P.S. from Paris(57)
“I’ve heard that alcohol and high altitude don’t mix.”
Mia went for a double shot of gin.
“Maybe there’s an exception for the English,” Paul remarked, watching her down her glass.
Mia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Paul observed her in silence.
“I thought we had agreed not to talk,” she said, eyes still closed.
Paul began reading his magazine again. “I’ve been working quite a bit for the last couple of nights. My opera singer has been through some exciting adventures. Her ex resurfaced, for one thing. And naturally enough, she dove right back in. I have to figure out—does that count or does it not count?” he asked, casually turning the page. “Not that I need to know—none of my business. I just thought I’d ask. In any event, it seems that’s done now, so let’s talk about something else.”
“What in the world could’ve inspired that plot twist?”
“I’m a novelist.” He shrugged. “I dream stuff up. That’s what I do.”
Paul closed his magazine.
“But what bothers me is seeing her unhappy. I don’t know why, but that’s just the way it is.”
A steward interrupted their conversation with meal service. Paul declined his meal and announced that Mia wasn’t hungry. She was about to protest, but the attendant had already moved on to the next row.
“What the hell?” she exclaimed. “Why would you do that? I’m starving!”
“So am I. But those little meals are not intended for consumption, just distraction. You end up spending half the flight trying to guess what’s in them.”
Paul unbuckled his seat belt and stood up to remove his bag from the overhead compartment. As soon as he was back in his seat, he took out ten small airtight containers and placed them on Mia’s tray.
“And what might that be?” she asked.
“First she stands me up, now she gate-crashes my last meal.”
Mia took off the lids to find four smoked-salmon sandwiches, two slices of vegetable terrine, two small blocks of foie gras, two potato salads with black truffles, and, in the last two boxes, two coffee éclairs. She stared at Paul openmouthed.
“As I was packing my suitcase, I decided if I was going to die on this flight, I may as well die happy.”
“By eating enough for two, you mean?”
“Give me some credit. I wasn’t going to enjoy this feast all by my lonesome while the person next to me stared at their airplane food contemplating death by starvation. That would have ruined the whole thing for me.”
“You really do think of everything.”
“Only the essentials. Which still manages to take up most of my time.”
“Will your translator be waiting for you at the airport?”
“I sure hope so,” Paul replied. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason, just thinking . . . I suppose we could say I was sent by your publishers to accompany you on the trip.”
“Alternatively, we could say we’re just friends.”
“Your call.”
“And since we’re just friends, maybe you could explain how the hell you ended up on this plane instead of at your restaurant?”
“Mm, this foie gras is delicious. Where did you get it?”
“Please answer the question.”
“I had to get away.”
“From what?”
“Myself.”
“So he did come back.”
“Let’s just say that the opera singer dove back in, and quickly found herself in over her head.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Really?”
“No. Not at all. I was just being polite.”
“I’m glad I’m here too. I’ve always dreamt of visiting Seoul.”
“Really?”
“No. Not at all. I was just being polite.”
At the end of the meal, Paul tidied away the containers in his bag and stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“To wash these.”
“Are you joking?”
“Absolutely not. I’m not going to throw away my Tupperware. I’ll need it for the return trip.”
“So you’re not planning on staying in Korea indefinitely?”
“Who knows? We’ll see.”
They checked the in-flight entertainment program. Mia opted for a romantic comedy, and Paul for a thriller. Ten minutes later, Paul was watching Mia’s movie and Mia was watching his. First they exchanged a look, then their earphones, and finally their seats.
Paul eventually went to sleep, and Mia made sure no one woke him up during the descent. He opened his eyes just as the plane’s wheels touched the ground and stiffened as the pilot activated the reverse thrust. His nightmare was ending, Mia reassured him. In a few moments, they would be getting off the plane.
After going through Passport Control, Paul retrieved his suitcase from the baggage carousel and put it on a cart.
“Yours isn’t out yet?” he asked.
“This is all I have,” she said, gesturing toward the satchel on her shoulder.
Paul said nothing, distracted by his growing anticipation. He looked at the sliding doors up ahead, trying to think how he would act as he walked through them.