“Couldn’t you have told me this on the phone?”
“Right you are, yes. But there is something else that is completely marvelful, and for this I had to see you in person.”
“I won the Korean Prix de Flore?”
“No! Imagine the Café de Flore opening a branch in Korea, where they start handing out French wine and literary prizes? Very original!”
“A good review in the Korean Elle?”
“It is possible, but I don’t read Korean, so unfortunately, I could not say.”
“All right, Gaetano, so tell me: What is this other marvelful news?”
“You are invited to the Seoul Book Fair.”
“In Korea.”
“Well, yes. This is where one would expect to find Seoul, yes?”
“A thirteen-hour flight away.”
“No, no, don’t exaggerate. It is eleven, maybe twelve—at the very most!”
“Lovely invitation, but you’ll have to apologize and say I can’t attend.”
“And why not? Tell me why,” Gaetano demanded, waving his arms around again.
Paul wondered what frightened him most: the flight, or the idea of meeting Kyong on her home territory. They had never seen each other anywhere but in Paris, where they had their points of reference. What would he do in a country where he didn’t speak the language, understood none of the customs? How would she react when faced with his total ignorance?
Another reason was that the plan of one day going to live there with her was, in his mind, a sort of pipe dream. The possibility of which was precisely what he wanted to avoid, at least for now.
Forcing his dreams into a head-on collision with reality risked their very survival.
“Kyong is like . . . the ocean in my life. And I’m like a guy with a fear of swimming. Ludicrous, isn’t it?”
“No, not at all. That is a very pretty sentence, even though I have no clue what you’re talking about. It could be the first line of your next novel. Immediately, the reader wants to know what happens next.”
“I’m not sure I came up with it. I might have read it somewhere.”
“Oh, in that case . . . let us return to our dear Korean friends. I have bought you a premium economy ticket: more leg space and a special seat that tilts back.”
“Don’t even mention tilts. The tilts and turns are exactly what I hate about flying.”
“Like everybody. All the same, it is the only way of getting there.”
“Then I won’t go.”
“My dear author—and you should know how dear you are to me, with the advances I pay you—we cannot live solely on your European royalties. If you want me to publish your next masterpiece, you must help me out a bit, do your share.”
“And that means going to Korea?”
“That means meeting the readers who actually read you. You will be welcomed there like a star. It will be fantasmic!”
“‘Fantasmic’ doesn’t exist. Nor does ‘marvelful,’ for that matter.”
“Well, now they do, yes?”
“I can only see one way of doing this,” Paul said, sighing. “And that’s if I take a sleeping pill in the business lounge, and you lug me onto the plane and get me to my seat in a wheelchair, and don’t wake me up until we land in Seoul.”
“I don’t think a premium economy ticket lets you into the business lounge. And besides, I cannot come with you.”
“You’re sending me over there all by myself?”
“I’m afraid I am very busy during those dates.”
“Wait, when is this supposed to happen?”
“You leave in three weeks. So you have plenty of time to prepare.”
“No. No way. Impossible,” Paul replied, shaking his head.
Although the neighboring tables were empty, Gaetano leaned toward his author, his tone turning urgent.
“Your future is in Korea. If you cement your success there, we’ll be able to get the whole of Asia interested in your work. Think about this: Japan, China . . . if we play this right, we might even be able to convince your American publisher to ride the wave with us. Once you have really cracked the American market, you will be a huge hit in France and the critics will adore you.”
“But I already cracked the American market!”
“With your first novel, yes. But ever since then . . .”
“It’s absurd. I live here in France! Why should I have to be successful all the way over in Asia and the US before people in Caen or Noirmoutier start reading my books?”
“Between you and me, I could not say, I haven’t a single clue. But that’s how it is. No prophet is accepted in his own country, et cetera. Especially a foreigner.”
Paul’s face sank down into his hands. He thought about Kyong, smiling as he arrived at the airport, saw himself gliding toward her with the casual ease of an experienced traveler. He imagined her apartment, her bedroom, her bed, and remembered the way she always looked as she undressed and the smell of her skin, and he dreamed of tender moments they had shared. And then, suddenly, Kyong morphed into a flight attendant, coldly announcing that there would be turbulence for the entire flight. His eyes popped open and he shuddered at the thought.
“Are you all right?” his editor asked.
“Yeah,” Paul mumbled. “Let me think about it, okay? I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”
“Here is your ticket,” said Gaetano, handing him an envelope. “And who knows, you might find fantastic material for a new novel while you’re out there! You’ll meet hundreds of readers, they’ll tell you how much they love your books. It will be an even more amazifying experience than the publication of your first novel.”
“My French editor is Italian, I’m an American writer living in Paris, and most of my readers are in Korea. Why is my life so damn complicated?”
“It’s you, my dear friend. Take it from me. Catch this plane and stop acting like a spoiled child. I have other authors who would kill to be in your shoes.”
Gaetano paid the bill and left Paul alone at the table.
Arthur and Lauren met him outside the church on Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés, a half hour after he had called them.
“So what’s the emergency?” Arthur asked.
“I don’t even know where to start. Feels like somebody with a cruel sense of humor is meddling with my . . . destiny,” Paul replied, looking dead serious.
Lauren snorted out a laugh from behind his back, and Paul turned to face her. She tried to cover it up quickly with a concerned look.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I have allergies. Pollen. Go on, cruel sense of humor . . . ?”
“Maybe cruel is an understatement. Call it twisted,” Paul went on, sighing.
Lauren snorted once more, even louder.
“Please inform your wife that she is starting to get on my nerves,” Paul grumbled, turning back to Arthur.
He walked to a bench and sat down. Arthur and Lauren followed suit, sitting on either side of him.
“Is it really that bad?” Lauren asked.
“Well . . . not in itself, I suppose.”
And he told them about the conversation with his editor.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Arthur advised him, giving Lauren a look that Paul could not interpret.
“Well, I don’t want to. Not at all.”
“So that’s it, then,” Arthur said.