15
It was cool that Thursday. Out on the Seine, David reeled off a few anecdotes from their first trip to Paris. But standing on the shore was not enough to bring the tide in. They shared an ice cream on Île Saint-Louis and went back to the hotel. They made love and then lay in bed for a while. Mia wondered whether this would be a new beginning or a way to say good-bye.
In the middle of the afternoon, David called the concierge and asked him to book two theatre tickets for the best show in town, as well as two flights to London for the next day. When he hung up, he told Mia that it was time to go home. He offered to accompany her to Montmartre to pick up her things.
Mia replied that she would rather pack on her own. She wanted to say good-bye to Daisy and would meet up with David later on. She promised she would be on time, and left the hotel suite.
The limousine dropped her at Rue Poulbot. Mia asked the chauffeur to wait for her. She walked up the stairs to the apartment, trailing her hand slowly along the banister as she went.
Once she’d finished packing her suitcase, she took the portrait of Daisy out of the cupboard, set it on the counter, and then left the apartment.
Paul printed out his chapters, put the pages in a folder, and slipped it inside his suitcase.
He emptied the refrigerator, closed the shutters, and checked the taps. Finally, he walked around his apartment, took out the trash, and left to meet his editor.
As they left Montmartre, Mia asked the chauffeur to take her to Rue de Bretagne.
“Could you stop here for a minute?” she asked as they approached number 38.
She lowered the window and stuck her head out. The fourth-floor shutters were closed.
When the car started up again, she took out her phone and reread the message she’d received late that morning.
Mia,
I pushed my opera singer under a bus last night. She was crossing the road without paying attention. Oh, well.
When I called the restaurant, Daisy told me you were fine—of course, that’s what matters.
I understand your lack of response. Maybe it’s better this way. Good-byes don’t really make any sense.
Thank you for all the precious moments we spent together.
Take care of yourself, even if that phrase doesn’t make any sense either.
Paul
When she reached the hotel, Mia pretended she had a migraine. David told the concierge to forget the theatre tickets and had their dinner brought up to the suite.
At eleven p.m., Daisy said good night to the last customers. Back at her apartment, she found a portrait of herself lying on the kitchen worktop, along with a short note.
Daisy,
I’m going back to England. I couldn’t muster the courage to stop by the restaurant. I am jealous of your new waitress. Joking aside, the truth is, if I’d seen you, I’d probably have changed my mind. These days I spent with you in Paris have been like sketches of a new life for me, a life that I started to love from the bottom of my heart. But I took your advice. I am returning to my old life and leaving you to yours.
I’ll call you from London in a few days, once I’ve got my bearings again. I don’t know if you were aware that David was coming to fetch me, but if you were, you made the right choice in not warning me. I will never be able to thank you properly for being such a good friend, for always being there when I need you, for standing up to me, even at the risk I’d be angry with you, and for never lying to me. I lied to you—you know what about—and I’m still so sorry for that.
This drawing of you was done by a caricaturist on Place du Tertre. You won’t have any trouble spotting him: he’s a lovely guy, almost as lovely as this portrait of you.
I miss you already.
Your friend, who loves you like a sister,
Mia
PS: Don’t forget your promise. Last week of September. Greece. Just the two of us. I’ll take care of everything.
Daisy quickly grabbed her phone. She tried calling Mia but couldn’t get through, so she sent her a text.
I hope you’re going to miss me as much as I’ll miss you. My new waitress is an imbecile. She’s got hairy armpits and has already broken two plates. You should call me ASAP. Temporary insanity is fine, but not to the point of taking my advice! I beg you, never do that. Outside the kitchen, your best friend is wrong about everything, especially life.
I love you, too. Like a sister . . .
The next morning, the chauffeur took the on-ramp that led to the airport and pulled up to park right next to the Departures level. David opened the door and held out his hand for Mia. She was about to exit the car when the doors of the terminal slid open. Mia had enough experience to quickly spot the paparazzi, and these vultures hadn’t even bothered hiding. She could see two of them standing in front of the check-in kiosks now.
You bastard! Who else could have tipped them off? Your whole visit to Paris, your entire charm offensive, was just to have the two of us seen together, wasn’t it? The riverboat would have been too obvious, but the airport . . . ? Just a coincidence, of course! And I actually believed you, like a complete and utter fool . . .
“Are you coming?” David asked impatiently.
“Sorry, wait for me inside. I need to call Daisy first.”
