P.S. From Paris (US Edition)

by Marc Levy

  “Good point. Keep going.”

  The car accelerated, zipping up Rue Lepic. On Rue Norvins, Mia shrank back in her seat.

  “Is the restaurant around here?”

  “We just passed it,” she whispered.

  At last, they turned onto Rue Poulbot. Mia pointed out her building. Paul slammed on the brakes.

  “Hurry up!” he urged her. “We’ll say good-bye another time.”

  They exchanged a look, and Mia rushed toward the front door. Paul waited to check that she’d got in, staring at the windows of the building, then smiled as the lights on the top floor came on briefly and went out again. He was about to drive away when he saw a woman walking up the street and entering the building. He honked his horn three times before setting off again.

  Daisy came into the apartment, completely exhausted. The living room was dark. She turned on the lights and collapsed onto the sofa. Her gaze wandered to the coffee table, where she spotted a book. She picked it up and examined the author’s photo again.

  After getting up, she knocked gently at Mia’s door and opened it a crack.

  Mia pretended to wake up.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. I should be fine again tomorrow.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that!”

  “I hope it wasn’t too tough at the restaurant tonight.”

  “It was pretty crowded, believe it or not, despite the rain.”

  “Did it rain a lot?”

  “Incessantly. What about here? Did it rain inside the apartment too?”

  “Um, no . . . What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  Daisy closed the door without another word.

  Paul parked his car and went up to his apartment. He sat at his desk and was just about to start a new chapter, in which his mute opera singer ventures out onto the rooftop of the Opera, when the screen of his phone lit up.

  My great-grandchildren would like

  to join me in thanking you for giving

  their future great-grandmother such

  an unforgettable evening.

  Did you make it back in time???

  Two minutes later, and I’d have been

  a goner!

  I honked my horn to warn you.

  I heard it.

  Your roommate didn’t suspect anything?

  I think she may have seen my raincoat

  sticking out of the duvet!

  You sleep in a raincoat?

  Didn’t have time to take it off.

  I’m really sorry about the police station . . .

  We should split that fine.

  Absolutely not—you were my guest.

  Will you take me to see the Catacombs

  next week?

  Depends. Would that count or not?

  Definitely wouldn’t count.

  Why not?

  Because!

  Can’t argue with that.

  So we’re on?

  Wouldn’t you prefer an exhibition

  at the Grand Palais? Not so many

  dead people.

  What exhibition?

  Hang on, I’ll check.

  Okay.

  The Tudors.

  Oh no, I’ve had my fill of the

  Tudors.

  Musée d’Orsay?

  Jardin du Luxembourg?

  Sold. You’re on.

  Are you working?

  Trying to.

  In that case, I’ll let you go. Day after

  tomorrow, 3pm?

  Done. Outside the entrance, on

  Rue Guynemer.

  The screen went black, and Paul returned to his novel. His singer was about to start her walk across the rooftop when his phone lit up again.

  I’m starving.

  Me too.

  But I’m trapped in my bedroom.

  Take off your raincoat and

  tiptoe over to the fridge.

  Good idea. Okay, I’ll really leave you

  to work now.

  Thanks.

  Paul put the phone on his desk. He kept checking the black screen, hoping it would light up again. Disappointed, he put it in a drawer, but kept the drawer half-open . . . just in case.

  Mia undressed silently, pulled on a bathrobe, and half opened her bedroom door. Daisy was lying on the sofa, reading Paul’s novel. Mia went back to bed and spent the next hour listening to her stomach growl.

  11

  He felt guilty at how little he had written in the last few days. And the previous night had only made matters worse. He wanted to revise the first few chapters so Kyong would like them. Even though she had yet to reply to his email, which worried him a lot.

  He drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness, turned on his desk lamp, and sat in front of the computer.

  It had been a prolific day: ten pages, five coffees, two liters of water, and three bags of chips in seven hours.

  Now he was hungry—starving, in fact—and he decided to stop working and go to the local café. It wasn’t the best place to eat in the arrondissement, but at least he wouldn’t have to dine alone. Whenever he sat at the counter, the café owner always stopped to chat. He could be relied on for all the neighborhood gossip—who had died or got divorced, who’d moved away, which shop had opened or closed, what the weather was supposed to be like, and so on—as well as more serious news, like political scandals. All the murmurings of the city and the wider world reached Paul through the voice of Moustache, as he called him.

  Back in his apartment, Paul opened the curtains to watch the evening fall. He checked his email: nothing from Kyong, but he did find one new message.

  Dear Paul,

  I hope all is well. Our time in the South was magical. Makes me wonder again why I spent four years in Paris when I could have gone to Provence instead. The people are so kind, the countryside so beautiful, and there are loads of street markets and endless sunshine . . . maybe you should consider it? Sometimes happiness can be found closer to home than we think.

