This evening he’s waited until his father has shut himself in his study and his mother is on her own in the living room. He’s well prepared.
He takes one last breath.
“You know, on Saturday we’re going to the Philharmonic with Mr. Châle.”
She’s surprised, as he expected.
“Oh really? Since when? Haven’t you already been?”
“No, that was the opera. Don’t you remember? It was on that form you filled in a while ago. You even gave me the money.”
“And where is this form?”
“I gave it back to Mr. Châle because he has to keep all the parents’ consent forms.”
She stops for a moment (she’s spent the past two days sorting through things as though they were on the point of being evicted from their apartment). Mathis feels dozens of insects swarming in his stomach. He can only pray she doesn’t hear them.
His mother looks puzzled. But he’s ready for all her questions.
“On a Saturday night?”
“Yeah, the school managed to get tickets because a group of senior citizens canceled. Mr. Châle said it was a great opportunity, even if the seats are a long way from the stage.”
“The whole class?”
“No, just the ones who take music.”
“And what are you going to hear?”
“The Grand Orchestre de Paris. Henry Purcell and Gustav Mahler.”
He’s prepared the details: how they’ll go, how they’ll return, which teachers are in charge of the trip. His mother is the sort of mother who is prepared to believe that they would have a trip to the Philharmonic on a Saturday evening.
Lying is really easy. He even experiences a certain pleasure in overdoing it. He puts on his good-little-boy voice.
“Ms. Destrée was supposed to come with us, but it’s going to be someone else because she’s ill.”
Strangely, this detail seems to reassure his mother and establish the credibility of what he’s saying.
She says she’ll come and pick him up after the concert so that he doesn’t have to come home by himself. He begs her not to. He’ll feel embarrassed, look like a baby. The others will make fun of him. Mr. Châle has said he’ll bring back the students who live near the school so as not to inconvenience parents who have plans for the evening.
Eventually she gives in and he has the impression she’s already thinking about something else, or doesn’t have the strength to pursue her investigations any further. For several days she’s been like someone leading a secret life that’s very hectic and very tiring.
A little later, just as he’s about to turn out his light, she comes into his bedroom.
She asks him a question, direct and unexpected. “Tell me, Mathis, you’re not making things up?”
Without a second’s hesitation: “No, Mom, I swear.”