“Can I take your suitcases?”
“Don’t worry, the chauffeur can handle that. I’ll see you in five minutes.”
“Right, I’ll go on ahead and buy newspapers. But don’t take too long.”
As soon as David was out of sight, Mia closed the car door and leaned in toward the chauffeur.
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Maurice, madame.”
“Maurice, how well do you know this airport?”
“I bring passengers here maybe four to six times a day, on average.”
“Do you know where the flights to Asia leave from?”
“Terminal 2E.”
“All right, Maurice, listen up,” she said, rummaging around in her purse, “the flight for Seoul takes off in forty-five minutes. If you can get me to Terminal 2E in five minutes, I will give you a huge tip.”
The chauffeur sped off.
“Uh-oh . . . do you take credit cards?” Mia asked, embarrassed. “I don’t have any cash on me.”
“Are you going to take this flight to Asia, while your husband goes to London?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Forget the tip, then,” he said, weaving between a taxi and a bus. “That guy’s unbearable.”
The car roared along full throttle and, three minutes later, came to a halt in front of Terminal 2E.
The chauffeur hurried out to open the trunk, took out Mia’s suitcase, and put it on the pavement.
“And what am I supposed to do with his?” He gestured to David’s overstuffed bag.
“Maurice, you are now the proud owner of a pricey collection of cashmere sweaters and silk shirts. Thanks ever so much!”
Mia grabbed her luggage and hurried toward the check-in area.
There was only one agent left behind the desk.
“Hi, I have to go to Seoul. It’s urgent.”
The woman frowned doubtfully.
“I was about to close the flight. I’m afraid it’s fully booked.”
“I’m prepared to travel in the toilets if I have to.”
“For eleven hours?” the woman asked, looking up. “I can put you on tomorrow’s flight.”
“Please,” Mia begged, taking off her sunglasses.
The woman saw her face and her eyes lit up.
“I’m sorry. But are you . . . ?”
“Yes, I am! Could you please get me a seat?”
“You should have told me from the start! I have one first-class ticket left, but it’s full fare.”
Mia put her credit card on the desk.
“What date would you like for the return flight?”
“I have no idea.”
“I need a return date.”
“In a week . . . no, ten days . . . or two weeks . . .”
“Which one?”
“Two weeks! Please hurry!”
The woman behind the desk began typing furiously on her computer keyboard.
“Oh no, your suitcase! It’s too late to check it . . .”
Mia knelt down to whip open her suitcase, took out her toiletry bag and a few other things, and jammed them into her purse.
“You can keep the rest!”
“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” the woman said, leaning over the desk.
“Yes, you can!”
“Which hotel are you staying at?”
“I have no idea.”
The woman, who was now beyond being surprised by anything, handed Mia her boarding pass.
“Now run. I’ll ask them to hold the doors for you.”
Mia grabbed her ticket, took off her heels, and ran toward security, shoes in hand.
She arrived at the walkway out of breath, spotted the gate, screamed at the staff to wait for her, and did not slow down until she was on the boarding bridge.
Before getting on the plane, she tried to regain some semblance of composure, then handed her boarding pass to the flight attendant, who welcomed her with a big smile.
“That was one close shave,” he said, pointing to an empty seat. “You’re in 2A.”
Mia walked straight past her seat and continued up the aisle.
The flight attendant called her back, but she pressed on until she found the row she was looking for, gave her boarding pass to the passenger, and told him he had been upgraded to first class. The man didn’t need to be told twice, and gave up his seat.
Mia opened the overhead luggage compartment, squeezed her purse between two cabin bags, and collapsed into her seat with a huge sigh.
Paul didn’t even look up from the magazine he was leafing through.
The flight attendant announced over the intercom that the doors were closing. Passengers were asked to fasten their seat belts and switch off all electronic devices.
Paul put his magazine in the seat-back pocket and closed his eyes.
“Can we talk or do you plan to sulk for eleven hours?” Mia asked.
“Right now, we keep our mouths shut and wait to die. A massive three-hundred-ton steel tube is about to attempt flight. And no matter what Bernoulli says, that is against the laws of nature. So, until we are up in the air, let’s just breathe, stay calm, and that’s it.”
“Right, then,” Mia replied.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any anesthetic, would you?”
“I thought we were strictly prohibited from conversing.”
“Valium?”
“Sorry.”
