I don’t think two people could have been happier.
VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941
I have at last said all I have to say.
ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980
CLARISSA WAS HAVING her breakfast, and reading the morning paper on her device. For a while now, she’d steadfastly avoided lingering on bad news, attempting to concentrate on what might instruct her, stir or touch her, or even make her laugh. It wasn’t easy. The news feed prospered on disasters and cataclysms. She also had to check each time that she wasn’t dealing with fake news. She had often been hoodwinked.
Mrs. Dalloway was heard.
“Good morning, Clarissa. We have a situation. A person has tried to come in several times. His name is not on the entry list.”
François. It could only be him.
“Is he downstairs, Mrs. Dalloway?”
“Yes. And he won’t leave unless he speaks to you. He went away previously, after speaking to security. But not this morning. What do you wish to do?”
“Can you confirm his identity?”
“Of course.”
François’s shattered face loomed up on the nearby control screen.
“I’ll give it a thought, Mrs. Dalloway.”
“Absolutely.”
Clarissa got up, her mug in her hand. She tried to think rationally. She tried to remain calm. There was nothing she wanted to say to François, except for him to leave her alone. The pain concerning the purple studio was still there, as strong as ever. And now he was downstairs. What was he thinking? That she was going to go back to him? That she would forgive him, like she always had? That she would be the wonderful, generous, understanding wife she had been till now? Oh no. No, no. That Clarissa was gone. Gone forever.
She saw herself in the mirror and almost gasped at the expression on her face. The woman staring back at her was a warrior. It felt as if she were wearing armor, that nothing this man could ever do would hurt her or disappoint her again.
Go on down there, said the little voice. Give him a piece of your mind. Make him understand, for once and for all.
She drew herself up to her full height. Then she reached into her cupboard and pulled out a pair of badass black boots she’d bought last week on the spur of the moment, the kind she used to wear when she was younger, and that only a rock star or an actress would ever dare flaunt at her age. They added a couple of inches to her frame, exactly what she wanted.
She had purchased new clothes, as she had moved here with nothing. She was particularly fond of an elegant black jacket, unearthed in a vintage boutique, which contrasted with her red hair. She slipped it on and applied light makeup. She had no intention of coming across as pallid or worn-out. In the bathroom, Mrs. Dalloway asked her to go through the medical procedure: weighing herself, placing her hand on the plaque, looking into the mirror where the dots were.
“Another time. I’m in a hurry.”
“Fine, but Dr. Dewinter insists on your going through the evaluations regularly. I will remind you.”
Clarissa made a face. Then she mumbled, laughing up her sleeve, “Blah blah blah.”
She left, banging the door behind her, hurrying headlong down the stairs, as usual.
François was waiting for her a little farther away on the cobbled forecourt in front of the residence, like a lost, collarless dog. He had the bushy, unkempt beard of a nineteenth-century tanked-up Slavic writer; his face was puffed up, his eyes reddened. His back was curved, his chin glued to his chest. Was he overdoing it, so that she might pity him and relent? It wasn’t working. He was pathetic, she thought.
“It’s impossible to get into that fortress of yours,” he said with a feeble smile.
“What do you want?” she asked bluntly.
His face fell. Then he began to speak hurriedly. What he wanted? Was she serious? He had been here three times already in the past weeks, only to be sent away by those guards, who treated him like a homeless person. He only wanted to talk. He only wanted to make her understand, nothing more than that. He had done something awful, something heinous. He could not forgive himself. But he couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t let her walk out of his life. He needed her. He had always needed her. How could she turn over this page so fast? After all they’d gone through, after all these years? Couldn’t she just hear him out, let him explain? Surely she might let him explain?
Clarissa glanced at his disheveled shirt, his stained jeans. The sour stink of him wormed its way to her nose. This was unlike him. François was usually impeccably groomed. He looked like he hadn’t slept or washed in weeks.
He went on in a calmer, plaintive, squeaky voice she found unbearable. They had to talk about the future, didn’t they? They had to make plans. If she really wished to leave, then they had to organize this. She had all her stuff at the flat. There were papers to sign, all sorts of things to do, if she truly wanted to go. Had she thought it over? Was this what she wanted?
She spoke at last. Her voice was clear and firm.
“Yes, this is what I want.”
