by Marc Levy
“You don’t find me attractive?”
“I think you’re beautiful. So should I infer that you don’t find me attractive?”
“I didn’t say that. You’re definitely awkward, which you’ve admitted—and that’s quite a rare thing, and maybe even a little touching. I didn’t come on this date hoping for a new start, I just wanted to close a door on the past.”
“What brought me here is my fear of flying.”
“Sorry, I don’t see the connection.”
“Consider it an ellipsis—a sort of mystery that will come to light in a later chapter.”
“Oh, so we’re going to have another chapter, are we?”
“Why not? If we both already know we’re not going to sleep with each other, there’s nothing to keep us from trying to become friends.”
“That’s original. Don’t people normally make that kind of declaration—‘Let’s be friends’—when they’re breaking up?”
“Exactly. Which makes this an incredibly unique idea.” Paul laughed.
“Cut ‘incredibly.’”
“Why?”
“Adverbs lack a certain elegance. I’m more keen on adjectives—though never more than one in a sentence.”
“All right, so let me start again . . . Since I’m not your type of guy, do you think I could be your type in terms of a friend?”
“As long as your real name isn’t Gazpacho2000.”
“Don’t tell me that’s the screen name they gave me!”
“No, not to worry,” said Mia, laughing. “I’m just winding you up. That’s something friends do, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Paul replied.
“If I were going to read one of your books, which one would you recommend?”
“I’d recommend one by another author.”
“Oh, come on, answer my question.”
“Choose one where the flap copy makes you want to meet the characters.”
“I would think to start with the first one.”
“No way, definitely not that one.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s the first. Would you want the people who come to your restaurant to judge you based on the first dish you ever cooked?”
“Friends don’t judge friends. They just gradually learn to understand them better.”
The waitress brought them two desserts.
“One lucuma-and-kalamansi éclair, and one fig tart with fromage blanc ice cream,” she announced. “Compliments of the chef.”
And she slipped away as quickly as she had arrived.
“What do you reckon lucuma and kalamansi are?”
“Clearly not part of your Provençal repertoire. One is a Peruvian fruit,” Paul explained. “The other is a citrus fruit, like a cross between a tangerine and a kumquat.”
“Impressive!”
“Truth is, I read it earlier, before you showed up. They explain it in the menu.”
Mia rolled her eyes.
“You should have been an actress,” said Paul.
“What makes you say that?”
“Your face is just . . . so expressive when you speak.”
“Do you like cinema?”
“I do. But I never go. It’s awful—I haven’t seen one movie since I moved to Paris. But I write at night, and going to the movies alone just isn’t much fun.”
“I like going to the cinema on my own, blending in with the audience, looking around the theatre . . .”
“Have you been single for a long time?”
“Since yesterday.”
“Wow. That is recent. So you weren’t even single when you joined the dating site?”
“I thought that part of our reworked scene had been cut out. Yesterday made it official. In reality, I’ve been single for a few months. What about you?”
“Well . . . strictly speaking, I’m not. The woman I’m involved with lives on the other side of the world. But to be honest, I don’t really know what we have anymore. So, to be fair, I guess I’ve been single since the last time she visited, six months ago.”
“Don’t you ever visit her?”
“I have a fear of flying.”
“Don’t people say that love gives you wings?”
“Yes, cheesy as that may be. No offense. The wings don’t seem to be working.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a translator. In fact, she’s my translator, although I doubt that we’re exclusive in that sense. What about your other half—what does he do?”
“He’s a chef, like me. Well . . . more of a sous-chef, really.”
“Did you use to work together?”
“At times. Terrible idea.”
“How so?”
“He ended up sleeping with the dishwasher.”
“Ouch! That’s tactless, at best.”
“Have you always been faithful to your translator?”
The waitress brought them the bill. Paul reached for it automatically, preventing any of the usual awkwardness.
“Let’s split it,” Mia protested, “since we’re just friends.”
