P.S. from Paris(33)

“I think I have one in stock,” he told her, standing on his tiptoes. “Yes, here it is. This is the only one of his books we have.”

“Could you order the others?”

“Yes, of course. But I could recommend some other authors if you’re an avid reader.”

“Why? Is this author not for avid readers?”

“Well, I guess I could recommend more . . . literary works, shall we say.”

“Have you actually read any of his novels?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have time to read everything.” The bookseller shrugged.

“So how can you judge his writing?”

The man looked her up and down and went back behind the counter.

“Would you like me to order the others?” he asked, ringing up her purchase.

“No,” replied Mia. “I think I’ll start with this one and then order the others from a less . . . literary bookshop.”

“I didn’t mean to be disparaging. He’s an American author. Often books can lose a lot in translation.”

“I work in translation,” said Mia, hands on her hips.

For a few seconds, the bookseller was speechless.

“Well, after a faux pas of that magnitude, I think I’m going to have to offer you a discount!”

Mia walked down the street, leafing through the novel. She turned it over to read the back cover and smiled when she saw Paul’s photograph. This was the first time she had held a book written by someone she knew, even if she could hardly claim to know him very well. She thought back to the conversation she’d had with the bookseller and wondered why her reaction had been so testy. It really wasn’t like her, but she was glad to have expressed her feelings on the matter. Something inside her was changing, and she liked the new inner voice telling her to be more assertive. She hailed a taxi and asked the driver to drop her off on Rue de Rivoli, outside the English bookshop.

She came out again a few minutes later with the original American edition of Paul’s first novel. She began reading it on the way to Montmartre, continued as she walked up Rue Lepic, and then sat on a bench in Place du Tertre to read some more.

The caricaturist was sitting behind his easel. He threw a smile her way, but she didn’t even notice.

It was late afternoon when she arrived at the restaurant to find Daisy hard at work in the kitchen. Handing over the reins to Robert, her sous-chef, she took Mia aside.

“I know you don’t have the right CV for this type of work, but my waitress is gone for good and it’ll take me at least a few days to find a replacement. You did really well the other night. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

“Yes,” Mia said before Daisy could finish her sentence.

“You’re in?”

“Like I said: yes.”

“What would Cate Blanchett think?”

“Leave her out of this. Anyway, if I were her, I’d invest in a restaurant. You have money problems, I don’t. We could spruce up the decor, and you could hire a reliable waitress and pay her enough that she’d stay for good—”

“My restaurant doesn’t need sprucing up,” Daisy interrupted. “Right now, all I need is a hand.”

“You don’t have to give me an answer now. Think about it.”

“How was the Opera?”

“I gave him his phone and left.”

“That’s all?”

“Yup.”

“Is he gay?”

“I didn’t think to ask.”

“You go all the way across Paris to give him his phone and all you get is a ‘thank you and good-bye’?”

Mia did not engage her further. She put on her apron and began to set tables.



Paul had eaten dinner with Arthur and Lauren in a bistro on Rue de Bourgogne. The wine flowed freely, helping turn the joke they had played on him into a distant memory. The next day his friends were leaving to visit Provence, and he wanted to make the most of the remaining time with them.

“I think she was right,” Paul said as they walked across the Esplanade des Invalides.

“Who?” asked Lauren.

“My . . . editor.”

“I thought your editor was a man?” Arthur objected.

“Of course he is,” Paul replied.

“And what was he right about?” Lauren went on.

“I should go to Korea and set things straight once and for all. It’s ridiculous, this fear of flying.”

“Or . . . you could ride this new wave of bravery and come back to San Francisco,” Arthur suggested.

“Let him be,” Lauren said. “If he wants to go to Seoul, you should be encouraging him.”

Arthur took Paul by the shoulder, turning him to meet his gaze.

“If that’s where you think you’ll find happiness, fine. It’ll only put you another few thousand miles away from us.”

“No offense, but you really suck at geography, Arthur. Or maybe you forgot if you fly west instead of east, we’d actually be closer? Breaking news—the world is round!”

Back at his apartment, Paul sat down, uninspired, in front of his computer. Around one a.m., he wrote an email.

Kyong,

I should have come to see you a long time ago. I think about you when I wake up, all day, and late into the night, but I never give voice to these thoughts. I only have to close my eyes to picture your face. You’re here, leaning over my desk, reading me and translating me at the same time in your thoughts, without ever saying a word. You know I’m watching you, so you keep your feelings concealed.