P.S. from Paris(71)
She hadn’t taken her eyes off Paul, feeling a tug at her heartstrings each time the audience applauded. Then, as the students pressed toward the stage to get his autograph, she lost sight of him.
Having been through similar experiences many times herself, she could imagine the sense of euphoria he must be feeling at that moment, surrounded by his admirers.
Kyong was the last person to approach the stage.
“Still no sign of Mia, right?” Paul asked Ms. Bak, who was waiting outside the small room where he had taken refuge.
“Your colleague was in attendance for the speech,” she replied, pointing to the place where Mia had stood, “but she asked to be taken back to the hotel.”
“When was this?”
“Just over an hour ago, I would say. She left while you were talking to Ms. Eun-Jeong.”
This time, it was Paul who hurried his press officer toward the limousine.
He rushed across the hotel lobby toward the elevators, then sprinted down the corridor to their suite, stopping short to straighten his clothes and run his fingers through his hair before opening the door.
“Mia?”
He went into the bathroom. Her toothbrush was no longer in the glass, and her toiletry bag was gone from the rim of the sink.
Paul walked back into the bedroom and found a note lying on the bolster.
Paul,
Thank you for being there for me, thank you for your joyful nature, your lapses of sanity, and for this unexpected journey that began with a walk over the rooftops of Paris. Thank you for managing, against all odds, to bring laughter back into my life. Laughter, and new memories.
Our paths must part tonight. These past few days have been a dream.
I understand the dilemma you are facing and how you must be feeling. You’ve been living a life that wasn’t truly yours, in love with the idea of happiness rather than happiness itself. In some ways, you don’t even know who you are anymore. But you are not responsible for this duplicity, and there’s no way I can help guide you through the coming choices.
Because you love her, because her treachery was so sublime, not to mention heroic, you should forgive her. Perhaps that’s what it means, in the end, to truly love someone. Forgiveness, without reservations and above all without regrets. Hitting the delete key and erasing the gray pages so that you can rewrite them in full color. Better still, maybe love is fighting tooth and nail to make sure the story has a happy ending. Take care of yourself, even if that phrase doesn’t mean very much. I will truly miss your company and all the intimate moments we have shared.
I can’t wait to find out what happens to our opera singer. Please hurry up and write her story so I can read it.
May your life be full of beauty—you deserve nothing less.
Your friend,
Mia
PS: Don’t worry about yesterday—it doesn’t count.
“No, you got it all wrong—she’s the one who doesn’t count,” Paul muttered as he folded up the letter.
He rushed out of the room and back down to Reception.
“Tell me what time she left,” he begged the concierge, gasping for breath.
“I’m not sure exactly what time,” the concierge replied. “The young lady requested a car.”
“To go where?”
“The airport.”
“Which flight?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you, sir. We didn’t make the reservation.”
Paul turned toward the glass double doors. Under the awning, he could see Ms. Bak about to get in the limousine. He rushed outside, pushed her out of the way, and climbed in behind the chauffeur.
“The airport, international departures. Get me there fast and you’ll have the biggest tip of your life.”
Ms. Bak rapped on the window, but the chauffeur set off at top speed, and she was forced to watch as the limousine vanished in the distance.
I’ll be the one to make a surprise entrance on the plane this time, and if the person sitting next to you won’t give up his seat, I’ll yank him up by the lapels and shove him in the overhead compartment. No fear this time, not even during takeoff, and we can make do with airline meals. I’ll even give you mine if you’re still hungry. We’ll watch the same film this time. Because this counts, Mia. It counts far more than all those novels I didn’t write . . .
The chauffeur weaved in and out of traffic, but the farther into the suburbs they advanced, the busier the roads became.
“It’s rush hour, sir,” he said. “I could try a different way, but it might take even longer.”
Paul begged him to do his best.
Tossed back and forth in the backseat of the limousine, he rehearsed what he would say to Mia when he saw her again: the resolutions he had made, what he’d told Kyong, whose name was actually Eun-Jeong, and who wasn’t even Paul’s translator at all. She had actually been his Korean editor all along.
An hour and a half later, Paul paid the chauffeur.
He ran into the terminal and looked up at the Departures board. There were no flights for Paris displayed.
At the Air France desk, the agent informed him that the plane had taken off thirty minutes earlier. There was still one free seat on the next day’s flight.
19
As soon as the wheels of his plane touched ground, Paul switched on his phone and tried calling Mia. After getting her voicemail three times in a row, he hung up. The things he had to say to her could not be left in a message.