P.S. From Paris (US Edition)

by Marc Levy

  And in case he ended up unable to approach her without arousing suspicion, Paul had given Mia a little note that she could hand Kyong at the end of the meal.

  When all the guests had taken their places around the table, Paul and Mia exchanged a look. Apparently, Kyong had not been invited.

  A series of toasts in Paul’s honor launched the evening. The marketing director of the Korean publisher said he’d been thinking of publishing all of Paul’s works in a single collection intended for students. He wanted to know if Paul would agree to write a preface explaining why he had dedicated his life’s work to such a challenging cause. Paul wondered if the man was pulling his leg, but the marketing director’s English was far from perfect, and in the end he decided simply to smile. The head of publicity showed him the cover of his latest novel, pointing proudly to the band with its red-letter announcement: 300,000 Copies Sold. An extraordinary figure for a foreign author, the editor added. The bookshop manager confirmed that not a day went by without him selling several copies of the book. Ms. Bak waited patiently before reeling off the list of interviews Paul would have to attend. The television news program had negotiated exclusivity until the show was broadcast, but after that there would be an interview with the daily newspaper The Chosun Ilbo, as well as Elle Korea, a one-hour live broadcast with radio service KBS, a one-on-one with a journalist from Movie Week, and a more delicate meeting with the radical daily Hankyoreh, the only newspaper to support the government’s policy of political dialogue with North Korea. When Paul asked why Hankyoreh wanted to interview him, everyone at the table laughed. Paul was not in the mood for jokes, and his dazed state contrasted with the liveliness of his companions. Mia came to his rescue, asking a whole series of questions about Seoul—the weather throughout the year, the best places to visit, and so on. She began a conversation about Korean cinema with Paul’s editor, who was impressed by her knowledge of the subject. She took advantage of this newfound bond to quietly suggest that he bring the evening to a close, as Mr. Barton was exhausted.

  Back at the hotel, Paul hopped straight into bed. He adjusted the bolster that separated him from Mia and turned off his bedside lamp before she had even come out of the bathroom.

  Mia got under the sheets and waited a few moments.

  “Are you asleep?”

  “No. I was waiting for you to ask me that question before I could fall asleep.”

  “She’ll call tomorrow, I’m sure she will.”

  “How can you be so sure? She hasn’t even left a message for me at the hotel.”

  “She did warn you in her email that she would be very busy. Sometimes work just takes over to the point where you can’t do anything else.”

  Paul propped himself up and peered over the bolster.

  “Just a short message—I mean, is that too much to ask? It’s like she’s been named minister of culture. Why are you making excuses for her?”

  “Because . . . it bothers me to see you unhappy,” Mia replied, sitting up in turn. “I don’t know why, that’s just the way it is.”

  “There you go again, stealing my lines.”

  “You know what? Why don’t you just shut up.”

  In the silence that followed, their faces drew closer and closer . . . until at last they came together, in what can only be described as a moment of infinite tenderness.

  “Tell me that wasn’t just a pity kiss,” Paul said.

  “Have you ever been slapped just after a kiss?”

  “No. At least, not yet.”

  Mia pressed her lips to his and wished him good night. Then she adjusted the bolster and turned off her bedside lamp.

  “One question . . . did that count?” Paul asked in the darkness.

  “Oh, go to sleep already!” Mia replied.

  16

  Mia had great fun playing the perfect assistant and grew positively giddy about calling Paul “Mr. Barton” every time she spoke to him. Paul was not so amused.

  She stood back during the opening of the Book Fair as flashbulbs popped. It felt good not to be the one in the spotlight for once.

  Three hundred people formed a line that stretched out of the bookshop and right down the street. The scale of the reception reminded Mia of her own career—and of Creston, just one more reminder that she should have called him a long time ago. He must be worried sick. She tried to invent a lie that would conceal her whereabouts, but it would have to wait. She hadn’t turned her phone back on since the flight—and she wasn’t ready to.

  Sitting behind a desk, Paul smiled and greeted the seemingly endless stream of readers, all the while struggling to spell or even understand the names of those who introduced themselves. The bookseller bent down and whispered his apologies. It was regrettable that his translator was indisposed and could not come.

  “Really. What’s the matter with Kyong?” Paul whispered.

  “No, I said it’s your translator who is sick.”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  “No, no. Your translator’s name is Eun-Jeong.”

  A sudden surge in the crowd put an end to their conversation. Paul remained frozen in shock while the security guards ushered a few fans out of the building and ordered the public into an orderly line once more.

  The lunch break was extended on Mia’s orders. Mr. Barton needed a rest. Paul was escorted to the bookshop café, which had been closed just for him. His eyes darted back and forth in search of the bookseller, but with no success.

  “You look worried,” Mia said.

  “I’m not used to there being this many people at a signing. So yes, I’m nervous. And exhausted.”

  “That’s hardly surprising. You haven’t even touched your food. Eat something—you’ll need all the energy you can get for the second round. Have you realized how wonderful all this is for your career? Your readers are positively beaming about meeting you. Even I’m touched. Do try to smile a little more—though I know it’s tiring. The greatest reward we can ever receive is the love of our fans. It gives meaning to our work . . . to everything we give others. What could be more satisfying than sharing that joy?”