“A baseball bat? Any blunt object, really. If you’d be so kind as to knock me out cold, then not wake me until we’ve touched ground in Korea, that would be ideal.”
“Calm down. Everything will be fine.”
“So now you’re a pilot.”
“Give me your hand.”
“I’d rather not. It’s kind of clammy.”
Mia put her hand on Paul’s wrist.
“What did you make for the dinner I missed?”
“Hmph. I guess you’ll never know.”
“You’re not even going to ask why I’m here?”
“Nope. I will take some satisfaction from the fact that your ticket must have cost you the moon. Is that normal, that noise?”
“It’s the engines.”
“And so it’s normal they’re making so much noise?”
“If we intend to take off, then yes.”
“Okay. So are they making enough noise?”
“They’re making exactly as much noise as they’re supposed to.”
“What’s that constant boom-boom-boom I’m hearing?”
“That . . . would be your heart.”
The airplane soared into the air. Shortly after takeoff, it hit a patch of turbulence. Paul gritted his teeth. Sweat streamed down his forehead.
“Relax. There’s no reason to be afraid,” Mia soothed him.
“Fear doesn’t need a reason,” Paul replied.
He regretted not having tried the little gift that Cristoneli had offered him on the way to the airport: a homemade concoction that would, according to the editor, relieve him of all worries for several hours. Paul, who was such a hypochondriac that he was reluctant to take aspirin for headaches out of fear it would cause a brain hemorrhage, had decided not to give himself another reason to be anxious.
The plane reached cruising altitude and the cabin crew began moving through the aisles.
“Okay, now the flight attendants are up—that’s a good sign. If they’re moving around, everything must be fine, don’t you think?”
“Everything has been fine since takeoff and everything will be fine until we land. But Paul? If you keep gripping the armrest that tightly for the next eleven hours, we might have to use pliers to pry you free.”
Paul looked down at his white-knuckle grip and carefully relaxed his fingers.
A stewardess arrived with the drink cart. To Mia’s surprise, Paul asked only for a glass of water.
“I’ve heard that alcohol and high altitude don’t mix.”
Mia went for a double shot of gin.
“Maybe there’s an exception for the English,” Paul remarked, watching her down her glass.
Mia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Paul observed her in silence.
“I thought we had agreed not to talk,” she said, eyes still closed.
Paul began reading his magazine again. “I’ve been working quite a bit for the last couple of nights. My opera singer has been through some exciting adventures. Her ex resurfaced, for one thing. And naturally enough, she dove right back in. I have to figure out—does that count or does it not count?” he asked, casually turning the page. “Not that I need to know—none of my business. I just thought I’d ask. In any event, it seems that’s done now, so let’s talk about something else.”
“What in the world could’ve inspired that plot twist?”
“I’m a novelist.” He shrugged. “I dream stuff up. That’s what I do.”
Paul closed his magazine.
“But what bothers me is seeing her unhappy. I don’t know why, but that’s just the way it is.”
A steward interrupted their conversation with meal service. Paul declined his meal and announced that Mia wasn’t hungry. She was about to protest, but the attendant had already moved on to the next row.
“What the hell?” she exclaimed. “Why would you do that? I’m starving!”
“So am I. But those little meals are not intended for consumption, just distraction. You end up spending half the flight trying to guess what’s in them.”
Paul unbuckled his seat belt and stood up to remove his bag from the overhead compartment. As soon as he was back in his seat, he took out ten small airtight containers and placed them on Mia’s tray.
“And what might that be?” she asked.
“First she stands me up, now she gate-crashes my last meal.”
Mia took off the lids to find four smoked-salmon sandwiches, two slices of vegetable terrine, two small blocks of foie gras, two potato salads with black truffles, and, in the last two boxes, two coffee éclairs. She stared at Paul openmouthed.
“As I was packing my suitcase, I decided if I was going to die on this flight, I may as well die happy.”
“By eating enough for two, you mean?”
“Give me some credit. I wasn’t going to enjoy this feast all by my lonesome while the person next to me stared at their airplane food contemplating death by starvation. That would have ruined the whole thing for me.”
“You really do think of everything.”
“Only the essentials. Which still manages to take up most of my time.”
“Will your translator be waiting for you at the airport?”
“I sure hope so,” Paul replied. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason, just thinking . . . I suppose we could say I was sent by your publishers to accompany you on the trip.”
“Alternatively, we could say we’re just friends.”
