by Marc Levy
“For someone so reserved . . . it might be.”
“When you’re in love with a man, don’t you tell him?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What exactly would be stopping you?”
“Fear,” Mia replied.
“Fear of what?”
“Of scaring him off.”
“Oh, God, it’s all so complicated! So what are you supposed to do, what should you say or not say when you’re in love with somebody?”
“Maybe it’s best to hold off, to wait awhile.”
“Wait for what? Until it’s too late?”
“Until it’s . . . not too early.”
“And just how do I figure that out? How do I know the time is right?”
“When you no longer feel any doubt, I suppose.”
“Has that ever happened to you? Being free of doubt?”
“Yes, on occasion.”
“And that’s when you told him that you loved him?”
“Yes.”
“And he said that he loved you?”
“Yes.”
Mia’s face darkened, and Paul noticed.
“I’m sorry! What a jackass. You’re fresh out of a relationship, and here I am prying open old wounds. That was a selfish thing to do.”
“Not really. It was quite touching, actually. If more men would find the courage to show their sensitive side, things could be so different.”
“You think I should reply to her?”
“I think you’re going to see her soon, and when she’s with you, she’ll fall under your spell once more.”
“If I’m being ridiculous, you can tell me.”
“Not at all. You’re being sincere. Whatever you do, don’t change that.”
Paul spotted a little refreshment stand just ahead of them.
“Hey. How would you like a waffle with Nutella?”
“Sure, why not,” Mia said with a sigh.
He led her over to the stand. He bought two waffles and handed the first one to Mia.
“If he came back hat in hand, begging your forgiveness, would you be willing to give him a second chance?” he asked with his mouth full of waffle.
“I really don’t know.”
“So he hasn’t called at all since—”
“No,” Mia cut in.
“Okay. What next? There’s a pond over there where kids play with sailboats, but that might be awkward without a kid. We have donkey rides over there . . . any of that sound appealing?”
“Not really, to be honest.”
“You know, I think I’ve seen enough donkeys as it is. Over there, we have some tennis courts, but we’re not playing tennis. And . . . that’s pretty much all we got. Let’s go—enough of this park and all these happy, smooching couples.”
Mia followed Paul out into Rue de Vaugirard. Together they walked down Rue Bonaparte, all the way down to the flea market at Place Saint-Sulpice.
They strolled up and down the aisles before stopping at one of the stalls.
“That’s pretty,” Mia said, looking at an old watch.
“Yeah, but I’m too superstitious to wear anything that once belonged to somebody else. Unless I know that the wearer was a happy person. Don’t laugh, but I actually believe objects have a kind of memory. They can give off good or bad vibrations.”
“You’re going to have to elaborate.”
“A few years ago, I bought a glass paperweight at a market like this. The vendor told me it was nineteenth-century. I didn’t believe him for a minute, but there was a picture of a woman’s face engraved inside, and I thought she was pretty. As soon as I brought that thing home, my life turned to absolute shit.”
“Define ‘absolute shit.’”
“You know something? I kind of like it when you swear.”
“What are you on about now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the accent. But it’s kind of sexy. And now I’ve lost my train of thought.”
“Absolute shit.”
“You did it again! You should swear more often. It really suits you. Anyway, it started with a leak in my apartment. The next day, my computer breaks. The day after that, my car gets impounded. That weekend, I’m bedridden with the flu. Then on Monday, my downstairs neighbor has a heart attack, and then I put a mug on my desk near the paperweight and knock the thing over. A couple of days later, the handle on the mug breaks off and I nearly scald my thighs. That was when I began to suspect it had evil powers. You know. Cursed. Next thing I know: I’m totally blocked. Blank white pages, nothing but white in all directions, think Mount Everest, you get the idea. And then I trip on the edge of my rug, fall flat on my face, and break my nose. It’s a sad sight, blood pouring out everywhere while I scream my head off in my apartment. Luckily, one of my writer friends is psychic. Every other week, I eat dinner with a bunch of writers in a bistro, and we tell each other about our lives. Anyway, this guy sees me with my nose all bandaged up, asks what happened. I tell him all the things that went wrong since I bought the paperweight. He closes his eyes . . . and asks me . . . if there was a face engraved in the glass.”
“Whoa! And you hadn’t even told him?”
“Maybe I did. I can’t remember. Anyway, he tells me to get rid of the cursed thing ASAP, but warns me not to break it at all, or else the evil spirits could escape.”
“So, what—did you throw it in the bin?” Mia asked, biting her lip.
“Better. I wasn’t messing around. I wrapped it in a big scarf, tied it up nice and tight, hopped in my car, drove to the Alma bridge, and . . . adios, paperweight! Straight into the Seine.”
Mia couldn’t contain herself any longer. She burst out laughing.
“You’re too much!” she said, her eyes wet with tears of laughter. “Just adorable.”
Paul stared at her, dumbstruck, and started walking again.
“You really get a kick out of teasing me, don’t you?”
“Not at all, I swear. And so your problems stopped right after you drowned the paperweight?”
