“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.”
“She’d better. Otherwise, I’m not buying it.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll give you a copy.”
“I won’t read it.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m counting on you. Now, let’s have a coffee and you can tell me what this critic does after he recognizes her. Is he a nice guy or a bastard?” Without giving Paul time to answer, she went on with the same impassioned tone, “I know what would be great: if he was a bastard to begin with and then he became a nice guy because of her—and she got her voice back because of him. Isn’t that a nice idea?”
Paul took a pen from his pocket and handed it to Mia.
“Here’s an idea. You write my novel while we stroll to the café, and then I can cook a bouillabaisse.”
“Are you going to be grumpy?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I have no desire to go for coffee with someone who’s grumpy.”