  “Have a lot of experience with this type of thing, do you?”

  “Of course not, that’s not what I meant.”

  “I’m just saying I’ve never experienced anything like this in my life.”

  “Well, you may have to get used to it.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not really sure it’s my thing. I didn’t leave California just to go through the same thing abroad. I mean, it’s a pleasant experience, and I’m touched, but . . . I’m definitely not star material.”

  “Anyone can be star material. Believe me, you’ll get a taste for it pretty quickly.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Paul replied in a sullen voice.

  “Still nothing from her?” Mia asked casually.

  “Not a word.”

  “It’ll happen. And soon.”

  Paul looked up at her.

  “Mia, about last night—”

  “Sorry, it’s time to see your devoted, adoring public once more,” Mia interrupted, rising to her feet.

  The security guards accompanied Paul back to the signing desk, and Mia stayed at the café. Moments later, a young female fan rushed up and stole the glass that Paul had been drinking from.

  You seem so helpless in the face of your own success, Mia thought. And so utterly sincere when you say you don’t want fame. And yet you had to meet me, of all people . . . Makes me wonder if two people like us could ever really be compatible . . .

  Little by little, the bookshop emptied out. The last reader took yet another selfie with Paul, who smiled his last smile of the day. He heard his bones creak as he stood up slowly from his chair.

  “It’s the price of fame,” the bookshop manager said when he came over to thank Paul.

  Mia was waiting for him near the exit with Ms. Bak.

  “Who exactly was this Ms. Jung you mentioned earlier?” Paul asked.

&n
bsp; “Eun-Jeong,” the bookseller corrected him. “I told you: she translates your books. Your success is partly thanks to her, you know. I’ve never met her, but I can tell you she certainly has a remarkable way with words.”

  “Kyong. My translator’s name is Kyong!” Paul protested. “I think I would know that.”

  “Her name must have been spelled wrong in English—our language is full of subtle nuances—but I can assure you that her name is Eun-Jeong. It is written on the cover of all your books. In Korean, of course. I’m sorry she couldn’t be here today. She would have been so proud.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “A bad case of flu, I think. But it’s time to go now: your day is far from over, and your editor will be cross with me if I keep you any longer.”

  A limousine took them back to the hotel. Ms. Bak was sitting in the front passenger seat. Paul didn’t say a word, and Mia began to worry.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” she whispered to him.

  Paul pressed a button and the glass partition that separated them from the chauffeur and Ms. Bak slid up.

  “Huh. Look at that! Maybe I could get used to this . . .”

  “Paul!”

  “She’s sick. Bad case of the flu, apparently.”

  “Well, that’s good news. Not for her, obviously, but at least it could explain the absence and lack of contact. Now, just think, how long does a bad case of flu last? A week? More? When did she fall ill?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I thought you might have asked. You must have inquired about her, if you learned she was ill.”

  “No. Not at all. It was the bookshop guy who told me. She was supposed to be there today.”

  “And what else did he tell you?”

  “Nothing—he probably didn’t know more than that.”

  “So let’s be optimistic and hope she gets back on her feet in a few days . . . Back on her big, ugly feet . . . Horrid and huge, in fact . . .”

  “You’re muttering.”

  “I never mutter. Muttering is completely foreign to me.”

  Mia turned to the window and stared out at the landscape passing by.

  “Forget Kyong, at least for tonight . . . Or go ahead and forget her, full stop! What you need to do is focus on your very first television appearance.”

  “I don’t want to do it. I’m sick of all this. I just want to go back to the hotel, order room service, and go to bed.”

  Tell me about it . . . “Paul, don’t be childish. This is your career we’re talking about. Pull yourself together and act professional. The show must go on.”

  “You’re supposed to be playing assistant, not taskmaster.”

  “Oh, all I’ve been doing is playing, then?” Mia said crossly, turning to face him.

  “Sorry, I’m nervous. I’m talking out of my ass. I should just keep my mouth shut.”

  “Once, after hearing a young actress boast that she never got stage fright, Sarah Bernhardt said: ‘Don’t worry, it comes with talent.’”

  “Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”

  “Take it however you want. There’s the hotel. You should have a bath—it would do you a world of good. After that, get changed, and don’t think about anything but your characters, your friends . . . the things that reassure you. You can’t ignore your nerves, but you can fight to overcome them. As soon as you get out on that set, they’ll disappear.”

  “I don’t get how you know all this,” Paul said in a lost voice.

  “I just do. Trust me.”

  Paul lay for a long time luxuriating in the hot, foaming water. He put on the suit and the white shirt Mia had picked out for him. Cameras hated blue, he was learning, and men who wore blue had less presence on television. Mia claimed everyone knew that. Around six p.m., she ordered a snack and Paul forced himself to put something in his stomach. She then made him learn a short introduction by heart, being sure to thank his Korean readers, telling them how touched he was by their warm welcome, what an amazing city Seoul was, even if he hadn’t had time to see all of it yet, and, of course, that he was delighted to be visiting the country. Paul reeled the phrases off in parrot-like fashion, eyes fixed on the television clock as it counted down the minutes. And as time ticked by, his anxiety grew, tying his stomach in knots.

