P.S. from Paris(54)

Don’t worry, I understand if you have to

work late at the restaurant. Just let me know

that everything’s OK.

She was rereading the last message from Paul for the third time when the phone vibrated in her hand.

I’m going to write now. Switching my phone off.

We can talk tomorrow. Or not.

It was nearly midnight. Mia turned off her phone, undressed, and got into the shower.



Paul ran down the stairs, pushed open the front door, and took a deep breath of night air. Moustache was lowering the metal shutter outside his café. Hearing footsteps, he turned around.

“Monsieur Paul, what are you doing there, hanging around on the sidewalk like a lost soul?”

“Walking my dog.”

“You have a dog now? Where is he, then, out on the prowl?”

“Are you hungry, Moustache?”

“I always have room for a little something. But my kitchen is closed, I’m afraid.”

“Mine isn’t. Come on up.”

Entering Paul’s apartment, Moustache was amazed to see a table covered with a white tablecloth, elegantly set with a candelabra at the center.

“Spring salad with crawfish, roast rack of lamb with a Parmesan crust, and a gateau Saint-Honoré for dessert . . . oh, and I almost forgot, a very nice assortment of cheese and a bottle of Sarget de Gruaud Larose 2009. Will that do?” Paul asked.

“Just one thing first. This candlelit meal . . . you didn’t prepare it for me, did you, Monsieur Paul? Because, you know . . .”

“No, Moustache, don’t worry. It wasn’t for you. And the rack of lamb will undoubtedly be overcooked.”

“Understood,” Moustache replied, unfolding his napkin.

The two men sat there eating until late. Moustache talked about his native Auvergne, which he had left twenty years ago to become a butcher. He told the story of his marriage, his divorce, how he bought his first café in the Bastille area, before it became hip—he never should have sold it—and then how he bought his next café in Belleville, again before it became all the rage, and finally his move to a new up-and-coming neighborhood.

Paul didn’t say anything. He half listened to his guest, lost in his thoughts.

At two a.m., Moustache rose to leave, congratulating Paul on such an amazing meal.

On the doorstep, he patted him on the shoulder and sighed.

“You’re a good guy, Monsieur Paul. I’ve never read your books—reading’s not really my thing—but I’ve heard good things about them. When you come back from over there, I’ll take you to a joint where the night workers hang out—it’s way off the beaten path, but the boss is one hell of a cook—and you can give me the lowdown on your trip.”

Paul gave Moustache a copy of his keys, admitting to him that he didn’t know when he’d be back. The café owner nodded, put the keys in his pocket, and left.





15


It was cool that Thursday. Out on the Seine, David reeled off a few anecdotes from their first trip to Paris. But standing on the shore was not enough to bring the tide in. They shared an ice cream on ?le Saint-Louis and went back to the hotel. They made love and then lay in bed for a while. Mia wondered whether this would be a new beginning or a way to say good-bye.

In the middle of the afternoon, David called the concierge and asked him to book two theatre tickets for the best show in town, as well as two flights to London for the next day. When he hung up, he told Mia that it was time to go home. He offered to accompany her to Montmartre to pick up her things.

Mia replied that she would rather pack on her own. She wanted to say good-bye to Daisy and would meet up with David later on. She promised she would be on time, and left the hotel suite.

The limousine dropped her at Rue Poulbot. Mia asked the chauffeur to wait for her. She walked up the stairs to the apartment, trailing her hand slowly along the banister as she went.

Once she’d finished packing her suitcase, she took the portrait of Daisy out of the cupboard, set it on the counter, and then left the apartment.



Paul printed out his chapters, put the pages in a folder, and slipped it inside his suitcase.

He emptied the refrigerator, closed the shutters, and checked the taps. Finally, he walked around his apartment, took out the trash, and left to meet his editor.



As they left Montmartre, Mia asked the chauffeur to take her to Rue de Bretagne.

“Could you stop here for a minute?” she asked as they approached number 38.

She lowered the window and stuck her head out. The fourth-floor shutters were closed.

When the car started up again, she took out her phone and reread the message she’d received late that morning.

Mia,

I pushed my opera singer under a bus last night. She was crossing the road without paying attention. Oh, well.

When I called the restaurant, Daisy told me you were fine—of course, that’s what matters.

I understand your lack of response. Maybe it’s better this way. Good-byes don’t really make any sense.

Thank you for all the precious moments we spent together.

Take care of yourself, even if that phrase doesn’t make any sense either.

Paul

When she reached the hotel, Mia pretended she had a migraine. David told the concierge to forget the theatre tickets and had their dinner brought up to the suite.