If anybody could have saved me, it would have been you.
VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941
Devotees of broken hearts should apply elsewhere.
ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980
THE CAT HAD been acting strangely for the past week. Clarissa thought perhaps she should bring it up with Jordan. Chablis ate less and less, and seemed to mew for hours. But what truly alarmed her was when he jumped, startled, as if he had seen or heard someone—the oddest thing. And yet, there was no one. No one, apart from herself. Silence ruled, always. Maybe the cat wasn’t used to it yet. Neither was she. There had been a perpetual racket in the flat she’d shared with François. Noisy neighbors, doors banging, people gabbing in the street below, under their windows. She had only ever lived in ground-floor or second-floor apartments before the C.A.S.A. residence. The early-morning glow dazzled her each day when she awoke. She didn’t need to ask Mrs. Dalloway to turn on any more lights. It was like living in the sky, in the clouds.
She had never anticipated she’d feel this lonely. She missed François. She missed him at unexpected moments. A blues tune on the radio. A whiff of Vétiver. The sweater he’d given her after a weekend in Ireland. Even if all the furniture was new, even if she’d painstakingly erased all traces of her past and all traces of François, her husband was still there. He materialized like a watermark interlaced into every nook of the apartment. She could even make out his sturdy, slightly stubby-legged outline, the one she had cherished for so long. There he was, sprawled on the sofa, poring over his device. There he was, under the shower, lathering up foam. There he was, asking Mrs. Dalloway for a cappuccino. François had never cared about being smaller than she was. He had no hang-ups about his height. On the contrary, he was proud to have her at his arm. Now that she’d left him, should she call her friends? She wondered what he had told those same friends about their breakup. He couldn’t conceivably have given them the truth. He must have spun a story. But which one? And what would she, in turn, say to her friends? She imagined their dismayed faces. Their pity. No, she must keep it bottled up. François would do the same thing. He didn’t have much choice.
No matter how hard she tried not to, she imagined him walking up the rue Dancourt. Opening the gate, striding along the passageway, entering the building on the left. She could see him going up to the sixth floor in the tiny run-down elevator. His key in the old ramshackle lock. She didn’t want to see what happened next. But the images swung back at her. It was impossible to make them disappear. She had to give in to them, huddled up, holding her breath. They finally left, like a storm moving on. How could she put an end to her loneliness? She had no idea. She didn’t feel like knocking at the doors of the other artists in the residence, introducing herself. She wasn’t up to it. She remembered that young student who had written to her. Mia White. She hadn’t answered her yet. Was meeting her a good idea?
Clarissa’s flat still seemed empty, incomplete. Jordan and Andy had found it beautiful. “Slightly inhospitable, don’t you think?” Jordan had said cautiously. “Not quite ‘you.’” Her daughter had gazed at her keenly, with a speck of concern. She had asked her several times if all was well. Jordan was always worrying about her mother. Clarissa had said yes, of course, everything was fine. Yes, she slept badly. That was just settling into a new home. No, she hadn’t yet gotten to know the other tenants of the residence. Just a few of them in the lobby. She’d changed the subject, asking her daughter about her job. Jordan was a hydrologist, working for a major research center on flood risk management.
Jordan had always been essential to her. Even more so since the breakup. Clarissa didn’t express this out loud, but she was aware deep down of how much she needed her daughter right now. Jordan had captured the best of both her parents, Cla-rissa felt. Physically, she had inherited her father’s dark hair, his green eyes; she had her mother’s startling height, her powerful yet graceful shoulders. She had Toby’s kindness, his interest in other people. She had Clarissa’s belligerence, her sense of humor. But she was also very much herself: both clever and dreamy, tolerant and yet demanding. You couldn’t fool Jordan. She was shrewd and highly intuitive. Clarissa knew that one day, she’d have to tell her about why she’d left François. It was too early. She couldn’t face it.
As she prepared a quick lunch in her new kitchen, she listened to Jordan, with the cat perched on her knees, discuss her latest conference. Climate change continued to wreak havoc on meteorological conditions, producing torrential rains, which regularly caused all the rivers of the country to rise. Jordan’s specialty was inundation. She worked closely with meteorologists in order to develop preventive strategies for the most vulnerable regions. As a child, she had always been fascinated by water, especially rivers and lakes. Clarissa admired her daughter’s expertise and enthusiasm. Jordan was a respected figure in her field. She gave talks, lectures, was often seen on television. She spoke eloquently, with a husky voice that added to her charm.
