by Marc Levy
Paul
As he finished writing the message, it occurred to him that Kyong had already woken up. When would she read the words he had sent her? This thought kept him awake long into the night.
Arthur sat with the laptop on his knees. He entered the address of the dating site, logged in with the username and password, and accessed the profile he had created, this time with the sole intent of deleting it. A little envelope was blinking under the image of his best friend’s face. Arthur turned to Lauren, but she was asleep. He hesitated—two seconds, maybe less—then clicked on the envelope.
Dear Paul,
We talked about calling but we didn’t mention email, so this doesn’t count.
My email address is at the bottom of this message, because I’d rather avoid this site from now on, in an attempt to forget how humiliating that whole debacle was . . .
I wanted to thank you for our impromptu lunch, and to tell you not to worry about my “oh.” I have been thinking more about your story and I really want to know what happens next—so I can only hope that you soon overcome your writer’s block.
I’m excited about the idea of visiting the Opera, especially when it’s closed to the public. Things that are out of reach are always more desirable.
A grueling night tonight at the restaurant. Lots of people—too many, almost—but that’s the price of success. It seems my cuisine is absolutely irresistible!
Good night, and see you soon . . .
Mia
“Can I have my laptop back?” Daisy asked, poking her head into Mia’s room.
“Sure. I just finished.”
“Who were you writing to? I heard you working those keys like crazy.”
“I have trouble writing on a French keyboard, with the letters in all the wrong places.”
“So who were you writing to?” Daisy pressed, sitting at the foot of the bed.
“Creston. I was just giving him an update.”
“Only good things, I assume?”
“Yes, I rather like my life in Paris. I even like my job at the restaurant.”
“There weren’t many people there tonight. If it goes on, I’ll be forced to close down.”
Mia shut the laptop and focused all her attention on Daisy.
“It’s just a phase. People are strapped for cash right now, but the crisis won’t last forever.”
“You can count me among those strapped for cash, and at this rate, my restaurant won’t be around to see the end of the crisis.”
“Daisy, if you don’t want me as a partner, at least let me lend you some money.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I may be penniless, but I still have my dignity.”
Daisy lay down next to Mia. The pillow was oddly uncomfortable; she slid her hand beneath it and discovered a book. She turned it over to read the blurb.
“Why do I feel like I recognize this face?” she asked, looking at the photo of the author.
“He’s a very well-known American novelist.”
“I never have time to read. But I’m sure I’ve seen this face before. Maybe he came to the restaurant.”
“Who knows?” Mia replied, turning bright red.
“Did you buy it today? What’s it about?”
“I haven’t started it yet.”
“You bought a book without even knowing what it’s about?”
“It came recommended by the bookseller.”
“All right, well, I’ll leave you to your reading. I’m off to bed.”
Daisy stood up and walked toward the door.
“Um, the book?” Mia said timidly.
It was still in Daisy’s hand. She took another look at the photograph and tossed the book on the bed.
“See you tomorrow.”
She closed the door and then, almost immediately, opened it again.
“You’re acting weird.”
“Weird how?”
“I don’t know. Was it that stranger on the phone who gave you this book?”
“Well, if it was, wouldn’t it be written in a dialect from northernmost Sweden?”
Daisy frowned at Mia before leaving the room.
“You’re definitely being weird,” Mia heard her mutter from outside the door.
10
The alarm went off. Lauren stretched like a cat and then curled up against Arthur.
“Did you sleep okay?” she asked, kissing him.
“Never better.”
“What’s put you in such a good mood?”
“There’s something you have to see,” he said with a grin as he sat up.
He picked up the laptop from under the bed and opened it.
“For a date that only lasted ten minutes, this is one solid follow-up!”
Lauren rolled her eyes.
“So they hit it off, despite your tasteless joke—good for them. But don’t jump the gun.”
“Just making observations from what I read, is all.”
“He’s in love with his Korean translator, so I’m not sure this mysterious stranger would make any difference. Or if she even wants to.”
“In the meantime, I’m going to print this out and leave it right on his desk where he can see it.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Just to let him know I’m not stupid.”
Lauren read the letter again.
“She just wants to be friends.”
“And you know this because . . . ?”
“Because I’m a woman, and it’s plain to see, written in black and white. Emails don’t count. Translated into womanspeak: I’m not trying to get you into bed. And she talks about something that might be pretty important going on at this restaurant, but Paul doesn’t seem to have anything to do with it.”
“And what about the whole ‘things that are out of reach are always more desirable’ thing? Come on, you don’t think she’s flirting there, just a little bit?”
“I think your mind is playing tricks on you because you’re so desperate for Paul to stay in Paris. If you want my opinion, this woman is fresh out of a relationship, on the rebound. She seems to be genuinely looking for a friend and that’s that.”
“You should have gone into psychology instead of neurosurgery.”
