P.S. From Paris (US Edition)

by Marc Levy

  “I have never written a single word about the North Korean dictatorship in my life, not one goddamn word!” Paul hissed, forcing himself to keep smiling.

  The presenter, receiving no reply in his earpiece, mopped his brow, apologized, and announced that they were experiencing a small technical problem that would soon be resolved.

  “This is not the time or place for jokes, Mr. Barton,” the interpreter said. “This show is being broadcast live. Please answer the questions seriously—my job is on the line here. If you keep acting like this, you’ll get me fired. I must say something to Mr. Tae-Hoon now.”

  “Well, you can start by saying hello from me, and warning him that he’s made a mistake. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “I have personally read all your books. I cannot understand your attitude.”

  “You have got to be kidding—is this a hidden-camera thing, or what?”

  “The camera is in plain sight, directly in front of you. Have you been drinking?”

  Paul stared at the lens and the red light blinking above it. Mr. Tae-Hoon seemed to be losing his patience.

  “I would like to take a moment to thank all my Korean readers, from the bottom of my heart,” Paul said. “I’m very touched by the warmth of their welcome. Seoul is an amazing city, even if I haven’t had time to see all of it yet. I am overjoyed to be here visiting your wonderful country.”

  Paul heard his interpreter sigh with relief before translating his words into Korean.

  “Excellent,” said Tae-Hoon, “I think we have resolved our technical difficulty. So I will now put the same two questions to our author, and this time, he will be able to provide his answers.”

  While the presenter was speaking, Paul muttered to his interpreter: “As I have no idea what he’s talking about, and as you’ve personally read all my books, I’m just going to recite my Parisian butcher’s recipe for beef stew over and over again, and you, my friend, can reply directly to Mr. Tae-Hoon’s questions on my behalf.”

  “That’s impossible! I could never do such a thing,” the interpreter whispered.

  “You’re going to have to. Your job is on the line here, remember? On TV, the musicality of words is more important than their actual meaning, I’ll have you know. So don’t worry, you do the talking and I will try to keep smiling.”

  And so the program went on. The interpreter translated the interviewer’s questions into Paul’s ear, while the interviewer persisted in questioning the author about books that he hadn’t written, all of which seemed to revolve obsessively around the condition of the North Korean people, and Paul, with a smile glued onto his face, said anything that came into his head, keeping his sentences short, with pauses in between each of them. The interpreter, unable to translate this into anything intelligible, became the author for the night, responding brilliantly in Paul’s place.

  The nightmare lasted a full sixty minutes, but no one suspected a thing.

  Walking off the set, Paul looked around for Mia. The floor manager guided him to the dressing room.

  “You were wonderful,” Mia assured him.

  “Yeah, I killed it. Thank you for keeping your promise.”

  “What promise was that?”

  “Not to watch the show.”

  “I watched enough. What a pity . . . you were so looking forward to meeting Murakami. First, the ‘only woman you care about’ comes down with flu, then him.”

  “Look, I didn’t mean that.”

  “Let’s go. You’re not the only one who is exhausted by the day’s events,” she said as she left the dressing room. “By the way, I’m afraid I have to tender my resignation, effective immediately.”

  Paul rushed after her and caught her arm.

  “Mia! I didn’t mean a word of it.”

  “But you said it.”

  “Well, it was crap. And believe me, it wasn’t the only crap I spouted tonight!”

  “I’m sure you were excellent.”

  “The only reason I survived at all tonight was because of you. So . . . thank you, from the bottom of my heart. And I really do mean that.”

  “Fine. You’re welcome.”

  Mia broke free from his grip and walked resolutely toward the exit.

  Back at the hotel, Mia fell straight asleep. On the other side of the bolster, Paul lay with his eyes wide open, trying to make sense of the day’s bizarre developments. Failing to do so, he began worrying about what the next day would hold.

