“Looking like that? You’ll scare away the customers! Go and lie down in bed.”
“No, it’ll be okay,” said Mia, still lying on the sofa, one arm trailing on the floor. “I don’t want to let you down!”
“Robert will have to make do in the kitchen while I wait tables. We’ve done it before. Now go to bed—that’s an order.”
Picking up the box of Kleenex and holding the towel over her eyes, Mia got to her feet and groped her way toward her room.
She came out again just as soon as Daisy had left the apartment. She put her ear to the front door and listened to the sound of her friend’s footsteps fading to silence. Then she ran to the bay window and watched as Daisy disappeared around the corner and out of sight.
She hurried to the bathroom and washed her face with cold water to remove the talcum powder from her cheeks and the eyeliner from under her eyes. If she’d learned anything useful in her profession, it was the art of makeup. Looking for a raincoat in Daisy’s wardrobe, she was surprised that she didn’t feel guilty at all. In fact, she was in a very good mood, and it had been too long since she’d felt that way. She had to make the most of it.
She decided to wear sneakers, wondering, at the same time, why she would need to dress like that for a night at the opera. In England, people tended to overdress rather than underdress for such occasions.
Examining herself in the mirror, she thought she looked a little bit like Audrey Hepburn, which pleased her. She considered adding a pair of sunglasses to her outfit, but decided in the end to keep them in her purse.
She half opened the front door, checked that the coast was clear, and then hurried over toward the taxi that had been waiting for her on the opposite side of the street.
Paul was waiting on the fifth step of the Opera.
“You look like Inspector Clouseau,” he said to Mia as she approached him.
“What a gentleman you are! You told me to wear a raincoat and flat shoes.”
Paul looked her over.
“I take it back. You look lovely. Follow me.”
They joined the line of people entering the Opera. After passing through a series of lobbies, Mia stopped to admire the large ceremonial staircase. She insisted they go closer to the statue of Pythia.
“Exquisite!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, amazing,” Paul agreed, “but we have to hurry now.”
“I feel ridiculous dressed like this, surrounded by so much beauty. I should have worn a dress.”
“No, trust me, you’re better off. Come on!”
“I don’t understand. I thought you were going to show me around when it was closed to the public. Are we here for a performance?”
“You’ll see.”
Reaching the mezzanine, they walked through the orchestra gallery.
“What is tonight’s performance?” Mia asked as they approached the entrance to the auditorium.
“No idea. Hello, gentlemen!” he said, walking past two statues.
“Who were you talking to?” Mia whispered.
“Bach and Haydn. I listen to them while I’m writing, so the least I can do is say hi, right?”
“Are you ever going to tell me where we’re heading?” Mia said as Paul led them on.
“To our seats.”
The usher showed them to two folding seats. Paul offered the first to Mia and then sat on the one behind her.
The seat was hard and uncomfortable, and they could see only the right-hand side of the stage. It was a far cry from the film premieres Mia was used to attending, where she always had one of the best seats in the house.
Funny, he doesn’t strike me as a cheapskate, she thought as the curtain lifted.
Ten minutes passed. Mia kept shifting in her seat, trying to find the least uncomfortable position. Paul tapped her on the shoulder.
“Sorry I keep fidgeting, but my bottom hurts in this chair,” she whispered.
Doing his best not to laugh, Paul leaned in close and whispered in her ear: “Please extend my sincere apologies to your posterior. But now we have to go—follow me.”
He walked, bent double, toward the emergency exit, which was located just in front of them. Mia watched him, dumbfounded.
Or maybe he really is mad . . .
“Come on!” hissed Paul, still crouching in front of the door.
Mia obeyed, imitating his peculiar stance.
He softly pushed open the door and led her into a corridor.
“So has your back gone out, or are we supposed to keep walking around like this?”
Paul shushed her, grabbed her hand, and set off down the corridor.
The deeper they went into the labyrinthine building, the more she began to wonder what in the world was going on.
At the end of another passageway, they came to a spiral staircase. Paul suggested Mia go first in case she tripped, while also advising her not to do so.
“Where are we?” Mia breathed, beginning to get swept up in the game.
“We need to get across this walkway. But please be absolutely silent: we’re going right over the stage. I’ll go first this time.”
Paul crossed himself and, in response to Mia’s surprised look, whispered that he suffered from vertigo.
When Paul reached the other side, he turned around and saw her, motionless in the middle of the walkway, staring at the auditorium below. He felt he was getting a glimpse of how she must have looked as a child; even her raincoat suddenly seemed too large. She was no longer the woman he had met on the steps of the Opera, but a little girl suspended in the air, wholly enchanted by the magical sight below.
He waited a few moments, then risked a small cough to catch her attention.
Mia gave a broad smile and walked over to join him.
“That was incredible,” she whispered.
“I know. But trust me, the best is yet to come.”
He took her hand again and led her toward a door that opened onto another staircase.
“Are we going to see the lake?”
“You Brits are very odd. Do you really think they’d put the lake on the top floor?”