Clarissa sometimes thought Jordan’s profession stemmed from her own interest in quantifying land and premises. In another life, she had been a property surveyor. It wasn’t water she used to measure, but houses and apartments. From an early age, Clarissa felt she needed to understand the lay of the land. Her dad had given her a luminous world globe for her desk when she was seven, and she’d spent hours watching it rotate under her finger. Later, she’d developed a fascination for maps, papering the walls of her rooms with them. It was cities she’d found captivating as a teenager: how they emerged, how they expanded, how they were destroyed by fires, bombings, how they were rebuilt. She’d pored over ancient photos of London to see what neighborhoods looked like before the Blitz. In her early twenties, she’d walked around with a measuring tape tucked away in her pocket. Houses attracted her—their stories, their evolution. Her mother had been convinced that Clarissa was going to become an architect. But she hadn’t.
While she paid attention to her daughter, slicing bits of mozzarella cheese that Andy promptly put into her mouth despite her grandmother’s remonstrance, Clarissa could not help thinking of her firstborn, and what he would have looked like today. He would have been forty-six. Tall and dark, she supposed. But that was all she could conjure. She had not thought of her son for so long, had banished the sorrow to the back of her mind. Her newfound fragility had resurrected it, nurturing it back to a throbbing vitality she found impossible to combat.
When she had started hypnotism, all those years ago, to keep the pain at bay, to not let it destroy her, Elise, her hypnotherapist, had asked her to think of a soothing, restful image. The first thing that had come to mind was a lake. Elise had asked her to describe the lake. Why a lake? She had no idea. She simply knew that the image of the lake soothed her, instilling a prodigious calm into her veins. She had tried to describe the lake to Elise; it was vast, she had the feeling it was deep, and its depth did not worry her. On the contrary, the fact that it reached so amply into the earth, forcing its path into the ground, gave her an unprecedented reassurance. The lake’s surface gleamed silver, its smoothness burrowed by steady wavelets. Clarissa could see herself soaring above the lake like a glider, arms outstretched; she could feel the cool wind nip at her cheeks and slide down her back; then she could also discern herself swimming, diving into the watery green abysses, palms stroked by the strange caress of weeds. It seemed to her the lake absorbed her pain, her sorrow.
She often dreamed of the lake. In the middle of the night, when she couldn’t sleep, she sometimes asked Mrs. Dalloway to display lake videos on her bedroom ceiling. Half-asleep, she let herself be carried off by eddies, lulled by soft splashing. She didn’t know where the water would take her. A peculiar, lacustrine ballet whirled her away; her skin becoming scaly, fishlike, her fingers merging to form pink fins.
In the blue opaqueness at the bottom of the lake, hazy shapes emerged, hands reached out toward her, while spools of black hair slowly unraveled like flowers of darkness, both soothing and poisonous. Once, she thought she caught a glimpse of Virginia Woolf’s face—not the face she knew, not the writer’s, no, another one, a face that not many had laid eyes upon; the unbearable, bloated, ashen features of the drowned woman, the one whose body had been found weeks after she disappeared on the banks of the river Ouse. The dream of the lake had become a nightmare. It was impossible to know if the images had been born in her own head, or if they came from Mrs. Dalloway’s projections.
As she listened to Jordan, Clarissa delicately stroked her granddaughter’s head. Adriana, going on fifteen, applied her makeup carefully and wore lacerated black clothes. Despite the rebellious sulk she was fond of sporting, Andy adored her grandmother. She wanted to come and spend the night here. She had even picked out that little couch in the office where she was going to sleep. She interrupted her mother incessantly in order to obtain a date. Jordan got angry. Well, yes, Andy was going to be able to come! Could she just please let her grandmother settle into her new flat? And could she stop being so insistent? Clarissa felt flattered. She, too, loved the relationship she had crafted with her granddaughter.
“Doesn’t François live with you anymore, Mums?” Andy asked straightforwardly as Clarissa served them homemade cake for dessert.
Jordan glared at her. Clarissa had been expecting this from her outspoken granddaughter. She calmly replied that no, François wasn’t going to live here. This was her place. Only for her.
“And for me!” quipped Andy mischievously.
“That’s right, sweetie, for you, too.”
“And what about Granddad? Will he come?”
Jordan sighed. Why was Adriana asking these dumb questions? Clarissa smiled, to show them she wasn’t ruffled. She reminded Andy that Toby had started over, that he lived in Guéthary, in the Basque country, and that he had a new lady friend.
“Yeah, and she’s not much fun,” mumbled Andy, helping herself to more cake. “I liked the previous one better. She was less of a pain in the ass.”
Clarissa and Jordan laughed. Despite everything, Clarissa had kept up a good relationship with her first husband. Even if they had divorced over thirty years ago, Toby remained close. Which got on François’s nerves. Clarissa planned to invite Toby for a drink when he was next in Paris. Without the new lady friend.
“How are things with your brother, Mums?” asked Jordan as she stroked the cat.