She held herself tall, towering over him in her heels. How could she ever have loved this man who was so small in every single way? Every aspect of him was insignificant. The more she observed him, the more she wondered how it had been possible. How had she fallen in love with François Antoine? She remembered he had appeared at a traumatic moment in her life. She had not gotten over the death of her baby, despite Jordan’s birth. Her job as a surveyor was beginning to bore her. It was a complex, tricky period. She had met François Antoine at a mutual friend’s place. She had gone to the dinner alone; Toby had moved out long ago. What had she seen in François? There was something comforting and caring about him. It was François who had been the first to ever suggest hypnosis to her; he had sensed her fragility, the sorrow she had still not been able to overcome concerning the child. She didn’t have to explain. He suggested she give it a try, just once. And later, much later, that first hypnosis session with Elise Delaporte had changed everything for her.
“You’re so tough, Clarissa. So unkind. That’s not your style. You’ve forgotten everything I’ve ever done for you.”
He went on in his lamenting tone. Did she have a short memory, or what? Did she not remember the state she was in when he met her? Her first husband had already cleared off, after all.
“That’s enough, François,” she hissed.
But he went on with more intensity. Yes, Toby had gotten the hell out because Clarissa was wallowing in her own grief, because she couldn’t even smile anymore, let alone to her own daughter. Did she have any idea what he had endured? Did she even guess at the efforts he’d made to help her picture things in a more positive light, at all the trouble he had gone through to help her heal? Look at how she was treating him now, slamming the door on their marriage.
“Stop it, François. It’s over. It’s finished.”
His face crumpled up, and it was ugly to watch. She thought about the studio, the photos and the videos she had seen there, that hidden, double life. Ugly, as well. It was all so ugly. She didn’t want any of it. She could no longer stand it.
“Please give me another chance. Please forgive me.”
He was weeping now, his nose runny, his eyes screwed up. Disgust rose over pity. How could she tell him, again, that there were so many things she had put up with, too much she had taken in her stride, so many times she had pardoned. He had been unfaithful since the start. It had been an unpleasant discovery, but not a surprise. She was no young bride. But this was different. This had nothing to do with the previous flings. This was a repugnant blow that had dug into the very core of their marriage, delving into the throbbing heart of it, and there was no going back from that debacle; there was no healing, no possibility of absolution.
He didn’t seem to be getting it. He was still crying, his beard flecked with snot. He kept on mumbling that he had been such an idiot; he was so angry with himself.
“I imagine you’re still seeing her?” she asked. She felt invincible in her black jacket, perched on her high-heeled rock-star boots. But the pain always found a way to express itself, perfidiously snaking its way through her shield. Why ask such a dumb question? Of course he was still seeing her! He had installed her in a studio; he had a life with her. For a year now, he’d been sharing part of his existence with this creature.
François looked sheepish. He stared at his feet. Words weren’t coming to him.
“You know what?” said Clarissa bitterly. “Forget that question. Don’t answer. I don’t want to know.”
“I thought perhaps you might understand,” murmured François at last, with the same hangdog expression. “I was mistaken.”
She stamped her foot.
“For God’s sake, François, what is there to understand?”
He shook his head, raised his hand. Could she just listen? Was that possible? She remained silent. He took that as a cue. He said he had needs, like any man, and she knew that. The problem was, with age, his needs were still strong. He couldn’t ignore them. He had to face the facts. They had married late, in their fifties. Then he had been ill. Of course, there had been sex between them, but perhaps not as much as he would have wanted. Maybe he was wrong, but it seemed to him that as she grew older, she seemed to be less interested in sex. Perhaps it was menopause? Perhaps they hadn’t talked about it enough? He hadn’t dared. He hadn’t known where to begin.
Clarissa took a deep breath. She tried to put her anger and disgust aside.
“What are you trying to tell me?” she said.
François seemed to stand a little straighter. He looked her in the eyes. He had been meaning to speak to her, but he just didn’t know how. Never could he have imagined she’d follow him and discover the studio. He should have told her right away, and the more he waited, the more difficult it became to say anything. His voice became clearer, less shrill.
“I thought you’d understand because you’re so intelligent, Clarissa. You see into people’s souls. And I really and truly thought that you wouldn’t feel hurt, because you don’t give me anything sexual anymore. Nothing much goes on in our bed, except hugs and kisses. I can’t even remember the last time we made love. When I’m with her, it is only for that. It’s just for the sex. It’s only for the sex.”
A violent fury took over, and she had to restrain herself from insulting him. She was shaking.
