P.S. From Paris (US Edition)

by Marc Levy

  In chapter six, the heroine was seventeen years old. The night of her birthday, she left her family and ran away. Crossing valleys and rivers on foot, hiding by day and traveling by night, eating only roots and wild grass, she managed to sneak past the police officers patrolling the border and at last entered South Korea, the land of resilience.

  Shin paused, seeing that the author of the story was just as overwhelmed at hearing the saga unfold as Shin himself had been upon reading it, if not more so. It suddenly hit Paul how insignificant his own prose was.

  “What happens next?” Paul asked. “Tell me what happens next!”

  “But you already know what happens!” Shin replied.

  “Please, just go on,” Paul begged him.

  “In Seoul, your heroine is welcomed by an old friend of her father’s, another defector from the regime. He looks after her as if she were his own daughter and provides for her education. After university, she gets a job and devotes all of her free time to informing the world about the plight of her compatriots.”

  “What sort of job?”

  “She starts out as an assistant in a publishing house, then she is promoted to copyeditor, and finally she becomes editorial director.”

  “Go on,” said Paul, through gritted teeth.

  “The money she earns is used to pay people-smugglers, and to fund foreign opposition movements, all with the intent of making Western politicians aware of the situation and pushing them into finally taking action against Kim Jong-un’s regime. Twice a year, she travels abroad to secretly meet with these groups. Her family members are still at the mercy of a ruthless regime; if anyone were to make the connection, her mother, her brother, and especially the man she loves would pay a heavy price.”

  “I think I’ve heard enough,” Paul interrupted, looking at the floor.

  “Mr. Barton, are you all right?”

  “You know, I’m really not sure.”

  “Can I help you?” Shin asked, handing him a tissue.

  “One last question. The main character in my story, my heroine,” Paul asked, wiping his eyes. “Her name . . . is it, by any chance . . . Kyong?”

  “Why yes, of course,” said the ambassador’s partner.

  Paul found Mia in the drawing room. Upon seeing how pale and haggard he looked, she put down her glass of champagne, apologized to the person she’d been talking to, and came over to him.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, concerned.

  “Do you think there’s an emergency exit in this building?” he said numbly. “Or in life in general, preferably . . .”

  “You’re white as a sheet.”

  “I need a drink. A stiff one.”

  Mia grabbed a martini from a tray held by a passing waiter and handed it to Paul. He downed it in one gulp.

  “Let’s go somewhere quiet and you can tell me everything.”

  “Not now,” Paul replied, his jaw clenched. “I can’t just keel over and faint right before the ambassador gives his speech.”

  During the meal, Paul couldn’t shake the vision: a family could be starving to death only a hundred miles from this room where waiters proffered lavish trays of petits fours and foie-gras canapés. Two worlds, separated by a border. His own world had ceased to exist one hour earlier. Had Kyong planned this all along? Mia kept trying to catch his eye, but Paul couldn’t see it. When he left the table, Mia followed him. He thanked the ambassador and apologized for the fatigue that forced him to leave.

  Shin accompanied them to the door. He shook hands with Paul for a long time on the steps of the mansion. Seeing his gentle, sad smile, Paul felt certain Shin had pieced together some of the truth of the situation.

  “What in the world could have put you in this state? Did something happen to Kyong?” Mia asked as the limousine drove away.

  “Yes, sort of. It happened to both of us, apparently. My success in Korea was never real. My novels never really existed here, and Kyong was a hell of a lot more than just a translator.”

  Mia listened in shock as Paul went on.

  “She kept my name on the covers of the books, but that was all. Under that front, she published her own novels—her story, her battles. That TV host yesterday wasn’t a moron at all, and neither was the interpreter. I’ll have to be sure to apologize to them. And, you know, all this would be like one gigantic farce, if the real subject of my Korean novels were not so tragic. To think . . . for years I’ve been living off royalties from books I didn’t even write. You were right to tender your resignation—you were working for an impostor. My only excuse is that I didn’t know a thing about any of this.”

  Mia asked the chauffeur to stop the car.

  “Come on,” she said to Paul. “You need some fresh air.”

  They walked side by side in silence until Paul started speaking again.

  “I have every right to hate her for what she did. But behind all the betrayal and deception is something noble. If she had published those books under her own name, it would have been a death sentence for her family.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “I don’t know. I need to think. All throughout dinner, I was trying to wrap my head around it. I guess I’ll have to play along, at least while I’m here. Otherwise, I risk putting her in danger. When I get back to Paris, I’ll send her the money she’s owed and cancel that contract. Cristoneli’s going to be just thrilled: I can see it now, him having a conniption right at the Deux Magots. And when the dust settles, I’ll have to figure out a way to make a living.”

  “Nothing is forcing you to do any of that. That money came from Korean publishers, and they must have made a fortune off your books.”

  “Not my books. Kyong’s.”

  “If you really decide to go through with this, you’re going to have to give some kind of explanation.”

  “We’ll see. Anyway, at least now I understand why she’s been MIA. I have to find her so we can talk about this. I can’t leave without seeing her.”

  “You do love her, don’t you?”

