P.S. from Paris(39)
Mia watched Paul as he clung to the door handle. Then she walked out over the rooftop. From where she stood, she could see the Madeleine church and the Eiffel Tower with its roaming searchlights. Mia looked up at the sky like a child who is convinced she can count every star in the heavens. Then she looked over at the skyscrapers in the Beaugrenelle district. How many people were eating, laughing, or crying behind those windows, each looking as tiny as those stars twinkling in the vast firmament above? Turning around, she saw the Sacré-C?ur perched on the hill of Montmartre and spared a thought for Daisy. The whole of Paris lay stretched out before her. She had never seen anything so beautiful in her whole life.
“You can’t miss this.”
“There’s no way I can make it out there . . .”
She went back to where Paul was standing, took off her scarf, and tied it around his head, covering his eyes. Then, holding his hand, she guided him along the walkway. Paul walked as if he were on a tightrope, but he didn’t resist.
“I know it’s selfish,” she said, removing the blindfold, “but how could I tell all my little great-grandchildren about this moment without having actually shared it with my Parisian friend?”
Paul and Mia sat on the ridgepole and admired the view together.
A fine rain began to fall. Mia took off her raincoat and spread it over their shoulders.
“Do you always think of everything?”
“I try. Now . . . can you please take me back?” he asked, softly pulling at her scarf.
Two security guards awaited them at the foot of the stairs. They escorted Paul and Mia to the director’s office, where three police officers stood, arms folded.
“I know, I went against what you said,” Paul said to the director. “But we didn’t do any harm.”
“Sorry—do you know this man?” asked Officer Moulard, the highest-ranking police officer in the room.
“Not anymore,” said the director. “You can take him away.”
Officer Moulard nodded to his colleagues, who took out two pairs of handcuffs.
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Paul protested.
“I disagree,” said the director. “These people strike me as the very definition of unruly.”
As Mia held out her wrists for the policeman, she glanced at her watch. Seeing how late it was, she suddenly felt nervous.
The detective took their statements. Paul acknowledged the charges against them, taking full responsibility himself while playing down the seriousness of their misdemeanor. He solemnly swore they would never do it again if they were allowed to go. Surely they weren’t going to be kept overnight at the station?
The detective sighed.
“You are foreign nationals. Until I am able to contact your respective consulates and verify your identities, I couldn’t possibly let you go.”
“I have a resident card,” Paul said. “I left it at home, but I assure you I am a French resident.”
“And I’m supposed to just take you at your word on that?”
“They’re going to kill me,” Mia muttered.
“Someone is threatening you, mademoiselle?” the detective asked her.
“No. Just a figure of speech.”
“Please exercise some caution with your vocabulary. This is a police station.”
“Who’s going to kill you?” Paul asked, leaning toward Mia.
“What did I just say?” the inspector demanded.
“I heard you! This isn’t school! Apparently, this situation has put my friend in an awkward professional position. You could show just a little flexibility.”
“You should have thought of that before breaking and entering into a public building.”
“There was no breaking and entering. All the doors were open, including the one leading to the roof.”
“And you think walking on the roof of the Palais Garnier is not a security breach? Would you find it normal if I did the same thing in your country?”
“If you really wanted to, Detective, I wouldn’t have any objections at all. I could even recommend a few spots with breathtaking views.”
“I’ve heard enough,” the policeman sighed. “Lock these two clowns up. And deal with the comedian first.”
“Wait!” Paul begged. “If a French citizen came here to testify to my identity, and brought you proof, would you consider letting us leave?”
“If your citizen makes it here within the next hour, I’d consider it. After that, my shift is over and you would have to wait until morning.”
“Could I use your phone?”
The detective handed Paul the phone from his desk.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Perfectly serious.”
“At this hour of night?”
“You don’t really get to choose what time this kind of thing happens.”
“May I know why?”
“Just listen to me, Cristoneli, because we’re running short on time. If you don’t go to your office, photocopy all my papers, and then come to the police station in the ninth arrondissement within the next hour, I’ll sign my next book over to Mr. Park.”
“Who is Mr. Park?”
“I have no idea. But there must be someone with a name like that at my Korean publishers!” Paul yelled.