by Marc Levy
“And what are those over there?” Mia asked.
“The profiles automatically selected by the site. Based on what you enter about yourself, they have compatibility algorithms that suggest matches for you. It’s the digital equivalent of a matchmaker, with a dash of chance.”
“Let’s try it!”
Other profiles appeared, some of them provoking huge gales of laughter. Mia paused on one of them.
“Hang on, that one looks interesting. Look!”
Mia bent over the screen.
“Hmm . . . ,” Daisy said.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Novelist?”
“So? That’s not a bad thing.”
“I’d like to see what he’s published first. Any guy who claims he’s a writer and is still working on typing the first page of his novel is the type of guy who takes a dozen acting classes and suddenly he’s Kevin Spacey, or who fiddles around with three chords on a guitar and now he’s John Lennon. They’re just looking for a sucker to bail them out while they marinate in the juices of their artistic careers. And believe me, there are lots of those guys around.”
“I think you’re being extremely harsh. And cynical. Also, for your information, I took acting classes myself.”
“Maybe, but I’ve been out with a few of those losers. Although I must admit your writer here does look like a nice guy from the picture, with those three huge sticks of cotton candy . . . He must have three kids.”
“Either that or one giant sweet tooth!”
“Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to preparing for ‘your role.’ I have to go set up the lunch shift.”
“Wait a second. That little envelope icon and the speech balloon under the photo . . . what are those?”
“The envelope contains any messages he sends you. And that speech balloon, if it’s green, means you can connect to chat with him. But don’t start messing with that, and certainly not from my computer. There are also certain . . . codes and customs you should know about.”
“Like what?”
“If he asks you to meet him at a café in the early evening, it means he’s hoping to get laid first, then eat dinner afterward. If he mentions ‘restaurant,’ that might be better, but you have to find out where he lives. If it’s less than five hundred yards from the place he’s chosen, that tells you a lot about his intentions. If he doesn’t order a starter, he’s a cheapskate. If he orders for you, he’s a super-cheapskate. If he just talks about himself for the first fifteen minutes, run for your life. If he mentions his ex within the first half hour, he’s not over her. If he starts digging around with questions about your past, he’s the jealous type. If he asks you about your short-term plans, he’s trying to gauge if you’ll sleep with him that night. If he keeps checking his mobile, he’s got several prospects going at once. If he tells you how unhappy he is, he’s looking for a mother, not a lover. If he goes on and on about the wine he chose and how great it is, he’s a show-off. If he tries splitting the bill, chivalry is dead and so are his chances of a second date. And if he says he’s forgotten his credit card, your Romeo might just be a con artist.”
“And us? Are there rules for what we’re supposed to say or not say?”
“Us?”
“You, us, whatever. I’m asking: What is one expected to do?”
“Mia, I have to work. ‘We’ can talk about this later.”
Daisy stood up and walked away.
“And don’t do anything silly on my computer! I mean it. This whole thing is not a game.”
“That never even crossed my mind.”
“My God, are you a bad liar!”
The apartment door banged shut.
6
First thing in the morning, he got a call from his editor, who said he had important news. He refused to say more on the phone, however, and demanded to see Paul as soon as possible.
Gaetano Cristoneli had never before suggested meeting Paul for breakfast, and he had certainly never arranged anything before ten a.m.
An erudite man totally in love with his job, he had—despite being Italian—devoted himself to French literature. At the end of his adolescence, insofar as it ever came to an end, while he was on holiday in Menton, he found a copy of Romain Gary’s La Promesse de l’Aube on a bookshelf in the house his mother was renting. Reading that book changed the course of his life. Gaetano had a strife-ridden relationship with his mother, and that novel was like a lifeline. When he turned the final page, everything became clear to him—except for his vision, which blurred with tears at the book’s denouement. Gaetano would go on to devote his life to literature and would never live anywhere but France. Years later, in a strange twist of fate, Romain Gary’s ashes were scattered in the very place where Gaetano had first fallen in love with literature. He saw this as an unquestionable sign that he had made the right choice.
He’d started out as an intern at a publishing house in Paris, where he lived a life of luxury, having been taken under the wing of a rich woman ten years his senior, who made him her lover. Numerous conquests followed, all of them equally wealthy, although the age difference narrowed over the years. Women liked Gaetano, partly due to his erudition, but perhaps also because he bore an uncanny resemblance to Marcello Mastroianni, which, one must admit, is quite a considerable asset in a young man’s sexual life. Thus, he could be described as an original and learned man, and it certainly took a lot of originality and talent to be an Italian editor publishing an American author in France.
Despite being able to read French just as astutely as he read his native language, and despite the keen ability to spot a single typo in a five-hundred-page manuscript, Gaetano struggled terribly when it came to actually speaking French, mixing up and bungling his words, sometimes to the point of inventing entirely new ones. According to his analyst, this was because his brain worked faster than his mouth, a diagnosis that Gaetano wore like a badge of honor from God himself.
At nine thirty a.m., Gaetano Cristoneli was sitting in the Deux Magots, waiting for Paul with a plate of croissants.
