P.S. From Paris (US Edition)

by Marc Levy

  “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 t
he 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.

  9

  Arthur was waiting for Paul on the landing.

  “Guess what? It seems I may have lost your spare keys,” he said.

  “It just gets better and better,” Paul replied, opening the door. “How was Honfleur?”

  “Gorgeous, charming.”

  Paul entered the apartment without another word.

  “Are you really still mad at me? It was only a joke.”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “She’s visiting a colleague who’s interning at the American Hospital.”

  “Do you have anything planned for tonight?” Paul asked as he started making coffee.

  “You’re going to leave me in suspense—is that your sweet, sweet revenge?”

  “Grow up, will you? I’m not going to waste my breath.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “You mean during the half hour when this lovely woman thought she was having dinner with a psycho? Or afterward, when I realized just how god-awfully ridiculous you made me look?”

  “She seemed nice. You might have had a good time together.”

  Paul thrust a cup of coffee into Arthur’s hands.

  “Tell me how she could have a good time when the best friend of the guy she was out with had mocked her in a way no man should be allowed to mock a woman.”

  “You like her!” Arthur gasped. “You do! If you’re defending her honor, you must like this woman!”

  He clapped his hands, walked over to Paul’s desk, and sat down in his chair.

  “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

  “I know you’re plotting your revenge. But for now, put vengeance on the back burner. Tell me what happened.”

  “Nothing to tell. The whole farce lasted about ten minutes. I mean, how long did you think it would take for two reasonably intelligent people to realize that they were the victims of a nasty trick? I apologized on your behalf. I explained to her that my best friend was a nice guy, but a total jackass, and we went our separate ways. I don’t even remember her name.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Yes, that’s all!”

  “So, it actually wasn’t that bad.”

  “No, not that bad. But you got one thing right: I will get you back for this.”

  Coming out of the métro, Mia headed toward a bookshop. She wandered around the displays and, not finding what she was looking for, asked one of the staff. The man typed something into his computer and then made his way to the back to search a shelf.

  “I think I have one in stock,” he told her, standing on his tiptoes. “Yes, here it is. This is the only one of his books we have.”

  “Could you order the others?”

  “Yes, of course. But I could recommend some other authors if you’re an avid reader.”

  “Why? Is this author not for avid readers?”

  “Well, I guess I could recommend more . . . literary works, shall we say.”

  “Have you actually read any of his novels?”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to read everything.” The bookseller shrugged.

  “So how can you judge his writing?”

  The man looked her up and down and went back behind the counter.

  “Would you like me to order the others?” he asked, ringing up her purchase.

  “No,” replied Mia. “I think I’ll start with this one and then order the others from a less . . . literary bookshop.”

  “I didn’t mean to be disparaging. He’s an American author. Often books can lose a lot in translation.”

  “I work in translation,” said Mia, hands on her hips.

  For a few seconds, the bookseller was speechless.

  “Well, after a faux pas of that magnitude, I think I’m going to have to offer you a discount!”

  Mia walked down the street, leafing through the novel. She turned it over to read the back cover and smiled when she saw Paul’s photograph. This was the first time she had held a book written by someone she knew, even if she could hardly claim to know him very well. She thought back to the conversation she’d had with the bookseller and wondered why her reaction had been so testy. It really wasn’t like her, but she was glad to have expressed her feelings on the matter. Something inside her was changing, and she liked the new inner voice telling her to be more assertive. She hailed a taxi and asked the driver to drop her off on Rue de Rivoli, outside the English bookshop.

  She came out again a few minutes later with the original American edition of Paul’s first novel. She began reading it on the way to Montmartre, continued as she walked up Rue Lepic, and then sat on a bench in Place du Tertre to read some more.

  The caricaturist was sitting behind his easel. He threw a smile her way, but she didn’t even notice.

  It was late afternoon when she arrived at the restaurant to find Daisy hard at work in the kitchen. Handing over the reins to Robert, her sous-chef, she took Mia aside.

  “I know you don’t have the right CV for this type of work, but my waitress is gone for good and it’ll take me at least a few days to find a replacement. You did really well the other night. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

  “Yes,” Mia said before Daisy could finish her sentence.

  “You’re in?”

  “Like I said: yes.”

  “What would Cate Blanchett think?”

  “Leave her out of this. Anyway, if I were her, I’d invest in a restaurant. You have money problems, I don’t. We could spruce up the decor, and you could hire a reliable waitress and pay her enough that she’d stay for good—”

  “My restaurant doesn’t need sprucing up,” Daisy interrupted. “Right now, all I need is a hand.”

  “You don’t have to give me an answer now. Think about it.”

  “How was the Opera?”

  “I gave him his phone and left.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yup.”

  “Is he gay?”

  “I didn’t think to ask.”

  “You go all the way across Paris to give him his phone and all you get is a ‘thank you and good-bye’?”

  Mia did not engage her further. She put on her apron and began to set tables.

  Paul had eaten dinner with Arthur and Lauren in a bistro on Rue de Bourgogne. The wine flowed freely, helping turn the joke they had played on him into a distant memory. The next day his friends were leaving to visit Provence, and he wanted to make the most of the remaining time with them.

  “I think she was right,
” Paul said as they walked across the Esplanade des Invalides.

  “Who?” asked Lauren.

  “My . . . editor.”

  “I thought your editor was a man?” Arthur objected.

  “Of course he is,” Paul replied.

  “And what was he right about?” Lauren went on.

  “I should go to Korea and set things straight once and for all. It’s ridiculous, this fear of flying.”

  “Or . . . you could ride this new wave of bravery and come back to San Francisco,” Arthur suggested.

  “Let him be,” Lauren said. “If he wants to go to Seoul, you should be encouraging him.”

  Arthur took Paul by the shoulder, turning him to meet his gaze.

  “If that’s where you think you’ll find happiness, fine. It’ll only put you another few thousand miles away from us.”

  “No offense, but you really suck at geography, Arthur. Or maybe you forgot if you fly west instead of east, we’d actually be closer? Breaking news—the world is round!”

  Back at his apartment, Paul sat down, uninspired, in front of his computer. Around one a.m., he wrote an email.

  Kyong,

  I should have come to see you a long time ago. I think about you when I wake up, all day, and late into the night, but I never give voice to these thoughts. I only have to close my eyes to picture your face. You’re here, leaning over my desk, reading me and translating me at the same time in your thoughts, without ever saying a word. You know I’m watching you, so you keep your feelings concealed.

  If only heartache were contagious, you would love me as much as I love you.

  When feelings are hard to pin down, we hope that they will take shape as they grow. Mine are now fully grown, but I have been trying hard not to show it. You and I can do anything with words. We create beautiful stories. So why is it so complicated to create our own story together in real life?

  I am coming to Seoul, not just for the book fair, but for you. And if you feel like it, we can spend some time together. You can introduce me to your city and your friends. Or I could simply sit down and write, and this time, you would be the one watching me.

  I’ll be counting the days, with bated breath . . . as my longing for you slows time to a crawl.