The Christmas Guitar

Giving a gift unwraps long-lost memories

- Jean Chavot

MY SON WAS ABOUT to turn ten. He still took my hand from time to time when we were out together, but he let it go when we met other children, especially girls. On that late afternoon in winter we had strolled through the Parisian streets illuminated bright as day with Christmas lights. Dirty snow beneath our feet, we came to a halt in front of the music shop window, his small hand tucked cosily in mine.

We looked at the guitars gleaming on their stands. Their long necks decked with tinsel made them look like ostriches tied up with ribbon (some people have no respect for musical instruments or for animals). These pathetic-looking creatures were ruled out straightaway; my son dreamed of a wild guitar to tame. We went into the shop.

Years earlier, when he wasn’t even one year old, we used to sing a few notes to him each morning to see whether he was awake. I say “we” but it was especially his mother, with her beautiful singer’s voice. He responded with the same little melody. It became a game to vary it, make it more intricate, and to hear him reproduce it right away before breaking into his delightful rippling laugh. It was his way of saying, “Again ! Again !”

When he was older, we asked him from time to time if he wanted to learn to play an instrument. As musicians ourselves, nothing seemed more natural, especially given—and I say this as objectively as possible for a parent— his obvious talent. He consistently responded with a clear and definite no. When I asked why, he told me that he didn’t want “to end up being forced to play in front of 300 people.”