9
Arthur was waiting for Paul on the landing.
“Guess what? It seems I may have lost your spare keys,” he said.
“It just gets better and better,” Paul replied, opening the door. “How was Honfleur?”
“Gorgeous, charming.”
Paul entered the apartment without another word.
“Are you really still mad at me? It was only a joke.”
“Where’s your wife?”
“She’s visiting a colleague who’s interning at the American Hospital.”
“Do you have anything planned for tonight?” Paul asked as he started making coffee.
“You’re going to leave me in suspense—is that your sweet, sweet revenge?”
“Grow up, will you? I’m not going to waste my breath.”
“That bad, huh?”
“You mean during the half hour when this lovely woman thought she was having dinner with a psycho? Or afterward, when I realized just how god-awfully ridiculous you made me look?”
“She seemed nice. You might have had a good time together.”
Paul thrust a cup of coffee into Arthur’s hands.
“Tell me how she could have a good time when the best friend of the guy she was out with had mocked her in a way no man should be allowed to mock a woman.”
“You like her!” Arthur gasped. “You do! If you’re defending her honor, you must like this woman!”
He clapped his hands, walked over to Paul’s desk, and sat down in his chair.
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“I know you’re plotting your revenge. But for now, put vengeance on the back burner. Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing to tell. The whole farce lasted about ten minutes. I mean, how long did you think it would take for two reasonably intelligent people to realize that they were the victims of a nasty trick? I apologized on your behalf. I explained to her that my best friend was a nice guy, but a total jackass, and we went our separate ways. I don’t even remember her name.”
“And that’s all?”
“Yes, that’s all!”
“So, it actually wasn’t that bad.”
“No, not that bad. But you got one thing right: I will get you back for this.”
Coming out of the métro, Mia headed toward a bookshop. She wandered around the displays and, not finding what she was looking for, asked one of the staff. The man typed something into his computer and then made his way to the back to search a shelf.
“I think I have one in stock,” he told her, standing on his tiptoes. “Yes, here it is. This is the only one of his books we have.”
“Could you order the others?”
“Yes, of course. But I could recommend some other authors if you’re an avid reader.”
“Why? Is this author not for avid readers?”
“Well, I guess I could recommend more . . . literary works, shall we say.”
“Have you actually read any of his novels?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have time to read everything.” The bookseller shrugged.
“So how can you judge his writing?”
The man looked her up and down and went back behind the counter.
“Would you like me to order the others?” he asked, ringing up her purchase.
“No,” replied Mia. “I think I’ll start with this one and then order the others from a less . . . literary bookshop.”
“I didn’t mean to be disparaging. He’s an American author. Often books can lose a lot in translation.”
“I work in translation,” said Mia, hands on her hips.
For a few seconds, the bookseller was speechless.
“Well, after a faux pas of that magnitude, I think I’m going to have to offer you a discount!”
Mia walked down the street, leafing through the novel. She turned it over to read the back cover and smiled when she saw Paul’s photograph. This was the first time she had held a book written by someone she knew, even if she could hardly claim to know him very well. She thought back to the conversation she’d had with the bookseller and wondered why her reaction had been so testy. It really wasn’t like her, but she was glad to have expressed her feelings on the matter. Something inside her was changing, and she liked the new inner voice telling her to be more assertive. She hailed a taxi and asked the driver to drop her off on Rue de Rivoli, outside the English bookshop.
She came out again a few minutes later with the original American edition of Paul’s first novel. She began reading it on the way to Montmartre, continued as she walked up Rue Lepic, and then sat on a bench in Place du Tertre to read some more.
The caricaturist was sitting behind his easel. He threw a smile her way, but she didn’t even notice.
It was late afternoon when she arrived at the restaurant to find Daisy hard at work in the kitchen. Handing over the reins to Robert, her sous-chef, she took Mia aside.
“I know you don’t have the right CV for this type of work, but my waitress is gone for good and it’ll take me at least a few days to find a replacement. You did really well the other night. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”
“Yes,” Mia said before Daisy could finish her sentence.
“You’re in?”
“Like I said: yes.”
“What would Cate Blanchett think?”
“Leave her out of this. Anyway, if I were her, I’d invest in a restaurant. You have money problems, I don’t. We could spruce up the decor, and you could hire a reliable waitress and pay her enough that she’d stay for good—”
“My restaurant doesn’t need sprucing up,” Daisy interrupted. “Right now, all I need is a hand.”
“You don’t have to give me an answer now. Think about it.”
“How was the Opera?”
“I gave him his phone and left.”
“That’s all?”
“Yup.”
“Is he gay?”
“I didn’t think to ask.”
“You go all the way across Paris to give him his phone and all you get is a ‘thank you and good-bye’?”
Mia did not engage her further. She put on her apron and began to set tables.
Paul had eaten dinner with Arthur and Lauren in a bistro on Rue de Bourgogne. The wine flowed freely, helping turn the joke they had played on him into a distant memory. The next day his friends were leaving to visit Provence, and he wanted to make the most of the remaining time with them.
“I think she was right,” Paul said as they walked across the Esplanade des Invalides.