  17

  Mia was awoken by the creak of a door. She opened her eyes. Paul was pushing a room-service cart into the room. He went to her side, saying good morning.

  “Coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, pastries, hard-boiled eggs, and cereal. Would the lady care for anything else?”

  He poured her a cup of coffee.

  Mia sat up and arranged the pillows behind her back.

  “To what do I owe all this special treatment?”

  “Nothing special about it. Now that I’ve fired my assistant, I’m going to have to do everything around here myself,” Paul replied.

  “That’s strange, I heard she resigned.”

  “Well, she had the right idea. I would much rather lose an employee and keep a friend. Sugar?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “And as I am now my own assistant, I took a few liberties this morning. All of today’s appointments have been canceled. Our only obligation is the reception at the embassy. The rest of the day is free. Seoul is ours to explore until this evening, so let’s make the most of it. Every last moment.”

  “You canceled all your appointments?”

  “Postponed them until tomorrow. I said I was coming down with something. After all, I can’t let Murakami monopolize the flu. It’s a question of status.”

  Mia caught sight of the newspaper lying folded on the breakfast table and quickly made a grab for it.

  “Your photo’s on the front page!”

  “I know. They didn’t get my good side. Awful. Looks like there’s about ten pounds more of me than there should be.”

  “Come on, you look good. Have you called your press officer to ask her to translate the article for you? A front-page photo—that’s a big deal!”

  “For now, I have no way of knowing if the coverage is positive or negative, but I do have a creeping suspicion the whole thing might actually be about Murakami’s latest novel and not mine.”

  “Where did this obsession with Murakami come from? That’s the second time you’ve mentioned him in the past five minutes.”

  “There’s no obsession. Although, after last night, I’d have good reason to be obsessed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I half wish you had watched the thing. It was so surreal. Getting interviewed by a journalist who hasn’t read my books is one thing, but nothing could have prepared me for an interview with someone who was mixing up my book with somebody else’s!”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Last night! The moron kept asking me questions that were obviously intended for . . . I’m not going to say his name, or you’ll accuse me of being obsessed again. There I am, alone on the set, sitting across from the host. ‘So, what led to your interest in the fate of the North Korean people? How did you find out so much information about the lives of those oppressed by Kim Jong-un’s regime? Why are you so committed to this cause in particular? Do you think the days are numbered for the dictator’s reign? In your opinion, is Kim Jong-un a puppet leader appointed by an oligarchy or is he really, truly in control? Are your characters inspired by reality or did you invent them?’ Et cetera, et cetera . . .”

  “You can’t be serious!” said Mia, unsure whether to laugh or show sympathy.

  “That’s exactly what I said to the interpreter talking to me through that stupid earpiece. Those things really do itch, you know. I thought it might be some kind of prank. That seemed like the most logical explanation. At first, I told myself I wasn’t going to let the
m put one over on me, not that easily, but after twenty minutes, the joke was getting pretty stale. Except it wasn’t a joke. Those jackasses somehow got their authors mixed up, and the interpreter was too scared to tell them.”

  “That is flat-out crazy,” Mia replied, covering her mouth with her hand to suppress the laughter she could feel welling up inside her.

  “Go ahead, laugh it up, I haven’t stopped laughing since we got back last night. I mean—this is the type of thing that could only happen to me. Only me.”

  “But how could they have made such an outrageous mistake?”

  “Stupidity has no bounds. Let’s not waste our day on that,” Paul said, grabbing the newspaper from Mia’s hands and tossing it to the other end of the room. “Finish your breakfast and let’s head out for a walk.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. I only made a complete fool of myself in front of hundreds of thousands of viewers. Somebody must have told the TV channel about their screwup, which is presumably what that article is all about. So if anyone on the street bursts into laughter when they see me, let’s try to pretend we can’t hear them.”

  “I’m so sorry, Paul.”

  “Don’t be. Let’s move on. You said it yourself: no one cares about that TV show. And look what a beautiful day it is outside!”