“Oh, really? Only for the sex?” she hissed frostily. “What about the photo albums? The videos? The celebrations? The dinners for two? All in the past year? I saw it, as it’s so nicely on display, in your home. Enough of your nonsense. Cut the crap, please. Stop saying she’s just some lay. You love her. You know it. You’re in love. And it’s intolerable. Unbearable.”
Like a little boy, he started to cry again.
“I love both of you,” he whined; “it’s a nightmare. I’m so sorry, honey. Forgive me!”
He blubbered loudly, with no holding back.
Clarissa stepped back, raised her chin.
“You’re going to get the hell out of here. Now. You’re never coming back. Is that clear? I’ll talk to a lawyer when I’m ready. That lawyer will get in touch with you. That’s all. Bye.”
She rushed away, without looking at him. The scanning system at the entrance had trouble checking her retina because of her tears. She had to go through it several times, praying François wasn’t behind her. She climbed the stairs too quickly, and had to stop halfway, breathless, her throat dry.
Mrs. Dalloway’s voice greeted her as soon as she walked in.
“Clarissa, tonight on channel Cinéma New Star, there’s a special Timothée Chalamet show. Otherwise, there’s a Chopin concert on—”
“Just shut up, Mrs. Dalloway. And don’t speak to me before tomorrow.”
Silence.
A prodigious feeling of freedom raced through her.
In the living room, the cat was curled up on the sofa, asleep. She sat down next to him and stroked his back. He purred. She put François out of her mind. She thought of all the things she had to do. The trick was to keep busy. It was the only way. In her mind, she made little notes. Check on her father to see how he was. Call Jordan to find out if the brooch was worth anything. Start thinking about the summer holiday, the first she’d spend without François. They usually spent them in Provence or Italy. Where would she go? And while she went through all these things, the idea of the book she was trying to write loomed up bigger than the rest. Luckily, the editor she worked with was not breathing down her neck. Laure-Marie knew Clarissa needed time. And Clarissa was well aware that although her books were valued, she was not a bestselling author whose new works were eagerly expected. There was no hype around her, and never had been. No one from the publishing company put pressure on her. It was always a pleasure to have lunch with Laure-Marie, who took her to nice restaurants and seemed genuinely happy to see her. But Laure-Marie had bigger and more important authors to look after.
Perhaps it was time to call Laure-Marie and tell her that she had just started working on something new. She wondered what Laure-Marie would make of the fact that Clarissa was writing in English and French simultaneously. Would she be interested? Perhaps not. Since the attacks, the world of publishing had changed. The dreadful power of the images searing around the world on social media, showing the devastation of the Piazza San Marco, bombed-out Big Ben, and the obliteration of the Sistine Chapel, seemed to have stopped time. After the Eiffel Tower had been filmed crashing down, it had not seemed possible that anything worse could ever happen. And yet it had.
But that was only the beginning. A swift and fiendish sequence of events had occurred. Pictures took precedence over words. No one read newspapers. People watched videos, over and over again, ensnared by an enthralled stupor.
Clarissa recalled that several years after the attacks, during the oddness of an unhoped-for and disquieting lull, while Europe as Clarissa had always known it started to fall apart, and as the bees endured a slow agony worsening by the day, other new and horrifying images had spread like an epidemic: Ordinary citizens, unable to stand the cruel reality of modern life, were committing suicide on social media for all to see. Individuals of all ages, all classes, all nationalities posted live videos of themselves taking their own lives, one after the other. It was beyond belief: an atrocious and despotic larger-than-life reality show caught in the frenzy of media display. Literature no longer held its own, faced now with the onslaught of immediacy, where the obscene power of video reigned supreme, never satiated. And when stunned writers had attempted to describe the attacks, those books had barely been read. People preferred to come and listen to the writer, to applaud the writer as he or she read from his or her book, and no longer purchased signed copies. Reading was no longer comforting. Reading no longer helped to heal.
So why should she go on writing? Who would read her? She would stick to writing because she didn’t have a choice, because written words were her stronghold, her defense. She would write to make her voice heard; she would continue in order to leave a trail, although she had no idea who’d ever find it. She would write.
Clarissa felt tired, more than ever. It was an effort to get out of bed, to walk up those eight flights of stairs. Why was her mouth so parched all the time? Perhaps she was overdoing things. Perhaps she needed to slow down, write less and with less passion, though that was going to be hard.