Mia looked through the doorway. “Those steps could have led down!”
“Well, they don’t. We’re headed up these steps. There is no lake—it’s just a reservoir of water in a concrete tank. Otherwise, I’d have brought my snorkel and flippers.”
“In that case, what’s the raincoat for?” Mia asked, annoyed.
“I told you: you’ll see.”
As they were climbing an old wooden staircase, they heard a thunderous rolling sound. Mia froze with fear.
“Don’t worry. It’s just the stage machinery,” Paul reassured her.
When they reached the final landing, Paul pushed the panic bar on a metal door and ushered Mia through.
She found herself looking out at a walkway that spanned the rooftop of the Opera, offering an absolutely stunning view of Paris.
She swore out loud, then turned to Paul.
“Go ahead,” he told her. “It’s perfectly safe.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Yeah, just give me a minute.”
“Why would you come all the way up here if you can’t even take a look?”
“So you could. There isn’t another view like this anywhere in the world. Keep going—I’ll wait for you here. Take a good look. There aren’t many people lucky enough to see the City of Light from this vantage point. One winter night, you’ll be sitting by the fireside in an old English manor and you’ll be able to tell all your little great-grandchildren about the night you saw Paris from the roof of the Opera. You’ll be so old that you won’t even remember my name, but you’ll remember that you had a friend in Paris.”
Mia watched Paul as he clung to the door handle. Then she walked out over the rooftop. From where she stood, she could see the Madeleine church and the Eiffel Tower with its roaming searchlights. Mia looked up at the sky like a child who is convinced she can count every star in the heav
ens. Then she looked over at the skyscrapers in the Beaugrenelle district. How many people were eating, laughing, or crying behind those windows, each looking as tiny as those stars twinkling in the vast firmament above? Turning around, she saw the Sacré-Cœur perched on the hill of Montmartre and spared a thought for Daisy. The whole of Paris lay stretched out before her. She had never seen anything so beautiful in her whole life.
“You can’t miss this.”
“There’s no way I can make it out there . . .”
She went back to where Paul was standing, took off her scarf, and tied it around his head, covering his eyes. Then, holding his hand, she guided him along the walkway. Paul walked as if he were on a tightrope, but he didn’t resist.
“I know it’s selfish,” she said, removing the blindfold, “but how could I tell all my little great-grandchildren about this moment without having actually shared it with my Parisian friend?”
Paul and Mia sat on the ridgepole and admired the view together.
A fine rain began to fall. Mia took off her raincoat and spread it over their shoulders.
“Do you always think of everything?”
“I try. Now . . . can you please take me back?” he asked, softly pulling at her scarf.
Two security guards awaited them at the foot of the stairs. They escorted Paul and Mia to the director’s office, where three police officers stood, arms folded.
“I know, I went against what you said,” Paul said to the director. “But we didn’t do any harm.”
“Sorry—do you know this man?” asked Officer Moulard, the highest-ranking police officer in the room.
“Not anymore,” said the director. “You can take him away.”
Officer Moulard nodded to his colleagues, who took out two pairs of handcuffs.
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Paul protested.
“I disagree,” said the director. “These people strike me as the very definition of unruly.”
As Mia held out her wrists for the policeman, she glanced at her watch. Seeing how late it was, she suddenly felt nervous.
The detective took their statements. Paul acknowledged the charges against them, taking full responsibility himself while playing down the seriousness of their misdemeanor. He solemnly swore they would never do it again if they were allowed to go. Surely they weren’t going to be kept overnight at the station?
The detective sighed.
“You are foreign nationals. Until I am able to contact your respective consulates and verify your identities, I couldn’t possibly let you go.”
“I have a resident card,” Paul said. “I left it at home, but I assure you I am a French resident.”
“And I’m supposed to just take you at your word on that?”
“They’re going to kill me,” Mia muttered.
“Someone is threatening you, mademoiselle?” the detective asked her.
“No. Just a figure of speech.”
“Please exercise some caution with your vocabulary. This is a police station.”
“Who’s going to kill you?” Paul asked, leaning toward Mia.
“What did I just say?” the inspector demanded.
“I heard you! This isn’t school! Apparently, this situation has put my friend in an awkward professional position. You could show just a little flexibility.”
“You should have thought of that before breaking and entering into a public building.”
“There was no breaking and entering. All the doors were open, including the one leading to the roof.”
“And you think walking on the roof of the Palais Garnier is not a security breach? Would you find it normal if I did the same thing in your country?”
“If you really wanted to, Detective, I wouldn’t have any objections at all. I could even recommend a few spots with breathtaking views.”
“I’ve heard enough,” the policeman sighed. “Lock these two clowns up. And deal with the comedian first.”
“Wait!” Paul begged. “If a French citizen came here to testify to my identity, and brought you proof, would you consider letting us leave?”
“If your citizen makes it here within the next hour, I’d consider it. After that, my shift is over and you would have to wait until morning.”
