P.S. from Paris(69)

“Do you think there’s an emergency exit in this building?” he said numbly. “Or in life in general, preferably . . .”

“You’re white as a sheet.”

“I need a drink. A stiff one.”

Mia grabbed a martini from a tray held by a passing waiter and handed it to Paul. He downed it in one gulp.

“Let’s go somewhere quiet and you can tell me everything.”

“Not now,” Paul replied, his jaw clenched. “I can’t just keel over and faint right before the ambassador gives his speech.”

During the meal, Paul couldn’t shake the vision: a family could be starving to death only a hundred miles from this room where waiters proffered lavish trays of petits fours and foie-gras canapés. Two worlds, separated by a border. His own world had ceased to exist one hour earlier. Had Kyong planned this all along? Mia kept trying to catch his eye, but Paul couldn’t see it. When he left the table, Mia followed him. He thanked the ambassador and apologized for the fatigue that forced him to leave.

Shin accompanied them to the door. He shook hands with Paul for a long time on the steps of the mansion. Seeing his gentle, sad smile, Paul felt certain Shin had pieced together some of the truth of the situation.

“What in the world could have put you in this state? Did something happen to Kyong?” Mia asked as the limousine drove away.

“Yes, sort of. It happened to both of us, apparently. My success in Korea was never real. My novels never really existed here, and Kyong was a hell of a lot more than just a translator.”

Mia listened in shock as Paul went on.

“She kept my name on the covers of the books, but that was all. Under that front, she published her own novels—her story, her battles. That TV host yesterday wasn’t a moron at all, and neither was the interpreter. I’ll have to be sure to apologize to them. And, you know, all this would be like one gigantic farce, if the real subject of my Korean novels were not so tragic. To think . . . for years I’ve been living off royalties from books I didn’t even write. You were right to tender your resignation—you were working for an impostor. My only excuse is that I didn’t know a thing about any of this.”

Mia asked the chauffeur to stop the car.

“Come on,” she said to Paul. “You need some fresh air.”

They walked side by side in silence until Paul started speaking again.

“I have every right to hate her for what she did. But behind all the betrayal and deception is something noble. If she had published those books under her own name, it would have been a death sentence for her family.”

“What are you planning to do?”

“I don’t know. I need to think. All throughout dinner, I was trying to wrap my head around it. I guess I’ll have to play along, at least while I’m here. Otherwise, I risk putting her in danger. When I get back to Paris, I’ll send her the money she’s owed and cancel that contract. Cristoneli’s going to be just thrilled: I can see it now, him having a conniption right at the Deux Magots. And when the dust settles, I’ll have to figure out a way to make a living.”

“Nothing is forcing you to do any of that. That money came from Korean publishers, and they must have made a fortune off your books.”

“Not my books. Kyong’s.”

“If you really decide to go through with this, you’re going to have to give some kind of explanation.”

“We’ll see. Anyway, at least now I understand why she’s been MIA. I have to find her so we can talk about this. I can’t leave without seeing her.”

“You do love her, don’t you?”

Paul stopped and shrugged. “Let’s go home. I’m freezing. God, what a weird night!”

In the elevator that took them up to their suite, Mia stood in front of Paul. She gently stroked his face and then abruptly slapped him. Paul snapped out of his stupor. Mia pressed him against the wall and kissed him.

They were still kissing when the doors opened and they continued kissing out in the corridor, his back pressed against the wall, sliding from door to door until they reached their room.

They were still kissing as they got undressed, and didn’t stop even as they fell onto the bed together.

Mia whispered: “This doesn’t count. None of it counts, nothing but the present moment . . .”

And they kissed mouths and necks, stomachs and hips, legs and thighs, their limbs entangled. Their breath came faster as they locked each other in a furious embrace until, weak with exhaustion, they fell asleep on the damp sheets.





18


Paul and Mia were yanked out of bed by the ringing of the telephone.

“Fuck!” he yelled as he saw the clock on the TV, flashing 10:00 a.m.

Ms. Bak was on the line, apologizing profusely but reminding him that the first interview of the day was supposed to start thirty minutes ago . . .

Paul located his boxer shorts underneath the curtains.

. . . the journalist from Chosun Ilbo was waiting for him . . .

He grabbed his pants from the armchair and pulled them on, hopping over to the dresser.

. . . in one of the rooms . . . and he was getting quite antsy . . .

Paul’s shirt was torn. Mia rushed over to the wardrobe and threw him a clean one.

. . . an interviewer from Elle Korea had just arrived as well . . .