One night, as she lay asleep, the voice murmured a word, over and over again, lapping into the breeding ground of her sensitive brain like a recurring wave, never letting go. Like a time machine, the dream was taking her back over the years to a place that filled her with dread. She heard the squeak of wheels on worn linoleum, saw the long stretch of a dark corridor opening up in front of her. She saw Toby, his hair still black, bending down to weep, his face in his hands. The voice whispered the same word that burrowed deep into her, down where she could still feel the soreness, down where she kept the pain at bay. But the voice acted like a key, unlocking all the doors of protection she had so carefully erected, and the suffering came gushing back, stronger than ever, like boiling water scalding her skin. In her dream, she surrendered to the pain, opening herself completely, letting it invade her. The voice was there to calm her, to reassure her. When she opened her eyes, she felt moisture on her cheeks. She had been crying. She felt calm, but desolate, as if something had been torn from her. And the word murmured by the voice, what was it? She couldn’t remember.
When she got up to have breakfast, her joints always ached. She couldn’t understand why she felt so run-down. She had talked about it to Jordan, who had reminded her mother, very sweetly, that she was getting on. She was at last feeling her age. But Clarissa wouldn’t have it. It had all started since she had moved here. And while the medical checkups she went through in her bathroom showed nothing abnormal, she was convinced her fatigue had something to do with the residence. She began to feel suspicious about the tap water; she stopped drinking it and ordered bottled mineral water through the weekly shopping drone. She also decided to stop taking the vitamin treatment Dr. Dewinter had prescribed. Facing the cameras, she pretended to swallow the pills, and ended up stuffing them into her pocket, then tossing them into the toilet bowl.
One morning, as she sat at her kitchen table rubbing her eyes, sleepy, her head still filled with haunting dreams, her ears still echoing from the murmur of the voice that whispered to her in the night, she heard the bizarre clicking noise that had startled Andy. She looked up. She thought she saw a trickle of powder sifting through the ceiling right into the mug of tea placed in front of her. At first, she believed she had been mistaken and it was just a trick of the light. But as she looked closely at her mug, a tiny coating of dust was quickly seeping into the liquid. She sat there, stunned. Had she imagined it? She got up, taking her time, and stared up at the light fixture above her head. It seemed perfectly normal. She spilled her tea into the sink, trying to act as naturally as possible. She was being watched. She rinsed the cup several times.
Thinking about the powder shadowed her all day long. What was that powder? Had it been poured into her tea every day? Was that why she felt tired, almost drugged? Why were “they” doing this? Whom could she talk to? She hadn’t been able to work, to get on with her book. She acted like the cat, ill at ease, wary. She went to bed feeling uneasy. It seemed to her the cat looked even more nervous than usual.
Jordan had called her after dinner to organize Andy’s next visit. She told her Aunt Serena’s brooch was with a jewelry appraiser. She was convinced it wasn’t worth much. She’d know in a week or so.
“You okay, Mums? Your voice sounds strange.”
“’I’m fine. A little tired. Nothing serious.”
But her daughter wasn’t giving up that easily.
“Hmmm, you’ve been saying that an awful lot lately. But I can tell there’s something else. What’s up?”
Clarissa ended up telling her about François. She admitted he had come there, had insisted upon speaking to her, and that she had gone down to meet him, to say it was all over. All this had stirred her up.
When she hung up, she noticed once again how her daughter had not asked her what François had done. But she knew Jordan’s silence would not last. She knew Jordan would eventually harp on about this, and it wouldn’t be because of an unhealthy curiosity, but, above all, impelled by the love she felt for her mother. Clarissa, aware of this, cherished her daughter’s love, even if she felt at times that Jordan worried too much about her.
Sleep tumbled upon her like a leaden weight, for once. There had been no need to ask Mrs. Dalloway to display any videos, or for her to spy on her neighbors with her binoculars.
In the dead of the night, a strident blare drilled into her eardrums as the panic-stricken cat landed on her. A monstrously powerful alarm rang out, making the walls shudder. With distraught fingers, she tried to turn on the bedside lamp, but nothing happened. A blinking night-light feebly lit up the corridor with an unpleasant orange glow. Clarissa yelled out for Mrs. Dalloway to intervene, but the din was too loud.
A mechanical voice began to speak, repeating the same words over and over.
“STAY CALM. GET OUT NOW. FIRE ALARM. LEAVE PREMISES NOW. FIRE ALARM. GET OUT. WARNING. LEAVE NOW. LEAVE PREMISES NOW. WARNING.”