Clarissa shrugged. What an idiot, seriously! Her brother! Her laugh sounded pinched and dry. Heritage stories often made a mess of things. She’d always thought she had been close to Arthur. He was only two years younger than she. They grew up together, spent their childhood and teenage years in London. He did as he pleased. At sixteen, he dressed as Ziggy Stardust, with full makeup, orange hair, and platform soles, to their unadventurous mother’s dismay. Their dad found it funny.
“He sounded so cool when he was young!” exclaimed Andy.
“Indeed. But with time, you see, Arthur turned into a full-of-himself, sad little man.”
“You bet! And my cousins are no better,” added Jordan.
Clarissa didn’t have to explain to Jordan and Andy how crushed she had been by Aunt Serena’s recent legacy. She’d thought the old lady had been fond of her, just as fond as Serena had been of Arthur. She had often spent holidays in Serena’s house in Surrey, with Toby and Jordan, when her daughter was a child. Warm, joyful moments. When the will had been read out loud to her, she had been flabbergasted. Serena had left her entire fortune to Arthur’s two daughters, Emily and Harriet. All of it. There hadn’t been a single item for Jordan, not even a trinket, a bracelet, or a small souvenir. Arthur’s daughters were in for a considerable sum. They’d be able to buy a small flat, go on a trip, invest, plan for the future. Clarissa had felt shock at first, and then uncertainty. Was this a mistake? she’d asked. She was told not at all. A slow, powerful rage replaced the incomprehension. She had called her brother. She still trusted him then; she still hoped. He was going to say, What an old bitch. How dare she do that! He was going to say his daughters would split everything with Jordan. But nothing happened that way. She’d had a hard time getting hold of Arthur. And when his puffy face finally showed up on her screen, he had acted cowardly and evasive. He didn’t wish to interfere. Serena had her reasons. They had to respect her decision.
Clarissa had taken the bull by the horns. She had gone to see her nieces. Emily and Harriet hadn’t minced their words. They needed the money. They were sorry for Jordan. But they were convinced Jordan had done quite well for herself, hadn’t she? They saw her on TV, on social media; she traveled; she seemed to lack nothing; she had a husband and a daughter; her mother was a respected writer. And on top of all that, she was beautiful. Jordan had it all, right? Oh, and one last thing: Jordan had chosen to live in France; one mustn’t forget that. Serena was very attached to her country. It was important to her. They had stayed in England, they had no husband or children as of yet, and time was flying by! That money was perfect timing, and they were sure Jordan would understand. What about another cup of tea, dear Aunt C…? Clarissa had felt like strangling them. Her father, who always spoke his mind, was right; he called them tarts. In the train on her way back from London, Clarissa thought about the way Jordan raised Andy, how much effort she put into it, and how complicated it had been during her numerous trips when Andy was a little girl. Clarissa had helped out a lot. What on earth had gotten into old Serena’s head? She knew her aunt hadn’t approved of the fact that her own brother had married a Frenchwoman. Solange, Clarissa and Arthur’s mother, had apparently found it difficult to find her way into her husband’s family. Clarissa thought she had ultimately managed to do so. Perhaps not, in the long run.
That day on the train, Clarissa decided she wouldn’t be speaking to her brother and nieces again. It was common, after all, to bicker in the aftermath of wills. What was less common, she felt, was the sudden and intimate overlap of every aspect of her life: the breakdown of her marriage, the rough patch with her brother, and the hurried arrival in a new home she still didn’t feel at ease in.
When they left, Jordan told her mother to look after herself, to get a good night’s sleep, to rest. Andy hugged her with all her might. Clarissa waved good-bye to them as the transparent glass elevator whooshed them down. Jordan’s lovely face was turned up to her, and she could read all the anguish there. She knew Jordan was going to speak to her husband, Ivan, tonight, and she already knew what her daughter was going to say: that Clarissa looked old, frail, and sad, that she was worried, that she couldn’t understand what had happened. She could hear Jordan’s voice: Yes, the flat was lovely, and it was wonderful that Clarissa lived there, but the move had tired her. How was she going to face all this, alone, at her age, in her state? Jordan would undoubtedly bring up the long depression Clarissa had endured after the death of her first child. Jordan remembered that endless tunnel; she was only a little girl at the time, but she had grown up with that despondency. She’d say she feared Clarissa might plunge into a similar gloom. Clarissa could now hear Ivan’s voice. Jordan’s husband was a tall, thin man in his early forties, with soft blue eyes. He rarely lost his temper and spoke gently but firmly. She could hear him say Clarissa was a tough cookie. She’d pulled herself out of depression a long time ago. Clarissa knew what she wanted. And if Clarissa wanted to be alone, then that was fine. Jordan just had to stop worrying.
Clarissa closed the door of the apartment. She turned her back to it, leaning against the wooden surface, looking out toward the living room. It did look nice, she admitted. The lovely gleaming surfaces. The light. The view. Her precious books, the ones she read with such delight, were missing. They were still at François’s. She was going to take the time to make sure they were all placed properly on the shelves. Romain Gary. Virginia Woolf. Her favorite writers. Books never let you down. They were always there for you.
