P.S. from Paris(72)

A taxi dropped him off at Rue de Bretagne. He picked up the keys to his apartment at the Café du Marché, went home, and dumped his suitcase in the hall, without bothering to read his mail or call Cristoneli to return his messages.

Showered and dressed in clean clothes, he drove to Montmartre, parked on Rue Norvins, and walked to La Clamada.

Catching sight of him from the kitchen, Daisy came out into the main room.

“Tell me where she is,” Paul said.

“Sit down. We need to talk,” Daisy replied, slipping behind the bar.

“Is she up at your place?”

“Can I get you a coffee? Or a glass of wine?”

“I need to see Mia. Right away.”

“She’s not at my place. I couldn’t really say where she is. Back in England would be my best guess. She left over a week ago, and I haven’t heard a word from her since.”

Paul peered past Daisy’s shoulder. She followed his gaze to the old spice box, on the counter beside the percolator.

“All right,” she conceded. “She was here yesterday morning, but only very briefly. Was that present really from you?”

Paul nodded.

“It’s beautiful. I’m very touched, thank you. Could I ask what’s going on between you two?”

“No, you can’t,” Paul replied.

Daisy didn’t insist. She poured him a coffee.

“Her life is more complicated than it seems, and she is a more complicated woman than she’d like to admit. But I love her just the way she is. She’s my best friend. She’s finally decided to make a rational choice, and she has to stick to it. Let her. If you’re truly her friend, let her do what’s best for herself.”

“You’re telling me she’s back in London? Or back with her ex?”

“Listen, I have lots of customers and lunch isn’t going to cook itself. Come see me tonight after ten. It’ll be quieter then. I’ll make you dinner, and we can talk. I read one of your novels, you know—I loved it.”

“Which one?”

“The first one, I think. I got it from Mia.”

Paul said good-bye to Daisy and left the restaurant, noticing a missed call from Cristoneli. He drove to Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

Cristoneli came out of his office and welcomed Paul with open arms.

“There’s my favorite superstar!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around him. “So? I bet you’re glad I twisted your arm and made you go to Korea, yes?”

“Easy . . . you’re smothering me, Gaetano!”

Cristoneli stepped back and adjusted Paul’s jacket.

“My Korean colleague sent me an email with all the press cuttings—and, my God, what a lot of them there are! They haven’t been translated yet, but apparently the reviews have been staggering. Seems you are a total smash in Korea!”

“We need to talk,” Paul muttered.

“Of course we need to talk . . . as long as you’re not looking for another advance. You sly fox!” Cristoneli said jovially, slapping him on the shoulder.

“You’ve got it all wrong. This whole thing is so complicated.”

“It’s never simple with women. And by women, I mean the normal ones, the type you meet every day. But you? You play for the keeping!”

“It’s ‘You play for keeps.’”

“Same thing. But you can have it your way today, my friend. Come on, let’s have a drink to celebrate . . .”

“From the sound of it, maybe you’ve had enough already. You’re even harder to decipher than usual.”

“Me? Maybe it’s you, all messed up in the head . . . but who could blame you! Oh, Paul! You sly fox, you!”

“This whole ‘sly fox’ thing is really starting to get on my nerves. What exactly did Eun-Jeong say to you?”

“Eun-Je-who?”

“My Korean editor. Who else are we talking about?”

“Listen, my dear Paul, my lips are moving, but I don’t think you’re hearing the words coming from my mouth. Maybe the airplane make your eardrums go pop? Pressure in the cabin, something like that. I cannot stand the airplanes; I refuse to fly unless I have no other choice. When I go to Milan, I take the train—a little long, admittedly, but at least I don’t have to go through an X-ray before getting on board. Anyway, how about that drink? You sly fox, you!”

They sat at an inside table at the Deux Magots. Paul gestured at a folder Cristoneli had placed on the seat beside him.

“If that’s the contract for my next novel, we seriously need to talk first.”

“I thought we already had you under contract? Hmmm, maybe you’re right. I sometimes wonder what my assistant is really up to. Anyway, I hope you are not going to take advantage of the situation, considering all the years I have supported you, through good and bad! But you can walk me through your next masterpiece another time. Right now, I want you to spill the details—all the details—just between you and me. I won’t tell a soul. These lips are peeled!” Cristoneli whispered, putting a finger to his lips.

“Gaetano! What are you on?” Paul asked, taken aback.

“What kind of a question is this?”

“Help me understand: What did Eun-Jeong tell you?”