8
After breakfast, Paul realized that he’d lost his cell phone. He went through his jacket pockets, lifted up the various piles of paper covering his desk, scanned the shelves of his bookcase, checked that it wasn’t in the bathroom, and tried to recall the last time he’d used it. He remembered giving it to Mia so she could read Arthur’s message. Now he was sure that he must have left it behind on the table. Furious with himself, he called the restaurant, but it went straight to voicemail. The place wasn’t open yet.
If the waitress had found it, she might have taken it with her. After all, he had left a generous tip. So he dialed his own number. You never know . . . could get lucky . . .
Mia was eating breakfast with Daisy when suddenly they heard Gloria Gaynor belting out “I Will Survive” from somewhere near the window.
Both women looked up in surprise.
“Sounds like it’s coming from the sofa,” said Daisy indifferently.
“You have a musical sofa?”
“Actually, I think it might be your purse doing its morning exercises.”
Mia’s eyes widened and she rushed over to the source of the music. She was rummaging around inside the bag when the tune suddenly cut out.
“Did Gloria get tired?” Daisy asked sarcastically from the kitchen.
The song erupted again, even louder this time.
“Nope,” she went on, “she was just saving herself for the encore. That Gloria sure knows how to work an audience!”
This time, Mia got to the phone in time and answered.
“Yes,” she whispered. “No, it’s not the waitress . . . Yes, it is, live and in person. I didn’t expect you to call so soon . . . I know, of course, I’m just kidding . . . Sure, I can do that . . . Where? I have no idea where that . . . In front of the Opera, one p.m. . . . Right, got it, see you later . . . Yup, bye . . . You’re welcome . . . Bye.”
Mia put the phone back in her purse and returned to the table. Daisy poured her some more tea and eyed her knowingly.
“Sounds like the usher was Swedish too.”
“Sorry?”
“Tell me about this Gloria Gaynor.”
“It was just someone who forgot his phone at the cinema. I found it and he was calling so I could give it back to him.”
“You English are so civilized! You’re going all the way to the Opera to give a stranger his phone back?”
“Why not? If it were my phone, I’d be relieved it was in the hands of someone decent.”
“What about this waitress?”
“What waitress?”
“Never mind. I’d rather be kept in the dark than treated like an idiot.”
“All right, all right . . .” Mia sighed, wondering how to get out of this tight spot. “The film was a total bore, so I left, and so did the guy who’d been sitting next to me. We bumped into each other outside and ended up having a drink at a café. He left his phone by accident, I picked it up, and now I’m going to give it back to him. Now you know the whole story. Happy?”
“And what was he like, this guy from the cinema?”
“Not much to tell. I mean, he was okay. Pretty nice.”
“Okay and pretty nice!”
“Stop it, Daisy. We had a drink, that’s all.”
“Just a little weird you neglected to mention any of this when you came home last night. You sure were a lot chattier the night before.”
“I was bored to death and felt like having a drink. You can imagine whatever you want. I’m going to give him his phone back and that’ll be the end of it.”
“If you say so. Are you coming round to help out at the restaurant tonight?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. I just thought you might want to go to the cinema again . . .”
Mia stood up, put her plate in the dishwasher, and went off to take a shower without saying another word.
Paul was waiting on the pavement outside the opera house, which teemed with people. He recognized her face as she climbed the stairs out of the métro. She was wearing sunglasses and a head scarf, and carrying her purse on her arm.
He waved to her. She smiled back shyly and moved toward him.
“Don’t ask me how it happened, I have no idea,” she said by way of greeting.
“How what happened?” Paul replied.
“I don’t have a clue. I suppose it must have slipped in.”
“Tell me you haven’t started drinking this early in the day . . .”
“Hold on a second,” she went on, plunging her hand inside the bag.
She searched in vain, lifting one leg so she could rest the bag on her knee and continue her search, balanced somewhat precariously.
“Are you a flamingo?”
With a look of reproach, she produced the telephone with a flourish.
“I’m not a thief. I have no clue how it ended up in my bag.”
“The thought never even crossed my mind.”
“So we’re agreed that this time doesn’t count?”
“What do you mean, doesn’t count?”
“You didn’t call me because you wanted to see me, and I didn’t come because I wanted to see you. Your phone is the sole reason for this encounter.”
“Okay, fine. It doesn’t count. Can I have it back now?”
She handed him the phone.
“Why the Opera?”
Paul turned to look at the ornate building behind him.
“My next novel is set here. Have you ever been inside?”
“Have you?”
“Dozens of times, even when it was closed to the public.”
“Show-off!”
“Not at all. I just know the director.”
“So tell me: What exactly happens inside this opera house?”
“Opera, of course, but in my story, the main character is an opera singer who loses her voice, then ends up lingering at the opera house, sort of haunting the place.”
