P.S. from Paris(10)

“Alone doesn’t have to mean lonely. Weren’t you the one who said that once?” he mumbled, before asserting, “Now enough about me! Show me some pictures of Joe. He must have gotten so big by now . . .”

A beautiful woman sat down at the table next to theirs. Paul didn’t even give her a second glance, which clearly worried Arthur, judging by his expression.

“Don’t give me that look,” Paul protested. “I’ve had more ‘action’ here than you could imagine. Plus, there’s Kyong. It’s different with her. I feel like I can be myself—no fa?ades, no pretending. I don’t feel forced to be charming. She got to know me through my books, which is ironic, because I don’t really think she likes them much.”

“Well, no one’s forcing her to translate them.”

“Maybe it’s an act to get under my skin, or help me improve as a writer. I don’t know.”

“But between visits, you’re on your own?”

“At the risk of sounding like I spend my whole life paraphrasing you, didn’t you also say it was ‘possible to love someone, even when you’re alone’?”

“My situation was kind of unique, though, don’t you think?”

“So is mine.”

“Listen, you’re a writer, why don’t you write a list of the things that make you happy?”

“I am happy, for Christ’s sake!”

“Right. You seem to be positively bursting with joy.”

“Shit, Arthur, don’t start picking me apart. You don’t know a thing about my life.”

“We’ve known each other since high school. I don’t need a study guide to figure out what’s going on with you. You remember what my mother used to say?”

“She said a lot of things. Actually, speaking of which, I’d like to use the house in Carmel as the setting for my next novel. It’s been ages since I was there.”

“Well, whose fault is that?”

“Want to know what I really do miss?” Paul grinned. “Those walks we used to take. Out to Ghirardelli, or Fort Point, all those nights just hanging out, or fighting in the office, all the elaborate plans for the future without ever getting anywhere . . . just you and me.”

“I bumped into Onega the other day.”

“Did she ask about me?”

“She did. I told her you were living in Paris.”

“Is she still married?”

“She wasn’t wearing a ring.”

“She never should have dumped me. You know, believe it or not,” Paul added with a smile, “she was always jealous . . . of you and me.”



Mia watched the caricaturists at work on Place du Tertre. There was one she particularly liked the look of, a handsome guy dressed in cotton slacks, a white shirt, and a tweed jacket. She sat on the folding chair in front of him and asked him to be as faithful as possible.

“‘The only love that’s faithful is amour propre,’ according to Guitry,” said the caricaturist in a husky voice.

“Guitry was right.”

“Had some bad luck, eh?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you’re alone and you’ve just had your hair done. You know what they say: ‘New look, new life.’”

Mia stared at him, taken aback.

“Do you always speak in quotations?”

“I’ve been drawing portraits for twenty-five years. I’ve learned to read quite a few things in people’s faces. Yours is very pretty, but it looks like it could do with some cheering up. My pencil can take care of that if you keep still.”

Mia sat up straight.

“Are you on holiday in Paris?” the caricaturist asked, sharpening his charcoal.

“Yes and no. I’m spending a few days with a friend. She has a restaurant near here.”

“I bet I know it. Montmartre is like a little village, you know.”

“La Clamada.”

“Ah, the lovely lady from Provence! She’s a brave one, your friend. Her food is creative but reasonably priced. And unlike some, she hasn’t sold out to the tourists. I eat lunch at her place now and then—it has real character.”

Mia looked at the caricaturist’s hands and noticed his wedding ring. David, never far from her thoughts, returned to haunt her.

“Have you ever been attracted to a woman? I mean, other than your wife.”

“Maybe, but only briefly. Only for the time it takes to look at someone else—and to remember how much I loved her.”

“You’re not together with your wife anymore?”

“Oh, we’re still together.”

“So why the past tense?”

“Stop talking now. I’m drawing your mouth.”

Mia let the artist concentrate. When the man was done, he invited her to come and view the final product on his easel. Mia smiled as she saw a face she didn’t recognize.

“Do I really look like that?”

“Today, yes,” said the caricaturist. “I hope you will soon be smiling like you are in the picture.”

He took his phone from his pocket, snapped a picture of Mia, and compared it to the drawing.

“It’s very good,” Mia said. “Could you draw a portrait from just a photo?”