“Yep. Pretty incredible, huh? Everything went back to normal.”
Mia laughed even more, and hung on to Paul’s arm as he quickened his pace.
They passed a bookshop specializing in antique manuscripts. In the window were a letter written by Victor Hugo and a Rimbaud poem scribbled on a piece of paper torn from a notepad.
Mia peered in at them, fascinated. “A poem or a nice letter couldn’t be an evil talisman, could it?”
“No, I’d say you’re in the clear.”
She opened the door of the shop.
“It’s really a beautiful thing,” she said, “to hold a letter by an illustrious writer in your hands. It’s a bit like entering a private world, becoming a confidante. A century from now, maybe people will marvel over the letters you wrote to your translator. She’ll have become your wife, and those letters will mark the beginning of a precious and powerful correspondence.”
“There’s no way I’ll ever be considered an illustrious writer, Mia.”
“I must say I disagree.”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve read any of my novels.”
“I’ve read two so far, for your information. The letters from the mother in the first one brought me to tears.”
“There you go, messing with me again.”
“I am not! Cross my heart. I would do a full reenactment, but bawling in here seems a bit inappropriate.”
“Wow. I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“No, you’re not. That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile all day.”
“I guess in a way it does make me happy . . . not because you cried, but . . . okay, fine, yes, because you cried. To celebrate, let me take you to Ladurée for some pastries. It’s not far and their macarons are absolutely life changing. But there I go again, trying to tell a chef what’s what about food.”
“Sounds good, but I will need to head back to the restaurant right after. My cooking won’t be quite so delightful if I’m not there to supervis
e it.”
They sat at a table in the corner and ordered a hot chocolate for Mia and a coffee for Paul, along with an assortment of macarons. The waitress kept staring at them as she prepared their drinks. They could see her whispering to a coworker, the two of them stealing peeks in Paul and Mia’s direction.
Shit, she’s recognized me. Where are the toilets? No, I can’t go to the loo—she might talk to him while I’m gone. If it gets out that I was seen here with a man, Creston will kill me! My only option is to convince her that she has mistaken me for someone else.
The waitress came back a few minutes later and, putting the cups down, asked in a shy voice:
“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but notice. Aren’t you—”
“Nope, I’m not who you think,” Paul replied sternly. “Wrong guy, sorry!”
Deeply embarrassed, the young woman apologized and walked away.
Mia, whose face had gone bright red, put on her sunglasses and turned to Paul.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her. “That does happen to me occasionally.”
“I understand,” said Mia, whose heart was still pounding. “So it’s not only in Seoul that you’re famous?”
“Just this specific neighborhood, but that’s it. Believe me, I could spend two hours in the book section of a Fnac without any of the staff recognizing me. Which is a good thing, of course. But she must have been one of my readers—I shouldn’t have treated her like that.”
Your ego just saved me! “Don’t worry about it. Next time you come here, bring a signed copy of one of your books. I’m sure she’d love that.”
“Now that is an excellent idea.”
“So, tell me. What’s happening with your opera singer?”
“The critic follows her home. He approaches her, but without revealing his suspicions. He introduces himself as a writer and says she looks like a character from one of his novels. Maybe, just maybe . . . he’s starting to feel something for her.”
“And what about her?”
“I’m not quite sure yet, it’s too early to tell. What she doesn’t admit is that she noticed him a long time ago. She’s scared, but at the same time she feels less lonely.”
“So what does she do?”
“She runs, I think. Takes off to keep her secret under wraps. She can’t be sincere with him because she’s lying all the while about who she really is. I’m thinking about introducing her old impresario to up the stakes. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to read it before I could give an opinion.”
“Would you be interested in reading the first few chapters?”
“I’d love to, if that’s what you want.”
“I’ve never let anyone read one of my books before it’s finished, apart from Kyong. But your opinion has come to mean a lot to me.”
“Right! Well, whenever you feel ready, I’d be honored to be your first reader. And I promise to be honest with you.”
“And while we’re on the subject, I’d love to come have dinner at your restaurant.”
“Oh . . . that’s not such a great idea. Chefs are never at their best during a shift. Too much pressure, too much sweat . . . Don’t take it the wrong way, but I’d really prefer if you didn’t.”
“No, no, I understand,” said Paul.
They said good-bye outside the métro station at Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Paul walked past his editor’s office and thought he caught a glimpse of him through the window. He continued on his way and arrived back at home.
He spent the evening working, trying to imagine what would happen to his tragic opera singer. The more he wrote, the more his character took on Mia’s facial expressions, her way of walking, of answering a question with another question, her fragile smile when she was being thoughtful, her bursts of laughter, her absent gaze, her discreet elegance. The sun was rising when he finally made it to bed.
Later that day, Paul was awoken by a call from his editor. Cristoneli was expecting him at his office. On the way, he stopped to buy a croissant and ate it behind the wheel, arriving only a half hour late.
Cristoneli welcomed him with open arms and Paul began to suspect he was up to something.
“I have two pieces of news for you. Both good!” the editor exclaimed. “Amazifying news!”