  At six thirty sharp, they were ready and waiting in the limousine, per the schedule.

  Halfway through the ride, Paul suddenly knocked on the glass partition and begged the chauffeur to stop the car.

  He rushed outside and threw up his snack. Mia held him by the shoulders. When the spasms had calmed down, she gave him a tissue and some chewing gum.

  “Marvelful,” said Paul, straightening up. “Clammy hands on the plane and now I vomit all over the sidewalk. You really hit the jackpot, coming to Korea with me.”

  “All that matters is that your jacket isn’t stained. How do you feel?”

  “Like a million bucks. How do you think I feel?”

  “Well, at least you didn’t vomit up your sense of humor. Shall we?”

  “Let’s. Can’t be late for the slaughterhouse.”

  Back in the car, Mia turned to Paul abruptly and said, “Look me in the eyes . . . I said in the eyes! Does your mother watch Korean television?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What about your sister?”

  “I’m an only child.”

  “Do you have any other Korean friends?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Perfect! Kyong is bedridden with flu, and when you have flu, even the glow from a nightlight can make your headache unbearable. So there’s no risk that she’ll be watching telly tonight, and nor will anyone else you know or love. In other words, this program does not matter. So it doesn’t mean a thing if you’re brilliant or pathetic. Besides, anything you say will be translated anyway.”

  “So why bother going?”

  “For the show, for your readers. So you can describe the experience in full detail in one of your future books. When you go out on that set, try telling yourself that you’re one of your characters. Try to act the way he would, and you’ll be perfect.”

  Paul looked at Mia for a long moment.

  “What about you? I assume you’ll be watching.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Liar.”

  “Now spit out that chewing gum, will you? We’re here.”

  Mia stayed with Paul during makeup, intervening twice to prevent the makeup artist from concealing the laugh lines around his eyes.

  When the floor manager came seeking Paul, Mia followed them through the backstage area and dispensed her final piece of advice just before he went on set.

  “Don’t forget—the most important thing is not what you say, but how you say it. On TV, the sheer musicality of words is more important than their meaning. I know what I’m talking about. I am a . . . die-hard talk-show fan, after all.”

  The banks of spotlights snapped on, the floor manager pushed Paul forward, and he walked out onto the set, eyes dazzled.

  The presenter invited Paul to take a seat in the chair across from him, and a technician approached to fit him with an earpiece. It tickled Paul’s ear, causing him to wriggle. The sound mixer had to try three times before he got it right.

  “See? He’s going to be fine.” Mia sighed backstage as she watched the color return to Paul’s face.

  Paul heard the voice of his interpreter introducing himself in his ear. The translation would be simultaneous, so he asked Paul to speak in short sentences, with pauses in between. Paul nodded, which the presenter took as a hello and felt obliged to return.

  “We’re going to begin soon,” the interpreter whispered from the control room. “You can’t see me, but I can see you on my control panel.”

  “Okay,” Paul said, heart pounding.

  “Don’t address me or reply to what I say, of course, Mr. Barton. Please only respond to Mr. Tae-Hoon. Watch his lips and
listen to my voice. The viewers won’t hear yours.”

  “Who is this Mr. Tae-Hoon?”

  “The host of the show.”

  “Ah. Right.”

  “Is this your first time on TV?”

  Another nod, immediately returned by Tae-Hoon.

  “We’re on the air now.”

  Paul focused on Tae-Hoon’s face.

  “Good evening, we are pleased tonight to welcome the American writer Paul Barton. To our great regret, Mr. Murakami has the flu and cannot be with us tonight. We wish him a speedy recovery.”

  “The flu, of course,” said Paul. “First, it hits the only woman in the world I care about, now Murakami. Oh, shit. Don’t translate that, please!”

  Hearing this, Mia removed her earpiece and stormed out of the backstage area. She asked the floor manager to accompany her to Mr. Barton’s dressing room.

  “Mr. Barton,” said the presenter after a brief hesitation, “your books have been a huge success in our country. Could you explain to us what led you to embrace the cause of the North Korean people?”

  “North Korean . . . I beg your pardon?”

  “Was my translation unclear?” asked the voice in his ear.

  “The translation wasn’t the problem; it was the question.”

  The presenter coughed and went on.

  “Your latest novel is very powerful. It describes the life of a family under the yoke of dictatorship, trying to survive the repression of Kim Jong-un’s regime, and it does so with an accuracy that might seem surprising from a foreign writer. How did you manage such in-depth research on the subject?”

  “Houston, we have a problem,” Paul muttered to his interpreter.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I haven’t read the latest Murakami yet, but I have a feeling Ms. Tae-Hoon has mixed the two of us up. Please don’t translate that either!”

  “I had no intention of translating it, but I don’t understand what you’re saying.”