P.S. from Paris(70)

“It’s blue!” Paul whispered.

. . . and soon enough there’d be no way to get to the KBS radio studios on time . . .

“That’s fine for the press!” Mia whispered back.

. . . Ms. Bak had managed to postpone the one-on-one discussion with a columnist from Movie Week until after the interview with Hankyoreh . . .

Paul buttoned his shirt.

. . . the one that was known for supporting the government’s policy of political dialogue with North Korea . . .

Mia unbuttoned the shirt and redid the buttons, this time in the right buttonholes.

. . . and then there would be a public event . . .

“Where the hell are my shoes?”

“One’s under the dresser, the other’s in the doorway!”

. . . with students, on the main stage of the Book Fair.

Ms. Bak had managed to recite the whole schedule for the day in one single breath.

“Don’t worry, I’m already on my way down!”

“Liar! Go on, I’ll catch up with you later.”

“When?”

“Just before you leave for the radio station.”

The door of the suite closed. There was a crash in the corridor outside and the sound of Paul yelling obscenities.

Mia looked out and saw a room-service cart knocked onto its side in the corridor, its contents scattered in all directions across the carpet.

“Seriously?” she asked, watching Paul get to his feet.

“I’m fine. No stains, and I barely got hurt.”

“Just go!” she ordered him.

Back in the room, she walked over to the window and looked down at the city all stretched out under a gray sky. She picked up her phone and turned it on. Thirteen messages appeared on the screen. Eight from Creston, four from David, and one from Daisy. Mia threw the phone onto the bed and ordered breakfast, warning the room-service staff of a cleanup needed out in the hallway.



From the lobby, Ms. Bak led Paul in a mad sprint to an adjoining room.

“Could I get a coffee?” he begged.

“It’s waiting for you on the table, Mr. Barton. Don’t blame me if it’s cold, though.”

“A little something to munch on?”

“You can’t give an interview with your mouth full. That would be impolite!”

She ushered Paul into the room. He apologized to the journalist, and the interview began.

It felt strange to appropriate Kyong’s story. Stranger still, stepping into her shoes seemed somehow natural, like he’d already walked a thousand miles in them. He was surprised at the ease with which he answered each question, embellishing his account with deep and sincere thoughts, so much so that, by the end, the interviewer was almost in tears. And the very same thing happened with the journalist from Elle Korea. Afterward, Paul agreed to a photo shoot, giving free rein to the photographer who had already been snapping away throughout the interview. He dutifully sat on a table, crossed his arms, uncrossed them, placed a hand under his chin, smiled, looked serious, stared into space, looked left, looked right. Ms. Bak finally rescued him by announcing that he had other obligations to fulfill.

She was hurrying him toward the limousine when Paul managed to escape and make a run for the reception desk.

“Call my room, please,” he told the concierge.

“Ah, Mr. Barton, the young lady left a message for you. She fell back asleep after you left and—”

Paul leaned over the desk and pointed at the switchboard.

“Now! Call her now!”

Ms. Bak was going from antsy to frantic, and Mia still wasn’t picking up.

“The young lady is in the bath,” said the concierge. “She said she’ll meet you later at the Book Fair. She asked what time your speech was.”

The press officer promised to do what was necessary. She would send a car to pick up his colleague, she said, clearing her throat as she uttered the word colleague.

Paul hung up and followed Ms. Bak, his heart heavy. Suddenly he turned on his heel, plunged his hand into the bowl of sweets sitting on the desk, and filled his pockets.

The hour he spent at KBS studios seemed to last an eternity, but he felt more confident as the interview went on. By the end, even Ms. Bak had to wipe away a tear.

“You were perfect,” she said as they left the building, before ushering him into the limousine.

He was escorted from the entrance of the exhibition center onto the stage, in front of two hundred students eagerly awaiting the chance to hear him speak.

When he was introduced, the standing ovation he received left him with a helpless, crushing feeling. He began to scan the audience for Mia, his eyes flitting from row to row, when the first questions from the floor brought him back to the role he was supposed to be playing.

Paul played his part with a fervor that was almost militant. He denounced, incriminated, and hurled accusations at the monsters of the totalitarian regime, adding a full-throated condemnation of the inertia of Western democracies. Several times, the crowd broke into spontaneous applause.

Just as he was starting to get even more carried away with his own eloquence, a sight stopped Paul midsentence. He had just seen Eun-Jeong, alias Kyong, in the audience. From the last row, her smile was enough to make him lose his train of thought.



Half-hidden behind a pillar, Mia smiled too, a serene and tender smile.