P.S. from Paris(36)

He stood a few moments in the place where he’d said good-bye to his friends. Then, hands in pockets, he turned on his heel.

When he picked up his car from the parking lot, he found a note stuck to the windshield.

If you move to Seoul, I will come and see you in the fall—I promise.

Autumn in Seoul could also be a nice title.

I’m gonna miss you, man.

Arthur

He read the note twice, then put it in his wallet.

After wondering how to brighten up his morning, he decided to go to the Opera. There was a favor he wanted to ask the director.



Mia was sitting on the bench in Place du Tertre, lost in Paul’s words. The caricaturist was watching her. He must have seen her open her purse and take out a tissue, because he left his easel to go and sit next to her.

“Bad day?” he asked.

“No, good book.”

“A real—what do they call it—tearjerker?”

“Actually, up to now it’s been very funny. But the main character just got a letter from his mother after her death. I know it’s ridiculous, but it really touched me.”

“There’s nothing ridiculous about expressing your feelings. Did you lose your own mother?”

“Oh, no, she’s very much alive. But I would love it if she wrote me something like this.”

“Maybe one day she will.”

“That’d be very surprising, given our relationship.”

“Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Then wait till you’re a mother yourself. You’ll view your childhood very differently, and your mother through completely new eyes.”

“I don’t really see how I could.”

“There is no such thing as the perfect parent, just like there is no such thing as the perfect child. I should go, though—there’s a tourist hanging around my stand. Oh, that reminds me—what did your friend think of her portrait?”

“I still haven’t given it to her. I’m sorry, it slipped my mind. I’ll do it tonight.”

“No hurry. It was just sitting in my portfolio.”

And the caricaturist returned to his easel.



Paul sneaked in through the artists’ entrance. Stagehands were busy moving parts of the set. He walked around them, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the director’s door.

“I’m sorry. Do we have a meeting?”

“No, but it won’t take long. I have a small favor to ask.”

“Another one?”

“Yeah, but this one’s really small.”

Paul made his request and the director refused. He had made an exception for him before, but for him alone. Because the Opera was being used as the backdrop for Paul’s novel, the director had wanted things to be described as they were rather than as one might imagine them. But the areas prohibited to the public had to remain prohibited.

“I understand,” said Paul, “but the woman is my assistant.”

“Was she your assistant when you entered my office?”

“Of course. I didn’t hire her in the last thirty seconds.”

“You said she was ‘a friend’!”

“She’s my friend and my assistant. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

The director stared at the ceiling as he thought.

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t allow it. And please don’t insist.”

“Then don’t blame me if I get anything wrong in my descriptions of your Opera.”

“All you need to do is devote more time to your research. Now I must ask you to leave. This is a busy time for the Opera.”

Paul left the office, but he was determined not to let the matter go. A promise was a promise, and he had defied far more powerful authorities in his lifetime. He stopped at the box office, bought two tickets for that evening’s performance, and went off to mull over his plan.

Once outside on the steps, he started dialing Mia’s number, then changed his mind and sent her a text instead: Our tour of the Opera will take place tonight. Bring a sweater and a raincoat, and whatever you do, don’t wear high heels (although I haven’t seen you wearing any up until this point). You’ll understand why when you get there. I can’t say another word—it’s a surprise.

8:30pm, on the fifth step.

Paul

PS: Texts don’t count.



Mia’s phone vibrated. She read the message and smiled. Then, remembering the promise she’d made to Daisy, her smile quickly faded.



Gaetano Cristoneli was waiting for Paul at a table outside Le Bonaparte.

“You’re late!”

“My office isn’t just around the corner, like yours. I got stuck in traffic.”

“Really?” his editor said skeptically. “What was this something urgent you mentioned on the phone? Do you have a problem?”

“Is this the latest thing, everyone thinking I have problems? Are you going to start in on this too?”

“What did you want to tell me?”

“I’ve decided I am going to the book fair in Seoul.”

“Fantasmic news! Not that you really had a choice.”

“There’s always a choice. And I may still change my mind. Speaking of which, I have something personal to ask. If I decided to spend a year or two in Seoul, would you be able to provide me with a small advance? Just enough to get me on my feet over there. I can’t ditch my apartment in Paris until I’m sure.”