  Paul stopped and shrugged. “Let’s go home. I’m freezing. God, what a weird night!”

  In the elevator that took them up to their suite, Mia stood in front of Paul. She gently stroked his face and then abruptly slapped him. Paul snapped out of his stupor. Mia pressed him against the wall and kissed him.

  They were still kissing when the doors opened and they continued kissing out in the corridor, his back pressed against the wall, sliding from door to door until they reached their room.

  They were still kissing as they got undressed, and didn’t stop even as they fell onto the bed together.

  Mia whispered: “This doesn’t count. None of it counts, nothing but the present moment . . .”

  And they kissed mouths and necks, stomachs and hips, legs and thighs, their limbs entangled. Their breath came faster as they locked each other in a furious embrace until, weak with exhaustion, they fell asleep on the damp sheets.

  18

  Paul and Mia were yanked out of bed by the ringing of the telephone.

  “Fuck!” he yelled as he saw the clock on the TV, flashing 10:00 a.m.

  Ms. Bak was on the line, apologizing profusely but reminding him that the first interview of the day was supposed to start thirty minutes ago . . .

  Paul located his boxer shorts underneath the curtains.

  . . . the journalist from Chosun Ilbo was waiting for him . . .

  He grabbed his pants from the armchair and pulled them on, hopping over to the dresser.

  . . . in one of the rooms . . . and he was getting quite antsy . . .

  Paul’s shirt was torn. Mia rushed over to the wardrobe and threw him a clean one.

  . . . an interviewer from Elle Korea had just arrived as well . . .

  “It’s blue!” Paul whispered.

  . . . and soon enough there’d be no way to get to the KBS radio studios on time . . .

  “That’s fine for the press!” Mia whispered back.

&
nbsp; . . . Ms. Bak had managed to postpone the one-on-one discussion with a columnist from Movie Week until after the interview with Hankyoreh . . .

  Paul buttoned his shirt.

  . . . the one that was known for supporting the government’s policy of political dialogue with North Korea . . .

  Mia unbuttoned the shirt and redid the buttons, this time in the right buttonholes.

  . . . and then there would be a public event . . .

  “Where the hell are my shoes?”

  “One’s under the dresser, the other’s in the doorway!”

  . . . with students, on the main stage of the Book Fair.

  Ms. Bak had managed to recite the whole schedule for the day in one single breath.

  “Don’t worry, I’m already on my way down!”

  “Liar! Go on, I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “When?”

  “Just before you leave for the radio station.”

  The door of the suite closed. There was a crash in the corridor outside and the sound of Paul yelling obscenities.

  Mia looked out and saw a room-service cart knocked onto its side in the corridor, its contents scattered in all directions across the carpet.

  “Seriously?” she asked, watching Paul get to his feet.

  “I’m fine. No stains, and I barely got hurt.”

  “Just go!” she ordered him.

  Back in the room, she walked over to the window and looked down at the city all stretched out under a gray sky. She picked up her phone and turned it on. Thirteen messages appeared on the screen. Eight from Creston, four from David, and one from Daisy. Mia threw the phone onto the bed and ordered breakfast, warning the room-service staff of a cleanup needed out in the hallway.

  From the lobby, Ms. Bak led Paul in a mad sprint to an adjoining room.

  “Could I get a coffee?” he begged.

  “It’s waiting for you on the table, Mr. Barton. Don’t blame me if it’s cold, though.”

  “A little something to munch on?”

  “You can’t give an interview with your mouth full. That would be impolite!”

  She ushered Paul into the room. He apologized to the journalist, and the interview began.

  It felt strange to appropriate Kyong’s story. Stranger still, stepping into her shoes seemed somehow natural, like he’d already walked a thousand miles in them. He was surprised at the ease with which he answered each question, embellishing his account with deep and sincere thoughts, so much so that, by the end, the interviewer was almost in tears. And the very same thing happened with the journalist from Elle Korea. Afterward, Paul agreed to a photo shoot, giving free rein to the photographer who had already been snapping away throughout the interview. He dutifully sat on a table, crossed his arms, uncrossed them, placed a hand under his chin, smiled, looked serious, stared into space, looked left, looked right. Ms. Bak finally rescued him by announcing that he had other obligations to fulfill.

  She was hurrying him toward the limousine when Paul managed to escape and make a run for the reception desk.

  “Call my room, please,” he told the concierge.

  “Ah, Mr. Barton, the young lady left a message for you. She fell back asleep after you left and—”

  Paul leaned over the desk and pointed at the switchboard.

  “Now! Call her now!”

  Ms. Bak was going from antsy to frantic, and Mia still wasn’t picking up.

  “The young lady is in the bath,” said the concierge. “She said she’ll meet you later at the Book Fair. She asked what time your speech was.”

  The press officer promised to do what was necessary. She would send a car to pick up his colleague, she said, clearing her throat as she uttered the word colleague.

  Paul hung up and followed Ms. Bak, his heart heavy. Suddenly he turned on his heel, plunged his hand into the bowl of sweets sitting on the desk, and filled his pockets.

  The hour he spent at KBS studios seemed to last an eternity, but he felt more confident as the interview went on. By the end, even Ms. Bak had to wipe away a tear.

