P.S. from Paris(63)

You seem so helpless in the face of your own success, Mia thought. And so utterly sincere when you say you don’t want fame. And yet you had to meet me, of all people . . . Makes me wonder if two people like us could ever really be compatible . . .

Little by little, the bookshop emptied out. The last reader took yet another selfie with Paul, who smiled his last smile of the day. He heard his bones creak as he stood up slowly from his chair.

“It’s the price of fame,” the bookshop manager said when he came over to thank Paul.

Mia was waiting for him near the exit with Ms. Bak.

“Who exactly was this Ms. Jung you mentioned earlier?” Paul asked.

“Eun-Jeong,” the bookseller corrected him. “I told you: she translates your books. Your success is partly thanks to her, you know. I’ve never met her, but I can tell you she certainly has a remarkable way with words.”

“Kyong. My translator’s name is Kyong!” Paul protested. “I think I would know that.”

“Her name must have been spelled wrong in English—our language is full of subtle nuances—but I can assure you that her name is Eun-Jeong. It is written on the cover of all your books. In Korean, of course. I’m sorry she couldn’t be here today. She would have been so proud.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“A bad case of flu, I think. But it’s time to go now: your day is far from over, and your editor will be cross with me if I keep you any longer.”

A limousine took them back to the hotel. Ms. Bak was sitting in the front passenger seat. Paul didn’t say a word, and Mia began to worry.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she whispered to him.

Paul pressed a button and the glass partition that separated them from the chauffeur and Ms. Bak slid up.

“Huh. Look at that! Maybe I could get used to this . . .”

“Paul!”

“She’s sick. Bad case of the flu, apparently.”

“Well, that’s good news. Not for her, obviously, but at least it could explain the absence and lack of contact. Now, just think, how long does a bad case of flu last? A week? More? When did she fall ill?”

“How should I know?”

“I thought you might have asked. You must have inquired about her, if you learned she was ill.”

“No. Not at all. It was the bookshop guy who told me. She was supposed to be there today.”

“And what else did he tell you?”

“Nothing—he probably didn’t know more than that.”

“So let’s be optimistic and hope she gets back on her feet in a few days . . . Back on her big, ugly feet . . . Horrid and huge, in fact . . .”

“You’re muttering.”

“I never mutter. Muttering is completely foreign to me.”

Mia turned to the window and stared out at the landscape passing by.

“Forget Kyong, at least for tonight . . . Or go ahead and forget her, full stop! What you need to do is focus on your very first television appearance.”

“I don’t want to do it. I’m sick of all this. I just want to go back to the hotel, order room service, and go to bed.”

Tell me about it . . . “Paul, don’t be childish. This is your career we’re talking about. Pull yourself together and act professional. The show must go on.”

“You’re supposed to be playing assistant, not taskmaster.”

“Oh, all I’ve been doing is playing, then?” Mia said crossly, turning to face him.

“Sorry, I’m nervous. I’m talking out of my ass. I should just keep my mouth shut.”

“Once, after hearing a young actress boast that she never got stage fright, Sarah Bernhardt said: ‘Don’t worry, it comes with talent.’”

“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”

“Take it however you want. There’s the hotel. You should have a bath—it would do you a world of good. After that, get changed, and don’t think about anything but your characters, your friends . . . the things that reassure you. You can’t ignore your nerves, but you can fight to overcome them. As soon as you get out on that set, they’ll disappear.”

“I don’t get how you know all this,” Paul said in a lost voice.

“I just do. Trust me.”

Paul lay for a long time luxuriating in the hot, foaming water. He put on the suit and the white shirt Mia had picked out for him. Cameras hated blue, he was learning, and men who wore blue had less presence on television. Mia claimed everyone knew that. Around six p.m., she ordered a snack and Paul forced himself to put something in his stomach. She then made him learn a short introduction by heart, being sure to thank his Korean readers, telling them how touched he was by their warm welcome, what an amazing city Seoul was, even if he hadn’t had time to see all of it yet, and, of course, that he was delighted to be visiting the country. Paul reeled the phrases off in parrot-like fashion, eyes fixed on the television clock as it counted down the minutes. And as time ticked by, his anxiety grew, tying his stomach in knots.

At six thirty sharp, they were ready and waiting in the limousine, per the schedule.

Halfway through the ride, Paul suddenly knocked on the glass partition and begged the chauffeur to stop the car.

He rushed outside and threw up his snack. Mia held him by the shoulders. When the spasms had calmed down, she gave him a tissue and some chewing gum.