“I think you’re being extremely harsh. And cynical. Also, for your information, I took acting classes myself.”
“Maybe, but I’ve been out with a few of those losers. Although I must admit your writer here does look like a nice guy from the picture, with those three huge sticks of cotton candy . . . He must have three kids.”
“Either that or one giant sweet tooth!”
“Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to preparing for ‘your role.’ I have to go set up the lunch shift.”
“Wait a second. That little envelope icon and the speech balloon under the photo . . . what are those?”
“The envelope contains any messages he sends you. And that speech balloon, if it’s green, means you can connect to chat with him. But don’t start messing with that, and certainly not from my computer. There are also certain . . . codes and customs you should know about.”
“Like what?”
“If he asks you to meet him at a café in the early evening, it means he’s hoping to get laid first, then eat dinner afterward. If he mentions ‘restaurant,’ that might be better, but you have to find out where he lives. If it’s less than five hundred yards from the place he’s chosen, that tells you a lot about his intentions. If he doesn’t order a starter, he’s a cheapskate. If he orders for you, he’s a super-cheapskate. If he just talks about himself for the first fifteen minutes, run for your life. If he mentions his ex within the first half hour, he’s not over her. If he starts digging around with questions about your past, he’s the jealous type. If he asks you about your short-term plans, he’s trying to gauge if you’ll sleep with him that night. If he keeps checking his mobile, he’s got several prospects going at once. If he tells you how unhappy he is, he’s looking for a mother, not a lover. If he goes on and on about the wine he chose and how great it is, he’s a show-off. If he tries splitting the bill, chivalry is dead and so are his chances of a second date. And if he says he’s forgotten his credit card, your Romeo might just be a con artist.”
“And us? Are there rules for what we’re supposed to say or not say?”
“Us?”
“You, us, whatever. I’m asking: What is one expected to do?”
“Mia, I have to work. ‘We’ can talk about this later.”
Daisy stood up and walked away.
“And don’t do anything silly on my computer! I mean it. This whole thing is not a game.”
“That never even crossed my mind.”
“My God, are you a bad liar!”
The apartment door banged shut.
6
First thing in the morning, he got a call from his editor, who said he had important news. He refused to say more on the phone, however, and demanded to see Paul as soon as possible.
Gaetano Cristoneli had never before suggested meeting Paul for breakfast, and he had certainly never arranged anything before ten a.m.
An erudite man totally in love with his job, he had—despite being Italian—devoted himself to French literature. At the end of his adolescence, insofar as it ever came to an end, while he was on holiday in Menton, he found a copy of Romain Gary’s La Promesse de l’Aube on a bookshelf in the house his mother was renting. Reading that book changed the course of his life. Gaetano had a strife-ridden relationship with his mother, and that novel was like a lifeline. When he turned the final page, everything became clear to him—except for his vision, which blurred with tears at the book’s denouement. Gaetano would go on to devote his life to literature and would never live anywhere but France. Years later, in a strange twist of fate, Romain Gary’s ashes were scattered in the very place where Gaetano had first fallen in love with literature. He saw this as an unquestionable sign that he had made the right choice.
He’d started out as an intern at a publishing house in Paris, where he lived a life of luxury, having been taken under the wing of a rich woman ten years his senior, who made him her lover. Numerous conquests followed, all of them equally wealthy, although the age difference narrowed over the years. Women liked Gaetano, partly due to his erudition, but perhaps also because he bore an uncanny resemblance to Marcello Mastroianni, which, one must admit, is quite a considerable asset in a young man’s sexual life. Thus, he could be described as an original and learned man, and it certainly took a lot of originality and talent to be an Italian editor publishing an American author in France.
Despite being able to read French just as astutely as he read his native language, and despite the keen ability to spot a single typo in a five-hundred-page manuscript, Gaetano struggled terribly when it came to actually speaking French, mixing up and bungling his words, sometimes to the point of inventing entirely new ones. According to his analyst, this was because his brain worked faster than his mouth, a diagnosis that Gaetano wore like a badge of honor from God himself.
At nine thirty a.m., Gaetano Cristoneli was sitting in the Deux Magots, waiting for Paul with a plate of croissants.
“What’s up? Nothing serious, I hope,” Paul said, sitting opposite his editor.
The waiter brought over the coffee that Gaetano had ordered for Paul.
“My dear friend,” said Gaetano, opening his arms wide, “this morning at dawn I received an absolutely extraordinary telephone call.”
Gaetano added so many o’s to the word extraordinary that Paul had time to gulp down his entire espresso before the editor had even finished his sentence.
“Perhaps you would like another one?” the editor asked, somewhat taken aback. “In Italy, you know, coffee is usually savored in two or sometimes three mouthfuls, even when it’s ristretto. The best part is at the bottom of the cup, but I digress. Let us return to what concerns you, my dear Paolo.”
“Paul.”
“Yes, yes. So, this morning we received a craaaaaaaaaaaazy phone call.”
“I’m very happy to hear that.”
“We have sold, or, rather, they have sold three hundred thousand copies of your latest novel . . . on the tribulations of an American living in Paris. It’s quite ree-maaar-kable!”
“Three hundred thousand? In France?”
“Ah, no. Here, we have sold seven hundred and fifty copies, but that too is, of course, in its own way, completely spectaculous.”
“So where? Italy?”
“Given our figures, the Italians don’t want to publish you at the moment. But don’t worry, my idiot countrymen will change their minds in the end.”
“Do I have to keep guessing? Germany?”
Gaetano said nothing.
“Spain?”
“The Spanish market is feeling the full brunt of the financial crisis, I am afraid.”
“Fine, I give up. Where was it?”
“Korea. You know—capital city of Seoul? Just below China? Your success over there just keeps on growing, my friend. Can you believe it? Three hundred thousand copies—that’s absolutely extonishing! We are going to have jacket bands printed here to tell readers—and booksellers, of course.”
“Why, do you really think that would make a difference?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no, but it can’t do any harm.”