She was only wearing her nightgown, and couldn’t find her slippers or her dressing gown in the dimness. She had to leave; there was no time to locate them. From the armchair, she grabbed the sweater she had been wearing last evening, slipped it on with haste. There was a fire in the residence and she was on the top floor. She didn’t have a minute to spare. Flustered, she seized the cat, and cried out in pain as he scratched her. She compressed him against her chest and flung herself into the dimly lit stairway. All the doors of the residence were opening up, and her neighbors emerged, disheveled and anxious. She followed the others down, while the cat twisted and turned, mewing frantically. The stairs seemed shadowy and endless. Suddenly, she heard Adelka’s voice, felt her comforting palm against her elbow. She felt relief, even though she knew they still had more flights to go, that it wasn’t over. In the huge hall, only the orange night-lights flickered. The alarm still howled and the voice went on giving orders.
“LEAVE THE RESIDENCE RIGHT AWAY. GET OUT. DANGER.”
Head down, stumbling, Clarissa followed Adelka, clutching the squirming cat against her. The ground felt cold and damp to her bare feet. Outside, streetlamps shed a bright yellow light onto the small crowd. The residence loomed above them, clad in darkness. No flames, no smoke. The sirens were still howling. No one from the C.A.S.A. team was to be seen.
“Is there a fire, or what?” Adelka asked Clarissa. She noticed the cat and tickled him under his chin. “That’s a very frightened kitty there, isn’t it, now?” Chablis calmed down, but Clarissa could still feel his heart pumping under the soft fur.
“It’s three in the morning!” mumbled a man in his thirties, standing next to them in a T-shirt and boxer shorts. “For fuck’s sake, what’s going on?”
He noticed Clarissa and Adelka looking at him and grinned apologetically. He held out his hand, introduced himself as Jim Perrier. Third floor.
“I’m wondering what C.A.S.A. has got up its sleeve,” he said in a low voice.
“So there’s no fire, you think?” asked Adelka, plucking a purring Chablis from Clarissa’s arms. She obviously had a way with cats.
“I’m pretty sure there’s no fire,” said Jim.
“Unless it’s a drill and they forgot to tell us,” said Clarissa.
“That’s what they’ll probably come up with,” said Jim.
“Maybe they wanted us all to get together and this was a clever way to do it,” whispered Clarissa.
Jim looked at her and winked.
“You could very well be right,” he whispered back.
Beyond the camaraderie of his wink, she felt perhaps she had found an ally, a person who had also become suspicious of what truly lay behind C.A.S.A. She wasn’t the only one.
Clarissa looked around at her neighbors. She was familiar with just a few faces. She realized she didn’t know most of the people who lived in her building. In the yellow lighting, it was hard to make them out. She noticed a young woman wrapped up in a bathrobe, with a long braid down her back. She seemed vaguely familiar. She wished she had her glasses to be able to make her out better.
“I wonder how long they’ll keep us here,” said Adelka. She was wearing a fuchsia shawl. She noticed Clarissa’s feet were bare. “Oh, aren’t you cold?”
“In the rush, I couldn’t find my slippers,” Clarissa said.
Adelka took off her own flip-flops and handed them to Clarissa, all the while expertly balancing the cat.
“Please put mine on. Please.”
“That’s very kind of you. You’re making me feel like a very old lady, you know.”
“Nonsense. You’re probably my mum’s age, and there’s nothing old about my mum or you.”
She was very sweet. Clarissa felt like hugging her. The cat seemed ecstatic in her arms.
“I’m a cat person,” Adelka said, smiling.
“My daughter is, too. I’m not!”
“You’re still learning! It takes a while for a cat to like you and get to know you.”
“Chablis isn’t happy here,” said Clarissa. She nearly added “Like me.”
“Why not?” asked Jim Perrier.
Clarissa shrugged.
“He’s nervous, jumpy. It’s like he sees things I can’t. I did hear a strange clicking noise the other day. So did my granddaughter. Not sure what it was. The cat hates it.”
“Ah, the clicking noise,” said Jim grimly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Adelka. “I’ve never heard it.”
“You will now,” said Jim. “You’ll see.”
“What can it be?” asked Clarissa. “We could ask Dr. Dewinter.”
“Dr. Dewinter and her team are too busy spying on us to answer that sort of question.”
Clarissa stared at Jim. He seemed perfectly serious.
She lowered her voice.
“Why are they spying on us, do you think? What is C.A.S.A.?”
He stared back at her.
“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to work out since I moved in.”
Jim moved closer to them. He smelled of cologne.
He said, “We could go on discussing C.A.S.A., but not here, and not now. And never within the residence. They listen to everything. They tape it all.”
