P.S. from Paris(76)

“It’s from the summer,” the caricaturist told him. “That’s you, on the right. It’s nearly Christmas, so consider it my gift to you.”

As he was leaving, the caricaturist brushed Daisy’s hand, and she smiled at him with an air of mischief.



Two months later, as he was writing out the final lines of his novel, Paul got a call from Daisy. It was late at night, but she urged him to come as quickly as he could.

Paul detected a thrill in her voice that convinced him she’d heard from Mia.

In order to avoid getting stuck in traffic, he took the métro and then ran up Rue Lepic. He passed the Moulin de la Galette, panting and sweating despite the bitter cold. He burst into La Clamada, his lungs on fire, exultant, sure she would be there.

But the place was empty except for Daisy, who was standing behind the bar.

“What’s going on?” he asked, sitting down on a stool.

Daisy continued wiping glasses.

“I won’t tell you I talked to her recently, because that wouldn’t be true.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If you keep quiet, I’ll be able to tell you what I know. But first, let me make you a little cocktail. You look like you need it.”

Daisy took her time. She waited until he’d drunk it. The drink was so strong that Paul felt a sort of instant intoxication.

“Damn, that’s powerful!” he coughed.

“They used to give this drink to people who’d been lost in the Alps at night. Something to tear them from the jaws of death.”

“Tell me what you know, Daisy.”

“It isn’t much, but it’s something . . .”

She walked over to the cash register and took out a manila envelope, which she placed on the countertop. Paul was about to pick it up when she grabbed his hand.

“Wait, I have something else to bring up first. Do you know who Creston is?”

Paul remembered Mia mentioning the name in Seoul, talking about him as if he were a close friend—without, of course, ever revealing his true role in her life. He had even felt a little jealous.

“He’s her agent. Or rather, he was,” Daisy went on. “We have something in common, he and I, but it has to remain a secret, in case things work out one day.”

“What does that mean, ‘things work out’?”

“Shut up and let me finish. Creston and I have both taken her absence pretty hard. Initially I thought he was just hurting financially, but that’s not the case.”

“How do you know all this?”

“He was here last night. It’s always kind of strange, putting a face to a name. I thought he would look like one of those old English farts with a bowler hat and an umbrella . . . but he was nothing like the cliché. He’s in his fifties, very handsome, with a bone-crushing handshake. I like that. A firm handshake like that says a lot about a man. Your grip is like that, too. Anyway, he dined here alone last night. He waited until he’d paid the bill and the room was empty before he spoke to me. That was a classy move; if I had known who he was, I would never have allowed him to pay. In fact, I was the one who approached him. It’s possible he wouldn’t have even introduced himself if I hadn’t. As he was my last customer, I went to ask him if he’d enjoyed his meal. He hesitated for a moment, and then simply said: ‘Your scallops are outstanding. Now I understand why she was so in love with this place.’ He handed me this envelope, and when I opened it I understood what it was. He hasn’t heard from Mia in months himself. She only called once, to tell him she wanted to sell her apartment and everything in it, but she refused to say a word about where she was. When Creston saw the moving vans taking away her things, he went to the auction house to buy them back. He got everything. She was his protégée, you see. He couldn’t stand the idea of a stranger sitting at her desk or sleeping in her bed. All Mia’s furniture and belongings are currently in a storage unit on the outskirts of London.”

“So what’s in the envelope?” Paul demanded, nerves on edge.

“Be patient, just listen. He came to spend a night in a place she loved. I can’t blame him for that; if you only knew how long I’ve spent staring at the table where we used to eat together, or at her bench on Place du Tertre. I’ll let you in on a secret. I only give our table to customers when the restaurant is completely packed. Sometimes I even turn people away and leave it empty, because every night since she left, I’ve dreamt that she’ll walk through that door, asking if I have scallops on the menu.”

Paul couldn’t wait any longer. Without asking Daisy’s permission, he tore open the envelope. Inside were three photographs.

They had been taken from a distance, probably from the seating area of the restaurant that ran the length of the Carrousel du Louvre. People were lined up in front of the pyramid. Daisy pointed out one of the faces.

“She knows how to alter her appearance until she’s almost unrecognizable—I don’t need to tell you that—but Creston has no doubt: the woman in the middle of the crowd is her.”

Paul peered at the photograph, his heart racing. Daisy was right: no one would have recognized her, but they both knew it was Mia.

He felt a huge sense of relief when he saw the dimples on her cheeks. When they were in Seoul, he’d noticed that her dimples always appeared whenever she was truly happy. He asked Daisy how Creston had obtained the pictures.