The novel was published six months later. The day after it was released in bookshops, Paul found himself sharing the elevator at work with two architect colleagues, both of whom were holding a copy of his book. They congratulated him, and Paul, in a state of shock, waited until they got out before pressing the ground-floor button. He went to the coffee shop where he had breakfast every morning. The barista asked him to sign the copy she had bought. Paul’s hand trembled as he held the pen. He paid his bill, went back home, and began to reread his novel.
With every page, he sank a little deeper into his chair, wishing he could melt into it and never have to come out again. He had put a part of himself into the book, part of his childhood, his dreams, his hopes and failures. Without realizing it, without ever imagining that, one day, strangers would read it. Or, even worse, people he rubbed shoulders with, people he worked with. Paul, whose loud voice and friendly manner disguised an almost-pathological shyness, sat there wide-eyed and helpless, yearning only to become invisible, like the character in his book was. Paul went into hibernation—and was only forced to come out when Arthur knocked on his door and drove him out of his hideaway. Unlike Paul, Arthur was delighted by the book’s reception, and he brought good news.
The originality of the story had captured the media’s attention. Maureen, the assistant at the architecture agency, had lovingly prepared a scrapbook of press clippings for him. Most of their clients had already read the book and called to offer their congratulations.
A film producer had tried to reach him at the agency and—Arthur kept the best for last—City Lights Bookstore, where he was a regular customer, had told him that the novel was selling like hotcakes. For the moment, his success was confined to the Bay Area, but at this rate, the bookseller was certain, it would soon spread across the whole country.
On the terrace of the restaurant where he had dragged Paul, Arthur told his friend he needed a shave, and to pay more attention to his appearance generally, to return his editor’s calls (the poor man had already left twenty messages at the office), and, above all, to embrace the luck that had fallen into his lap instead of moping around as if somebody had died.
Paul remained silent for quite some time, then took a deep breath and thought that fainting in public would only make things worse. The final straw came when a woman, recognizing his face, interrupted their lunch to ask if his novel was autobiographical.
In a solemn tone, Paul told his friend that, having given it a great deal of thought over the past week, he was going to hand over the reins of the agency to Arthur. It was Paul’s turn to take a sabbatical.
“To do what?” Arthur asked, a little shaken up.
To disappear, Paul thought. In order to spare himself a lecture, he came up with an airtight pretext: to write a second novel, or at least try. How could Arthur object to that?
“If that’s really what you want. I mean, you did the same for me when I was having a tough time and ran off to Paris. So . . . where exactly are you headed?”
Paul hadn’t given the question a moment’s thought, and seized on his friend’s comment: “Paris. You went on so much about it. The City of Light, all the wonders, bistros, bridges, the hustle and bustle of the arrondissements, the women . . . Who knows, with a bit of luck, maybe I can track down that gorgeous florist I heard so much about.”
“Maybe,” Arthur replied tersely. “But not everything was as magical as I made it out to be.”
“That’s because you were a mess, back then. I just need a change of scenery . . . to shake things up, get the creative juices flowing.”
“If that’s really why you’re going, then we’ll be happy for you. And when are you leaving?”
“Let’s have a dinner party at your place tonight. We can invite Pilguez and his wife, so the whole gang will be there to say good-bye. Then tomorrow, I’m off to France!”
Paul’s plan clearly saddened Arthur. Paul knew his old friend had thought about protesting, or trying to insist it would be better for the agency if he waited a few months. If the roles had been reversed, of course, Paul would have done everything in his power to help, knowing that work would sort itself out.
After saying good-bye, Paul went home in a state of absolute dread. What on earth had come over him? Moving to Paris! On his own!
Pacing his apartment, he began trying to come up with arguments in favor of this crazy, improbable escape. Arthur had done it, so why not him? The second argument, even more convincing than the first, concerned the charms of Parisian women. And the third was that, ultimately, he could actually try writing another novel . . . which he wouldn’t publish . . . or would only publish abroad. That way, he would be able to return to San Francisco once things had settled down. When all was said and done, there really was only one resounding argument: writer . . . American . . . single . . . in Paris!
And in Paris, where he had been living now for the past seven years, Paul had written five other novels. Growing wary of affairs with Parisian women, whose mood swings he found incomprehensible, he had chosen celibacy. Or maybe, more aptly put: celibacy had chosen him.
His five novels had not been as successful as he had hoped they would be. Not in Europe, anyway, or the United States. For some reason, however, they were very popular in Asia, and especially in Korea.
For the past few years, Paul had been romantically involved with his Korean translator. Twice a year, Kyong would come and visit him for one week, never any longer. She loved silence, and Paul was terrified of it. He sometimes imagined he had taken up writing precisely in order to fill the silence, the way ink filled a blank page. He and Kyong spent fourteen and a half days together every year, including trips to and from the airport.
When Kyong was there, he would spend hours looking at her without being able to tell if she was truly beautiful or only seemed so in his eyes. She liked when Paul looked at her with a gaze full of desire, and he was far more in love with her than he liked to admit. The only problem was that, when they were together, he could never find the right words, though words were supposedly his area of expertise—and hers too.
Although they didn’t see each other very often, they had their habits. Whenever she was in Paris, she liked to go to the cinema on Rue Apollinaire, as if the venue were more important than the film; she liked to walk across Pont des Arts, and to eat ice cream at Berthillon, even in the middle of winter. She seemed to like all those things more than his writing, the very thing that had brought them together.