The doctor who played the piano

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.