P.S. from Paris(77)

“Creston has contacts in the paparazzi circuit. Sometimes, he pays an even-higher price than the newspapers to keep her photos out of print. For Seoul, he was too late to make a difference. Anyway, he told all the photographers he knew—and he knows quite a few—that he would pay top dollar for a photograph of Mia, wherever it was taken, as long as it was dated. And yet, these were sent to him free of charge.”

Paul was about to ask Daisy if he could have one, when she gave them to him.

“She must have started a whole new life,” Paul said.

“She’s alone, isn’t she? Why do you seem so hurt, if she’s all alone?”

“Because . . . it hurts to have even a shred of hope.”

“You dummy! Not having hope is what makes people miserable. She was in Paris and she didn’t even come see me. That means she was on her own. Rebuilding her life. Creston received these photos a week ago. That’s why he decided to go looking for her. Before turning up here, he spent two days wandering around Paris, with the crazy idea that he might just bump into her on a street corner. The English really are mad! But you and I are here every day, so who knows . . . maybe with a little luck . . .”

“How do we know she’s still here?”

“Trust your instincts. If you really love her, you’ll be able to hear her heart beating . . . somewhere out there.”



Daisy was right. Paul didn’t know if it was just his imagination, or the powerful sense of hope he was trying in vain to ignore, but in the following weeks, he sometimes caught the scent of Mia’s perfume on street corners, as if she were walking ahead of him and he’d just missed her. Whenever it happened, he would quicken his pace, sure that he would see her around the next corner. He even found himself calling out to strangers and walking around at night, looking up at illuminated windows and half expecting to see her.



His novel was published. Or rather, Kyong’s story, which he had entirely rewritten, was published. It was the first time he had moved beyond the realm of fiction. Each night, he asked himself the same questions: Had he turned truth into fiction? Had he over-embellished or dramatized her story? He was aware of having given flesh and blood to Eun-Jeong’s characters. Where she had been content to list their trials and tribulations, tragic as they were, Paul had described their actual lives, portraying their suffering and their deepest emotions. He had done what any writer must do when he takes hold of a story he did not invent.

The press, too, took hold of the story. As soon as it was published, it provoked a whirlwind of interest that Paul couldn’t comprehend. Maybe it was just a passing trend, but at a time when everyone still wanted to believe in the virtues of individual freedom, turning a blind eye to the tightening noose beyond the borders of the East, ignoring the growing influence of dictators seeking shelter behind the power of national economies they had simply pocketed, a story denouncing what was undeniably a dictatorship hit a nerve and helped raise awareness. Paul was happy to accept this idea, especially as he did not take any personal credit for the book. In his eyes, it was all due to Eun-Jeong and her incredible courage.

The reviews were glowing, and Cristoneli’s desk piled up with interview requests. Paul refused them all.

For the first time, Paul saw his name on the cover of a book in the bestseller pile. He even found it in the self-declared temples of fashionable thinking.

And then rumors of a literary-prize nomination began to buzz in the corridors of his publishers’ offices.

Cristoneli took him out to lunch more and more often. He spoke of society events in Paris, opening his Moleskine diary and taking on a serious expression as he listed the cocktail parties and soirées where it was crucial Paul make an appearance. Paul avoided them all, and after a while stopped listening to the messages on his answering machine.

All the noises around him seemed to echo as if bouncing off the walls of an empty apartment.

It was six weeks before he saw Cristoneli again, this time at Café de Flore.

People stared at him, smiles of admiration or envy on their faces. But that evening, Cristoneli ordered champagne before announcing that about thirty foreign publishers had acquired the rights to his novel.

How ironic: his translator’s story would now be translated into thirty languages. As Cristoneli toasted this triumph, Paul could not help but wonder what Eun-Jeong would think. He had not been in touch with her at all since the book fair in Seoul.

Paul’s mind remained elsewhere, despite the celebration. He was going to have to brace himself, however, because it was only the beginning.





21


One day in autumn, Paul was disturbed around noon by the incessant ringing of his phone. He finally picked it up, only to find Cristoneli stammering on the line:

“M . . . M . . . M . . .”

“What?”

“La Me . . . Med . . .”

“Medication? That’s it, you’ve finally cracked.”

“No, for God’s sake! La Méditerranée! You call me crazy, but you’re late for your own party. Hurry up! Everyone’s waiting for you!”

“Well, that’s very nice of you, Gaetano, but what am I supposed to do in the Mediterranean?”

“Paul, shut up and listen to me very carefully, I beg you. You have won the Prix Médicis. The press are lined up waiting for you at the restaurant La Méditerranée at Place de l’Odéon. There’s a taxi for you outside right now. Is that clear enough for you?” Cristoneli yelled.