He had spent summer holidays there as a child.
His mother used to bring him.
That was before the hospital, before his father moved them to Lausanne, before family visits became shorter and more awkward.
Henri opened the bedroom door.
The room contained a single bed, a wardrobe, a desk, and a bookshelf.
The curtains had been washed.
Fresh sheets covered the bed.
On the desk stood a small lamp and an empty wooden tray for keys.
Marc glanced around.
“Okay.”
Henri pointed toward the wardrobe.
“There’s space for your clothes.”
“Yeah.”
“The bathroom is across the hall. Hot water takes a moment.”
“I remember.”
“And no smoking inside.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Good.”
Marc dropped one suitcase beside the bed.
Henri remained in the doorway.
For several seconds, it seemed that he wanted to say something.
Instead, he glanced at his watch.
“Supper at seven.”
Marc nodded.
“Fine.”
Henri left.
Marc waited until he heard the kitchen door close.
Then he sat on the bed, took his phone from his pocket, and connected it to the charger.
The screen lit up.
There were eleven unread messages.
Six were from his father.
Three were from a friend named Jonas.
Two came from a recording studio in Lausanne.
Marc opened the last conversation first.
Payment overdue. Please confirm settlement date by Monday.
He stared at the message.
Then he turned the phone face down.
From downstairs came the distant sound of a clock striking five.
Marc closed his eyes.
He had been in the house less than an hour.
Already, he wanted to leave.
Marc had not intended to drop out of university.
That was how he explained it to himself, although the explanation became less convincing whenever he repeated it.
He had enrolled in a business administration programme in Lausanne because his father believed it would give him practical options.
Marc had agreed partly because he did not know what else to do and partly because his father had offered to help with accommodation and living expenses.
Music had always been the thing he cared about most.
He played keyboard, composed electronic tracks, and spent evenings experimenting with samples and synthesizers.
At sixteen, he was synthesising short pieces online.
At seventeen, he collaborated with friends on small projects.
At eighteen, one of his tracks attracted enough attention to persuade him that he might have a future as a producer.
His father, Luc Laurent, was not opposed to music.
He was opposed to treating a few thousand online listens as a business plan.
“You can make music while studying,” Luc had told him.
Marc heard only the part that sounded like dismissal.
During his first year at university, he missed lectures.
He submitted assignments late.
He spent money intended for books on studio equipment.
By spring, he was travelling regularly to a small recording facility run by a man named Romain Keller.
Romain was thirty-two, talented, persuasive, and perpetually short of cash.
He had once worked as an assistant engineer for a more established studio and liked to mention the artists whose sessions he had attended.
Marc admired him.
Romain praised Marc’s music with an enthusiasm that Marc rarely received at home.
“You’ve got an ear,” he told him. “You understand space. Most kids your age just make everything louder.”
Marc began staying at the studio until two or three in the morning.
He helped edit recordings.
He programmed drums.
He worked on arrangements for local performers.
Occasionally, Romain paid him a small fee.
More often, he promised that the money would come when the project was released.
Marc did not object.
He was learning.
He was making connections.
He was doing something that felt more important than writing reports about supply chains.
Then Romain suggested that Marc produce a four-track release for a young singer named Léa.
The opportunity seemed enormous.
They booked additional studio sessions, hired session musicians for two tracks, and arranged mixing and mastering through external engineers.
Marc agreed to cover part of the costs.
He believed his father would eventually help.
His father did not.
By the time Luc discovered that Marc had missed examinations and spent much of his university allowance, the conversation was no longer about whether music was a worthwhile pursuit.
It was about trust.
Luc stopped paying for the student flat.
Marc withdrew from his programme.
He told his father that he was choosing music.
Luc told him that leaving university was his decision, but it did not entitle him to unlimited financial support.
They argued for nearly two hours.
At the end, Luc said something he regretted.
“You’re behaving like the world owes you a career.”
Marc replied with something he regretted less at the time.
“At least I want a life that isn’t yours.”
His father went very quiet.
Three weeks later, with his savings nearly gone and the studio demanding payment, Marc moved to Geneva.
Henri had agreed to let him stay.
The agreement had been arranged through Luc.
Marc suspected his grandfather had accepted only because refusing would have embarrassed the family.