“Your call.”
“And since we’re just friends, maybe you could explain how the hell you ended up on this plane instead of at your restaurant?”
“Mm, this foie gras is delicious. Where did you get it?”
“Please answer the question.”
“I had to get away.”
“From what?”
“Myself.”
“So he did come back.”
“Let’s just say that the opera singer dove back in, and quickly found herself in over her head.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Really?”
“No. Not at all. I was just being polite.”
“I’m glad I’m here too. I’ve always dreamt of visiting Seoul.”
“Really?”
“No. Not at all. I was just being polite.”
At the end of the meal, Paul tidied away the containers in his bag and stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“To wash these.”
“Are you joking?”
“Absolutely not. I’m not going to throw away my Tupperware. I’ll need it for the return trip.”
“So you’re not planning on staying in Korea indefinitely?”
“Who knows? We’ll see.”
They checked the in-flight entertainment program. Mia opted for a romantic comedy, and Paul for a thriller. Ten minutes later, Paul was watching Mia’s movie and Mia was watching his. First they exchanged a look, then their earphones, and finally their seats.
Paul eventually went to sleep, and Mia made sure no one woke him up during the descent. He opened his eyes just as the plane’s wheels touched the ground and stiffened as the pilot activated the reverse thrust. His nightmare was ending, Mia reassured him. In a few moments, they would be getting off the plane.
After going through Passport Control, Paul retrieved his suitcase from the baggage carousel and put it on a cart.
“Yours isn’t out yet?” he asked.
“This is all I have,” she said, gesturing toward the satchel on her shoulder.
Paul said nothing, distracted by his growing anticipation. He looked at the sliding doors up ahead, trying to think how he would act as he walked through them.
A group of about thirty readers had unfurled a banner that proclaimed: Welcome, Paul Barton.
Mia put on her sunglasses.
“Wow, they really know how to make a guy feel welcome,” Paul hissed to Mia. “I mean, hiring extras . . . just a little over the top . . .”
He scanned the row of faces in search of Kyong’s, then glanced back over his shoulder. Mia had disappeared. He thought he caught a glimpse of her going past the Arrivals barrier and melting into the crowd.
The group rushed toward him, notebooks and pens in hand, begging him to sign autographs. Embarrassed at first, Paul signed with good grace until a man he assumed must be his Korean editor arrived, scattering the crowd of fans and shaking his hand warmly.
“Welcome to Seoul, Mr. Barton. It’s an honor to have you here on Korean soil.”
“The honor is all mine,” Paul replied, continuing to scan the crowd. “Really, you shouldn’t have.”
“Shouldn’t have what?” the editor asked.
“All these people, it’s just a bit . . .”
“We tried to keep them away, but you are very popular here and they knew you were arriving. In fact, they’ve been waiting here for more than three hours.”
“But . . . why?”
“To see you, of course. Follow me, I have a car waiting to take you to your hotel. I imagine you’re quite exhausted after the long voyage.”
Mia joined them outside the terminal.
“This lady is with you?” the editor inquired.
Mia introduced herself.
“Ms. Grinberg. Assistant to Mr. Barton.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Grinberg,” the editor replied. “I am afraid Mr. Cristoneli neglected to notify us of your presence.”
“Mr. Barton’s office handled my trip directly,” she explained.
Paul was speechless at the ease with which she donned a new identity. The editor opened the door to the car and ushered the two of them into the backseat. Paul cast one last look back at the empty sidewalk.
The car started up and moved off in the direction of the city center.
Paul stared absently at the suburban landscape rolling past outside the window. Kyong had not come to the airport.
“There will be a small dinner party tonight,” the editor announced. “We will be joined by a few employees from the publishing house, including our marketing director, your press officer, Ms. Bak, as well as the manager of the bookshop where you will be signing books. Don’t worry, we will do our best to keep it short. After all, you must get some rest. The next few days will be hectic. This is your schedule,” he said, passing an envelope to Mia. “Ms. Grinberg, are you staying in the same hotel as Mr. Barton?”
“Absolutely,” Mia replied, looking at Paul.
Paul felt the conversation flow around him like water around a rock. Maybe Kyong’s boss’s presence had prevented her from coming.
Mia patted his knee to bring him back to earth.
“Paul,” she said, “your editor is asking if you had a smooth trip.”
“You could say that. I’m still in one piece, thank goodness!”