“I won’t dignify that with a response. But even assuming that there are mixed messages . . . if you want Paul to take the bait, the last thing you should do is bring it up.”
“You think?”
“How is it I sometimes feel like I know your best friend better than you do? Or at least the way his mind works.”
With that, Lauren went out to make breakfast.
In the living room, she could see Paul asleep on the sofa. As soon as she entered, he opened his eyes and yawned, then slowly got up.
“Didn’t quite make it to your bed, huh?”
“I was working late. I only meant to take a break, but it seems I must have crashed.”
“Do you always work that late?”
“Yeah, pretty often.”
“You look awful. You have to stop burning the candle at both ends.”
“Is that my physician speaking?”
“No. It’s your friend.”
While Lauren poured him a cup of coffee, Paul checked his email, even though he knew that Kyong almost never replied right away. Nonetheless, he retired to his bedroom with a stung look on his face.
Just at that moment, Arthur came in. Lauren waved him over.
“What?” he whispered.
“Maybe we should push back our departure a few days.”
“What’s up with him?”
“Nothing’s up, everything’s down. He seems really bummed.”
“He was in good spirits just last night.”
“That was last night.”
“Hey! My spirits are fine!” Paul shouted from his room. “And I can hear every word you’re saying,” he added as he came through to join them. Arthur and Lauren remained silent for a moment.
“Why don’t you come along with us
, spend a few days in the South?” Arthur suggested.
“Because I’m writing a novel. I leave in three weeks and I want to have at least a hundred pages for Kyong. And, more importantly, I want her to like those pages. I want her to be proud of me.”
“You need to stop living in your books, man, and try living in the real world for a change. You need to go out and meet people—and I don’t just mean other writers.”
“I meet plenty of people during book signings.”
“And I’m sure you have very meaningful exchanges with them, spanning ‘hello,’ ‘thank you,’ and deep thoughts like ‘good-bye,’” Arthur said. “Do you call them on the phone when you’re feeling lonely?”
“No, I have you for that, even if the time difference is sometimes tricky. Please stop worrying about me. If I keep listening to you, I’m going to end up believing I have a problem—and I don’t. I like my life, I like my work, I like spending the night diving into my stories, I like the way it feels. You know the feeling, Lauren. You like the way it feels to spend nights in the OR sometimes, don’t you?”
“I don’t like it, though,” Arthur sighed.
“But it’s her life, and you don’t try to stop her, because you love her just the way she is,” Paul replied. “We’re not so different. Enjoy your romantic getaway, and if my Korean trip cures me of my flying phobia, I’ll come and see you in San Francisco in the fall. Now, there’s a nice title for a novel: Autumn in San Francisco.”
“True. But only if you’re the main character.”
Arthur and Lauren packed their suitcases. Paul accompanied them to the station, and when the train pulled away from the platform, in spite of everything he’d told them, he felt the heavy weight of solitude bearing down on his shoulders.
He stood a few moments in the place where he’d said good-bye to his friends. Then, hands in pockets, he turned on his heel.
When he picked up his car from the parking lot, he found a note stuck to the windshield.
If you move to Seoul, I will come and see you in the fall—I promise.
Autumn in Seoul could also be a nice title.
I’m gonna miss you, man.
Arthur
He read the note twice, then put it in his wallet.
After wondering how to brighten up his morning, he decided to go to the Opera. There was a favor he wanted to ask the director.
Mia was sitting on the bench in Place du Tertre, lost in Paul’s words. The caricaturist was watching her. He must have seen her open her purse and take out a tissue, because he left his easel to go and sit next to her.
“Bad day?” he asked.
“No, good book.”
“A real—what do they call it—tearjerker?”
“Actually, up to now it’s been very funny. But the main character just got a letter from his mother after her death. I know it’s ridiculous, but it really touched me.”
“There’s nothing ridiculous about expressing your feelings. Did you lose your own mother?”
“Oh, no, she’s very much alive. But I would love it if she wrote me something like this.”
“Maybe one day she will.”
“That’d be very surprising, given our relationship.”
“Do you have children?”
“No.”
“Then wait till you’re a mother yourself. You’ll view your childhood very differently, and your mother through completely new eyes.”
“I don’t really see how I could.”
“There is no such thing as the perfect parent, just like there is no such thing as the perfect child. I should go, though—there’s a tourist hanging around my stand. Oh, that reminds me—what did your friend think of her portrait?”
“I still haven’t given it to her. I’m sorry, it slipped my mind. I’ll do it tonight.”
“No hurry. It was just sitting in my portfolio.”
And the caricaturist returned to his easel.
Paul sneaked in through the artists’ entrance. Stagehands were busy moving parts of the set. He walked around them, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the director’s door.
“I’m sorry. Do we have a meeting?”
“No, but it won’t take long. I have a small favor to ask.”