“What’s up? Nothing serious, I hope,” Paul said, sitting opposite his editor.
The waiter brought over the coffee that Gaetano had ordered for Paul.
“My dear friend,” said Gaetano, opening his arms wide, “this morning at dawn I received an absolutely extraordinary telephone call.”
Gaetano added so many o’s to the word extraordinary that Paul had time to gulp down his entire espresso before the editor had even finished his sentence.
“Perhaps you would like another one?” the editor asked, somewhat taken aback. “In Italy, you know, coffee is usually savored in two or sometimes three mouthfuls, even when it’s ristretto. The best part is at the bottom of the cup, but I digress. Let us return to what concerns you, my dear Paolo.”
“Paul.”
“Yes, yes. So, this morning we received a craaaaaaaaaaaazy phone call.”
“I’m very happy to hear that.”
“We have sold, or, rather, they have sold three hundred thousand copies of your latest novel . . . on the tribulations of an American living in Paris. It’s quite ree-maaar-kable!”
“Three hundred thousand? In France?”
“Ah, no. Here, we have sold seven hundred and fifty copies, but that too is, of course, in its own way, completely spectaculous.”
“So where? Italy?”
“Given our figures, the Italians don’t want to publish you at the moment. But don’t worry, my idiot countrymen will change their minds in the end.”
“Do I have to keep guessing? Germany?”
Gaetano said nothing.
“Spain?”
“The Spanish market is feeling the full brunt of the financial crisis, I am afraid.”
“Fine, I give up. Where was it?”
“Korea. You know—capital city of Seoul? Just below China? Your success over there just keeps on growing, my friend. Can you believe it? Three hundred thousand copies—that�
��s absolutely extonishing! We are going to have jacket bands printed here to tell readers—and booksellers, of course.”
“Why, do you really think that would make a difference?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no, but it can’t do any harm.”
“Couldn’t you have told me this on the phone?”
“Right you are, yes. But there is something else that is completely marvelful, and for this I had to see you in person.”
“I won the Korean Prix de Flore?”
“No! Imagine the Café de Flore opening a branch in Korea, where they start handing out French wine and literary prizes? Very original!”
“A good review in the Korean Elle?”
“It is possible, but I don’t read Korean, so unfortunately, I could not say.”
“All right, Gaetano, so tell me: What is this other marvelful news?”
“You are invited to the Seoul Book Fair.”
“In Korea.”
“Well, yes. This is where one would expect to find Seoul, yes?”
“A thirteen-hour flight away.”
“No, no, don’t exaggerate. It is eleven, maybe twelve—at the very most!”
“Lovely invitation, but you’ll have to apologize and say I can’t attend.”
“And why not? Tell me why,” Gaetano demanded, waving his arms around again.
Paul wondered what frightened him most: the flight, or the idea of meeting Kyong on her home territory. They had never seen each other anywhere but in Paris, where they had their points of reference. What would he do in a country where he didn’t speak the language, understood none of the customs? How would she react when faced with his total ignorance?
Another reason was that the plan of one day going to live there with her was, in his mind, a sort of pipe dream. The possibility of which was precisely what he wanted to avoid, at least for now.
Forcing his dreams into a head-on collision with reality risked their very survival.
“Kyong is like . . . the ocean in my life. And I’m like a guy with a fear of swimming. Ludicrous, isn’t it?”
“No, not at all. That is a very pretty sentence, even though I have no clue what you’re talking about. It could be the first line of your next novel. Immediately, the reader wants to know what happens next.”
“I’m not sure I came up with it. I might have read it somewhere.”
“Oh, in that case . . . let us return to our dear Korean friends. I have bought you a premium economy ticket: more leg space and a special seat that tilts back.”
“Don’t even mention tilts. The tilts and turns are exactly what I hate about flying.”
“Like everybody. All the same, it is the only way of getting there.”
“Then I won’t go.”
“My dear author—and you should know how dear you are to me, with the advances I pay you—we cannot live solely on your European royalties. If you want me to publish your next masterpiece, you must help me out a bit, do your share.”
“And that means going to Korea?”
“That means meeting the readers who actually read you. You will be welcomed there like a star. It will be fantasmic!”
“‘Fantasmic’ doesn’t exist. Nor does ‘marvelful,’ for that matter.”
“Well, now they do, yes?”
“I can only see one way of doing this,” Paul said, sighing. “And that’s if I take a sleeping pill in the business lounge, and you lug me onto the plane and get me to my seat in a wheelchair, and don’t wake me up until we land in Seoul.”
“I don’t think a premium economy ticket lets you into the business lounge. And besides, I cannot come with you.”
“You’re sending me over there all by myself?”
“I’m afraid I am very busy during those dates.”
“Wait, when is this supposed to happen?”
“You leave in three weeks. So you have plenty of time to prepare.”
“No. No way. Impossible,” Paul replied, shaking his head.
Although the neighboring tables were empty, Gaetano leaned toward his author, his tone turning urgent.
