by Marc Levy
“There you go,” said the caricaturist in a softer voice. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Call him, tell him exactly what you just told me . . . except for the last point. Because I’m not actually a psychic.”
And with these words, the caricaturist returned to his easel. Mia ran after him.
“But what if he’s changed? What if he somehow went back to being the man I knew when we first met?”
“Are you going to keep running away from him or suffering in silence? For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“You like putting on a performance, don’t you?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what that means. And keep your voice down—you’ll scare away my customers.”
“There’s nobody else here!” Mia yelled.
The caricaturist looked around. It was true: the square was fairly empty. He signaled Mia to come closer.
“That guy does not deserve you,” he whispered.
“How would you know? Maybe I’m impossible to live with!”
“Why do girls always fall madly in love with men who only make them suffer, while they barely bat an eye at the ones who would move mountains for them?”
“Ah, I see . . . Because you’re James Stewart from It’s a Wonderful Life, huh?”
“No, because my wife was just like you when I first met her. Madly in love with some handsome bastard who kept breaking her heart. And it took her two years before she woke up and moved on, two whole years we lost. And I get enraged just thinking about it. Because we could have spent that time together.”
“Enraged about two years? What difference does two years make now that you’re together for life?”
“You really want to know? Go and ask her. Walk down Rue Lepic to the bottom of the hill, until you hit Montmartre Cemetery, and you can ask her yourself.”
“What?”
“A beautiful day, just like today, and a truck comes out of nowhere and cuts in front of our motorcycle.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mia whispered, lowering her eyes.
“Why? You weren’t driving the truck.”
Mia nodded, took a step backward, and began to walk toward her bench.
“Miss!”
“Yes?” she said, turning around.
“Every day counts.”
She walked down a narrow passage with stone steps, sat on a step halfway down, and dialed David’s number. Straight to voicemail.
“I’m calling to say it’s over, David. I never want to see you again, because . . .” I love you so much . . . Shit, this was so much easier on the bench, the words just seemed to flow . . . A pause this long is ridiculous. It’s too late to stop, just keep going . . . “Because you make me unhappy. You ruined everything, and I need you to know these things, even if it’s with my dying—” Mia cut herself off. Why do I still love you so much . . . ?
She hung up, wondering if it was possible to delete a message remotely. Then Mia took a deep breath and called him back.
“One day soon, I will meet a James Stewart . . .” Ugh, that makes no sense at all . . . did I really say that out loud? “A man who would move mountains for me. I won’t let my feelings for you get in the way. So I’m going to delete them, just like you’ll probably delete this message . . .” Oh, stop it, this is pathetic. “Don’t call me back . . .” Unless you call in the next five minutes to tell me you’ve changed and that you’re coming straightaway on the next train . . . No! Please, please don’t call me back . . . “I’ll see you at the premiere and the junket, and we’ll play our roles. The show must go on, after all . . .” Yes, that’s better, professional and determined. Now stop there, not another word, it’s perfect. “Well, I’m going to hang up now . . .” Great. Utterly pointless, just dragging it out. “Good-bye, David. Um . . . this is Mia, by the way.”
She waited ten minutes. Then, with a sigh, she slipped her phone into her raincoat pocket.
The restaurant was only a few streets away. As she made her way there, despite her heavy heart, her footsteps became lighter.
“You again? If I can ever actually afford a trip to London, don’t expect me to waste my time hanging around on one of your film sets,” Daisy said as Mia entered the restaurant. “What are you doing here? You should be out exploring the city!”
“Don’t you need a waitress at lunchtime?”
Without waiting for a reply, Mia went into the kitchen. Daisy followed her, removing the apron that Mia was attempting to tie around her waist.
“Something you want to talk about?”
“Not now.”
Daisy went back to her ovens and passed plates to Mia. There was no point giving her instructions: only one table was occupied.
After lunch, Paul left Arthur and Lauren to wander around Paris. He was doing a reading in a bookshop in the ninth arrondissement that evening and had refused to tell them which one, for fear they would turn up and surprise him. He gave them a copy of his apartment keys and said he’d see them the next day.
Arthur showed Lauren around the neighborhood where he had lived, pointing out the window of his former studio flat along the way. They stopped for coffee in the bistro where he’d spent many an hour thinking about her before life had brought them back together again. Then they strolled along the banks of the river before heading back to Paul’s apartment.
Lauren was so exhausted, she fell asleep without eating. Arthur watched her for a moment, then borrowed her laptop. After checking his email, he thought for a long time about the conversation between Paul and Lauren in the little square at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
The happiness of his childhood friend was more important than anything else. Arthur would make any kind of sacrifice for his sake, including seeing him go to the other side of the world. But surely this Kyong wasn’t the only person capable of making Paul happy. Maybe it was worth giving fate “a little nudge.” He remembered the story of an old man who went into a church one day to reprimand God for never having helped him win the lottery—not once, not even a single little prize, and he was about to celebrate his ninety-seventh birthday. And then, from within a celestial ray of light, God’s voice boomed down to him: “Try buying a ticket first.”