“Start with the bad news.”
Cristoneli frowned at him, baffled.
“I received a message from the Koreans: they want you to be a guest on the evening news, which will be followed by their flagship literature show.”
“And the good news?”
“What do you mean? That was the good news!”
“Any time I have to do a book signing with more than twenty people, I get so nervous I practically faint. How in the world do you expect me to appear on television? Unless you want me to fall flat on my face on live TV.”
“There’ll only be the two of you writers there. No need to be nervous.”
“Two of us?”
“Murakami is the headliner. Do you realize how lucky you are?”
“On TV and side by side with Murakami to boot? Maybe before I faint I’ll manage to throw up on the presenter’s shoes. That’ll give the viewers something to remember.”
“It’s a great idea! You would probably sell many books the next day.”
“Are you listening to me? There’s no way I can appear on television. I would suffocate. I’m suffocating right now just thinking about it! I would die in front of millions of viewers. In Korea. You’d be an accessory to murder.”
“Oh, give me a break! Just have a Cognac before you go on camera and everything will be fine.”
“Even better—drunk on live television! Amazifying idea.”
“Smoke something, then. Isn’t it legal in your country now?”
“The only time in my life I ever ‘smoked something,’ I spent two days in bed staring at cows grazing on the ceiling.”
“Listen, my dear Paul, just pull yourself together and everything will go perfectly. I assure you.”
“I hope you’re right. So what’s your other bit of news?”
“Because your press schedule is getting fuller and fuller, we’ve had to advance the date of your departure.”
At those words Paul simply turned and left. Left without saying good-bye. On his way out, he picked up a copy of his latest novel from a coffee table in the lobby.
He walked down Rue Bonaparte, his mind spinning at the change of dates, and stopped in front of the antique-book shop. He went inside and emerged fifteen minutes later having negotiated the purchase of a little handwritten note by none other than Jane Austen, payable over three months.
Continuing on his way, he came to a halt at the patisserie, spotted the waitress, and approached her, asking her name.
“Isabelle,” she replied, looking a little bemused.
Paul opened the copy of his novel and wrote on the first page:
To Isabelle, my faithful reader. Please accept my thanks and my apologies for yesterday.
Best regards,
Paul Barton
He handed her the book, and she read his inscription with a blank look on her face, clearly missing the significance.
But, being a polite young woman, she thanked him, then left the book on the countertop and went back to work.
He felt like calling Arthur, but he didn’t know if his friend was still in Rome or if he and Lauren had already caught the flight back to California.
On Rue Jacob, he thought about how much he would like to find a shop where he could purchase a sibling or a caretaker, or at least rent one for a few hours. He could already imagine himself alone in his apartment, succumbing to a fierce panic attack. He picked up his car, which he had left in front of the Hotel Bel Ami, gave a hollow laugh as he noticed the name, and drove off toward Montmartre.
“Maybe my luck is finally turning around,” he muttered to himself as he found a parking space on Rue Norvins.
He got out of the car and walked up the str
eet.
She told me I couldn’t eat at her restaurant, but she didn’t say I couldn’t stop by. Would that be thoughtful or thoughtless? Let’s say it does disturb her, it’s not like I’ll stay long. I’ll just give her this little gift, along with the first chapters of my novel, and then go. No, not the novel with the gift—she might think it’s a bribe to get her to read it. I’ll go in, give her the letter, and walk straight out. That’ll be fine. In fact, it’ll be perfect.
Paul retraced his steps, left the manuscript in the trunk of the Saab, and returned with just the pretty little envelope, tied with a ribbon, containing Jane Austen’s note.
A few moments later, he walked past La Clamada, glanced through the window, and stopped dead.
Mia, wearing a large violet apron, was setting tables.
The woman who had approached Mia’s apartment the night of their misadventure stood in the kitchen at the back of the dining room. She appeared to be giving Mia orders.
Paul watched for a second and then hurried away, hiding his face behind his hand. Once he was past the restaurant, he began walking even faster, not stopping until he reached Place du Tertre.
Why would she lie? Why should it even matter if she’s the owner of the restaurant, or just a waitress? And they talk about men having fragile egos! Did she think I wouldn’t want to be friends with a waitress? What kind of person does she think I am? “Irresistible cuisine,” my ass! Then again, it’s not that big a deal, when you think about it. I’ve pretended to be other people before, under different circumstances. The way I see it, I could walk in there and call her bluff right now—which would be satisfying, but mean. Or I could say nothing at all, I could just dangle the carrot until she admits it herself. Maybe that’s the best move.
He sat on a bench, took out his phone, and sent a text to Mia.
Everything OK?
Mia felt her phone vibrate in the pocket of her apron. Last night, David had sent her three messages, begging her to call him back. She had held firm this long; she wasn’t going to crack now. She straightened the napkins while squinting into the kangaroo pouch of her apron.
“Just making sure your belly button’s still there?” Daisy asked.
“No!”
“Was it David again?”
“Probably.”
“Look, either turn off your phone or read his message before you start dropping plates.”