Alix, Laura, or his father Grégoire from staying over in their rooms, which he didn’t dare redecorate. When he and Marianne started to renovate, they decided to convert the old winter garden into a music room. It was a gigantic room that occupied the entire right wing of the house. They had it soundproofed with cork, before installing Louis’s Steinway. His childhood upright piano, on which he’d spent many a Sunday practicing, remained in the living room.