“Could I use your phone?”
The detective handed Paul the phone from his desk.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Perfectly serious.”
“At this hour of night?”
“You don’t really get to choose what time this kind of thing happens.”
“May I know why?”
“Just listen to me, Cristoneli, because we’re running short on time. If you don’t go to your office, photocopy all my papers, and then come to the police station in the ninth arrondissement within the next hour, I’ll sign my next book over to Mr. Park.”
“Who is Mr. Park?”
“I have no idea. But there must be someone with a name like that at my Korean publishers!” Paul yelled.
Cristoneli hung up on him.
“Is he coming?” Mia asked in a pleading voice.
“Anything’s possible with him,” Paul replied dubiously, laying the phone back in its cradle.
“Well,” said the detective, getting to his feet, “if this man you were yelling at is stupid enough to help you, you’ll be sleeping at home tonight. If not, we have blankets here. France is a civilized country.”
Paul and Mia were escorted to the cells. Out of courtesy, they weren’t put in with the two drunks who had been left to sober up.
The door banged shut behind them. Mia sat on the bench and held her head in her hands.
“My business partner will never forgive me.”
“Why? It’s not like we ran over an old lady or something. Anyway, what are you so worried about? There’s no way she’ll find out we’re here.”
“She’s also my flatmate. When she gets back from the restaurant, she’ll see I’m not there. And I won’t be there tomorrow morning either.”
“You are allowed to sleep out at your age, aren’t you? Seems like a pretty controlling business partner. Unless she’s . . .”
“She’s what?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
“I pretended to have a migraine so I wouldn’t have to work tonight, even though she needed me.”
“Ah. That wasn’t a very nice thing to do.”
“Thanks for twisting the knife.”
Paul sat next to her and said nothing.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I have an idea, just an idea. Maybe you could neglect to mention the arrest and the police station and the handcuffs and all that to your great-grandchildren . . .”
“Are you kidding me? That would be their favorite part. Imagine Granny spending a night in the nick!”
They heard the sound of a key in the lock. The door to their cell opened and a policeman ordered them out. He led them to the detective’s office, where Cristoneli, after handing over a photocopy of Paul’s residence permit, signed a check to pay his fine.
“Perfect,” said the detective. “You can take him with you.”
Turning around, Cristoneli noticed Mia and stared accusingly at Paul.
“What is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed angrily, turning back to the inspector. “I should be able to take them both for that price!”
“Mademoiselle does not have her papers.”
“Mademoiselle is my niece!” Cristoneli said. “On that, I give you my word.”
“You’re Italian and your niece is English? That’s quite the international family you got there!”
“I am a naturalized Frenchman, Detective,” Cristoneli replied. “And yes, my family has been a mix of nationalities for three generations. You can call us immigrants, or the future of the continent, depending on how open-minded you are.”
“Okay, okay, just get the hell out of here, all of you! And you, mademoiselle, I want to see you again tomorrow afternoon, with your passpo
rt. Is that understood?”
Mia nodded.
Outside the police station, Mia thanked Cristoneli, who bowed respectfully.
“The pleasure was all mine, mademoiselle. It’s strange, but have I met you before? Your face is very familiar.”
“I doubt it,” Mia replied, blushing. “Maybe you know somebody who looks like me?”
“Probably. Although . . . I could have sworn that I—”
“Pathetic!” Paul groaned, cutting him off.
“What’s the matter with you?” Cristoneli asked, turning to face him.
“Is this how you try to seduce women, using stale old clichés like that? ‘Have I met you before?’” he repeated mockingly. “Pitiful!”
“You are the one who is pitiful, my friend. I was being completely sincere. I do feel quite sure I have seen mademoiselle somewhere before.”
“Look, we’re in a rush: mademoiselle’s carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin, so let’s just skip the pleasantries, shall we?”
“And that is all the thanks I get, I suppose?” Cristoneli grumbled.
“It goes without saying that we’re eternally grateful. Good night!”
“It also should go without saying that the fine will be deducted from your advance.”
“You two are like a grumpy old married couple,” Mia said, amused, as Cristoneli got back in his sports car.
“Well, he’s certainly got the ‘old’ part covered. Come on, let’s get a move on. What time does your business partner get back from the restaurant?”
“Usually between eleven thirty and midnight.”
“So, worst-case scenario: twenty minutes. Best case: fifty. Let’s do this!”
And he led Mia in a mad dash to his car.
After opening the door and telling her to buckle up, he drove off at top speed.
“Where do you live?”
“Rue Poulbot, in Montmartre.”
The Saab sped through the streets of Paris, veering into bus lanes and zigzagging between taxis, incurring a volley of abuse from a motorcyclist at Place de Clichy and a group of pedestrians at an intersection on Rue Caulaincourt, and swinging onto Rue Joseph-de-Maistre with tires squealing.
“Don’t you think we’ve had enough brushes with the law tonight? You might want to slow down,” Mia suggested.
“And what if we get there after your business partner does?”