“But why?” asked Adelka. “What for?”
Jim put a finger in front of his mouth.
“We need to be quiet,” he said. “Later.”
The minutes slipped by. Some people were sitting on the low wall that circled the forecourt in front of the residence. The air felt cool. The alarm had stopped at last, and silence had taken over. Clarissa noticed some of the neighbors were becoming edgy, letting their disapproval show. Others seemed to be asleep, even while they stood. The cat drowsed in Adelka’s arms.
Dr. Dewinter’s imposing silhouette appeared in front of the residence’s vast entrance. She was wearing a black jacket and black trousers. A sleepy-faced Ben and Clémence Dutilleul stood by her side. The three of them flaunted smiles—fake tight ones that were supposed to be heartening but failed. Clarissa wondered if they slept on-site, but she’d never seen them in the hall, let alone in the neighborhood.
Dr. Dewinter had quite a set of lungs. Her voice was easily heard.
“First of all, may I say, dear artists, how deeply sorry we are. I wish to reassure you, there is no fire. We had indeed planned a fire drill, but certainly not at three in the morning!”
A couple of laughs rang out.
“Now what?” muttered Jim Perrier.
“There was a mistake in the programming. Please do accept our most humble apologies.”
Jim Perrier shot a glance toward Clarissa.
Ben looked shamefaced. So he was the culprit.
“However, before we let you get back home to your beds, we need to check you are all here.”
“As if anyone could have slept through that racket!” Adelka chuckled.
“Why call the roll?” murmured Clarissa. “Why do they need to know we’re all here?”
“There must be a reason,” said Jim Perrier. “Everything here happens for a reason.”
“They’re testing us,” whispered Clarissa. “All this is to test us, to monitor our reactions. They must need it for something, but I don’t know what.”
“Will we ever know?”
“You guys have too much imagination,” said Adelka.
Jim Perrier laughed.
“That’s my job,” he said.
“Mine, too,” said Clarissa. “Are you a writer, as well?”
“I am, but I write for others,” said Jim. “I’ve never published anything under my own name.”
Dr. Dewinter had started the roll call. They had to be quiet, like in school.
“Arlen, first floor right. Azoulay, fourth right. Bell, fifth left. Engeler, second right. Fromet, fifth right. Holzmann, seventh right. Katsef, eighth floor. Olsen, seventh left. Miki, fourth left. Perrier, third left. Pomeroy, third right. Rachewski, sixth left. Van Druten, sixth right. Zajak, second left.”
There was no one missing. But the young girl with the long braid that Clarissa had seen earlier on was nowhere to be seen. She glanced around for her in vain. The strangest thing was that she now knew whom the girl looked like. The spitting image of Mia White.
She found this perturbing, felt her wariness flare up again. Was she becoming utterly paranoid? She could easily imagine Jordan’s amused but worried expression.
Jim Perrier drew closer. He whispered in her ear.
“If you want to talk to me, I’m at Café Iris every morning, in the new part of rue Saint-Dominique, near the dry cleaner’s. I’m there early, after eight. Don’t use the internal messaging system if you have anything personal to say. Remember that everything coming from your mobile or your computer goes through them. Good night!”
He disappeared, weaving his way through the people heading back to the residence. Dr. Dewinter, followed by Clemence and Ben, was also leaving. Clarissa watched them till they turned the corner of the street. She went back inside with Adelka. The young woman took her back to her door, handed her the cat, and told her to go quickly back to bed. And she hadn’t forgotten their drink!
Clarissa couldn’t sleep. She sat on the sofa, with Chablis burrowing against her, and watched the sun rise. She looked at the building on the other side of the street, full of those lives she had come to know intimately. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Jim Perrier had said concerning C.A.S.A.
Last night, she had left an empty mug of tea on the kitchen table. When she examined it, she thought she saw a minute trace of white powder lining its bottom. She turned her back to the camera, then wrapped the mug up in a paper bag, which she put away in the cupboard.
The new part of rue Saint-Dominique, called rue Neuve Saint-Dominique, had sprung forth with grace from the ruins of the attack. Modern edifices daringly reinterpreted Haussmannian outlines. The street was predominantly pedestrian, lined with large sidewalks planted with man-made trees, which were pleasing to the eye. Driverless cars quietly slid by, mingling with bikes and gliders. Clarissa found the new arrangement hard to take in. She kept seeing in her mind the ancient configuration, which superimposed itself onto the new one in spite of herself. Higher up, the Café Iris had a nice sunny terrace, and she quickly spotted Jim Perrier seated there, behind his computer.