“You had enough to put up with during this meal. Don’t hold it against me—I’m clumsy and old-fashioned.”
Paul accompanied Mia to the taxi stand.
“I hope your night wasn’t too bad, all things considered.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Mia said.
“You just did.”
“Do you think a man and a woman really can be just friends without any gray zones? No ambiguity?”
“Yeah. Sure. Imagine one of them just came out of a relationship, and the other is in love with someone else, for example. It’s nice to be able to bare your soul to a stranger without any fear of being judged.”
She lowered her eyes and added: “I have to admit . . . I could really do with a friend at the moment.”
“Here’s an idea,” said Paul. “A few days from now, if we feel like seeing each other again, as friends, we’ll get in touch. But only if we feel like it. No obligation.”
“Okay,” agreed Mia as she got into a taxi. “Can’t I drop you off somewhere?”
“I have my car just around the corner. I’m sorry—I should have offered to drive you, but it’s too late now.”
“Well, see you soon, then. Maybe . . .” Mia smiled, closing the cab door. “Rue Poulbot, in Montmartre,” she told the driver.
Paul watched the taxi move away, before walking back up Rue du 29 Juillet. The night was clear, his spirits were high, and his car was impounded.
“All right, so the evening ended better than it began, but you’d better stick to your resolutions. As soon as you get back to Daisy’s apartment, delete your profile—no more dates with strangers. I hope you learned your lesson.”
“I’ve been driving a cab for twenty years, mademoiselle,” said the driver. “I don’t need directions, so you can stop mumbling.”
“Even if he wasn’t insane, he might very well have been. What would you have done in that case? And, my goodness, what if someone had recognized you in that restaurant? Okay, calm down, stay calm. No one could have recognized you . . . Better not tell anyone what happened tonight, ever, not even Daisy . . . in fact, especially not Daisy, because she’d kill you. Never tell anyone. It’ll be your little secret. Maybe tell your grandchildren when you’re old. But really old!”
“Why can I never find a taxi in this city?” grumbled Paul as he walked along Rue de Rivoli. “What a night! I really thought she was nuts. Arthur and Lauren must have laughed their asses off tonight. You think we’re even? Ha! You don’t know me half as well as you think you do. Think I need your help finding a date? I date who I want, when I want! Who do you think I am? And she was kind of crazy, wasn’t she? Maybe that’s a little unfair—I’m just annoyed, it’s not her fault. Anyway, she’ll never call me and I’ll never call her. It would be too embarrassing, after what happened tonight. And my car! The wheels were barely even touching the crosswalk. This sucks. The cops in thi
s city are a total pain in the ass . . . Taxi!” Paul yelled, waving his arms.
The taxi dropped her at the corner on Rue Poulbot, and she entered the apartment building.
“I don’t even have his number, and he doesn’t have mine,” she muttered as she walked up the staircase, searching blindly through her purse for her keys. “I mean, talk about a recipe for disaster, if he were to have my—” Her hand grazed over an unfamiliar object in her bag. She took it out: “Oh shit, I’ve got his phone!”
Inside the apartment, she found Daisy sitting at the kitchen table, a pen in her hand.
“You’re home already?” Mia asked.
“It’s half past midnight,” Daisy replied, staring at a notebook. “That was quite a long film you went to see.”
“Yes . . . well, not exactly. I actually missed the eight-o’clock showing, so I went to the later one.”
“Was it any good, at least?”
“It got off to a very strange start, but got better as it went.”
“What was it about?”
“A dinner party where the guests didn’t know each other.”
“Sounds very Swedish.”
“What are you doing?”
“Accounting. You look weird,” Daisy said, glancing up at her friend.
Avoiding eye contact, Mia yawned and disappeared into her bedroom.
When he got home, Paul sat down at his desk and turned on his computer, ready to start work. Stuck to the screen was a Post-it note in Arthur’s handwriting with the username and password for Paul’s profile on the dating site.
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 eno
ugh 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.”