21
One day in autumn, Paul was disturbed around noon by the incessant ringing of his phone. He finally picked it up, only to find Cristoneli stammering on the line:
“M . . . M . . . M . . .”
“What?”
“La Me . . . Med . . .”
“Medication? That’s it, you’ve finally cracked.”
“No, for God’s sake! La Méditerranée! You call me crazy, but you’re late for your own party. Hurry up! Everyone’s waiting for you!”
“Well, that’s very nice of you, Gaetano, but what am I supposed to do in the Mediterranean?”
“Paul, shut up and listen to me very carefully, I beg you. You have won the Prix Médicis. The press are lined up waiting for you at the restaurant La Méditerranée at Place de l’Odéon. There’s a taxi for you outside right now. Is that clear enough for you?” Cristoneli yelled.
From that moment on, nothing was clear to Paul anymore. His mind spun.
“Shit,” he mumbled.
“What do you mean, shit?”
“Shit, shit, shit.”
“Stop, please. Why on earth are you repeating ‘shit’ again and again?”
“I’m talking to myself.”
“Well, you shouldn’t talk like that, even to yourself.”
“This can’t be happening,” Paul said. “You have to stop this.”
“Stop what?”
“The prize. I can’t accept it.”
“Paul, can I just say that you are beginning to drive me up the hall? No one refuses the Médicis, so get in that taxi and hurry up or I’ll be the one telling you shit. In fact, let me start now: shit, shit, shit! They’re going to announce the prizewinners’ names in fifteen minutes. I’m here, whether you make it or not. This is a great triumph, my friend!”
Paul hung up and immediately felt as if he were going to have a heart attack. He lay down on the floor, arms crossed, and began a series of breathing exercises.
The telephone rang again and again. And it continued ringing until the taxi dropped him at Place de l’Odéon.
Cristoneli was waiting for him outside the restaurant. Flashbulbs popped and Paul had a feeling of déjà vu that froze his blood.
All he could manage by way of communication was a stammering thank you and a nervous smile at the banks of photographers every time his editor elbowed him in the ribs. He barely answered a single question, at least not intelligibly.
At three p.m., while Cristoneli was rushing over to his office to order reprints and sign off on a new book band for the cover, Paul went home and locked himself inside the apartment.
Daisy called late that afternoon to congratulate him. She’d heard the news on the radio while she was cutting radishes and had almost chopped her finger off in shock. She told him he’d better drop by La Clamada to celebrate his success, and soon, or else he would end up on her blacklist.
At eight o’clock, he was still pacing his apartment in a blind panic, waiting for Arthur to call him back.
Yet it was Lauren who called. Arthur was with clients in New Mexico. They had a long conversation, and, before an emergency forced her to hang up, she helped him find a way of calming down.
Paul sat down in front of his screen and opened the file of a project he had abandoned a long time ago. Lauren had been right when she suggested he revive his opera singer. His familiar character quickly provided him with the comfort he needed.
A few pages later, Paul felt the vise around his chest loosen, and the words flowed freely for the rest of the night.
Early in the morning, Paul made a decision and vowed to stick to it, no matter the cost. His best friend would be happy. The time had come to return home.
The next day, Paul went to see Cristoneli. He was only half listening to his editor, opening his mouth only to turn down one interview request after another.
Paul had said no twenty times in a row, so when he did finally say yes, Cristoneli didn’t even notice and continued running through the names of journalists seeking interviews.
“Um . . . I just said yes.” Paul sighed.
“Oh, did you? To which one?”
“La Grande Bibliothèque. That’s the only show I’ll appear on.”
“Okay, whatever you want,” said Cristoneli, on the verge of depression. “I’ll tell them straightaway. The show will air live tomorrow night.”
Paul spent his last day in Paris putting his affairs in order. At noon, he went to Daisy’s to eat lunch. When the time came to say good-bye, she hugged him and fought back her tears.
Late in the afternoon, he bid farewell to Moustache and gave him his keys. The café owner promised he would treat the removal of his belongings as though he were removing his very own.
At eight p.m., Cristoneli came to pick him up. Paul put his suitcase in the trunk of the taxi and the two headed to the studios of France Télévisions.
Paul didn’t say a word during makeup, except to ask them not to conceal the laugh lines around his eyes, on the off chance that Mia would be watching. When the floor manager came to get him, Paul asked Cristoneli to hang back in his dressing room. He could follow the program on the TV screen there.
François Truelle, the host, shook Paul’s hand backstage and showed him to his seat beside four other novelists.
Paul greeted his colleagues and took a deep breath. A few moments later, the show began.
“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to La Grande Bibliothèque. Tonight we will be discussing literary prizes and foreign fiction, featuring an exclusive interview with an author largely unknown to the general public, at least until two days ago, when he won the Prix Médicis for a foreign novel. Paul Barton, thank you for joining us tonight.”
An image of Paul appeared onscreen, while offscreen a voice outlined his career—his past life as an architect, his decision to move to France, and his six previous novels. At the end of the brief report, François Truelle turned to Paul himself.
“Paul Barton, the novel that won you the Médicis is very different from those that preceded it: a poignant, surprising, deeply moving, and enlightening novel. I would go as far as to call it an essential novel.”
Truelle continued to sing the book’s praises, before asking Paul what had inspired the story he had written.
Paul looked straight into the camera.
“I didn’t write it. I only translated it.”
François Truelle gaped at Paul wide-eyed and held his breath.
“Did I hear you correctly? You did not write this novel?”
“No. This is a true story, from beginning to end, and one that does not belong to me. It was absolutely impossible for the woman behind the story to publish it under her own name. Her parents, her family, and the love of her life all live in North Korea and would have faced certain death if the writer’s name were made public. For this reason, I will never reveal her identity, but I refuse to take credit for her work.”
“I don’t understand,” Truelle exclaimed. “Then why publish it under your name in the first place?”
“I acted as a figurehead, by mutual agreement. The real Kyong had only one dream: that the story of her loved ones be known as widely as possible, that people around the world could finally know of their fate. There is no oil in North Korea, so our Western democracies turn a blind eye to one of the most horrific dictatorships in the world. I spent months immersing myself in her story, giving life to her characters, but I repeat: this story belongs entirely to her. She alone deserves the prize that I was awarded two days ago. I came on this program tonight to tell the truth. If and when the regime that oppresses her people at last comes tumbling down, I will reveal her name as soon as she allows me to. As for the royalties I’ve earned, they will be transferred directly to Amnesty International and similar organizations that work to help the victims of this abominable regime. I would like to apologize sincerely to my editor, who knew nothing of this until tonight, and apologize to the members of the Médicis jury as well. But let us not forget that this prize is awarded first and foremost based on the quality of the novel, not which author’s name is on the cover. To everyone watching this program, I would beg you to read it, in the name of liberty and hope. Thank you for your time.”
Paul stood up, shook hands with Truelle and the dumbfounded guests, and walked straight off the set.
Cristoneli awaited him backstage. They walked side by side in silence until they reached the lobby.
When they were alone, Cristoneli looked Paul in the eye and held out his hand.
“I am very proud to be your editor, even if I have the overwhelming desire to strangle you. It’s a fine book, and no great book can be published abroad without the work of a great translator. Now I can understand why you are going back to San Francisco for a while. I am very much looking forward to reading the further adventures of your opera singer. I loved the first chapters you allowed me to read, and I can’t wait to publish it.”
“Thank you, Gaetano, but you are by no means obligated. I’m afraid I may have lost any possible readers tonight.”
“I think quite the opposite is true. But only time will tell.”