“Your future is in Korea. If you cement your success there, we’ll be able to get the whole of Asia interested in your work. Think about this: Japan, China . . . if we play this right, we might even be able to convince your American publisher to ride the wave with us. Once you have really cracked the American market, you will be a huge hit in France and the critics will adore you.”
“But I already cracked the American market!”
“With your first novel, yes. But ever since then . . .”
“It’s absurd. I live here in France! Why should I have to be successful all the way over in Asia and the US before people in Caen or Noirmoutier start reading my books?”
“Between you and me, I could not say, I haven’t a single clue. But that’s how it is. No prophet is accepted in his own country, et cetera. Especially a foreigner.”
Paul’s face sank down into his hands. He thought about Kyong, smiling as he arrived at the airport, saw himself gliding toward her with the casual ease of an experienced traveler. He imagined her apartment, her bedroom, her bed, and remembered the way she always looked as she undressed and the smell of her skin, and he dreamed of tender moments they had shared. And then, suddenly, Kyong morphed into a flight attendant, coldly announcing that there would be turbulence for the entire flight. His eyes popped open and he shuddered at the thought.
“Are you all right?” his editor asked.
“Yeah,” Paul mumbled. “Let me think about it, okay? I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”
“Here is your ticket,” said Gaetano, handing him an envelope. “And who knows, you might find fantastic material for a new novel while you’re out there! You’ll meet hundreds of readers, they’ll tell you how much they love your books. It will be an even more amazifying experience than the publication of your first novel.”
“My French editor is Italian, I’m an American writer living in Paris, and most of my readers are in Korea. Why is my life so damn complicated?”
“It’s you, my dear friend. Take it from me. Catch this plane and stop acting like a spoiled child. I have other authors who would kill to be in your shoes.”
Gaetano paid the bill and left Paul alone at the table.
Arthur and Lauren met him outside the church on Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés, a half hour after he had called them.
“So what’s the emergency?” Arthur asked.
“I don’t even know where to start. Feels like somebody with a cruel sense of humor is meddling with my . . . destiny,” Paul replied, looking dead serious.
Lauren snorted out a laugh from behind his back, and Paul turned to face her. She tried to cover it up quickly with a concerned look.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I have allergies. Pollen. Go on, cruel sense of humor . . . ?”
“Maybe cruel is an understatement. Call it twisted,” Paul went on, sighing.
Lauren snorted once more, even louder.
“Please inform your wife that she is starting to get on my nerves,” Paul grumbled, turning back to Arthur.
He walked to a bench and sat down. Arthur and Lauren followed suit, sitting on either side of him.
“Is it really that bad?” Lauren asked.
“Well . . . not in itself, I suppose.”
And he told them about the conversation with his editor.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Arthur advised him, giving Lauren a look that Paul could not interpret.
“Well, I don’t want to. Not at all.”
“So that’s it, then,” Arthur said.
“No, that’s not it!” Lauren exclaimed.
“What?” the two men chorused.
“Tell me: What, exactly, is your idea of happiness? A trip to the laundromat? Plopping down in front of the TV with a plate of cheese and a glass of wine? Is that how you picture the life of a great writer?” Lauren fumed. “How can y
ou give this up without even trying? It’s like you enjoy disappointing yourself. Or maybe it’s just easier that way. Unless something more important happens between now and then, you are getting on that plane, mister! Finally, you’ll be forced to find out how you really feel about that woman, and how she feels about you. And if you come back alone, at least you won’t have to worry about getting over a relationship, because you’ll know it was never really a relationship to begin with.”
“And you’ll be there to console me, just waiting at my laundromat with a sandwich, right?” Paul smirked.
“You want the truth, Paul?” Lauren said. “Arthur is even more scared than you are about you going over there, because the distance between the two of you already bothers him more than anything. He misses you, we both miss you. But because he’s your friend, he’s going to tell you that you ought to go. If there’s even a tiny chance the trip might end with you finding true happiness, you have to take that chance.”
Paul turned to Arthur, who—clearly with great reluctance—nodded his head in agreement.
“Three hundred thousand copies sold . . . of one single novel . . . I guess that really is something, isn’t it?” Paul whistled, eyeing two pigeons nearby. “Amazifying! As my editor would say.”
She was sitting on a bench, eyes glued to the screen of her phone. David had called a half hour ago. Mia had not picked up.
The caricaturist left his chair and went to sit down next to her.
“The important thing is to make a decision,” he said.
“Make what decision?”
“One that will enable you to live in the present instead of constantly wondering what the future will be like.”
“Look, I know you’re trying to be nice, and it’s really very kind of you, but it’s just not the right time. I need to think.”
“If I were to tell you that in one hour your heart was going to stop beating, what would you do?”
“And here I thought you were a caricaturist, not a psychic.”
“Answer the question!” the caricaturist ordered in an authoritarian tone that terrified Mia.
“I’d call David and tell him he’s a bastard, that he ruined everything, that there’s no way we can go back to the way it was before, that I don’t ever want to see him again, even if I do still love him, and that I need him to know these things, even if it’s with my dying breath.”