P.S. from Paris(18)

At nine thirty a.m., Gaetano Cristoneli was sitting in the Deux Magots, waiting for Paul with a plate of croissants.

“What’s up? Nothing serious, I hope,” Paul said, sitting opposite his editor.

The waiter brought over the coffee that Gaetano had ordered for Paul.

“My dear friend,” said Gaetano, opening his arms wide, “this morning at dawn I received an absolutely extraordinary telephone call.”

Gaetano added so many o’s to the word extraordinary that Paul had time to gulp down his entire espresso before the editor had even finished his sentence.

“Perhaps you would like another one?” the editor asked, somewhat taken aback. “In Italy, you know, coffee is usually savored in two or sometimes three mouthfuls, even when it’s ristretto. The best part is at the bottom of the cup, but I digress. Let us return to what concerns you, my dear Paolo.”

“Paul.”

“Yes, yes. So, this morning we received a craaaaaaaaaaaazy phone call.”

“I’m very happy to hear that.”

“We have sold, or, rather, they have sold three hundred thousand copies of your latest novel . . . on the tribulations of an American living in Paris. It’s quite ree-maaar-kable!”

“Three hundred thousand? In France?”

“Ah, no. Here, we have sold seven hundred and fifty copies, but that too is, of course, in its own way, completely spectaculous.”

“So where? Italy?”

“Given our figures, the Italians don’t want to publish you at the moment. But don’t worry, my idiot countrymen will change their minds in the end.”

“Do I have to keep guessing? Germany?”

Gaetano said nothing.

“Spain?”

“The Spanish market is feeling the full brunt of the financial crisis, I am afraid.”

“Fine, I give up. Where was it?”

“Korea. You know—capital city of Seoul? Just below China? Your success over there just keeps on growing, my friend. Can you believe it? Three hundred thousand copies—that’s absolutely extonishing! We are going to have jacket bands printed here to tell readers—and booksellers, of course.”

“Why, do you really think that would make a difference?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no, but it can’t do any harm.”

“Couldn’t you have told me this on the phone?”

“Right you are, yes. But there is something else that is completely marvelful, and for this I had to see you in person.”

“I won the Korean Prix de Flore?”

“No! Imagine the Café de Flore opening a branch in Korea, where they start handing out French wine and literary prizes? Very original!”

“A good review in the Korean Elle?”

“It is possible, but I don’t read Korean, so unfortunately, I could not say.”

“All right, Gaetano, so tell me: What is this other marvelful news?”

“You are invited to the Seoul Book Fair.”

“In Korea.”

“Well, yes. This is where one would expect to find Seoul, yes?”

“A thirteen-hour flight away.”

“No, no, don’t exaggerate. It is eleven, maybe twelve—at the very most!”

“Lovely invitation, but you’ll have to apologize and say I can’t attend.”

“And why not? Tell me why,” Gaetano demanded, waving his arms around again.

Paul wondered what frightened him most: the flight, or the idea of meeting Kyong on her home territory. They had never seen each other anywhere but in Paris, where they had their points of reference. What would he do in a country where he didn’t speak the language, understood none of the customs? How would she react when faced with his total ignorance?

Another reason was that the plan of one day going to live there with her was, in his mind, a sort of pipe dream. The possibility of which was precisely what he wanted to avoid, at least for now.

Forcing his dreams into a head-on collision with reality risked their very survival.

“Kyong is like . . . the ocean in my life. And I’m like a guy with a fear of swimming. Ludicrous, isn’t it?”

“No, not at all. That is a very pretty sentence, even though I have no clue what you’re talking about. It could be the first line of your next novel. Immediately, the reader wants to know what happens next.”

“I’m not sure I came up with it. I might have read it somewhere.”

“Oh, in that case . . . let us return to our dear Korean friends. I have bought you a premium economy ticket: more leg space and a special seat that tilts back.”

“Don’t even mention tilts. The tilts and turns are exactly what I hate about flying.”

“Like everybody. All the same, it is the only way of getting there.”

“Then I won’t go.”

“My dear author—and you should know how dear you are to me, with the advances I pay you—we cannot live solely on your European royalties. If you want me to publish your next masterpiece, you must help me out a bit, do your share.”

“And that means going to Korea?”

“That means meeting the readers who actually read you. You will be welcomed there like a star. It will be fantasmic!”

“‘Fantasmic’ doesn’t exist. Nor does ‘marvelful,’ for that matter.”