The cat pranced along, and she watched him go toward the main window. Chablis had spent most of the lunch on Jordan’s knees, purring. He had eaten well, had played with Adriana. Perhaps he was getting over his apprehension. She was happy about that. She still wasn’t quite sure how to deal with a cat. As Clarissa observed him, Chablis suddenly seemed to stiffen. Surely she was imagining things. No, he arched his back, and his ears were flattened, golden eyes deepening to black. The cat crouched now, tail slowly twitching, staring at the middle of the room as if someone were standing there. Mystified, Clarissa remained motionless. He then slunk under the sofa, and the only thing she could see now was the tip of his tail.
Clarissa strode to the center of the room, unnerved, glancing around her. Everything seemed in place, perfectly normal. But she, too, had sensed a presence. And she realized now, with a prick of horror, that ever since she had moved here, she had never felt completely alone; it was as if someone, or something, was watching her.
“Mrs. Dalloway?” She was surprised to hear her voice was quavering. She sounded like a very old lady.
“Yes, Clarissa?” came the rounded, cordial tone.
“Am I alone here?”
“Yes, Clarissa. Apart from the cat, you are completely alone.”
“Why was the cat afraid just now?”
“I have no idea, Clarissa.”
“Who can see me?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. Can you rephrase that, Clarissa?”
“Can anyone see what I am doing in my apartment?”’ Now her voice was angry. No more quavering old-lady stuff.
“No, Clarissa. No one can see what you do in your home.”
“What about you, Mrs. Dalloway? Can you see what I’m doing?”’
“Yes, Clarissa. I see everything you do. I was programmed to do that.”
“So you do watch me, Mrs. Dalloway.”
“Yes, Clarissa. All the time.”
“And so I was right. There is someone spying on me. You.”
“You’re right, Clarissa. But remember, I’m no one. I don’t exist.”
Clarissa often thought back to the day she’d spent at the C.A.S.A. headquarters in order to set up her virtual assistant and to meet Dr. Dewinter. She had been shown to a different part of the building, deep down, below ground level. The space here was white and brilliant, almost too white, she thought. The staff wore black as well, the same sleek style as Clémence Dutilleul’s suit. The man who took her in charge was in his early twenties. He had the round pink face of a choirboy. His name was Quentin. He was respectful and pleasant. He started by taking an imprint of her fingertips and a scan of her retina with a small device. It took only a couple of minutes. He then told her the setup process was going to take a while, because they needed to get it just right. Even if the questions seemed repetitive and weird, she had to stick to it. The virtual assistant had to get used to her voice, because Clarissa’s voice was the only one it was going to obey. It wouldn’t respond to anyone else. He also said that Clarissa could take a break whenever she wanted. She could get up, stretch her legs, have a glass of water.
Quentin ushered her into a smaller room, equally white and luminous. In front of her were a chair and a desk. A large screen took up the entire wall. Quentin motioned for her to be seated. He carefully placed earphones on Clarissa’s ears. Then he went to sit behind a partition. She could hear his voice in her headset. He asked her if she was ready. She said yes.
The screen in front of her turned gray. Two large eyes faced her now. They were wide and blue. They blinked slowly. They reminded her of the billboard horn-rimmed eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg in the opening pages of The Great Gatsby; a solemn, intense gaze, which saw everything, never missing a beat, both reassuring and alarming. An amiable male voice, which was not Quentin’s, asked her to say her name out loud. She did so. She was asked to speak more slowly and to repeat her name three times.
In the beginning, it was easy. She had to state her date and place of birth, her nationality. Her age, her height, her weight. The eyes blinked and glowed back at her like those of a gratified cat. Then she had to pronounce a sequence of specific orders. She was asked to repeat them clearly, over and over again.
“Lock the door. Set the alarm. Check the air-conditioning. Turn on the shower. Close the blind. Turn off the light. Set night mode. Turn on the oven. Read my emails.”
She was asked to choose the name of her assistant. She had thought about this before, of course. When she said, “Mrs. Dalloway,” she then had to say it out loud six or seven times very clearly. She then had to choose what kind of voice she wanted Mrs. Dalloway to have. They could clone any type of voice, she knew. She picked a British accent with mellow, gentle tones.
Quentin appeared from behind the screen. He told her he was going to leave the room. He’d be right outside. She was alone with the setup process. If there was a problem of any sort, she just had to press the pause button. Clarissa nodded. He left, closing the door behind him.
Clarissa felt slightly apprehensive. She remained silent, straight-backed on her chair.
The billboard eyes gleamed back at her.
“Are you ready, Clarissa?” asked the new female voice with the very British accent.