“Oh.”
“What do you mean, ‘oh’?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re not going to leave me with just ‘oh’ and ‘nothing,’ are you?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t have a clue. But you’d better think of something.”
“How about we admire the façade together for a minute?”
“Writing is a fragile thing—unimaginably fragile. Your ‘oh’ is enough to give me three solid days of writer’s block.”
“Really? Is my ‘oh’ truly that powerful? Let me assure you that it was a perfectly harmless ‘oh.’”
“A book’s description is anything but harmless. It can absolutely make or break a book. It can even decide its fate in a lot of ways.”
“Wait. Are you saying that what you just told me is the actual synopsis of the story?”
“Oh, fantastic! Now we’ve bumped it up to at least a week of writer’s block.”
“I should probably simply stop talking.”
“Too late. Damage has already been done.”
“Oh, you’re pulling my leg!”
“No, I’m serious. People think writing is an easy job, and in some ways it is. Flexible hours, no boss, no real structure . . . but working without any structure is a bit like sailing a boat in the middle of the ocean. All it takes is an unexpected wave and you’re dead in the water. Try asking an actor if someone coughing in the middle of a play can make them forget their lines. Maybe that’s tough for you to imagine . . .”
“Right, it probably is,” Mia replied abruptly. “I am truly sorry. I really didn’t intend for my ‘oh’ to upset you so badly.”
“No, it’s not your fault. I’m just in a bit of a funk. I didn’t manage to get a single word down last night, and I was up really late.”
“Because of our dinner?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Mia looked attentively at Paul.
“It’s too crowded here,” she announced.
And, as Paul seemed confused, she took him by the hand and led him toward the steps of the opera house.
“Sit down,” she ordered, then sat two steps above him. “Tell me what happens to your main character. The girl?”
“Are you really interested?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”
“No one can figure out what’s wrong with her. She’s not sick. She spends all she has on a bunch of treatments that don’t do a thing, and ends up living like a recluse inside her apartment. Because the opera was her life, and because she is now too poor to even go as a spectator, she gets a job as an usher. The same people who used to pay a fortune to hear her sing are now slapping a stingy little tip in her hand when she shows them to their seats. Then, one day at the opera, a music critic catches sight of her and is sure that he recognizes her.”
“Nice role. Seems promising. So what happens next?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t written it yet.”
“Does it have a happy ending?”
“How should I know?”
“Oh, come on—tell me it has a happy ending.”
“Will you give it a rest with your ‘oh’s? I haven’t figured out the ending yet.”
“Don’t you think we have enough tragedy in real life? People suffer more than enough misfortune, deceit, cowardice, and cruelty. Why would you want to add to all that by putting stories out there with unhappy endings?”
“Novels should reflect reality to some extent, otherwise they risk being sentimental.”
“Who cares? All the people who don’t like happy endings can go and wallow in their own pessimism, as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Well, it’s all a question of common sense and courage. What is the point of acting or writing or painting or sculpting, of taking any of those risks, if not to make people happy? Why write tearjerkers just because they get you better reviews? You know what you have to do to win an Oscar these days? Play a character who’s lost an arm, or a leg, or a mother, or a father, or preferably all of the above. Make it miserable and squalid and base, so people will cry their eyes out and call you a genius, but if you inspire people or make them laugh? You’re not even under consideration when awards season rolls around. I’m sick of this cultural hegemony of depression. Your novel needs a happy ending. Full stop!”
“Okay, then,” Paul replied tentatively. A little taken aback by the emotion on her face and in her tone, he had absolutely no desire to upset her any further.
“So she’ll get her voice back, won’t she?”
“We’ll see.”
“She’d better. Otherwise, I’m not buying it.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll give you a copy.”
“I won’t read it.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m counting on you. Now, let’s have a coffee and you can tell me what this critic does after he recognizes her. Is he a nice guy or a bastard?” Without giving Paul time to answer, she went on with the same impassioned tone, “I know what would be great: if he was a bastard to begin with and then he became a nice guy because of her—and she got her voice back because of him. Isn’t that a nice idea?”
Paul took a pen from his pocket and handed it to Mia.
“Here’s an idea. You write my novel while we stroll to the café, and then I can cook a bouillabaisse.”
“Are you going to be grumpy?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I have no desire to go for coffee with someone who’s grumpy.”
“Then I won’t be.”
“All right. But it still doesn’t count.”
“I bet they have a great time, the people who work for you in your kitchen.”
“May I take that as a compliment or are you being sarcastic?”
“Watch out!” he yelled, yanking her back by the arm as she took a step out into the road. “You’re going to get run over! This is Paris, not London, you know—they drive on the other side here.”
They sat down at an outside table at Café de la Paix.
“I’m actually feeling a bit peckish,” Mia said.
