“All right, all right . . .” Mia sighed, wondering how to get out of this tight spot. “The film was a total bore, so I left, and so did the guy who’d been sitting next to me. We bumped into each other outside and ended up having a drink at a café. He left his phone by accident, I picked it up, and now I’m going to give it back to him. Now you know the whole story. Happy?”
“And what was he like, this guy from the cinema?”
“Not much to tell. I mean, he was okay. Pretty nice.”
“Okay and pretty nice!”
“Stop it, Daisy. We had a drink, that’s all.”
“Just a little weird you neglected to mention any of this when you came home last night. You sure were a lot chattier the night before.”
“I was bored to death and felt like having a drink. You can imagine whatever you want. I’m going to give him his phone back and that’ll be the end of it.”
“If you say so. Are you coming round to help out at the restaurant tonight?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. I just thought you might want to go to the cinema again . . .”
Mia stood up, put her plate in the dishwasher, and went off to take a shower without saying another word.
Paul was waiting on the pavement outside the opera house, which teemed with people. He recognized her face as she climbed the stairs out of the métro. She was wearing sunglasses and a head scarf, and carrying her purse on her arm.
He waved to her. She smiled back shyly and moved toward him.
“Don’t ask me how it happened, I have no idea,” she said by way of greeting.
“How what happened?” Paul replied.
“I don’t have a clue. I suppose it must have slipped in.”
“Tell me you haven’t started drinking this early in the day . . .”
“Hold on a second,” she went on, plunging her hand inside the bag.
She searched in vain, lifting one leg so she could rest the bag on her knee and continue her search, balanced somewhat precariously.
“Are you a flamingo?”
With a look of reproach, she produced the telephone with a flourish.
“I’m not a thief. I have no clue how it ended up in my bag.”
“The thought never even crossed my mind.”
“So we’re agreed that this time doesn’t count?”
“What do you mean, doesn’t count?”
“You didn’t call me because you wanted to see me, and I didn’t come because I wanted to see you. Your phone is the sole reason for this encounter.”
“Okay, fine. It doesn’t count. Can I have it back now?”
She handed him the phone.
“Why the Opera?”
Paul turned to look at the ornate building behind him.
“My next novel is set here. Have you ever been inside?”
“Have you?”
“Dozens of times, even when it was closed to the public.”
“Show-off!”
“Not at all. I just know the director.”
“So tell me: What exactly happens inside this opera house?”
“Opera, of course, but in my story, the main character is an opera singer who loses her voice, then ends up lingering at the opera house, sort of haunting the place.”
“Oh.”
“What do you mean, ‘oh’?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re not going to leave me with just ‘oh’ and ‘nothing,’ are you?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t have a clue. But you’d better think of something.”
“How about we admire the fa?ade together for a minute?”
“Writing is a fragile thing—unimaginably fragile. Your ‘oh’ is enough to give me three solid days of writer’s block.”
“Really? Is my ‘oh’ truly that powerful? Let me assure you that it was a perfectly harmless ‘oh.’”
“A book’s description is anything but harmless. It can absolutely make or break a book. It can even decide its fate in a lot of ways.”
“Wait. Are you saying that what you just told me is the actual synopsis of the story?”
“Oh, fantastic! Now we’ve bumped it up to at least a week of writer’s block.”
“I should probably simply stop talking.”
“Too late. Damage has already been done.”
“Oh, you’re pulling my leg!”
“No, I’m serious. People think writing is an easy job, and in some ways it is. Flexible hours, no boss, no real structure . . . but working without any structure is a bit like sailing a boat in the middle of the ocean. All it takes is an unexpected wave and you’re dead in the water. Try asking an actor if someone coughing in the middle of a play can make them forget their lines. Maybe that’s tough for you to imagine . . .”
“Right, it probably is,” Mia replied abruptly. “I am truly sorry. I really didn’t intend for my ‘oh’ to upset you so badly.”
“No, it’s not your fault. I’m just in a bit of a funk. I didn’t manage to get a single word down last night, and I was up really late.”
“Because of our dinner?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Mia looked attentively at Paul.
“It’s too crowded here,” she announced.
And, as Paul seemed confused, she took him by the hand and led him toward the steps of the opera house.
“Sit down,” she ordered, then sat two steps above him. “Tell me what happens to your main character. The girl?”
“Are you really interested?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”
“No one can figure out what’s wrong with her. She’s not sick. She spends all she has on a bunch of treatments that don’t do a thing, and ends up living like a recluse inside her apartment. Because the opera was her life, and because she is now too poor to even go as a spectator, she gets a job as an usher. The same people who used to pay a fortune to hear her sing are now slapping a stingy little tip in her hand when she shows them to their seats. Then, one day at the opera, a music critic catches sight of her and is sure that he recognizes her.”
“Nice role. Seems promising. So what happens next?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t written it yet.”
“Does it have a happy ending?”
“How should I know?”
“Oh, come on—tell me it has a happy ending.”
“Will you give it a rest with your ‘oh’s? I haven’t figured out the ending yet.”
“Don’t you think we have enough tragedy in real life? People suffer more than enough misfortune, deceit, cowardice, and cruelty. Why would you want to add to all that by putting stories out there with unhappy endings?”
“Novels should reflect reality to some extent, otherwise they risk being sentimental.”
“Who cares? All the people who don’t like happy endings can go and wallow in their own pessimism, as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Well, it’s all a question of common sense and courage. What is the point of acting or writing or painting or sculpting, of taking any of those risks, if not to make people happy? Why write tearjerkers just because they get you better reviews? You know what you have to do to win an Oscar these days? Play a character who’s lost an arm, or a leg, or a mother, or a father, or preferably all of the above. Make it miserable and squalid and base, so people will cry their eyes out and call you a genius, but if you inspire people or make them laugh? You’re not even under consideration when awards season rolls around. I’m sick of this cultural hegemony of depression. Your novel needs a happy ending. Full stop!”
“Okay, then,” Paul replied tentatively. A little taken aback by the emotion on her face and in her tone, he had absolutely no desire to upset her any further.
“So she’ll get her voice back, won’t she?”
“We’ll see.”