His editor gave him a small smile in the rearview mirror. “We have great hopes for the television show you will be appearing on tomorrow. There will also be another important event—the ambassador is organizing a reception in your honor on Monday. There will be a few journalists there, as well as some senior lecturers from the university. I will inform the embassy secretary about the presence of your colleague.”
“Please, don’t worry about that,” said Mia. “Mr. Barton can go without me.”
“Of course not. We would be delighted to have you with us. Isn’t that so, Mr. Barton?”
Paul, his face pressed to the window, did not respond. How would Kyong behave at the dinner party? Should he keep a certain restraint with her to avoid embarrassing her in front of her employer?
Mia elbowed him discreetly in the ribs.
“Sorry. Yes?” Paul asked.
Likely assuming that his author was overcome by fatigue, the editor kept silent until they reached the hotel.
The car pulled up under the awning. A young woman came out to meet them.
“Ms. Bak will help you check in and will accompany you to the restaurant where I will meet you later this evening. In the meantime, I hope you can recharge your batteries. Good-bye, and I will see you later.”
The editor got back in the car and drove off.
Ms. Bak asked Paul and Mia for their passports and invited them to follow her to the reception desk. A porter took Paul’s suitcase.
The receptionist blushed when he saw Paul.
“This is a great honor, Mr. Barton,” he whispered. “I have read all your books.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Paul replied.
“Ms. Grinberg, I cannot find your reservation,” he said apologetically. “Do you have your confirmation number?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” said Mia.
The receptionist began to search on the computer, becoming even more flustered when Ms. Bak reminded him that Mr. Barton was coming off a long trip and that they were wasting valuable time.
Recovering his presence of mind, Paul leaned over the desk.
“You know, there’s probably been a mix-up,” he said. “Don’t worry, it happens. Just give us a different room.”
“But Mr. Barton, the hotel is completely full. I could try to find accommodation at a different hotel, but with the Book Fair, I am afraid they will all be full as well.”
Mia stared into space.
“Fine, not to worry,” said Paul jovially. “Ms. Grinberg and I have been working together for years. We can easily share a room. With twin beds.”
“But there aren’t any left. We upgraded you to a suite, but it has only one bed. It is a very big bed, though—king size!”
Ms. Bak looked as if she were about to faint. Paul took her to one side.
“Have you ever flown on an airplane, Ms. Bak?”
“Never, Mr. Barton, never. Why?”
“Because I just did, and let me tell you: after eleven excruciating hours thirty thousand feet off the ground, with only a flimsy sheet of metal and a tiny little window between me and oblivion, it would take a hell of a lot more than this to faze me. The two of us can share the suite, just please don’t say a word about this to your boss—in fact, don’t tell anybody. All you have to do is make sure this young man forgets that Ms. Grinberg was ever here today, and it can be our little secret.”
Ms. Bak swallowed and her face seemed to recover its normal complexion.
“Two keys, please,” said Paul to the receptionist. Then, turning to Mia, he asked ironically: “Shall we head up then, Ms. Grinberg?”
Not a word was exchanged in the elevator, or in the long hallway that led to the room, and still not a peep until the porter had deposited Paul’s suitcase and taken his leave.
“I’m so sorry,” said Mia. “It never even crossed my mind . . .”
Paul lay down on the sofa, his legs dangling over the armrest.
“Okay, that’s not an option,” he sighed, standing up again.
He took a cushion, placed it on the carpet, and lay down.
“And that idea’s out too,” he said, rubbing his lower back.
He opened the wardrobe door, stood on his tiptoes, grabbed two bolster pillows, and put them down the middle of the bed.
“Right side or left?” he asked.
“There must be a B&B with a vacant room somewhere. The entire city of Seoul can’t really be booked, can it?” Mia exclaimed.
“Sure. We can just flip through the ads in Korean, should be a cinch. Look, this can work if we set a few ground rules. You can have the bathroom first in the morning, and I’ll take it first at night. Remote control is all yours, carte blanche with the TV, as long as it’s not sports. You should sleep with earplugs. I don’t think I’m a snorer, but just in case, I’d like to maintain a shred of dignity. If I happen to talk in my sleep, anything I say may not be used against me in a court of law. We stick to that, and I think we should be able to make this work. I already have enough to worry about without piling on one more complication. And by the way, what in the world possessed you to say you were my assistant? Do I look like the kind of person who has an assistant?”
“I don’t know. And just how is a person with an assistant supposed to look?”