“Yes,” she said, “I am.”
“Please relax, Clarissa.”
“How can you tell I’m tense?”
“Your body language. You don’t have to sit up so stiffly. And you can uncross your arms.”
Clarissa couldn’t help smiling.
“There. That’s better. I’m going to be asking you all sorts of questions. Do not be surprised. This is just for me to get to know you better. After all, I will be with you all the time. I need to be able to watch over you. As soon as you walk into the C.A.S.A. residence, and then into your apartment, I will be in charge of your well-being and your security. Nobody can come into your home unless you allow the person to. If I detect an intruder, I will react very quickly. An alarm will go off and security services will arrive on the spot. Now. Are you comfortable, Clarissa? I need you to be comfortable, because it might take a while. No, don’t be alarmed; this will be painless. You don’t have to answer in great detail. You don’t even have to answer at all if you don’t want to. But remember this: The more answers you give me, the better I will serve you. So let’s get going. Here’s my first question, Clarissa. Would you rather set me up in French or in English? I’m aware that you are perfectly bilingual.”
“I’d like to be able to speak to you in both languages interchangeably, and have you answer me as you wish, in English or in French.”
“Very well, Clarissa. Let us go on. What is your present state of mind?”
Clarissa glowered back into the T. J. Eckleburg–like eyes. How on earth could she answer that? And what had it to do with the setup of her voice assistant? She felt disillusioned, then irritated. Maybe all her reactions were being processed and analyzed by the same hidden people who had been there the day of her interview. She wasn’t going to let herself be impressed.
“I don’t wish to answer that question and I don’t see why it’s important to you.”
“I see. Can you explain, Clarissa?”
“I don’t want to discuss personal matters. I don’t know you and I don’t know who is listening to all this. I don’t see why you need this sort of stuff from me.”
“I understand. I will try to explain, Clarissa. I need to know who you are. I need to understand your personality. The more I know it, the more I will be able to help you.”
Clarissa grumbled.
“Help me? You’re only supposed to oversee security and management of the flat. Why would you need details about my present state of mind?”
“Please remain calm, Clarissa. No one is listening to this except for me. And I can do much more than just looking after your housekeeping and your security.”
“Such as?”
“If you answer all my questions, Clarissa, you will understand how I can help you. I’ve been programmed to do this. To make your life easier. In every way. To take charge of things. So you can write. So you can create.”
The minutes ticked by slowly. The blue eyes blinked. The voice was silent, too.
“Are you unhappy, Clarissa?” asked the voice at last.
“Yes,” she said tersely. “I’m unhappy. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to explain. I don’t know who or what you are, but I just want to get on with this. I want to move into that apartment. I want to feel safe. I want to write my book. Is that clear?”
“It is indeed, Clarissa. Please say my name when you talk to me. That way, I’ll know you’re addressing yourself to me.”
“Okay. Listen up, Mrs. Dalloway.” She barked the words out. “I’m. Not. Happy.”
“I understand, Clarissa. Can you tell me precisely why you’re unhappy?”
“No! It’s none of your business, Mrs. Dalloway. I’m sure you have more important questions to ask.”
“I’m sorry you’re unhappy, Clarissa. You’re right; I have other questions. Many other questions. I’d like to talk about your family. Will they be coming to visit?”
“Yes, Mrs. Dalloway.”
“Their names, please?”
“My daughter, Jordan Vendel-Garnier. Her husband, Ivan Garnier. Their daughter, Adriana Garnier, known as Andy.”
“Thank you, Clarissa. Can you show me photographs of them, please?”
Clarissa picked up her phone, swiped into her photo file, and showed it to the screen, where the eyes appeared to gluttonously drink it in.
“Thank you. Are there any other family members you wish to talk to me about, Clarissa?”
“Yes. My dad. He won’t be coming; he’s ninety-eight. He lives in London. He writes to me a lot. My first husband, Toby Vendel. He might drop in. Not sure yet. And my second husband, François Antoine. He won’t be setting a foot inside my house. Of that, I’m sure. Don’t ask me why, please.”
“Thank you, Clarissa. I won’t. Can you show me a photo of him?… Thanks. I’m now going to fire all sorts of questions at you. Please answer them without thinking too hard.”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Dalloway?”
“I mean this is not a test. This is just for me to understand how you think. How your brain works. Be spontaneous, Clarissa. Are you ready?”
Clarissa nodded. She felt thirsty and tired. The lights around her seemed terribly bright. How her brain worked? She didn’t even know herself. At times, like right now, it felt like it had stopped working altogether.
“What are your favorite colors, Clarissa?”
“Green. Blue. Orange.”
“Your favorite musician?”
“Frédéric Chopin.”
“Your favorite singers?”
“Patti Smith. Soapie Indigo.”
“Your favorite poets?”
