“You think?”
“How is it I sometimes feel like I know your best friend better than you do? Or at least the way his mind works.”
With that, Lauren went out to make breakfast.
In the living room, she could see Paul asleep on the sofa. As soon as she entered, he opened his eyes and yawned, then slowly got up.
“Didn’t quite make it to your bed, huh?”
“I was working late. I only meant to take a break, but it seems I must have crashed.”
“Do you always work that late?”
“Yeah, pretty often.”
“You look awful. You have to stop burning the candle at both ends.”
“Is that my physician speaking?”
“No. It’s your friend.”
While Lauren poured him a cup of coffee, Paul checked his email, even though he knew that Kyong almost never replied right away. Nonetheless, he retired to his bedroom with a stung look on his face.
Just at that moment, Arthur came in. Lauren waved him over.
“What?” he whispered.
“Maybe we should push back our departure a few days.”
“What’s up with him?”
“Nothing’s up, everything’s down. He seems really bummed.”
“He was in good spirits just last night.”
“That was last night.”
“Hey! My spirits are fine!” Paul shouted from his room. “And I can hear every word you’re saying,” he added as he came through to join them. Arthur and Lauren remained silent for a moment.
“Why don’t you come along with us, spend a few days in the South?” Arthur suggested.
“Because I’m writing a novel. I leave in three weeks and I want to have at least a hundred pages for Kyong. And, more importantly, I want her to like those pages. I want her to be proud of me.”
“You need to stop living in your books, man, and try living in the real world for a change. You need to go out and meet people—and I don’t just mean other writers.”
“I meet plenty of people during book signings.”
“And I’m sure you have very meaningful exchanges with them, spanning ‘hello,’ ‘thank you,’ and deep thoughts like ‘good-bye,’” Arthur said. “Do you call them on the phone when you’re feeling lonely?”
“No, I have you for that, even if the time difference is sometimes tricky. Please stop worrying about me. If I keep listening to you, I’m going to end up believing I have a problem—and I don’t. I like my life, I like my work, I like spending the night diving into my stories, I like the way it feels. You know the feeling, Lauren. You like the way it feels to spend nights in the OR sometimes, don’t you?”
“I don’t like it, though,” Arthur sighed.
“But it’s her life, and you don’t try to stop her, because you love her just the way she is,” Paul replied. “We’re not so different. Enjoy your romantic getaway, and if my Korean trip cures me of my flying phobia, I’ll come and see you in San Francisco in the fall. Now, there’s a nice title for a novel: Autumn in San Francisco.”
“True. But only if you’re the main character.”
Arthur and Lauren packed their suitcases. Paul accompanied them to the station, and when the train pulled away from the platform, in spite of everything he’d told them, he felt the heavy weight of solitude bearing down on his shoulders.
He stood a few moments in the place where he’d said good-bye to his friends. Then, hands in pockets, he turned on his heel.
When he picked up his car from the parking lot, he found a note stuck to the windshield.
If you move to Seoul, I will come and see you in the fall—I promise.
Autumn in Seoul could also be a nice title.
I’m gonna miss you, man.
Arthur
He read the note twice, then put it in his wallet.
After wondering how to brighten up his morning, he decided to go to the Opera. There was a favor he wanted to ask the director.
Mia was sitting on the bench in Place du Tertre, lost in Paul’s words. The caricaturist was watching her. He must have seen her open her purse and take out a tissue, because he left his easel to go and sit next to her.
“Bad day?” he asked.
“No, good book.”
“A real—what do they call it—tearjerker?”
“Actually, up to now it’s been very funny. But the main character just got a letter from his mother after her death. I know it’s ridiculous, but it really touched me.”
“There’s nothing ridiculous about expressing your feelings. Did you lose your own mother?”
“Oh, no, she’s very much alive. But I would love it if she wrote me something like this.”
“Maybe one day she will.”
“That’d be very surprising, given our relationship.”
“Do you have children?”
“No.”
“Then wait till you’re a mother yourself. You’ll view your childhood very differently, and your mother through completely new eyes.”
“I don’t really see how I could.”
“There is no such thing as the perfect parent, just like there is no such thing as the perfect child. I should go, though—there’s a tourist hanging around my stand. Oh, that reminds me—what did your friend think of her portrait?”
“I still haven’t given it to her. I’m sorry, it slipped my mind. I’ll do it tonight.”
“No hurry. It was just sitting in my portfolio.”
And the caricaturist returned to his easel.
Paul sneaked in through the artists’ entrance. Stagehands were busy moving parts of the set. He walked around them, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the director’s door.
“I’m sorry. Do we have a meeting?”
“No, but it won’t take long. I have a small favor to ask.”
“Another one?”
“Yeah, but this one’s really small.”
Paul made his request and the director refused. He had made an exception for him before, but for him alone. Because the Opera was being used as the backdrop for Paul’s novel, the director had wanted things to be described as they were rather than as one might imagine them. But the areas prohibited to the public had to remain prohibited.
“I understand,” said Paul, “but the woman is my assistant.”
“Was she your assistant when you entered my office?”
“Of course. I didn’t hire her in the last thirty seconds.”
“You said she was ‘a friend’!”
“She’s my friend and my assistant. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
The director stared at the ceiling as he thought.
“No, I’m sorry. I can’t allow it. And please don’t insist.”
“Then don’t blame me if I get anything wrong in my descriptions of your Opera.”
“All you need to do is devote more time to your research. Now I must ask you to leave. This is a busy time for the Opera.”