P.S. from Paris(61)
“Thank you,” said Paul, stepping onto the escalator.
“Are you hoping to charm your translator with two dresses?” Mia asked.
“Not to mention a skirt, three sweaters, two pairs of pants, and two tops.”
“A miniature Eiffel Tower would have done the trick. At least that would have shown you didn’t forget about it until the last minute.”
They went back to their hotel room without exchanging another word. Paul lay down on the right side of the bed, hands behind his head.
“With your shoes on? Really!” Mia cried.
“They’re not even touching the duvet itself.”
“Take them off.”
“What time are they coming to get us?”
“Want to know? You can get up and check your junket schedule.”
“That’s a funny term. What am I, a movie star?”
“Can a lowly waitress not employ such an advanced term?”
“Whoa! Calm down. I’m the one who’s supposed to be nervous, not you.”
“Me, me, me—that’s all you’ve talked about since we got here! Go and be nervous by yourself. And you can accompany yourself to that dinner party too, while you’re at it. I haven’t got a single thing to wear, so I’ll have to decline.”
“Actually, I’d say you’ve got a hell of a selection. I bought those clothes for you. Did you really think I was hoping to seduce Kyong by showering her with gifts? That would just be . . . vulgar. Does that sound anything like me?”
No. It sounds like David . . . “Well, that’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly accept. There’s no reason for me to—”
“Yes, there is, and you just admitted it yourself. You’re not going to wear the same clothes this whole trip, are you?”
“I’ll go and buy some tomorrow.”
“Mia, come on. Wasn’t buying the plane ticket crazy enough? I mean, look, you held my hand on the plane—my very clammy hand—and bailed me out on the car ride by reining in my chatterbox editor. If it weren’t for you, I’d be a total wreck right now, in the fetal position in a dreary suite in a dreary hotel in a foreign city on the other side of the world. There are no strings attached—hang those up on your side of the closet, pick something out to wear, but maybe keep the black dress for the embassy.”
“I’ll have to insist on paying you back. These must have cost a fortune.”
“It wasn’t me, it was Cristoneli—I squeezed an astronomical advance out of him before agreeing to take this trip.”
Mia took one of the bags into the bathroom. “I’ll let you put the rest away. Seems I have to get ready.”
When she came out, a half hour later, Paul thought she looked even more beautiful than she had back at the store, and still with barely any makeup on.
“So?” she asked.
Stunning.
“Not bad. It suits you.”
What do you mean, “not bad”? “You don’t think the skirt is too short?”
That skirt is making my head spin! “Nope. Just right.”
Do you know how many men would throw their grandma under a bus to spend just one minute alone with me in a hotel suite? And all you’ve got is “not bad”? “But the top . . . Is the cleavage too much?”
Half an inch more and you’ll cause an all-out riot . . . “I hadn’t really noticed. Seriously, I think that outfit is just fine.”
Ha! Wait till you see the look on your translator’s face when she gets an eyeful of me, then we’ll see who’s “not bad”! “If you say so, then I believe you.”
“What is up with you?”
“Did you say something?”
“Nope! Nothing at all.”
Paul gave her a thumbs-up and went to the bathroom to get ready.
As he entered the restaurant, Paul felt his pulse quicken. Before they had left the hotel, Mia had given him some advice on how to behave in this kind of situation. Don’t do anything that might embarrass Kyong in front of her employers, let her make the first move, and wait cautiously for the right time to express your feelings. If you’re seated next to each other and brushing your hand against hers would be too obvious, a gentle knee-to-knee contact should be enough to reassure her.
And in case he ended up unable to approach her without arousing suspicion, Paul had given Mia a little note that she could hand Kyong at the end of the meal.
When all the guests had taken their places around the table, Paul and Mia exchanged a look. Apparently, Kyong had not been invited.
A series of toasts in Paul’s honor launched the evening. The marketing director of the Korean publisher said he’d been thinking of publishing all of Paul’s works in a single collection intended for students. He wanted to know if Paul would agree to write a preface explaining why he had dedicated his life’s work to such a challenging cause. Paul wondered if the man was pulling his leg, but the marketing director’s English was far from perfect, and in the end he decided simply to smile. The head of publicity showed him the cover of his latest novel, pointing proudly to the band with its red-letter announcement: 300,000 Copies Sold. An extraordinary figure for a foreign author, the editor added. The bookshop manager confirmed that not a day went by without him selling several copies of the book. Ms. Bak waited patiently before reeling off the list of interviews Paul would have to attend. The television news program had negotiated exclusivity until the show was broadcast, but after that there would be an interview with the daily newspaper The Chosun Ilbo, as well as Elle Korea, a one-hour live broadcast with radio service KBS, a one-on-one with a journalist from Movie Week, and a more delicate meeting with the radical daily Hankyoreh, the only newspaper to support the government’s policy of political dialogue with North Korea. When Paul asked why Hankyoreh wanted to interview him, everyone at the table laughed. Paul was not in the mood for jokes, and his dazed state contrasted with the liveliness of his companions. Mia came to his rescue, asking a whole series of questions about Seoul—the weather throughout the year, the best places to visit, and so on. She began a conversation about Korean cinema with Paul’s editor, who was impressed by her knowledge of the subject. She took advantage of this newfound bond to quietly suggest that he bring the evening to a close, as Mr. Barton was exhausted.