“Let’s take a poll. I’ve never had a personal assistant. Have you? Didn’t think so. I hope you at least brought a toothbrush, because there’s no way I’m sharing mine. I’ve got toothpaste,” Paul grumbled as he paced the room, “but my toothbrush is where I draw the line.”
“Please calm down, Paul . . . I know you’re nervous. You’ll see Kyong at dinner.”
“Along with a dozen other people! This trip is off to one hell of a start. I have to call my friend ‘Ms. Grinberg’ and the woman I love ‘Ms. Kyong.’ Just . . . marvelful, as my editor would say.”
“Thank you for that,” Mia said, lying on the bed.
“For what?”
“For calling me your friend . . . It’s quite touching.”
She lay with her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. Paul watched her.
“So I take it that means you want the left side?”
Mia climbed over the bolsters, jumped up and down several times on the right-hand side, and then went back to the other side.
“Yes. Left it is,” she concluded.
“Did you have to break the bed to decide?”
“No, but it was fun. So, do we draw straws for the bathroom? Afternoon toilet privileges were left undefined.”
Paul shrugged to indicate that she could use it now. While she was gone, he unpacked his suitcase and hung his clothes in the wardrobe, hiding his underwear and socks under a pile of shirts.
Mia reappeared half an hour later wearing a bathrobe, with a towel wrapped around her head.
“What were you doing, counting shower tiles?” Paul asked sarcastically.
As he climbed into his bath, Mia spoke to him from the bedroom.
“Departure from hotel at eleven a.m.; Book Fair opening ceremony at noon; signing session at one p.m.; lunch break from two fifteen to two thirty; signing session from two thirty to five; return to hotel; departure for television studios at six thirty p.m.; makeup at seven; on air at seven thirty; show ends at nine p.m.; dinner, and that’s a wrap . . . Wow. And I complain about my promotion schedules!”
“What was that?” Paul shouted.
“Like a good assistant, I was reading you tomorrow’s schedule.”
Paul came bounding out of the bathroom, swaddled in towels.
Mia burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“You look like some sort of fakir.”
“Did I hear you say I only get fifteen minutes for lunch?”
“Welcome to the world of celebrity. The crowd at the airport was impressive, and the hotel receptionist was positively beside himself. I must say I’m quite proud of you.”
“There were more people waiting for me to get off that plane than there usually are at my book signings; those people were hired to act like fans.”
“Don’t be so modest. And go and get dressed already. A loincloth is not a good look on you.”
Paul opened the door of the wardrobe and looked at himself in the mirror.
“Are you kidding? I think it suits me just fine. Maybe I should go on TV dressed like this.” At the mere mention of TV, his voice had cracked.
Mia walked up to Paul, examined the contents of his wardrobe, and took out a pair of gray pants, a black jacket, and a white shirt.
“Here,” she said, handing them over. “These will look just fine.”
“I was thinking of something blue.”
“No, that won’t do, not in your present state. The shirt ought to be paler than your complexion; maybe after a night or two of rest, you can try the blue.”
Opening her bag, she found that the few items of clothing she had brought with her were badly wrinkled.
“Looks like I’m going to stay here and order room service,” she sighed, dropping her clothes on the floor.
“Precisely how much time do we have, Ms. Grinberg, before this dinner party commences?” Paul asked in his best pretentious voice.
“Two hours, Mr. Barton. And don’t start getting a taste for this little arrangement, or I’ll have my resignation letter in your hands so fast, it’ll make your head spin.”
“Get dressed, Ms. Grinberg. And please maintain a respectful tone with your employer.”
“Where are we going?”
“To go check out Seoul. It’s the only thing I can think of to keep us conscious until that stupid dinner party.”
They went back down to the lobby. Seeing them emerge from the elevator, Ms. Bak leapt to her feet and stood at attention.
Paul whispered to her what he had in mind. She bowed and led the way.
Mia was surprised to find herself walking down a street with no tourist attractions in sight, and her confusion increased when Ms. Bak led them into a shopping center. Paul obediently followed her inside and onto an escalator.
“May I ask what we’re doing here?” Mia said.
“No, you may not,” Paul replied.
On the third floor, Ms. Bak gestured toward a shop window. She stood at the entrance to the shop and told Paul to call her over if he needed anything. Paul ventured inside and Mia followed suit.