7
Daisy had no idea what time she had fallen asleep, but she knew it would be a long day. She tried to remember what was left in the walk-in at the restaurant so she could work out whether or not she needed to go to the market, and decided that, given the way she was feeling, she absolutely had to get a little more sleep. At ten a.m., she opened one eye, swore out loud as she leapt out of bed, swore again as she washed her face, and again as she got dressed. She was still swearing as she left her apartment, and as she hopped up the street while pulling on her shoes. The night before, Mia had talked nonstop. She had gone over her entire relationship with David, from the day they’d first met to the phone call she had made ending it definitively.
Mia awoke to this flood of obscenities and did not dare show her face until the storm had passed.
She hung around the apartment, switched on the computer, decided not to check her email, but checked it anyway and found another message from Creston—a very short, simple message, begging her to get in touch.
For fun—and purely for fun—she logged on to the dating site. She didn’t see anything interesting and was about to log off when she decided to check out that strange little folder of profiles chosen by mathematics rather than chance. Only one candidate appeared, and Mia couldn’t help finding him attractive; she felt almost certain she knew his face. Had she seen him around the neighborhood? He wasn’t going by any vulgar or supposedly funny username. She was surprised to see that the small envelope beneath his picture was flashing. The message he had sent her was nothing like any of those she’d looked at with Daisy. It was actually simple and polite. It even made her smile.
I was an architect living in San Francisco when I got the crazy idea to write a novel, which went on to be published
. I’m American—but hey, nobody’s perfect—and I now live in Paris. I still write. I’ve never joined one of these dating sites before, so I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or not say. You’re a chef, which is an interesting job, and means we have something in common: we both spend our days and nights working to bring a bit of happiness to others. What drives anyone to do this kind of work, I can’t really say, but I admit I love the challenge.
I have no idea how I mustered the courage to write you, or if I’ll ever receive a reply. Why do my characters have so much more courage than I do? Why do they dare to do so much and we so little? So here goes nothing: Tonight, I will be eating dinner at 8pm at Uma, a restaurant on Rue du 29 Juillet. The chef there has a dish I’ve heard wonderful things about, a baked sea bream infused with exotic herbs. And anyway, I love that street—every time I go, it seems to be warm and sunny. If this culinary experience sounds tempting, please come as my guest—no strings attached, of course.
Best wishes,
Paul
Mia quickly closed the message as if it had burned her eyes. And yet she continued to stare at the screen. She tried to stop herself from reading it again, but soon gave in to the temptation. She wound up printing it out and folding it in four. If her mother ever found out she’d even thought about going on a blind date—worse, with someone off the Internet—she would crucify her, and Creston would help sharpen the nails.
Why do my characters have so much more courage than I do?
How many roles had she played, dreaming of the freedom they offered her? How many times had David reminded her that her fans were not in love with her but with her character? Why not take a brave step like Paul had?
Her fingers rested on the keyboard.
Dear Paul,
I really enjoyed your message. I’m new to this kind of website too. In fact, I think I would have made fun of my friends if any of them had told me they’d agreed to dine with a stranger because of a message on a dating site! But what you said is so true. Is it the freedom of characters in fiction that we find so inspiring, or the way that freedom transforms them? Why do they dare to do so much and we so little? (Apologies for the repetition—I’m not much of a writer!)
Since I’m unlikely to bump into these characters in reality, I would be happy to talk to someone who breathed life into them. It must be wonderful to have your characters accomplish anything you want them to. Is it really that simple? You must be very busy, so I suppose we can save this detail for when we’re face to face.
See you tonight—no strings attached!
Mia
PS: I’m British, and far from perfect myself.
“Unbelievable. Just unbelievable!” Lauren exclaimed.
She waited for the waiter to leave their table, drank her lemonade in a single gulp, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“My message wasn’t all that bad, huh?”
“It was good enough to get her to write back. Arthur, I know you’d do anything to stop Paul from going to Korea, but you’ve really got to stay out of it.”
“I seem to recall this whole thing was your idea, remember?”
“But that was before he met with his editor . . .”
“I don’t mind if he goes to the book fair, I just want to make sure he comes back.”
“And what about the other reason for the trip?”
“All the more reason for a little nudge!” Arthur smiled.
“And how do you plan to convince him to turn up at this restaurant?”
“That’s where I need you.”
“You always need me.”
“I’m going to invent a dinner date with an important client and invite Paul along as backup.”
“You two haven’t worked together as architects for seven years. How much help could he be?”