When he saw her approaching, he smiled.
“I knew you’d come.”
She sat down in front of him. She could see him better than last night. He had lively, twinkling dark eyes, cropped black hair, and a tattoo on his right arm. He was young, in his mid-thirties. Clarissa ordered some tea.
Jim Perrier had a look around.
“You never know,” he said with a grin. “Always checking. So! Mrs. Katsef. Meanwhile, I’ve read a lot about you. Interesting career. How your job as a property surveyor led you to writing after an extraordinary hypnosis experience. Romain Gary. Virginia Woolf. Their homes, their privacy, their demons. The obsession with dwellings. I ordered Topography of Intimacy on the spot!”
“That’s very kind,” she said, slightly embarrassed.
“I admire novelists, their imaginary world, the way they write. It’s different for me. I listen to people, more or less famous; then I transcribe their story. I also create TV shows, like you do. I love doing that. I have a ball. Maybe, one day, I’ll write a book. So you see, I did my homework concerning you. You give out a nice aura. Your books are well received.”
“Thanks. Except people don’t read books anymore.”
“I know,” he said, making a face. “People take pretty photos of books, post them with the right hashtags, but nobody reads. Or very few. Books have become ornaments.”
“I hear a slight accent. Where are you from?”
“You’ve got a good ear. I grew up in Brussels. But back to C.A.S.A. Why did you sign up?”
“My marriage broke up. I had to find a new place. And you?”
“I had heard about it. I found it intriguing. I wasn’t at all expecting to be taken on.”
“Me, neither.”
Jim Perrier glanced around once more. He began to speak in a low voice. Clarissa had to lean forward in order to hear him. He had been skeptical from the start. The cameras, for instance. The medical checkups. And the incredibly low rents. It was all too clear. Every artist living there was a C.AS.A. guinea pig. But it was impossible to glean any information about C.A.S.A. Had she noticed that, too? He’d done some interesting research on Dr. Dewinter. She was brilliant, with a string of qualifications, one of the greatest artificial intelligence specialists, running far ahead of the pack. Very respected in her field. But her recent projects were no longer mentioned. Dr. Dewinter had retreated into the shadows. Nobody knew what she was working on. Nothing was coming to the surface.
Clarissa let him go on, without interrupting him.
One day, he’d gone back to C.A.S.A. headquarters, where they had passed their interviews. Near here. He wanted to know more, to understand. He hadn’t been getting any response to his emails, so he turned up. Once he got there, he couldn’t obtain an answer or an appointment. The place was like an impenetrable fortress, guarded by Bardi, the most sophisticated robot security guards of the moment. There was a lot of money behind all this. But for what aim?
“I believe they’re trying to coax us out of our comfort zone,” said Clarissa.
“Without a doubt. But why?”
“I don’t know.”
She told him then what she’d never told anyone. The tap water that dehydrated her mouth, hair, and skin. The aching tiredness she’d endured since she moved in. The voice she kept hearing at night, which seemed to influence her dreams. The clicking noise that made her jump, coming from nowhere. The way the cat acted. The nosy virtual assistant who knew too much about her past and who spoke to her granddaughter in her absence. And then, although she had decided not to, she told him about the powder and watched his eyes widen.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“It’s difficult for me to tell you I’m sure. It happened so fast. Sometimes I wonder if I really saw it. But I have this.”
Surreptitiously, she took the paper-wrapped mug out of her bag.
“You should take it to a lab,” he said.
“You’re right, but I don’t know of any.”
“I’ll deal with it,” he said. “Will you leave it with me?”
“Okay. Don’t lose it!”
“No worries. But I won’t take it back to the residence. We’ll meet here, when I get the results.”
“How will you get hold of me?”
He pondered.
“I’ll send you a message on the internal system. Something about your book, which I will have read. As soon as you get it, come here the next morning.”
She nodded.
“I absolutely want to discover what we are living in. And you are the only one to be on the same wavelength.”
“Have you talked to any other neighbors?”
“Yes, one night, I rang the door on the right, next to mine, Sean Pomeroy, sculptor. He thought I was crazy. I’ll admit it was late. And that pianist, Louise Fromet, on the fifth floor, she sent me packing. As for your artist friend on the fourth, she thinks we have way too much imagination!”
They both laughed.
“Perhaps you and I are overreacting, imaging things,” Clarissa said.
“Perhaps! But let’s get to the bottom of it!”