“It’s a nice idea to give Kyong a dress, but she probably would’ve preferred one from Paris!”
“I know. I didn’t think of it.”
“Let’s try to make up for it straightaway. Do you know her size or measurements?”
“I’d say same as yours, more or less.”
“Oh, really? I pictured her shorter, and a bit chubbier, to be honest . . .”
Mia looked around and then headed toward some shelves.
“This skirt is pretty. So are these trousers. A lovely top over here, and oh—there’s another. Three perfect sweaters, easy as cake, and voilà—a wonderful evening dress.”
“You must have been a costume designer in another life,” Paul said, amazed at the speed with which Mia had picked out the items.
“Oh, come now,” she replied, “I just have taste.”
Paul took all the clothes Mia had chosen and carried them over to one of the fitting rooms.
“Now, if you don’t mind . . . ,” he said, pulling back the curtain.
“Ah, the lengths a good assistant will go to for her boss,” Mia said, grabbing the clothes.
She went into the fitting room, closed the curtain, and reemerged a few minutes later wearing the first outfit. She twirled around like a model, a fake smile plastered on her face.
“Exquisite, perfect,” said Paul. “Let’s have a look at the next one.”
Mia tried it on reluctantly.
Paul looked on, undecided, as Mia went back into the fitting room and came out again wearing another sweater. He went to get a black dress that he liked a lot and passed it over the curtain.
“You don’t think it’s a bit tight?” Mia asked.
“Try it on. We’ll see.”
“Actually, it’s . . . beautiful. You were right,” Mia admitted, coming out of the dressing room.
“I know. See? You’re not the only one with taste.”
After one more change of clothes, Paul found the perfect outfit. While Mia got dressed, he went to the counter to pay, then rejoined Ms. Bak at the entrance to the shop. Mia came out of the fitting room and watched them from a distance.
“My God, who does he think he is? A few fans waiting for him at the airport, and it’s gone straight to his head. You want to play superstar, my friend? I’ll give you a run for your money,” she muttered as she walked up to them.
“Back to the hotel?” he asked.
“A little ‘thank you’ wouldn’t hurt.”
“Thank you,” said Paul, stepping onto the escalator.
“Are you hoping to charm your translator with two dresses?” Mia asked.
“Not to mention a skirt, three sweaters, two pairs of pants, and two tops.”
“A miniature Eiffel Tower would have done the trick. At least that would have shown you didn’t forget about it until the last minute.”
They went back to their hotel room without exchanging another word. Paul lay down on the right side of the bed, hands behind his head.
“With your shoes on? Really!” Mia cried.
“They’re not even touching the duvet itself.”
“Take them off.”
“What time are they coming to get us?”
“Want to know? You can get up and check your junket schedule.”
“That’s a funny term. What am I, a movie star?”
“Can a lowly waitress not employ such an advanced term?”
“Whoa! Calm down. I’m the one who’s supposed to be nervous, not you.”
“Me, me, me—that’s all you’ve talked about since we got here! Go and be nervous by yourself. And you can accompany yourself to that dinner party too, while you’re at it. I haven’t got a single thing to wear, so I’ll have to decline.”
“Actually, I’d say you’ve got a hell of a selection. I bought those clothes for you. Did you really think I was hoping to seduce Kyong by showering her with gifts? That would just be . . . vulgar. Does that sound anything like me?”
No. It sounds like David . . . “Well, that’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly accept. There’s no reason for me to—”
“Yes, there is, and you just admitted it yourself. You’re not going to wear the same clothes this whole trip, are you?”
“I’ll go and buy some tomorrow.”
“Mia, come on. Wasn’t buying the plane ticket crazy enough? I mean, look, you held my hand on the plane—my very clammy hand—and bailed me out on the car ride by reining in my chatterbox editor. If it weren’t for you, I’d be a total wreck right now, in the fetal position in a dreary suite in a dreary hotel in a foreign city on the other side of the world. There are no strings attached—hang those up on your side of the closet, pick something out to wear, but maybe keep the black dress for the embassy.”
“I’ll have to insist on paying you back. These must have cost a fortune.”
“It wasn’t me, it was Cristoneli—I squeezed an astronomical advance out of him before agreeing to take this trip.”
Mia took one of the bags into the bathroom. “I’ll let you put the rest away. Seems I have to get ready.”
When she came out, a half hour later, Paul thought she looked even more beautiful than she had back at the store, and still with barely any makeup on.