“Charles Baudelaire. Emily Dickinson.”
“Your favorite artists?”
“Harald Sohlberg. Pieter de Hooch. Vilhelm Hammershøi.”
Mrs. Dalloway’s voice droned on, and Clarissa let herself be carried away by the questions. She answered quickly, easily. This wasn’t too difficult. It might be over faster than she thought. There was a rhythm to her replies and she gave way to it. It was like playing Ping-Pong, angling her wrist to knock the ball back as swiftly as possible.
“Your favorite song?”
“‘La vie en rose,’ sung by Grace Jones.”
“Your favorite film?”
“All movies by Stanley Kubrick.”
“Your favorite actors?”
“Timothée Chalamet. Salomé Jalon.”
“Your best trait?”
“Compassion.”
“Your worst flaw?”
“Impatience.”
She hadn’t noticed that the questions were gradually becoming more and more personal. She had been too amused, or too busy throwing the ball back.
“Your worst fear?”
“Losing my daughter, my granddaughter.”
“What makes you laugh?”
“Peter Sellers in The Party.”
“What makes you laugh in real life?”
“I don’t know, really.”
“What makes you cry?”
Her mind seemed to have gone fuzzy. The tiredness took over; her mouth felt dry. She found it difficult to speak.
“Intimate … things…”
“What shocked you the most recently?”
“I don’t…” she mumbled. She tried again: “The Tower … The images of the devastation…”
Her throat felt tighter and tighter, as if she were suffocating.
A pause.
“Next question, then. On what occasions do you lie?”
Clarissa stared back into the huge eyes. Perhaps her silence was easier to decipher than her answers. She wondered what would be made of her muteness. She waited. It worked. After a long blank, Mrs. Dalloway spoke up.
“We are going to take a break now, Clarissa. Dr. Dewinter is coming in to see you. You and I will resume later. You may remove the headset.”
The eyes slowly faded from the screen. She felt drained. Before she had time to move again, the door clicked open. She pushed the earphones down around her neck. She didn’t know whether she should stand or remain seated.
The very tall person who entered the room had an arresting physique, with long, wavy chestnut hair and a strapping figure. The skin of her face was as smooth as a bowl of cream, with made-up eyes and a crimson mouth; the jaw was square and the features thickset. A long hand with red nails sailed toward her.
“I’m so honored to meet you, Mrs. Katsef. I’m Dr. Dewinter.”
The voice was low. The doctor sat down in front of her, sliding a tablet from a square white pouch.
“How’s the setup coming along?”
Clarissa smiled, answered it was fine, slightly longish, but interesting.
“You no doubt have oodles of questions for me?” said Dr. Dewinter with an unexpected wink.
A momentary hesitation engulfed Clarissa.
Dr. Dewinter took on a long-suffering expression. Her smile was barely contrived.
“Queries about the C.A.S.A. program, perhaps? I can, of course, say a few words in order to present the project. Our program was created to accompany the creativity of artists accommodated in a residence dedicated to them. We attach extreme importance to the development of art, in all its forms. Artistic creation is our absolute priority. We wish to preserve and support the imaginary input of artists such as yourself within such a disturbing and shifting world. I’m responsible for monitoring your health. I personally developed the protocol that will take you in charge once you move in. Your well-being is crucial to us. Your initial checkup will be done automatically via the bathroom installation. Everything is explained in the booklet you received. As you’ll see, our team is terrific, and much appreciated by our community of artists. I’d like to point out, however, that you enjoy full freedom, Mrs. Katsef. You are absolutely not coerced to interact with other artists of the residence. We know how fragile artists are, as well as their delicate frames of mind, and never would we impinge fake camaraderie upon them like at those holiday resorts where everyone pretends to be friends. We have no control whatsoever, may I add, on your writing. Your future literary creations are yours only and will never belong to C.A.S.A. You’ve certainly wondered why our rental fees are cheap compared to what we have to offer. You must be aware that you were handpicked. We lodge only the most promising, inventive artists. This has nothing to do with celebrity. The intellectual trajectories of artists, their endeavors, their futures, are what we’re interested in. And we are highly interested in you, Mrs. Katsef.”
Clarissa took the glass of water the doctor handed her and had a few sips.
“Why?”
“Your writing process seems spellbinding. But your take on places and houses also appeals to us. Your evolution will be monitored closely, believe me. No need to be alarmed! You don’t have to hand in any homework, or pass any tests. Concerning fees, please be reassured. Your rent includes them. As you know, because you signed the tenancy agreement, your rent is worked out according to the sum of your royalties. The rent each artist pays will depend upon his or her circumstances. There is no standardized rent. C.A.S.A. individualizes it all.”
“And what if my royalties thin out, which is the case? What will happen?”