“Who?” asked Lauren.
“My . . . editor.”
“I thought your editor was a man?” Arthur objected.
“Of course he is,” Paul replied.
“And what was he right about?” Lauren went on.
“I should go to Korea and set things straight once and for all. It’s ridiculous, this fear of flying.”
“Or . . . you could ride this new wave of bravery and come back to San Francisco,” Arthur suggested.
“Let him be,” Lauren said. “If he wants to go to Seoul, you should be encouraging him.”
Arthur took Paul by the shoulder, turning him to meet his gaze.
“If that’s where you think you’ll find happiness, fine. It’ll only put you another few thousand miles away from us.”
“No offense, but you really suck at geography, Arthur. Or maybe you forgot if you fly west instead of east, we’d actually be closer? Breaking news—the world is round!”
Back at his apartment, Paul sat down, uninspired, in front of his computer. Around one a.m., he wrote an email.
Kyong,
I should have come to see you a long time ago. I think about you when I wake up, all day, and late into the night, but I never give voice to these thoughts. I only have to close my eyes to picture your face. You’re here, leaning over my desk, reading me and translating me at the same time in your thoughts, without ever saying a word. You know I’m watching you, so you keep your feelings concealed.
If only heartache were contagious, you would love me as much as I love you.
When feelings are hard to pin down, we hope that they will take shape as they grow. Mine are now fully grown, but I have been trying hard not to show it. You and I can do anything with words. We create beautiful stories. So why is it so complicated to create our own story together in real life?
I am coming to Seoul, not just for the book fair, but for you. And if you feel like it, we can spend some time together. You can introduce me to your city and your friends. Or I could simply sit down and write, and this time, you would be the one watching me.
I’ll be counting the days, with bated breath . . . as my longing for you slows time to a crawl.
Paul
As he finished writing the message, it occurred to him that Kyong had already woken up. When would she read the words he had sent her? This thought kept him awake long into the night.
Arthur sat with the laptop on his knees. He entered the address of the dating site, logged in with the username and password, and accessed the profile he had created, this time with the sole intent of deleting it. A little envelope was blinking under the image of his best friend’s face. Arthur turned to Lauren, but she was asleep. He hesitated—two seconds, maybe less—then clicked on the envelope.
Dear Paul,
We talked about calling but we didn’t mention email, so this doesn’t count.
My email address is at the bottom of this message, because I’d rather avoid this site from now on, in an attempt to forget how humiliating that whole debacle was . . .
I wanted to thank you for our impromptu lunch, and to tell you not to worry about my “oh.” I have been thinking more about your story and I really want to know what happens next—so I can only hope that you soon overcome your writer’s block.
I’m excited about the idea of visiting the Opera, especially when it’s closed to the public. Things that are out of reach are always more desirable.
A grueling night tonight at the restaurant. Lots of people—too many, almost—but that’s the price of success. It seems my cuisine is absolutely irresistible!
Good night, and see you soon . . .
Mia
“Can I have my laptop back?” Daisy asked, poking her head into Mia’s room.
“Sure. I just finished.”
“Who were you writing to? I heard you working those keys like crazy.”
“I have trouble writing on a French keyboard, with the letters in all the wrong places.”
“So who were you writing to?” Daisy pressed, sitting at the foot of the bed.
“Creston. I was just giving him an update.”
“Only good things, I assume?”
“Yes, I rather like my life in Paris. I even like my job at the restaurant.”
“There weren’t many people there tonight. If it goes on, I’ll be forced to close down.”
Mia shut the laptop and focused all her attention on Daisy.
“It’s just a phase. People are strapped for cash right now, but the crisis won’t last forever.”
“You can count me among those strapped for cash, and at this rate, my restaurant won’t be around to see the end of the crisis.”
“Daisy, if you don’t want me as a partner, at least let me lend you some money.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I may be penniless, but I still have my dignity.”
Daisy lay down next to Mia. The pillow was oddly uncomfortable; she slid her hand beneath it and discovered a book. She turned it over to read the blurb.
“Why do I feel like I recognize this face?” she asked, looking at the photo of the author.
“He’s a very well-known American novelist.”
“I never have time to read. But I’m sure I’ve seen this face before. Maybe he came to the restaurant.”
“Who knows?” Mia replied, turning bright red.
“Did you buy it today? What’s it about?”
“I haven’t started it yet.”
“You bought a book without even knowing what it’s about?”
“It came recommended by the bookseller.”
“All right, well, I’ll leave you to your reading. I’m off to bed.”
Daisy stood up and walked toward the door.
“Um, the book?” Mia said timidly.
It was still in Daisy’s hand. She took another look at the photograph and tossed the book on the bed.
“See you tomorrow.”
She closed the door and then, almost immediately, opened it again.
“You’re acting weird.”
“Weird how?”
“I don’t know. Was it that stranger on the phone who gave you this book?”
“Well, if it was, wouldn’t it be written in a dialect from northernmost Sweden?”
Daisy frowned at Mia before leaving the room.
“You’re definitely being weird,” Mia heard her mutter from outside the door.