P.S. from Paris(45)
“That’s pretty,” Mia said, looking at an old watch.
“Yeah, but I’m too superstitious to wear anything that once belonged to somebody else. Unless I know that the wearer was a happy person. Don’t laugh, but I actually believe objects have a kind of memory. They can give off good or bad vibrations.”
“You’re going to have to elaborate.”
“A few years ago, I bought a glass paperweight at a market like this. The vendor told me it was nineteenth-century. I didn’t believe him for a minute, but there was a picture of a woman’s face engraved inside, and I thought she was pretty. As soon as I brought that thing home, my life turned to absolute shit.”
“Define ‘absolute shit.’”
“You know something? I kind of like it when you swear.”
“What are you on about now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the accent. But it’s kind of sexy. And now I’ve lost my train of thought.”
“Absolute shit.”
“You did it again! You should swear more often. It really suits you. Anyway, it started with a leak in my apartment. The next day, my computer breaks. The day after that, my car gets impounded. That weekend, I’m bedridden with the flu. Then on Monday, my downstairs neighbor has a heart attack, and then I put a mug on my desk near the paperweight and knock the thing over. A couple of days later, the handle on the mug breaks off and I nearly scald my thighs. That was when I began to suspect it had evil powers. You know. Cursed. Next thing I know: I’m totally blocked. Blank white pages, nothing but white in all directions, think Mount Everest, you get the idea. And then I trip on the edge of my rug, fall flat on my face, and break my nose. It’s a sad sight, blood pouring out everywhere while I scream my head off in my apartment. Luckily, one of my writer friends is psychic. Every other week, I eat dinner with a bunch of writers in a bistro, and we tell each other about our lives. Anyway, this guy sees me with my nose all bandaged up, asks what happened. I tell him all the things that went wrong since I bought the paperweight. He closes his eyes . . . and asks me . . . if there was a face engraved in the glass.”
“Whoa! And you hadn’t even told him?”
“Maybe I did. I can’t remember. Anyway, he tells me to get rid of the cursed thing ASAP, but warns me not to break it at all, or else the evil spirits could escape.”
“So, what—did you throw it in the bin?” Mia asked, biting her lip.
“Better. I wasn’t messing around. I wrapped it in a big scarf, tied it up nice and tight, hopped in my car, drove to the Alma bridge, and . . . adios, paperweight! Straight into the Seine.”
Mia couldn’t contain herself any longer. She burst out laughing.
“You’re too much!” she said, her eyes wet with tears of laughter. “Just adorable.”
Paul stared at her, dumbstruck, and started walking again.
“You really get a kick out of teasing me, don’t you?”
“Not at all, I swear. And so your problems stopped right after you drowned the paperweight?”
“Yep. Pretty incredible, huh? Everything went back to normal.”
Mia laughed even more, and hung on to Paul’s arm as he quickened his pace.
They passed a bookshop specializing in antique manuscripts. In the window were a letter written by Victor Hugo and a Rimbaud poem scribbled on a piece of paper torn from a notepad.
Mia peered in at them, fascinated. “A poem or a nice letter couldn’t be an evil talisman, could it?”
“No, I’d say you’re in the clear.”
She opened the door of the shop.
“It’s really a beautiful thing,” she said, “to hold a letter by an illustrious writer in your hands. It’s a bit like entering a private world, becoming a confidante. A century from now, maybe people will marvel over the letters you wrote to your translator. She’ll have become your wife, and those letters will mark the beginning of a precious and powerful correspondence.”
“There’s no way I’ll ever be considered an illustrious writer, Mia.”
“I must say I disagree.”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve read any of my novels.”
“I’ve read two so far, for your information. The letters from the mother in the first one brought me to tears.”
“There you go, messing with me again.”
“I am not! Cross my heart. I would do a full reenactment, but bawling in here seems a bit inappropriate.”
“Wow. I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“No, you’re not. That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile all day.”
“I guess in a way it does make me happy . . . not because you cried, but . . . okay, fine, yes, because you cried. To celebrate, let me take you to Ladurée for some pastries. It’s not far and their macarons are absolutely life changing. But there I go again, trying to tell a chef what’s what about food.”
“Sounds good, but I will need to head back to the restaurant right after. My cooking won’t be quite so delightful if I’m not there to supervise it.”
They sat at a table in the corner and ordered a hot chocolate for Mia and a coffee for Paul, along with an assortment of macarons. The waitress kept staring at them as she prepared their drinks. They could see her whispering to a coworker, the two of them stealing peeks in Paul and Mia’s direction.