“Don’t worry. You have a two-year lease. That’s enough time for you to plan accordingly. We created this program in order to help artists develop their talents. It’s a long-term undertaking, as well as a special patronage. We invest because we believe in you.”
Clarissa noticed Dr. Dewinter’s countenance seemed deeply heartfelt, like a devoted mother at the bedside of a fragile child. She kept nodding her head, a flurry of manicured fingers pressed against her collarbone.
“Thank you,” said Clarissa, trying not to laugh. “I have another question for you. When you say ‘we,’ whom, exactly, do you mean?”
Dr. Dewinter displayed several images on her device. She showed Clarissa an organizational chart. Clarissa recognized the doctor, Clémence Dutilleul, the man who was with her during the interview, as well as young Quentin.
“We have about twenty people in our team. Most work here, at the headquarters. You’ll find more information in the file that was sent to you. If you don’t mind, I’d like us to come back to your virtual assistant’s setup. It’s a key moment of your integration here at C.A.S.A. Have you any queries regarding this? We attach a lot of importance to this step. Those never-ending questions might seem a little off-putting. Don’t give them too much thought. We want you to feel at ease, above all. This is essential to us.”
Dr. Dewinter’s teeth were large and spectacularly white. While she listened, Clarissa wondered if signing up for this apartment had been a wise choice. She hadn’t taken the time to find out more about C.A.S.A., to comb through the contract. She had been like a full-speed train steaming ahead. She had rushed forward without thinking it over. But had she really had the choice? she wondered. She never wanted to ask anything from François again. She no longer wished to depend on him. Her newfound freedom felt exceedingly precious. What would her run-of-the-mill existence be like now if her application hadn’t been selected? She could picture herself sleeping in her dad’s basement flat or on Jordan’s sofa. She observed Dr. Dewinter’s floppy, moist mouth. She pretended to listen, moving her head up and down. What was Dr. Dewinter’s private life like? Was she involved with a man? A woman? Both? She could picture Dr. Dewinter at home, applying makeup in front of a mirror. It no doubt took ages. What did the doctor look like first thing in the morning? Clarissa imagined her in the nude, choosing clothes in front of her wardrobe. A strange beauty emanated from her weighty yet graceful body. The doctor was talking about a prescription Clarissa was going to get by mail. A prescription? What for? She asked the doctor to repeat this. The doctor arched an eyebrow, with a slightly sour face that clearly meant Clarissa should be listening assiduously. A basic one, with vitamins and food supplements. Now back to configuration. Dr. Dewinter’s gums were exposed in a wide smile. Clarissa was going to have to be obliging, right? The doctor held out her hand one more time.
“I’m sure this will go well. I wish you a wonderful move into your new home. See you soon, Mrs. Katsef.”
The door closed and Clarissa was alone again, facing the screen. The blue eyes swiftly made their appearance.
“Here I am, Clarissa. Can we go on?”
“We may.”
“Good. We stopped at lies. Do you ever lie, Clarissa?”
The break with Dr. Dewinter had renewed Clarissa’s vigor. She felt curious; she very much wanted to know where the setting up was going to lead. She remembered that François had given her her first personal assistant for Christmas, years ago. It was a small gray cone that looked like a microphone. It answered all sorts of questions: what today’s weather was going to be, or tomorrow’s, a country’s capital, how to make gluten-free chocolate cake, calculate a sum, order something online. But the little cone hadn’t needed to get to know her or François any better. It had merely answered their questions. Clarissa suspected her present session with Mrs. Dalloway was imbedded in a far more complex tactic.
“Do I lie? Yes, Mrs. Dalloway, I lie every day. Writers are professional liars. They spend their life spinning stories. If we couldn’t lie, we wouldn’t be able to write.”
“Thank you, Clarissa. Can you tell about how you chose your pseudonym?”
“I’ve already answered many interviews regarding my pen name. Everything is online. Just look, Mrs. Dalloway.”
“Certainly. Here’s what I found.”
Pages and pages of articles filled the screen. Clarissa caught a glimpse of her own features, the face she’d had twenty years ago. A headline shot out: CLARISSA KATSEF’S VIBRANT TRIBUTE TO VIRGINIA WOOLF AND ROMAIN GARY.
“Indeed, I don’t need to know why you chose that particular pen name, Clarissa, since it’s all online, as you’ve pointed out, but I’d rather hear about why you don’t like your real name.”
“I loathe it. I’ve always loathed it. I don’t even pronounce it. Only my dad, my brother, and my nieces still call me that. You’ll find it easily, as it’s in all my identity documents. You probably know it already. It’s tough growing up with a name you hate. Why do I hate it? Where should I start? My parents had looked for a name you could easily pronounce in English and in French. My father rooted for Agatha. My mother, Cécile. Nobody came to an agreement. So they ended up picking the one they gave me. It has hideous diminutives, in both languages. You know, Mrs. Dalloway, if I hear that name in the street, I don’t even turn around. It’s not mine. Don’t ever use it.”