  Paul persuaded Mia to leave the hotel through the back parking lot, in case Ms. Bak was waiting for him in the lobby. He planned to spend the day alone with Mia, and the last thing he wanted was the added encumbrance of a guide.

  They spent the morning visiting Changgyeonggung Palace. Walking through Honghwa Gate, Paul attempted to pronounce all the names he saw, and his guttural exaggerations had Mia in stitches. Standing on Okcheongyo Bridge, she admired the ornamental pond and the beauty of the historical surroundings.

  “That’s Myeongjeongjeon, the throne hall,” said Paul, pointing to a small single-story building. “It was opened in 1484. All the houses you see are facing south, because the ancestral shrines of the royal family are located in the south, but Myeongjeongjeon faces east, going against Confucian tradition.”

  “Did Kyong teach you all that?”

  “What? Who’s this Kyong? No, I picked up a brochure when I was buying the tickets. It was my attempt at impressing you. Would you like to see the botanical garden?”

  They left the palace and visited the Insa-dong district. They wandered into art galleries, stopped to sample traditional pancakes, and spent the rest of the afternoon rummaging through antique stores. Mia wanted to get a present for Daisy. She was hesitating between an old spice box and a beautiful necklace. Paul advised Mia to go for the necklace, while he discreetly signaled the antique dealer to wrap up the spice box. He presented it to Mia and said: “Give this to Daisy from me.”

  They got back to the hotel just in time to prepare for the evening. Catching sight of Ms. Bak standing vigil in the lobby, Mia pushed Paul behind a pillar. They crept from one pillar to the next, finally taking advantage of a passing bellboy and his luggage cart to reach the elevators without being spotted.

  At seven p.m., Mia put on her dress.

  “If you say I look ‘not bad’ one more time, we’ll see how good you look showing up stag to the ambassador’s!” Mia announced, admiring herself in the mirror.

  “All right, I’ll keep my mouth shut, then.” Paul allowed himself a smile of pride at having bought the dress for her.

  “Paul!”

  “What can I say? You look—”

  “Don’t you dare!” Mia interrupted.

  “Beautiful. You look beautiful.”

  “Well, in that case, thank you for the compliment.”

  Half an hour later, the limousine dropped them in front of the American ambassador’s residence.

  The ambassador was waiting for his guests in the entrance hall. Paul and Mia were the first to arrive.

  “Mr. Barton. It’s an honor and a pleasure to welcome you to my home,” the ambassador began.

  “The honor is all mine,” Paul replied, introducing Mia.

  The ambassador bent to kiss her hand.

  “Tell me a little about yourself, Ms. Grinberg,” he said.

  “Mia has a restaurant in Paris,” Paul replied on her behalf.

  The ambassador led them into a large drawing room.

  “I haven’t had time to read your latest novel yet,” he whispered to Paul. “I speak a little Korean, but unfortunately not enough for a whole book. On the other hand, I can tell you that you made my partner cry his eyes out. You’re all he’s talked about for the past week. He was deeply moved by your novel. Part of his family lives in North Korea and he told me that your story was incredibly accurate and detailed. How I envy the freedom you have as a writer. Giving voice to viewpoints that people in my position are forced to keep under wraps, due to diplomatic obligations. But allow me to say that with this novel, with this story, you are speaking for all of America.”

  Paul frowned at the ambassador for several moments.

  “Um . . . Would you mind elaborating on that a bit?” he asked warily.

  “My partner is Korean, as I said, and . . . Oh, there he is! I assure you he’s far more eloquent than I am. I’ll let you go ahead and introduce yourself. He’s dying to meet you. In the meantime, I should probably go and welcome our other guests. And, if you don’t mind, I’m going to kidnap your charming friend here to come along as backup. Don’t you worry, I’m harmless,” the ambassador added with a smile.

  Mia shot a pleading look at Paul, but their host was already leading her away.

