“Did I hear you correctly? You did not write this novel?”
“No. This is a true story, from beginning to end, and one that does not belong to me. It was absolutely impossible for the woman behind the story to publish it under her own name. Her parents, her family, and the love of her life all live in North Korea and would have faced certain death if the writer’s name were made public. For this reason, I will never reveal her identity, but I refuse to take credit for her work.”
“I don’t understand,” Truelle exclaimed. “Then why publish it under your name in the first place?”
“I acted as a figurehead, by mutual agreement. The real Kyong had only one dream: that the story of her loved ones be known as widely as possible, that people around the world could finally know of their fate. There is no oil in North Korea, so our Western democracies turn a blind eye to one of the most horrific dictatorships in the world. I spent months immersing myself in her story, giving life to her characters, but I repeat: this story belongs entirely to her. She alone deserves the prize that I was awarded two days ago. I came on this program tonight to tell the truth. If and when the regime that oppresses her people at last comes tumbling down, I will reveal her name as soon as she allows me to. As for the royalties I’ve earned, they will be transferred directly to Amnesty International and similar organizations that work to help the victims of this abominable regime. I would like to apologize sincerely to my editor, who knew nothing of this until tonight, and apologize to the members of the Médicis jury as well. But let us not forget that this prize is awarded first and foremost based on the quality of the novel, not which author’s name is on the cover. To everyone watching this program, I would beg you to read it, in the name of liberty and hope. Thank you for your time.”
Paul stood up, shook hands with Truelle and the dumbfounded guests, and walked straight off the set.
Cristoneli awaited him backstage. They walked side by side in silence until they reached the lobby.
When they were alone, Cristoneli looked Paul in the eye and held out his hand.
“I am very proud to be your editor, even if I have the overwhelming desire to strangle you. It’s a fine book, and no great book can be published abroad without the work of a great translator. Now I can understand why you are going back to San Francisco for a while. I am very much looking forward to reading the further adventures of your opera singer. I loved the first chapters you allowed me to read, and I can’t wait to publish it.”
“Thank you, Gaetano, but you are by no means obligated. I’m afraid I may have lost any possible readers tonight.”
“I think quite the opposite is true. But only time will tell.”
22
Paul and his editor walked down the steps together. As they reached the empty sidewalk, a young man emerged from the shadows and approached them with a piece of paper.
“There. See? You still have at least one admirer,” said Cristoneli.
“Or else it’s one of Kim Jong-un’s agents sent to kill me.” Paul chuckled.
His editor refused to even crack a smile.
“For you,” the young man said, handing a small envelope to Paul.
He opened it and found a strange little handwritten note inside: Three pounds of carrots, one pound of flour, a packet of sugar, a dozen eggs, a pint of milk . . .
“Where did you get this?” Paul asked the young man, who pointed to a figure on the sidewalk across the street, then walked away.
A woman crossed the street toward him.
“Sorry to say I broke my promise after all,” said Mia. “I watched the show tonight.”
“It wasn’t a promise for forever,” Paul replied.
“Do you know why I fell in love with you so quickly?”
“I have no idea.”
“Because you’re so utterly incapable of pretending.”
“And . . . that’s a good thing?”
“No. It’s a wonderful thing.”
“I missed you, Mia. More than you could know. I missed you . . . ferociously.”
“Really? That much?”
“Take my word for it. After all, I am totally incapable of pretending.”
“Why don’t you stop all that talking and kiss me already?”
The two stood looking at each other in silence, holding their breath.
Cristoneli waited a few moments, glanced at his watch, and cleared his throat.
“As you two don’t seem in much of a rush, I’m going to take your taxi now and leave you to it. Mine should arrive shortly—take that one instead.”
He handed Paul the suitcase he’d been carrying for him.
Then he bowed to Mia, closed the cab door, lowered the window, and yelled out one last message as the car drove away.
“You sly fox, you!”
“Where is this taxi supposed to take you?” Mia asked.
“To my hotel, next to Roissy. I leave for San Francisco tomorrow morning.”
“But you’ll be back soon.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Can I call you, then?”
“I have a better idea. How about we get rid of the person sitting next to me on this flight, and you take their place? ’Cause I have a suitcase here full of culinary wonders just waiting for you.”
Paul put down his bag. The two met in a long kiss, right there in the street.
They kissed until they were startled by the sound of a taxi honking its horn.
Paul ushered Mia in first and sat down next to her.
Before telling the driver their destination, he turned to her and asked: “One question. This here, right now. Does this count?”
“Yes. This time . . . it really counts.”