“Duly noted. Let’s get back to the questions. Can you tell me on which occasion you felt the deepest sadness?”
Clarissa realized the irritation she felt at the beginning had fizzled out. She’d lost her wariness, as well. Something inside had let go.
“The death of my son.”
She found it extraordinary that she could actually utter those words so straightforwardly. They had remained locked up for so long.
“Would you care to say a little more?”
“I can say this. When people ask me how many children I have, I always reply, ‘Two.’ I say, ‘Two children.’ I’ve been pregnant twice; I carried babies twice; I gave birth twice. It would be even sadder to say I’ve only had one child. It would be erasing my son’s existence.”
“Could you tell me his name?”
She wondered why Mrs. Dalloway would need to know that, but the words came tumbling out before she could stop them. She said his name out loud.
“Thank you, Clarissa. How did you fight the sadness?”
“The sadness never left me, Mrs. Dalloway. I learned to live with it. Writing helped.”
“Would you say this tragedy shaped the person you are today?”
Clarissa let out a short, curt laugh.
“In your humble opinion?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand your query, Clarissa. Can you reformulate it?”
“Yes, there were repercussions. And yes, I still do suffer. Hypnosis helped me a lot.”
“Can you confirm your hypnotherapist’s name?”
“She’s no longer with us, I’m afraid. Her name was Elise Delaporte.”
“Would you like to hear her voice, Clarissa? That’s the kind of thing you can ask me to do for you.”
“Hear Elise’s voice? Oh, my God…”
“Please ask me, Clarissa.”
“Mrs. Dalloway, I’d like to listen to Elise Delaporte.”
First came silence. Then from its depths sprang the unforgettable silky, clear tones. Clarissa quivered, moved to tears. Elise! It didn’t matter what she was going on about; this was Elise, her Elise. She was talking to a journalist, answering questions about her profession, how she chose hypnosis, or rather, how it had chosen her. How she helped others. Clarissa closed her eyes and felt as if she were now in Elise’s small, hushed apartment; she could feel the firmness of the chair propping up her back while she surrendered to Elise’s voice, and in front of her eyelids the strange fluctuating white line began to appear, tracing its way ahead like a boundless, enticing path. In her palm, she almost felt the blue china cup filled with warm water that Elise had handed her after each session.
Elise was silent now. So was Mrs. Dalloway. Clarissa opened damp eyelids. The blue eyes vanished from the screen. A few sentences now showed up.
Congratulations, Clarissa Katsef. Your personal virtual assistant was successfully set up. C.A.S.A. wishes you a very pleasant day.
In the beginning, I did what all suspicious wives did. I went through his pockets. Nothing. I looked in his case. Nothing. His mobile was locked; so was his computer. No way I could get inside.
I started following him, my hair hidden under a baseball cap, a large jacket concealing my figure.
His office was near the Palais-Royal. I went to wait at the café just in front. I saw him come out with his colleagues, go have lunch nearby.
I felt silly. All this took time. I had other things to do than spy on my husband. But when I found another hair on his sweater, just as long, just as blond, I knew I couldn’t sit around doing nothing. It was an unbearable situation. At our ages, to have to face this again. The lies. The concealment.
He had always told me, the other times. It was he who came to see me, ashamed, red-faced, begging for my forgiveness. Nameless women. Unimportant women. One-night stands.
With my first husband, Toby, I had not had that problem. I had not been through that pain. I did what many women do: I forgave, closed my eyes. I had a couple of discreet affairs. Nothing serious. They did me good.
I don’t know why, but I instantly felt that this time, things were different. This affair wasn’t like the others. I didn’t yet know to what extent.
I took it upon myself to say nothing to anyone. I had to find out. I had to be patient. I ended up noticing it was often at the end of the day that I couldn’t get hold of him. His schedule became shady. So I continued to wait in front of his office, hidden under my cap.
There was that afternoon when he came out of his office carrying a small travel bag, in a hurry. He seemed happy. I’d never seen that bag. He rushed to the Métro. It was tough following him. Where was he going? Who was he going to meet?
My husband took a route that had nothing to do with our home. I followed, puzzled and anxious. He took the exit at Anvers station. I tried to think of someone we knew who lived around there, but no one came to mind. I looked at the name of the street: rue Dancourt. He entered a small passage and I was able to slip in before the gate closed behind him.
He went into a building on the left, and at that point, I did not dare follow him any longer. I kept back, observing the façade. It was an old edifice, fissured and dilapidated. I drew nearer to read the names on the intercom.
I had a dreadful shock.
His name was there. Our name. The name I’d been using, in my everyday life, for the past twenty years.
François ANTOINE
6th floor, left.