“Another one?”
“Yeah, but this one’s really small.”
Paul made his request and the director refused. He had made an exception for him before, but for him alone. Because the Opera was being used as the backdrop for Paul’s novel, the director had wanted things to be described as they were rather than as one might imagine them. But the areas prohibited to the public had to remain prohibited.
“I understand,” said Paul, “but the woman is my assistant.”
“Was she your assistant when you entered my office?”
“Of course. I didn’t hire her in the last thirty seconds.”
“You said she was ‘a friend’!”
“She’s my friend and my assistant. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
The director stared at the ceiling as he thought.
“No, I’m sorry. I can’t allow it. And please don’t insist.”
“Then don’t blame me if I get anything wrong in my descriptions of your Opera.”
“All you need to do is devote more time to your research. Now I must ask you to leave. This is a busy time for the Opera.”
Paul left the office, but he was determined not to let the matter go. A promise was a promise, and he had defied far more powerful authorities in his lifetime. He stopped at the box office, bought two tickets for that evening’s performance, and went off to mull over his plan.
Once outside on the steps, he started dialing Mia’s number, then changed his mind and sent her a text instead:
Our tour of the Opera will take place tonight. Bring a sweater and a raincoat, and whatever you do, don’t wear high heels (although I haven’t seen you wearing any up until this point). You’ll understand why when you get there. I can’t say another word—it’s a surprise.
8:30pm, on the fifth step.
Paul
PS: Texts don’t count.
Mia’s phone vibrated. She read the message and smiled. Then, remembering the promise she’d made to Daisy, her smile quickly faded.
Gaetano Cristoneli was waiting for Paul at a table outside Le Bonaparte.
“You’re late!”
“My office isn’t just around the corner, like yours. I got stuck in traffic.”
“Really?” his editor said skeptically. “What was this something urgent you mentioned on the phone? Do you have a problem?”
“Is this the latest thing, everyone thinking I have problems? Are you going to start in on this too?”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“I’ve decided I am going to the book fair in Seoul.”
“Fantasmic news! Not that you really had a choice.”
“There’s always a choice. And I may still change my mind. Speaking of which, I have something personal to ask. If I decided to spend a year or two in Seoul, would you be able to provide me with a small advance? Just enough to get me on my feet over there. I can’t ditch my apartment in Paris until I’m sure.”
“Sure about what?”
“Sure I want to stay there.”
“Why would you go and live in Korea? You don’t even speak the language.”
“Good point. I hadn’t thought about that. I guess I’ll have to learn it.”
“You? You’re going to learn Korean?”
“Nan niga naie palkarakeul parajmdoultaiga nomou djoa.”
“What is that gibberish?”
“It’s Korean for ‘I like it when you suck my toes.’”
“That’s it. You’ve completely lost your mind!”
“I didn’t come here for your thoughts on my mental well-being. I came for an advance on my royalties.”
“So, you are serious?”
“You were the one who said that success over there would give my num
bers a boost in the US and thus in Europe. My understanding is, if I catch that plane, we make a fortune. Right? So, according to your own logic, a small advance shouldn’t pose that much of a problem.”
“That was just in theory . . . Only time will tell whether or not I’m right.”
Cristoneli looked pensive, then finally added, “Then again, if you were to tell the Korean media that you’re moving to their country, the effect would be enormous. If your publisher over there had you on hand, they’d be more inclined to double their efforts at promoting your books.”
“Yadda yadda yadda,” muttered Paul. “So we have an agreement?”
“On one condition! No matter what happens over there, I remain your primary editor. I don’t want to hear anything about a new book contract signed between you and any Korean publisher—am I clear? I’ve driven your career forward single-handedly up to now!”
“Granted, you haven’t driven it very far.”
“What ingratitude! Do you want this advance or not?”
Paul stopped arguing. He scrawled the figure he hoped to extract from Cristoneli on a paper napkin. His editor rolled his eyes, crossed out the number, and cut it in half.
They shook hands on the deal—as good as a contract in the world of publishing.
“I’ll give you the check when we’re on our way to the airport. That way, I can make sure you actually catch your flight.”
Paul left Cristoneli to pay the bill.
Back at home after the lunch shift, Daisy found Mia lying on the sofa in a bathrobe, with a box of Kleenex at hand and a damp towel over her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Retinal migraine,” said Mia. “Head feels like it’s about to explode.”
“Want me to call a doctor?”
“There’s no point. I’ve had them before. It usually lasts about ten hours and then goes away on its own.”
“And when did it start?”
“Midafternoon.”
Daisy looked at her watch, and then back at her friend.
“Well, there’s no way you’re working in this state. Let’s forget the restaurant for tonight—you can help me out tomorrow instead.”
“No, no,” Mia protested, “I’ll manage,” whereupon she put her hands to her forehead and let out a small groan.