Paul handed her the menu.
“Is your restaurant closed for lunch?”
“No.”
“Who’s minding the store?”
“My business partner,” said Mia, averting her gaze.
“It must come in handy, having a business partner. That would be a bit tricky in my line of work.”
“Your translator’s a sort of partner, isn’t she?”
“She can’t really write my novels for me while I go out to lunch, though. So what made you leave England for a new life in France?”
“I only had to hop across the Channel, not cross an ocean. Why did you come, with your fear of flying?”
“I asked you first.”
“Let’s call it . . . a desire to be elsewhere. To change my life.”
“Because of your ex-boyfriend? Although I assume you didn’t just get here the day before yesterday.”
“I’d rather not go into it. How about telling me why you left San Francisco?”
“After we order. I’m pretty hungry myself.”
When the waiter had left them, Paul recounted the episode that had followed the publication of his first novel, and how difficult he had found his first brush with fame.
“So becoming a celebrity sort of did you in?” Mia asked, amused.
“Well, let’s not overdo it. A writer will never be as famous as a rock star or movie star. But I wasn’t playing a role—I really did pour my guts into that book, metaphorically speaking. And I’m almost pathologically shy. When I was in high school, I used to shower with my underwear on. How’s that for shy?”
“Fame doesn’t last, though,” Mia pointed out. “Your picture is on the front page of the newspaper one day, and the next they use that same paper to wrap fish and chips.”
“Do you serve fish and chips at your restaurant?”
“It’s back in fashion, believe it or not,” she replied with a smile. “Thanks, by the way—now I’m craving some!”
“You homesick?”
“More like . . . lovesick.”
“Wow. He hurt you that badly, huh?”
“I think the worst part was that I didn’t see it coming—and everyone else did.”
“You know what they say: love is blind.”
“In my case, the cliché turned out to be true. But tell me—what’s really holding you back from going to live with your translator? Writers can work anywhere, right?”
“I’m not sure she wants me to. If she did, I’d imagine she’d have told me.”
“Not necessarily. Are you in touch very often?”
“We Skype every weekend, and exchange emails occasionally. I’ve only ever seen one tiny little corner of her apartment—the part that’s visible in the background on the computer. The rest of it I can only imagine.”
“When I was twenty years old, I fell in love with this guy in New York. I think the distance intensified my feelings for him. The impossibility of seeing him, of touching him . . . everything played out in my imagination. One day, I scraped together all the money I could and flew over there. I had one of the best weeks of my life. I came back exhilarated and full of hope, and decided to find a way of going back there permanently.”
“And did you?”
“No. As soon as I told him my plans, everything changed. He started sounding distant whenever we spoke, and our relationship tapered off in the run-up to winter. It took me a long time to get over him, but I never regretted the experience.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m staying here . . . to spare myself from having to get over her.”
“So your fear of flying isn’t really all that’s holding you back.”
“Well, we all need a good excuse for keeping our heads buried in the sand. So what’s yours?”
Mia pushed away her plate, drank her water in one gulp, and set the glass back down on the table.
“At the moment, I’d say the only excuse we need to think up is one to justify our next encounter,” she said, smiling as she dodged his last question.
“You really think we need one?”
“Yes, unless you want to be the first one who ‘feels like’ calling the other.”
“No, no, no, that’d be way too easy. There’s no law saying that men have to make the first move, especially not when you’re just friends. In fact, in the spirit of equal treatment, I think women should have to do it.”
“I couldn’t agree with you less.”
“Of course not, because it doesn’t work in your favor.”
They fell silent for a few moments, watching the passersby.
“Would you like a private tour of the Opera? When it’s closed to the public?” Paul asked.
“Is it true there’s an underground lake?”
“And beehives on the roof . . .”
“I think I would like that very much.”
“Good. I’ll set it up and call you with the details.”
“I’ll have to give you my number first.”
Paul picked up his pen and opened his notebook.
“Go ahead.”
“You have to ask for it first. Just because we’re only friends doesn’t mean these things don’t matter.”
“May I please have your phone number?” Paul sighed.
Mia grabbed the pen and began scribbling in his notebook. Paul looked at her in surprise.
“You kept your English number.”
“I did,” she admitted, blushing slightly.
“You have to agree that you are complicated.”
“Me in particular, or women in general?”
“Women in general,” Paul muttered.
“Just imagine how dull men’s lives would be if we weren’t. Oh, and this one’s on me. No ifs, ands, or buts.”
“I’m not sure the waiter’s going to go for that. I come here for lunch every day, and he has been given strict orders. Besides, I’m not sure they take British credit cards . . .”
Mia was obliged to accept.
“See you soon, then,” she said, shaking his hand.
“You got it. See you soon,” Paul replied.
He watched her disappear down the steps of the métro.