  Paul barely had time to come to his senses before a slender and extremely elegant man flung his arms around his neck and pressed his head against Paul’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said. “I’m so honored to meet you.”

  “Um . . . Me too,” said Paul, attempting to free himself from the man’s grip. “But for what exactly am I being thanked?”

  “For everything! For being who you are, for your words, your deep concern for the fate of my people. Who else cares these days? What your work means to me . . . you can’t even imagine.”

  “You’re right, actually, I can’t. Is this some sort of mass prank or what?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” said Paul, exasperated. “I don’t understand anything anymore.”

  The two men looked each other up and down.

  “I hope you are not shocked by my relationship with Henry, Ms. Barton. We’ve been deeply in love for ten years. We even have a child together, a little boy we adopted, whom we love very dearly.”

  “No, no—that’s not it. I grew up in San Francisco and I’m a Democrat. Love whoever you want. What I don’t understand is what you were saying about my book.”

  “Did I say something offensive? If that is the case, please excuse me. Your novel is so very important to me.”

  “My novel? My novel? The one I wrote?”

  “Yes, yours, of course,” the man replied, holding up the book he gripped in his hand.

  While Paul was incapable of deciphering the Hangul characters, he had no trouble recognizing his photo on the back cover, the same his editor had shown him the day before yesterday. The deep well of confusion filled Paul with doubt. And this doubt grew and grew, until finally he felt as though the ground were giving way beneath his feet.

  “Would you agree to sign it for me?” the man pleaded. “My name is Shin.”

  Paul took him by the arm.

  “Is there someplace nearby where we could talk for a moment in private?”

  Shin led Paul down a corridor and into an office.

  “We won’t be disturbed here,” he assured Paul, gesturing to a chair.

  Paul took a deep breath and tried to find the right words.

  “You speak perfect English. And I assume you’re fluent in Korean?”

  “Yes, of course. I am Korean,” Shin replied, sitting down opposite Paul.
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  “Good. And so you’ve read my book?”

  “Twice! It had such a powerful effect on me. And every night before I go to sleep, I reread a passage.”

  “Fantastic. Shin, I just have a small favor to ask.”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t worry, it really is small.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Barton?”

  “Tell me . . . what happens in my book.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me right. If you don’t know where to start, just give me a summary of the first few chapters, and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Are you sure? But why?”

  “It’s impossible for a writer to assess the fidelity of a translation in a language he doesn’t speak. But you . . . are bilingual. So go ahead. It’ll be easy.”

  Shin seemed to take Paul’s request at face value. He told him what happened in his novel, starting at the beginning.

  In the first chapter, Paul was introduced to a child who had grown up in North Korea. Her family lived in unimaginable poverty, as did all the inhabitants of the village. The dictatorial regime, imposed by a cruel dynasty, kept the entire population in slavery. Their free time was devoted to worshipping the leaders. The school—which most children were not allowed to attend, being forced instead to work in the fields—was merely a propaganda tool designed to mold impressionable minds into thinking of their torturers as supreme deities.

  In the second chapter, Paul met the narrator’s father, a university lecturer. In the evenings, he secretly taught English literature to his brightest students, undertaking the perilous task of teaching them to think for themselves and attempting to instill in them the wonderful virtues of liberty.

  In chapter three, the narrator’s father was denounced to the authorities by the mother of one of his students. After being tortured, he was executed in front of his family. His students suffered the same fate, and their bodies were all dragged by horses through the streets. The only student spared was the one whose parents had betrayed the lecturer. Instead of being killed, that girl was imprisoned in a labor camp for the rest of her life.

  In the next chapter, the heroine of the novel recounted how her brother, who had stolen a few grains of corn, was beaten and locked in a cage too small to stand up or lie down in. His torturers burned his skin. One year later, the narrator’s aunt, after accidentally damaging a sewing machine, had her thumbs chopped off by her employer.