  We sure do miss you, man. We’re spending a few days in Italy now, having just arrived. Portofino is one of the prettiest towns I’ve ever been to. In fact, all of Liguria is just gorgeous.

  We’ve decided to go to Rome next, and to fly directly back to San Francisco from there.

  I’ll call you when we’re home. In the meantime, let me know what’s happening on your end.

  Lauren sends her love . . .

  Arthur

  The email had been sent only a few minutes earlier. Assuming that Arthur was still online, he replied immediately:

  Hey, old buddy,

  I’m thrilled that your vacation is going so well. You should stay a bit longer . . . or should I say, you kind of have to! In a funny turn of events, I came across a short-term apartment-rental website the other day. I’d heard great things about it and wanted to give it a whirl. You wouldn’t believe how popular your apartment has been!

  Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of everything. Your tenants, whom I handpicked personally—a nice couple with their four mild-mannered children—will stay there until the end of the month. The rent will be paid directly to the agency: you’ll just have to show up to pick up your check. So hopefully that should help pay for your Italian adventures.

  And now, old buddy, we’re even!

  Other than that, no real news in my life, except that I’m doing lots of writing and the Seoul trip looms.

  Give Lauren my love . . .

  Paul

  Almost immediately, the following words appeared on the screen:

  Please tell me you’re kidding!

  Savoring his vengeance, Paul thought about letting Arthur stew a bit longer. But he knew his friend would not stop pestering him until he had the truth, so he decided to reply before getting back to work.

  Arthur,

  Were it not for my fear that my godson would end up spending more time with his godmother than he should, I would have done it. Fortunately for y
ou, I’m just too nice for that kind of thing. I had you going, though, didn’t I?

  Don’t worry, you’ll still get what’s really coming to you.

  Paul

  And with that, he devoted his night to the creation of a new chapter.

  “Tell me, just how did you meet him?”

  “Meet who?”

  “Him,” Daisy said, sliding the book down the counter of the bar.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “And why not? I believed you when you turned up on my doorstep like a lost puppy, didn’t I? When you asked me to let you stay, and when you cried all night in my arms over what David had done to you, and when you said it was all his fault. Right?”

  “I met him through your dating site,” Mia admitted, lowering her eyes.

  “I knew I’d seen his face somewhere!” Daisy railed. “You’ve really got a lot of nerve, you know that?”

  “It’s not what you think, I swear.”

  “Oh, now she’s swearing! Spare me, please.”

  Daisy walked past Mia and went to set the tables.

  “Leave it,” said Mia, following her. “I can take care of that. You’ve got enough work to do in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll do whatever I want in my own restaurant, thank you very much.”

  “Am I fired?”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “No, of course not!” Mia protested vehemently. “He’s just a friend.”

  “What kind of friend?”

  “Someone I can talk to, with no ambiguity at all.”

  “On his end or on yours?”

  “None at all, no gray zone. We agreed to that during our first dinner.”

  “Ah, so you’ve dined together. When? The night you slept in your raincoat due to your debilitating retinal migraine?”

  “No. We went to the Opera that night.”

  “This just gets better and better!”

  “Our dinner together was the night I told you I went to the cinema.”

  “The Swede. I should have known. So you’ve been lying to me all this time?”

  “You’re the one who said he was Swedish.”

  “What about his phone?”

  “Oh, that was true. He really did forget it.”

  “And your migraine?”

  “It was real, it just didn’t last that long . . .”

  “The truth comes out!”

  “He’s just a friend, Daisy. I could even introduce you to him. I’m sure the two of you would hit it off.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “He works nights, like you do. He’s a bit gauche, but he’s very funny, just like you. He’s American, he lives in Paris, and he’s single—another thing you have in common.”

  “And you don’t fancy him yourself?”

  “Well . . . I guess I should say nearly single.”

  “No way! Forget it. I’ve had it up to here with guys who are ‘nearly single.’ Why don’t you start setting these tables instead of setting me up?”

  Mia didn’t wait to be asked twice. She grabbed a pile of plates and began placing them on tables. Daisy went into the kitchen and started peeling vegetables.

  “You should at least meet him,” said Mia.

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because first of all, it never works like that. Second, because he’s only ‘nearly single.’ And most importantly, because you like him more than you’re willing to admit.”

  Mia turned toward Daisy, hands on her hips. “I think I’d know how I feel about someone.”

  “Is that so? Since when? You cross the city to give him his phone back, you lie like a teenager, you go with him to the Opera and—”

  “No, not to the Opera—on the Opera!”

  “What?”

  “We didn’t go to see a performance, he took me up on the roof—to see Paris at night.”

  “Either you really are completely naive or you’re lying to yourself. Either way, leave me out of it.”

  Mia frowned.

  “Get to work!” Daisy yelled. “The customers will be here any minute.”

