P.S. from Paris(6)

“Elaborate. Please.”

“One of my colleagues has a friend who is an editor at a publishing house. I gave him the manuscript, just to get an outside opinion.”

“You had no right to do that.”

“I seem to recall you once doing something for me that I hadn’t asked you to, and today I’m grateful for it. All I did was give fate . . . a little nudge. Like I said, it’s still totally up to you, the decision is all yours.”

“What decision?”

“Whether you want to share what you’ve written with other people. Your story might bring a little happiness to people’s lives. And these days, that’s a tall order. Anyway, I have to get back to work now . . .”

She turned toward the doors of the ER.

“Of course, don’t thank me, whatever you do,” she added.

“Thank you for what?”

“Go to that meeting, Paul. Don’t be stubborn. And, in case you’re wondering, I still haven’t said a thing to Arthur.”

Paul went to meet the editor who was interested in his novel, and gave in to his offer. Each time he heard the word novel, he had a hard time making the connection with the story that had filled his nights at a time in his life when he wasn’t very happy.

The novel was published six months later. The day after it was released in bookshops, Paul found himself sharing the elevator at work with two architect colleagues, both of whom were holding a copy of his book. They congratulated him, and Paul, in a state of shock, waited until they got out before pressing the ground-floor button. He went to the coffee shop where he had breakfast every morning. The barista asked him to sign the copy she had bought. Paul’s hand trembled as he held the pen. He paid his bill, went back home, and began to reread his novel.

With every page, he sank a little deeper into his chair, wishing he could melt into it and never have to come out again. He had put a part of himself into the book, part of his childhood, his dreams, his hopes and failures. Without realizing it, without ever imagining that, one day, strangers would read it. Or, even worse, people he rubbed shoulders with, people he worked with. Paul, whose loud voice and friendly manner disguised an almost-pathological shyness, sat there wide-eyed and helpless, yearning only to become invisible, like the character in his book was. Paul went into hibernation—and was only forced to come out when Arthur knocked on his door and drove him out of his hideaway. Unlike Paul, Arthur was delighted by the book’s reception, and he brought good news.

The originality of the story had captured the media’s attention. Maureen, the assistant at the architecture agency, had lovingly prepared a scrapbook of press clippings for him. Most of their clients had already read the book and called to offer their congratulations.

A film producer had tried to reach him at the agency and—Arthur kept the best for last—City Lights Bookstore, where he was a regular customer, had told him that the novel was selling like hotcakes. For the moment, his success was confined to the Bay Area, but at this rate, the bookseller was certain, it would soon spread across the whole country.

On the terrace of the restaurant where he had dragged Paul, Arthur told his friend he needed a shave, and to pay more attention to his appearance generally, to return his editor’s calls (the poor man had already left twenty messages at the office), and, above all, to embrace the luck that had fallen into his lap instead of moping around as if somebody had died.

Paul remained silent for quite some time, then took a deep breath and thought that fainting in public would only make things worse. The final straw came when a woman, recognizing his face, interrupted their lunch to ask if his novel was autobiographical.

In a solemn tone, Paul told his friend that, having given it a great deal of thought over the past week, he was going to hand over the reins of the agency to Arthur. It was Paul’s turn to take a sabbatical.

“To do what?” Arthur asked, a little shaken up.

To disappear, Paul thought. In order to spare himself a lecture, he came up with an airtight pretext: to write a second novel, or at least try. How could Arthur object to that?

“If that’s really what you want. I mean, you did the same for me when I was having a tough time and ran off to Paris. So . . . where exactly are you headed?”

Paul hadn’t given the question a moment’s thought, and seized on his friend’s comment: “Paris. You went on so much about it. The City of Light, all the wonders, bistros, bridges, the hustle and bustle of the arrondissements, the women . . . Who knows, with a bit of luck, maybe I can track down that gorgeous florist I heard so much about.”

“Maybe,” Arthur replied tersely. “But not everything was as magical as I made it out to be.”

“That’s because you were a mess, back then. I just need a change of scenery . . . to shake things up, get the creative juices flowing.”

“If that’s really why you’re going, then we’ll be happy for you. And when are you leaving?”

“Let’s have a dinner party at your place tonight. We can invite Pilguez and his wife, so the whole gang will be there to say good-bye. Then tomorrow, I’m off to France!”

Paul’s plan clearly saddened Arthur. Paul knew his old friend had thought about protesting, or trying to insist it would be better for the agency if he waited a few months. If the roles had been reversed, of course, Paul would have done everything in his power to help, knowing that work would sort itself out.