  “You were perfect,” she said as they left the building, before ushering him into the limousine.

  He was escorted from the entrance of the exhibition center onto the stage, in front of two hundred students eagerly awaiting the chance to hear him speak.

  When he was introduced, the standing ovation he received left him with a helpless, crushing feeling. He began to scan the audience for Mia, his eyes flitting from row to row, when the first questions from the floor brought him back to the role he was supposed to be playing.

  Paul played his part with a fervor that was almost militant. He denounced, incriminated, and hurled accusations at the monsters of the totalitarian regime, adding a full-throated condemnation of the inertia of Western democracies. Several times, the crowd broke into spontaneous applause.

  Just as he was starting to get even more carried away with his own eloquence, a sight stopped Paul midsentence. He had just seen Eun-Jeong, alias Kyong, in the audience. From the last row, her smile was enough to make him lose his train of thought.

  Half-hidden behind a pillar, Mia smiled too, a serene and tender smile.

  She hadn’t taken her eyes off Paul, feeling a tug at her heartstrings each time the audience applauded. Then, as the students pressed toward the stage to get his autograph, she lost sight of him.

  Having been through similar experiences many times herself, she could imagine the sense of euphoria he must be feeling at that moment, surrounded by his admirers.

  Kyong was the last person to approach the stage.

  “Still no sign of Mia, right?” Paul asked Ms. Bak, who was waiting outside the small room where he had taken refuge.

  “Your colleague was in attendance for the speech,” she replied, pointing to the place where Mia had stood, “but she asked to be taken back to the hotel.”

  “When was this?”

  “Just over an hour ago, I would say. She left while you were talking to Ms. Eun-Jeong.”

  This time, it was Paul who hurried his press officer toward the limousine.

  He rushed across the hotel lobby toward the elevators, then sprinted down the corridor to their suite, stopping short to straighten his clothes and run his fingers through his hair before opening the door.

  “Mia?”

  He went into the bathroom. Her toothbrush was no longer in the glass, and her toiletry bag was gone from the rim of the sink.

  Paul walked back into the bedroom and found a note lying on the bolster.

  Paul,

  Thank you for being there for me, thank you for your joyful nature, your lapses of sanity, and for this unexpected journey that began with a walk over the rooftops of Paris. Thank you for managing, against all odds, to bring laughter back into my life. Laughter, and new memories.

  Our paths must part tonight. These past few days have been a dream.

  I understand the dilemma you are facing and how you must be feeling. You’ve been living a life that wasn’t truly yours, in love with the idea of happiness rather than happiness itself. In some ways, you don’t even know who you are anymore. But you are not responsible for this duplicity, and there’s no way I can help guide you through the coming choices.

  Because you love her, because her treachery was so sublime, not to mention heroic, you should forgive her. Perhaps that’s what it means, in the end, to truly love someone. Forgiveness, without reservations and above all without regrets. Hitting the delete key and erasing the gray pages so that you can rewrite them in full color. Better still, maybe love is fighting tooth and nail to make sure the story has a happy ending. Take care of yourself, even if that phrase doesn’t mean very much. I will truly miss your company and all the intimate moments we have shared.

  I can’t wait to find out what happens to our opera singer. Please hurry up and write her story so I can read it.

  May your life be full of beauty—you deserve nothing less.

  Your friend,

&nbs
p; Mia

  PS: Don’t worry about yesterday—it doesn’t count.

  “No, you got it all wrong—she’s the one who doesn’t count,” Paul muttered as he folded up the letter.

  He rushed out of the room and back down to Reception.

  “Tell me what time she left,” he begged the concierge, gasping for breath.

  “I’m not sure exactly what time,” the concierge replied. “The young lady requested a car.”

  “To go where?”

  “The airport.”

  “Which flight?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, sir. We didn’t make the reservation.”

  Paul turned toward the glass double doors. Under the awning, he could see Ms. Bak about to get in the limousine. He rushed outside, pushed her out of the way, and climbed in behind the chauffeur.

  “The airport, international departures. Get me there fast and you’ll have the biggest tip of your life.”

  Ms. Bak rapped on the window, but the chauffeur set off at top speed, and she was forced to watch as the limousine vanished in the distance.

  I’ll be the one to make a surprise entrance on the plane this time, and if the person sitting next to you won’t give up his seat, I’ll yank him up by the lapels and shove him in the overhead compartment. No fear this time, not even during takeoff, and we can make do with airline meals. I’ll even give you mine if you’re still hungry. We’ll watch the same film this time. Because this counts, Mia. It counts far more than all those novels I didn’t write . . .

  The chauffeur weaved in and out of traffic, but the farther into the suburbs they advanced, the busier the roads became.

  “It’s rush hour, sir,” he said. “I could try a different way, but it might take even longer.”

  Paul begged him to do his best.

  Tossed back and forth in the backseat of the limousine, he rehearsed what he would say to Mia when he saw her again: the resolutions he had made, what he’d told Kyong, whose name was actually Eun-Jeong, and who wasn’t even Paul’s translator at all. She had actually been his Korean editor all along.