“As a translator, maybe?”
“You speak French as well as he does, if not better.”
“He knows Paris better than I do.”
“And what’s the project all about?”
“Good question. I need to come up with something convincing.”
“Tell him it’s for a restaurant,” Lauren said.
“That wouldn’t be big enough for the agency, not so far from home.”
“A very big restaurant?”
“Ah. What about a beloved American restaurant considering a location in Paris?”
“Is that credible?”
“It’s perfect! I’ll say Alioto’s has decided to open a restaurant here. That’s his favorite place back in San Francisco.”
“So what role do I play in this little yarn?”
“If I ask him myself, he might think something’s up, or just flat-out refuse, but if you’re the one who insists, he’ll say yes. He’d do it for you.”
“This is a really dirty trick, Arthur.”
“Maybe, but it’s for his own good. He’ll be grateful.”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that, once he realizes you’ve taken him for a ride. And from that moment on, the evening will be a disaster. What are we supposed to talk about during the meal?”
“What are ‘we’ supposed to talk about? Nothing. We won’t be there!”
“So you’re planning to send him to dine alone with a stranger who accepted an invitation on a dating website, when he thinks he’s there to be talking architecture with a client?” Lauren burst out laughing. “I would love to be a fly on the wall for that meal.”
“Same here, but let’s not push our luck.”
“It’ll never work. They’ll figure out what’s happened before the first course.”
“Maybe. But imagine: What if there’s a chance it does work, even just a tiny one? How many times have you attempted something impossible in the operating room, when everyone else was telling you to throw in the towel?”
“Don’t try to win me over by stroking my ego. Honestly, I can’t figure out if this plan of yours is totally evil or totally hilarious.”
“Probably a little bit of both. Unless it works . . .”
Lauren asked the waiter for the bill.
“Where are we headed?” Arthur asked.
“To pack our bags and find a hotel. I’m afraid Paul’s going to kick us out tomorrow morning.”
“Good idea. Let’s bust out of Paris tonight. I’ll take you to Normandy.”
Paul thought it rather high-handed of Arthur to book the table under Paul’s own name, and he was further irritated at being the first to arrive. The waitress showed him to a table for four, with only two places set. He pointed this out to her, but she slipped away without replying.
Mia arrived almost on time. She greeted Paul and sat down across from him.
“I thought writers were quite old,” she said with a smile.
“As long as they don’t die young, they all inevitably end up that way.”
“That was a Holly Golightly line.”
“Ah. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“One of my favorite films.”
“Truman Capote,” said Paul. “A great man, one I hate with a passion.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“That much talent in one person? It’s enough to drive you nuts with jealousy. Couldn’t he have shared a little bit with the rest of us?”
“I guess so.”
“I apologize. It’s unusual, showing up this late . . .”
“Five minutes isn’t late for a woman,” Mia replied.
“No, I wasn’t talking about you; I would never say something like that. I mean them. I don’t know what they’re up to. They really should be here by now.”
“Um . . . Okay . . . If you say so . . .”
“Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Paul, and you must be . . .”
“Mia, of course.”
“I’d rather wait for them to get here before we really get started, but that doesn’t mean we have to sit in silence. You have an accent—are you British?”
“Well, yes. I did mention that in my P
S, didn’t I?”
“No, he didn’t say a word about that! I’m American, but let’s continue speaking in the language of Molière. The French hate it when people speak English in their country.”
“All right, French it is.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you off by what I said. The French love foreign restaurants. And it’s an excellent idea to open one here in Paris.”
“What I cook is more Provençal, actually,” said Mia, putting herself in Daisy’s shoes.
“Okay. So you’re not planning on staying faithful to the original?”
“You have no idea how fond I am of staying faithful. But what if it’s possible to be faithful and original at the same time?”
“Right. Sure. Why not?” replied Paul, puzzled.
“So what do you write about?”
“Novels, but that doesn’t stop me from continuing with the day job.”
“Architecture, is that right?”
“Bingo. If not, why else would I be here?” Paul asked, prompting a confused look on Mia’s face. “What did he tell you exactly?”
Mia found herself muttering under her breath. “Referring to himself in the third person! My God, I sure know how to pick them . . .”
“Did you say something? I didn’t quite catch that,” Paul said.
“Oh, nothing, sorry. Bad habit—talking to myself.”
Paul gave her a big grin.
“Can I let you in on a secret?”
“Fire away.”
“I do that too. I mean, at least that’s what they tell me. You know, this is really too much. I’ll be sure to give them a hard time about being so late. I’m just—totally dumbfounded.”
“I know the feeling,” Mia said.
“It’s completely unprofessional. Let me just reiterate that this is not like them at all.”
Mia muttered once more, “And now he’s completely gone off the deep end . . . God, what am I doing here?”