  At two a.m., Paul was still struggling with the last line of a paragraph when he decided to call it a night. He checked his email again and, his pulse quickening, finally found a reply from Kyong, which he printed out. He liked to read her words on paper, as it somehow made her seem less virtual. He picked up the hard copy from his printer tray and waited until he was in bed before starting to read.

  Soon afterward, he turned off the light and hugged his pillow to him.

  At three a.m., Mia was awoken by the vibrations of her phone. She grabbed it from the bedside table. The name David appeared on the screen.

  Her heart began pounding wildly. She put the phone back on the table, lay down again, and hugged her pillow.

  12

  Mia turned up late at the gates of the Jardin du Luxembourg. She looked around for Paul, then sent him a text.

  Where are you?

  On a bench.

  Which bench?

  I’m wearing a yellow raincoat,

  so you can spot me easily.

  Seriously?

  No!

  Seeing her approach, Paul stood up and waved.

  “Oh, so you’re the one wearing a slicker today,” she said, “even though it’s not raining.”

  “That remains to be seen,” he replied, setting off along the path, his hands behind his back.

  Mia followed.

  “Did you have another bout of writer’s block last night?”

  “Nope. I even managed to finish a chapter. I’ll start another one tonight.”

  “Look at that. Do you fancy a game?” Mia asked, pointing to a group of men playing boules.

  “Do you know how to play?”

  “It doesn’t seem all that complicated.”

  “Well, it is. Like everything in life, I suppose . . .”

  “Easy, now. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

  “How about . . . if I win, you have to make me dinner!”

  “And if I win?”

  “It would be dishonest of me to let you think you have a chance of winning. I’ve become seriously good at this stupid little game.”

  “I’ll try my luck anyway,” Mia replied, heading for the boules pitch.

  She asked two players who were chatting if she could borrow their set of boules. They looked wary, so she leaned close to the older of the two and whispered something in his ear. The man smiled and gestured at the pitch, where the boules and the jack lay unused.

  “Shall we?” she said to Paul.

  Paul began the first round by throwing the jack. He waited for the little wooden ball to stop rolling, then bent forward, arm pulled back, and threw his boule. It arced through the air before rolling along the ground and coming to rest next to the jack.

  “Difficult to get any closer than that.” He whistled. “Your turn.”

  Mia got into position, watched by the two old men, who looked amused. Her boule did not go as high as Paul’s and came to a halt an inch or two behind his.

  “Not bad. Promising, but not a game changer,” said Paul.

  For his second throw, he twisted his wrist slightly. The boule slowly circled around the others before kissing the jack.

  “Perfect!” Paul laughed triumphantly.

  Mia got back into position, narrowed her eyes, and took aim.

  Paul’s two boules were knocked away from the jack, while Mia’s appeared glued to its sides.

  “Putain!” one of the old men shouted, while the other burst out laughing.

  “Now that was perfect,” Mia declared.

  Paul stared at her, speechless, then walked away.

  Mia waved at the two men, who applauded. Then she ran after Paul.

  “Come on. Don’t be a sore loser!” she said, catching up with him.

  “And you let me think that was the first time you’ve played . . .”

&n
bsp; “I spent every summer of my childhood in Provence, as you might recall. Next time, try listening to women when they talk to you.”

  “I was listening,” Paul protested. “But my head was kind of spinning that night. Or must I do the unspeakable and remind you about the circumstances of our first encounter?”

  “What’s really the matter, Paul?”

  He took out a sheet of paper and handed it to her.

  “I got this last night,” he mumbled.

  Mia stood still and began reading.

  Dear Paul,

  I’m very glad you are coming to Seoul, even if we won’t have as much time to enjoy each other’s company as I would have liked. I have professional obligations at the Book Fair from which I cannot escape. I think you will be pleasantly surprised by the welcome you’ll receive from your readers, and I suspect you will be even busier than I am at the fair. You are famous here, and people are very excited about your arrival. Be prepared to devote a lot of your time and energy to your admirers for the duration of the visit. For my part, I will try to free myself as much as I can so that I can show you around my city . . . if your editor allows you enough

  time.

  I would have loved for you to stay with me, but I’m afraid that is impossible. My family lives in the same apartment building, and my father is very strict. For a man to spend the night in his daughter’s apartment would be against all decorum, and it is something he would never allow. I can imagine your reaction to this news, and I share your disappointment, but you must understand that morals and customs are not the same here as they are in Paris.

  I look forward to seeing you soon.

  Have a good trip.

  Your favorite translator,

  Kyong

  “Well, it is a little cold,” Mia admitted, handing back the sheet of paper.

  “Just a little.”

  “Don’t overreact. You have to be able to read between the lines. She seems to be a very reserved person.”

  “Believe me, she’s not so reserved when she comes to Paris!”

  “But Seoul is her home. It’s different.”

  “Listen, you’re a woman. Work your magic and read between the lines for me. Tell me what I’m missing. Does she love me or not?”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  “Then why doesn’t she write it? Is it really such a hard thing to admit?”