P.S. from Paris(46)
Shit, she’s recognized me. Where are the toilets? No, I can’t go to the loo—she might talk to him while I’m gone. If it gets out that I was seen here with a man, Creston will kill me! My only option is to convince her that she has mistaken me for someone else.
The waitress came back a few minutes later and, putting the cups down, asked in a shy voice: “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but notice. Aren’t you—”
“Nope, I’m not who you think,” Paul replied sternly. “Wrong guy, sorry!”
Deeply embarrassed, the young woman apologized and walked away.
Mia, whose face had gone bright red, put on her sunglasses and turned to Paul.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her. “That does happen to me occasionally.”
“I understand,” said Mia, whose heart was still pounding. “So it’s not only in Seoul that you’re famous?”
“Just this specific neighborhood, but that’s it. Believe me, I could spend two hours in the book section of a Fnac without any of the staff recognizing me. Which is a good thing, of course. But she must have been one of my readers—I shouldn’t have treated her like that.”
Your ego just saved me! “Don’t worry about it. Next time you come here, bring a signed copy of one of your books. I’m sure she’d love that.”
“Now that is an excellent idea.”
“So, tell me. What’s happening with your opera singer?”
“The critic follows her home. He approaches her, but without revealing his suspicions. He introduces himself as a writer and says she looks like a character from one of his novels. Maybe, just maybe . . . he’s starting to feel something for her.”
“And what about her?”
“I’m not quite sure yet, it’s too early to tell. What she doesn’t admit is that she noticed him a long time ago. She’s scared, but at the same time she feels less lonely.”
“So what does she do?”
“She runs, I think. Takes off to keep her secret under wraps. She can’t be sincere with him because she’s lying all the while about who she really is. I’m thinking about introducing her old impresario to up the stakes. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to read it before I could give an opinion.”
“Would you be interested in reading the first few chapters?”
“I’d love to, if that’s what you want.”
“I’ve never let anyone read one of my books before it’s finished, apart from Kyong. But your opinion has come to mean a lot to me.”
“Right! Well, whenever you feel ready, I’d be honored to be your first reader. And I promise to be honest with you.”
“And while we’re on the subject, I’d love to come have dinner at your restaurant.”
“Oh . . . that’s not such a great idea. Chefs are never at their best during a shift. Too much pressure, too much sweat . . . Don’t take it the wrong way, but I’d really prefer if you didn’t.”
“No, no, I understand,” said Paul.
They said good-bye outside the métro station at Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Paul walked past his editor’s office and thought he caught a glimpse of him through the window. He continued on his way and arrived back at home.
He spent the evening working, trying to imagine what would happen to his tragic opera singer. The more he wrote, the more his character took on Mia’s facial expressions, her way of walking, of answering a question with another question, her fragile smile when she was being thoughtful, her bursts of laughter, her absent gaze, her discreet elegance. The sun was rising when he finally made it to bed.
Later that day, Paul was awoken by a call from his editor. Cristoneli was expecting him at his office. On the way, he stopped to buy a croissant and ate it behind the wheel, arriving only a half hour late.
Cristoneli welcomed him with open arms and Paul began to suspect he was up to something.
“I have two pieces of news for you. Both good!” the editor exclaimed. “Amazifying news!”
“Start with the bad news.”
Cristoneli frowned at him, baffled.
“I received a message from the Koreans: they want you to be a guest on the evening news, which will be followed by their flagship literature show.”
“And the good news?”
“What do you mean? That was the good news!”
“Any time I have to do a book signing with more than twenty people, I get so nervous I practically faint. How in the world do you expect me to appear on television? Unless you want me to fall flat on my face on live TV.”
“There’ll only be the two of you writers there. No need to be nervous.”
“Two of us?”
“Murakami is the headliner. Do you realize how lucky you are?”
“On TV and side by side with Murakami to boot? Maybe before I faint I’ll manage to throw up on the presenter’s shoes. That’ll give the viewers something to remember.”
“It’s a great idea! You would probably sell many books the next day.”
“Are you listening to me? There’s no way I can appear on television. I would suffocate. I’m suffocating right now just thinking about it! I would die in front of millions of viewers. In Korea. You’d be an accessory to murder.”