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The doctor who played the piano

Modifié le : 2019/07/21

He sits next to me at the choir rehearsal. He’s a big guy from Cen­tral Amer­i­ca, or from the South, I don’t know any­more. He smiles at me ; I ask him how he is. He takes the time to open his music bag, sighs, says to me in a sad voice as he shakes his head : “I lost a great friend this weekend.”

With­out wait­ing for a com­ment from me, he starts talk­ing about it. “He was my doc­tor, but also a great friend. He died of can­cer.” In his Span­ish mouth, it sounds more like “he died of a con­cert.” The intestines.

“It’s ter­ri­ble,” I said.

He almost shrugs his shoulders.

“Oh, the ter­ri­ble thing is that he was only 54 years old. He played the piano so well. He was the one who helped me with the scores here. He was tak­ing care of me. He was good with every­one, he did­n’t count his hours for any­one. A real­ly great doctor.”

“My con­do­lences.”

“Thank you, Guy. He used to tell me all the time that I was too hypochon­dri­ac, and he’s the one who catch­es this dirt. He fought for two years… In the last few months, he stopped all treat­ment and start­ed play­ing and play­ing the piano. He pre­pared every­thing for his death. The funer­al was held on Mount Roy­al, in one of these large cemeteries.

He had ordered the buf­fet, record­ed a piece by Bach for us to lis­ten to one last time with him.”

My friend is silent for a moment.

“Life is like that.”

I can only answer him, moved, “Indeed.”

The direc­tor comes for­ward. The rehearsal can begin. After the warm-up, we begin to read a lan­guorous, erot­ic song.

That’s how life is made.

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