P.S. from Paris(38)

“Exquisite!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, amazing,” Paul agreed, “but we have to hurry now.”

“I feel ridiculous dressed like this, surrounded by so much beauty. I should have worn a dress.”

“No, trust me, you’re better off. Come on!”

“I don’t understand. I thought you were going to show me around when it was closed to the public. Are we here for a performance?”

“You’ll see.”

Reaching the mezzanine, they walked through the orchestra gallery.

“What is tonight’s performance?” Mia asked as they approached the entrance to the auditorium.

“No idea. Hello, gentlemen!” he said, walking past two statues.

“Who were you talking to?” Mia whispered.

“Bach and Haydn. I listen to them while I’m writing, so the least I can do is say hi, right?”

“Are you ever going to tell me where we’re heading?” Mia said as Paul led them on.

“To our seats.”

The usher showed them to two folding seats. Paul offered the first to Mia and then sat on the one behind her.

The seat was hard and uncomfortable, and they could see only the right-hand side of the stage. It was a far cry from the film premieres Mia was used to attending, where she always had one of the best seats in the house.

Funny, he doesn’t strike me as a cheapskate, she thought as the curtain lifted.

Ten minutes passed. Mia kept shifting in her seat, trying to find the least uncomfortable position. Paul tapped her on the shoulder.

“Sorry I keep fidgeting, but my bottom hurts in this chair,” she whispered.

Doing his best not to laugh, Paul leaned in close and whispered in her ear: “Please extend my sincere apologies to your posterior. But now we have to go—follow me.”

He walked, bent double, toward the emergency exit, which was located just in front of them. Mia watched him, dumbfounded.

Or maybe he really is mad . . .

“Come on!” hissed Paul, still crouching in front of the door.

Mia obeyed, imitating his peculiar stance.

He softly pushed open the door and led her into a corridor.

“So has your back gone out, or are we supposed to keep walking around like this?”

Paul shushed her, grabbed her hand, and set off down the corridor.

The deeper they went into the labyrinthine building, the more she began to wonder what in the world was going on.

At the end of another passageway, they came to a spiral staircase. Paul suggested Mia go first in case she tripped, while also advising her not to do so.

“Where are we?” Mia breathed, beginning to get swept up in the game.

“We need to get across this walkway. But please be absolutely silent: we’re going right over the stage. I’ll go first this time.”

Paul crossed himself and, in response to Mia’s surprised look, whispered that he suffered from vertigo.

When Paul reached the other side, he turned around and saw her, motionless in the middle of the walkway, staring at the auditorium below. He felt he was getting a glimpse of how she must have looked as a child; even her raincoat suddenly seemed too large. She was no longer the woman he had met on the steps of the Opera, but a little girl suspended in the air, wholly enchanted by the magical sight below.

He waited a few moments, then risked a small cough to catch her attention.

Mia gave a broad smile and walked over to join him.

“That was incredible,” she whispered.

“I know. But trust me, the best is yet to come.”

He took her hand again and led her toward a door that opened onto another staircase.

“Are we going to see the lake?”

“You Brits are very odd. Do you really think they’d put the lake on the top floor?”

Mia looked through the doorway. “Those steps could have led down!”

“Well, they don’t. We’re headed up these steps. There is no lake—it’s just a reservoir of water in a concrete tank. Otherwise, I’d have brought my snorkel and flippers.”

“In that case, what’s the raincoat for?” Mia asked, annoyed.

“I told you: you’ll see.”

As they were climbing an old wooden staircase, they heard a thunderous rolling sound. Mia froze with fear.

“Don’t worry. It’s just the stage machinery,” Paul reassured her.

When they reached the final landing, Paul pushed the panic bar on a metal door and ushered Mia through.

She found herself looking out at a walkway that spanned the rooftop of the Opera, offering an absolutely stunning view of Paris.

She swore out loud, then turned to Paul.

“Go ahead,” he told her. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Yeah, just give me a minute.”

“Why would you come all the way up here if you can’t even take a look?”

“So you could. There isn’t another view like this anywhere in the world. Keep going—I’ll wait for you here. Take a good look. There aren’t many people lucky enough to see the City of Light from this vantage point. One winter night, you’ll be sitting by the fireside in an old English manor and you’ll be able to tell all your little great-grandchildren about the night you saw Paris from the roof of the Opera. You’ll be so old that you won’t even remember my name, but you’ll remember that you had a friend in Paris.”