“How do you know all this?”
“He was here last night. It’s always kind of strange, putting a face to a name. I thought he would look like one of those old English farts with a bowler hat and an umbrella . . . but he was nothing like the cliché. He’s in his fifties, very handsome, with a bone-crushing handshake. I like that. A firm handshake like that says a lot about a man. Your grip is like that, too. Anyway, he dined here alone last night. He waited until he’d paid the bill and the room was empty before he spoke to me. That was a classy move; if I had known who he was, I would never have allowed him to pay. In fact, I was the one who approached him. It’s possible he wouldn’t have even introduced himself if I hadn’t. As he was my last customer, I went to ask him if he’d enjoyed his meal. He hesitated for a moment, and then simply said: ‘Your scallops are outstanding. Now I understand why she was so in love with this place.’ He handed me this envelope, and when I opened it I understood what it was. He hasn’t heard from Mia in months himself. She only called once, to tell him she wanted to sell her apartment and everything in it, but she refused to say a word about where she was. When Creston saw the moving vans taking away her things, he went to the auction house to buy them back. He got everything. She was his protégée, you see. He couldn’t stand the idea of a stranger sitting at her desk or sleeping in her bed. All Mia’s furniture and belongings are currently in a storage unit on the outskirts of London.”
“So what’s in the envelope?” Paul demanded, nerves on edge.
“Be patient, just listen. He came to spend a night in a place she loved. I can’t blame him for that; if you only knew how long I’ve spent staring at the table where we used to eat together, or at her bench on Place du Tertre. I’ll let you in on a secret. I only give our table to customers when the restaurant is completely packed. Sometimes I even turn people away and leave it empty, because every night since she left, I’ve dreamt that she’ll walk through that door, asking if I have scallops on the menu.”
Paul couldn’t wait any longer. Without asking Daisy’s permission, he tore open the envelope. Inside were three photographs.
They had been taken from a distance, probably from the seating area of the restaurant that ran the length of the Carrousel du Louvre. People were lined up in front of the pyramid. Daisy pointed out one of the faces.
“She knows how to alter her appearance until she’s almost unrecognizable—I don’t need to tell you that—but Creston has no doubt: the woman in the middle of the crowd is her.”
Paul peered at the photograph, his heart racing. Daisy was right: no one would have recognized her, but they both knew it was Mia.
He felt a huge sense of relief when he saw the dimples on her cheeks. When they were in Seoul, he’d noticed that her dimples always appeared whenever she was truly happy. He asked Daisy how Creston had obtained the pictures.
“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.