P.S. from Paris(7)
After saying good-bye, Paul went home in a state of absolute dread. What on earth had come over him? Moving to Paris! On his own!
Pacing his apartment, he began trying to come up with arguments in favor of this crazy, improbable escape. Arthur had done it, so why not him? The second argument, even more convincing than the first, concerned the charms of Parisian women. And the third was that, ultimately, he could actually try writing another novel . . . which he wouldn’t publish . . . or would only publish abroad. That way, he would be able to return to San Francisco once things had settled down. When all was said and done, there really was only one resounding argument: writer . . . American . . . single . . . in Paris!
And in Paris, where he had been living now for the past seven years, Paul had written five other novels. Growing wary of affairs with Parisian women, whose mood swings he found incomprehensible, he had chosen celibacy. Or maybe, more aptly put: celibacy had chosen him.
His five novels had not been as successful as he had hoped they would be. Not in Europe, anyway, or the United States. For some reason, however, they were very popular in Asia, and especially in Korea.
For the past few years, Paul had been romantically involved with his Korean translator. Twice a year, Kyong would come and visit him for one week, never any longer. She loved silence, and Paul was terrified of it. He sometimes imagined he had taken up writing precisely in order to fill the silence, the way ink filled a blank page. He and Kyong spent fourteen and a half days together every year, including trips to and from the airport.
When Kyong was there, he would spend hours looking at her without being able to tell if she was truly beautiful or only seemed so in his eyes. She liked when Paul looked at her with a gaze full of desire, and he was far more in love with her than he liked to admit. The only problem was that, when they were together, he could never find the right words, though words were supposedly his area of expertise—and hers too.
Although they didn’t see each other very often, they had their habits. Whenever she was in Paris, she liked to go to the cinema on Rue Apollinaire, as if the venue were more important than the film; she liked to walk across Pont des Arts, and to eat ice cream at Berthillon, even in the middle of winter. She seemed to like all those things more than his writing, the very thing that had brought them together.
Kyong remained on Paul’s mind when she wasn’t there, becoming perhaps even more present. Why did he miss her so much?
As soon as he finished writing a manuscript, she would begin her first one-week visit. Showing none of the exhaustion that would overcome any normal person who had just spent twelve hours traveling, she always looked fresh as a daisy. After a frugal lunch, consisting invariably of egg with mayonnaise, a slice of bread, and a glass of shandy (which perhaps was a miracle cure for jet lag—he really should test that out himself one day), which she would, also invariably, want to savor at the same café, on the corner of Rue de Bretagne and Rue Charlot, they would go up to Paul’s apartment. Kyong would take a shower, then sit at Paul’s desk to read the new manuscript. Paul would sit at the foot of the bed and watch her. This was inarguably a complete waste of time, as her face remained impassive while she read. It seemed to him that the question of whether or not she would leap into his arms depended on her assessment of the novel. As if her offer of “friendship and maybe more” translated to “more if I like your chapters.” For this reason, rather than expecting explicit feedback from the translator who was responsible for a substantial part of his income (since Paul lived off his Korean royalties), Paul sat tight until the moment when she would give herself to him.
He liked writing and living abroad. He liked Kyong’s biannual visits. Were it not for the fact that the price of this existence was a certain solitude throughout the rest of the year, he would have found his new life almost perfect.
The glass doors opened and Paul gave a sigh of relief.
Arthur was pushing a luggage cart while Lauren waved.
4
Mia opened her eyes and stretched. It took her a few moments to get her bearings, geographically and emotionally. She climbed out of bed, opened the bedroom door, and went to look for Daisy. Yet the apartment was empty.
Breakfast awaited her on the kitchen island, accompanied by a note in an old earthenware dish.
Seemed like you needed the sleep. Meet me at the restaurant when you’re ready.
Mia turned on the kettle and walked over to the window. By daylight, the view was even more stunning, as artists and locals filled the streets below on their way to the market, and she spotted the dome of Sacré-C?ur above the rooftops in the distance. She wondered what to do with her day, and the days to come. She looked at the oven clock and tried to imagine what David might be doing now; whether he was alone or making the most of her absence. Had she been right to leave, in hopes that he would miss her? Wouldn’t it have been better to stay and try to recapture what was lost?
Mia didn’t know what she wanted, but she knew what she didn’t want any more. The waiting, the silence, the suspicion. She wanted to rediscover her appetite for life and to stop waking up with her stomach in knots.
The sky was gray, but at least it wasn’t raining. That was a good start. She decided not to go and meet Daisy; instead, she would wander around Montmartre, poke about the shops, maybe even get her picture drawn by one of the many caricaturists. Totally kitschy, of course, but that was just what she felt like doing. In France, fewer people would recognize her. She was going to make the most of this freedom.