“So?” she asked.
Stunning.
“Not bad. It suits you.”
What do you mean, “not bad”? “You don’t think the skirt is too short?”
That skirt is making my head spin! “Nope. Just right.”
Do you know how many men would throw their grandma under a bus to spend just one minute alone with me in a hotel suite? And all you’ve got is “not bad”? “But the top . . . Is the cleavage too much?”
Half an inch more and you’ll cause an all-out riot . . . “I hadn’t really noticed. Seriously, I think that outfit is just fine.”
Ha! Wait till you see the look on your translator’s face when she gets an eyeful of me, then we’ll see who’s “not bad”! “If you say so, then I believe you.”
“What is up with you?”
“Did you say something?”
“Nope! Nothing at all.”
Paul gave her a thumbs-up and went to the bathroom to get ready.
As he entered the restaurant, Paul felt his pulse quicken. Before they had left the hotel, Mia had given him some advice on how to behave in this kind of situation. Don’t do anything that might embarrass Kyong in front of her employers, let her make the first move, and wait cautiously for the right time to express your feelings. If you’re seated next to each other and brushing your hand against hers would be too obvious, a gentle knee-to-knee contact should be enough to reassure her.
And in case he ended up unable to approach her without arousing suspicion, Paul had given Mia a little note that she could hand Kyong at the end of the meal.
When all the guests had taken their places around the table, Paul and Mia exchanged a look. Apparently, Kyong had not been invited.
A series of toasts in Paul’s honor launched the evening. The marketing director of the Korean publisher said he’d been thinking of publishing all of Paul’s works in a single collection intended for students. He wanted to know if Paul would agree to write a preface explaining why he had dedicated his life’s work to such a challenging cause. Paul wondered if the man was pulling his leg, but the marketing director’s English was far from perfect, and in the end he decided simply to smile. The head of publicity showed him the cover of his latest novel, pointing proudly to the band with its red-letter announcement: 300,000 Copies Sold. An extraordinary figure for a foreign author, the editor added. The bookshop manager confirmed that not a day went by without him selling several copies of the book. Ms. Bak waited patiently before reeling off the list of interviews Paul would have to attend. The television news program had negotiated exclusivity until the show was broadcast, but after that there would be an interview with the daily newspaper The Chosun Ilbo, as well as Elle Korea, a one-hour live broadcast with radio service KBS, a one-on-one with a journalist from Movie Week, and a more delicate meeting with the radical daily Hankyoreh, the only newspaper to support the government’s policy of political dialogue with North Korea. When Paul asked why Hankyoreh wanted to interview him, everyone at the table laughed. Paul was not in the mood for jokes, and his dazed state contrasted with the liveliness of his companions. Mia came to his rescue, asking a whole series of questions about Seoul—the weather throughout the year, the best places to visit, and so on. She began a conversation about Korean cinema with Paul’s editor, who was impressed by her knowledge of the subject. She took advantage of this newfound bond to quietly suggest that he bring the evening to a close, as Mr. Barton was exhausted.
Back at the hotel, Paul hopped straight into bed. He adjusted the bolster that separated him from Mia and turned off his bedside lamp before she had even come out of the bathroom.
Mia got under the sheets and waited a few moments.
“Are you asleep?”
“No. I was waiting for you to ask me that question before I could fall asleep.”
“She’ll call tomorrow, I’m sure she will.”
“How can you be so sure? She hasn’t even left a message for me at the hotel.”
“She did warn you in her email that she would be very busy. Sometimes work just takes over to the point where you can’t do anything else.”
Paul propped himself up and peered over the bolster.
“Just a short message—I mean, is that too much to ask? It’s like she’s been named minister of culture. Why are you making excuses for her?”
“Because . . . it bothers me to see you unhappy,” Mia replied, sitting up in turn. “I don’t know why, that’s just the way it is.”
“There you go again, stealing my lines.”
“You know what? Why don’t you just shut up.”
In the silence that followed, their faces drew closer and closer . . . until at last they came together, in what can only be described as a moment of infinite tenderness.
“Tell me that wasn’t just a pity kiss,” Paul said.
“Have you ever been slapped just after a kiss?”
“No. At least, not yet.”
Mia pressed her lips to his and wished him good night. Then she adjusted the bolster and turned off her bedside lamp.
“One question . . . did that count?” Paul asked in the darkness.
“Oh, go to sleep already!” Mia replied.