P.S. from Paris(75)

David stared at her with contempt, then got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

The chauffeur asked Mia where she wanted to go. She told him to take the southbound expressway. Then she took out her phone to call Creston.

“I’m sorry, Mia, I wanted so much to be there for your last promotional appearance, but I can hardly walk with this damned sciatica. So, tell me. Do you feel free now?”

“Free of him, yes. And of you. But the rest is still there.”

“I did my best to protect you, you know. You made it impossible.”

“I know that. I don’t blame you, Creston. What’s done is done.”

“Any idea where you’re headed?”

“Sweden. Daisy keeps going on about it.”

“Pack lots of layers. It’s positively frigid there. Be sure to drop a line now and again.”

“I will. But not for a while.”

“In a few weeks, all of this will be behind you, with nothing but your glorious future lying ahead. So savor this time away, recharge your batteries.”

“Sounds beautiful. Like hitting the delete key, to wipe away all your mistakes and start over. Sadly, it only works that way in books. Good-bye, Creston. Get well soon.”

Mia hung up. Then she opened the window and threw her phone out of it.





20


“Tell me what happened after you watched the two of them on TV.”

“I paced around my apartment for a while. Then, at midnight, just when I thought I was going to snap, I picked up the phone and called you. I had no idea you’d be ringing my doorbell the next day, but I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”

“I came as fast as I could. You might recall doing the same for me, way back when.”

“Way back when, I only had to cross town.”

“You look awful, man.”

“Are you on your own, or have you got Lauren stashed away in your bag?”

“Why don’t you make me some coffee instead of just standing there blabbering?”

Arthur stayed with Paul for ten days, during which their friendship rekindled something like happiness in Paul’s heart.

In the mornings, they ate breakfast at Moustache’s café and chatted. In the afternoons, they strolled around Paris. Paul bought all sorts of useless objects—kitchen utensils, knickknacks, clothes he would never wear, books he would never read, and gifts for his godson. Arthur tried to curb his sudden shopaholic tendencies, but to no avail.

They had dinner at La Clamada two nights in a row.

Arthur found the food delicious and Daisy charming.

During one of these meals, Paul explained the bizarre, crazy plan that was occupying his mind. Arthur warned him of the dangers he would face. Paul could easily imagine the consequences, but he had no choice. It was the only way for him to reconcile the past, for both his job and his conscience.

“The day I saw Eun-Jeong at the Book Fair,” he said, “it was a long time before either of us could even get a word out. And then she started trying to justify her actions, which of course hadn’t done me any real harm, nor would they in the future. Thanks to her, I experienced fame and earned quite a bit of money, while she got to use my name to tell her story. A story that would never have been read beyond the borders of South Korea, because no one else cared about the fate of her people. In the end, everyone was a winner. All the same, I couldn’t just accept that I’d been living off her work. And even aside from the money, I was truly fascinated by her courage and her determination. She told me everything. How she would use her stays in Paris as a front in order to visit her networks. She swore her feelings for me were sincere, even though deep down she does love another man, a prisoner of the regime she’s struggling against. You probably think I should have put her in her place, but let me tell you, she was magnificent. And most of all, for the first time in months, I felt free. I wasn’t in love with her anymore. It wasn’t seeing her again that made me realize that, and it wasn’t discovering the truth about her, either. It was Mia . . . all Mia. When we said good-bye, I swore to myself that I would rewrite Kyong’s story, partly to reveal it to the world. And, I admit, perhaps partly to prove to myself that I could write it better than she could. My editor doesn’t know anything about this yet, and I can only imagine the look on his face when he cracks open that manuscript. But I’ll do everything I can to make him publish it.”

“Are you planning on telling him the truth?”

“No, I won’t tell a soul. You’re the only one who can know. Don’t even mention it to Lauren.”

At the end of the meal, Daisy joined them. They drank to life, friendship, and the promise of all the happiness yet to come.

Arthur went back to San Francisco. Paul took him to the airport and solemnly swore that he would come and visit his godson, now that he was barely afraid of flying anymore—just as soon as he’d finished his book.

Arthur left feeling reassured. Paul was in top form, and the only thing that mattered to him at that moment was his novel.



Paul worked relentlessly. He only stopped to visit Moustache’s café, and occasionally La Clamada.

One evening, while he and Daisy were sitting on a bench chatting, a caricaturist came by with a drawing.

Paul looked at it for a long time. It was a picture of a couple, seen from behind, sitting on the very bench he and Daisy were on at present.