They passed a bookshop specializing in antique manuscripts. In the window were a letter written by Victor Hugo and a Rimbaud poem scribbled on a piece of paper torn from a notepad.
Mia peered in at them, fascinated. “A poem or a nice letter couldn’t be an evil talisman, could it?”
“No, I’d say you’re in the clear.”
She opened the door of the shop.
“It’s really a beautiful thing,” she said, “to hold a letter by an illustrious writer in your hands. It’s a bit like entering a private world, becoming a confidante. A century from now, maybe people will marvel over the lettersyouwrote to your translator. She’ll have become your wife, and those letters will mark the beginning of a precious and powerful correspondence.”
“There’s no way I’ll ever be considered an illustrious writer, Mia.”
“I must say I disagree.”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve read any of my novels.”
“I’ve read two so far, for your information. The letters from the mother in the first one brought me to tears.”
“There you go, messing with me again.”
“I am not! Cross my heart. I would do a full reenactment, but bawling in here seems a bit inappropriate.”
“Wow. I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“No, you’re not. That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile all day.”
“I guess in a way it does make me happy . . . not because you cried, but . . . okay, fine, yes, because you cried. To celebrate, let me take you to Ladurée for some pastries. It’s not far and their macarons are absolutely life changing. But there I go again, trying to tell a chef what’s what about food.”
“Sounds good, but I will need to head back to the restaurant right after. My cooking won’t be quite so delightful if I’m not there to supervise it.”
They sat at a table in the corner and ordered a hot chocolate for Mia and a coffee for Paul, along with an assortment of macarons. The waitress kept staring at them as she prepared their drinks. They could see her whispering to a coworker, the two of them stealing peeks in Paul and Mia’s direction.
Shit, she’s recognized me. Where are the toilets? No, I can’t go to the loo—she might talk to him while I’m gone. If it gets out that I was seen here with a man, Creston will kill me! My only option is to convince her that she has mistaken me for someone else.
The waitress came back a few minutes later and, putting the cups down, asked in a shy voice: “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but notice. Aren’t you—”
“Nope, I’m not who you think,” Paul replied sternly. “Wrong guy, sorry!”
Deeply embarrassed, the young woman apologized and walked away.
Mia, whose face had gone bright red, put on her sunglasses and turned to Paul.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her. “That does happen to me occasionally.”
“I understand,” said Mia, whose heart was still pounding. “So it’s not only in Seoul that you’re famous?”
“Just this specific neighborhood, but that’s it. Believe me, I could spend two hours in the book section of a Fnac without any of the staff recognizing me. Which is a good thing, of course. But she must have been one of my readers—I shouldn’t have treated her like that.”
Your ego just saved me!“Don’t worry about it. Next time you come here, bring a signed copy of one of your books. I’m sure she’d love that.”
“Now that is an excellent idea.”
“So, tell me. What’s happening with your opera singer?”
“The critic follows her home. He approaches her, but without revealing his suspicions. He introduces himself as a writer and says she looks like a character from one of his novels. Maybe, just maybe . . . he’s starting to feel something for her.”
“And what about her?”
“I’m not quite sure yet, it’s too early to tell. What she doesn’t admit is that she noticed him a long time ago. She’s scared, but at the same time she feels less lonely.”