When she got home, Clarissa felt buoyed by a new energy. This young man shared her thoughts. How comforting and reassuring. And the fact that he was reading one of her books warmed her heart.
Mrs. Dalloway’s voice startled her.
“Clarissa, your daughter is downstairs. May I let her come up?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Dalloway.”
Jordan rarely visited at this hour. She usually came in the evenings. She must have something important to say.
As always, whenever Clarissa laid eyes on her daughter, she was swept away by proud joy. Jordan was so pretty, so elegant.
“Mums! I came as soon as I found out!”
Jordan was breathless and overexcited.
Clarissa felt puzzled. Whatever did she mean? Jordan couldn’t keep still. She fished around in her bag, and handed a small box to her mother. Clarissa opened it. Inside was a lumpy gold and diamond brooch.
“Is that Aunt Serena’s?”
Jordan danced around the room, while Chablis stared at her, mesmerized. Clarissa couldn’t help laughing. She looked exactly like Andy.
“Darling, I don’t get it! Tell me what’s going on!”
Jordan came to a halt.
“The expert asked to see me. His voice was shaking. You know what? That brooch belonged to some British aristocrat. Lady Thingummybob. He said I could easily sell it to a museum or a private collection. It’s worth a fortune! I have to go put it back in the bank right now. A fortune! I daren’t even tell you how much!”
“And it was asleep in Aunt Serena’s safe?”
“Yes! For years! She must have bought it cheaply somewhere, and not bothered to have it examined. Mimsy and Pimsy didn’t, either. They handed it on without even imagining it could be worth so much. Mums, do you realize what this means? It means I can pay Andy’s school for another year without feeling the pinch. It means I can take you, Andy, and Ivan on holiday. We’ll have a marvelous trip at stingy old Aunt Serena’s expense. We’ll raise our glasses in her honor!”
Clarissa went on laughing as Jordan hugged her tenderly.
“It’s so good to hear you laugh, Mums.”
“I’m okay, honey. Don’t worry about me.”
Jordan stepped back in order to observe her more closely. The familiar green eyes meticulously took her in. Clarissa felt as if Jordan were putting her through a scanner and not missing a beat of her inner struggles.
“You said you made some nice new friends? Tell me more!”
They settled on the sofa. Chablis seemed delighted to see Jordan again.
“Yes, a cute reader, very young. I’m supposed to meet her again, but I haven’t spoken to her recently. And a charming artist, your age, a painter, who lives on the fourth floor.”
She kept back last night’s events and her conversation with Jim Perrier. She switched subjects: And Andy? When was she coming back? They had such a great time.
They both decided not to tell Mimsy and Pimsy about the true value of the brooch. Jordan planned to contact her grandfather, whom she fully trusted, and give him the whole story.
On the threshold, Jordan hesitated fleetingly.
“Just tell me one thing, Mums. That woman François is besotted with, she’s how old?”
Clarissa took a deep breath.
“She’s very young.”
Jordan groaned.
“What’s her name?”
“Her name is Amber.”
Jordan rolled her eyes.
“And what’s so special about Amber?”
Clarissa’s answer rang out.
“Amber never says no.”
It was easy to get into the building. I only had to hang around in front, pretend to be talking on my phone. I had waited for my husband to leave. He had walked out with a dreamy expression on his face, and pink cheeks. I felt like slapping him. I watched him walk away toward the Métro.
I wondered if I still loved him. I wondered if I had ever loved him the way I loved Toby.
But what was left of all that now? A sort of companionship? Two people growing old? Is that all that kept us together? The fear of being alone?
The bearded young man I had seen before stepped out of the building and politely held the door open for me. I murmured a thank-you and walked in.
I discovered a poorly kept building, which surprised me, as my husband was usually fussy about that type of thing. The entrance smelled of cabbage soup and dampness. The elevator was minuscule and did not seem safe. I ignored it, walking up the six flights.
There were three doors per landing, and with each landing I passed, I could hear people getting on with their lives. Music, laughter, the sound of plates and cutlery, the whine of a vacuum cleaner. Quarrelling, a child crying, the blare of a TV set.
It was an old-fashioned, run-down Parisian building, with worn-out floorboards, scored walls, paint that was fading and splotched.
And it was here that my husband had chosen to live behind my back.
On the doorbell by the middle door, there was his name, François ANTOINE. It was here. No turning back now.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders. What was I going to say to this woman? Hello, I’m Mrs. Antoine. I’m François’s wife.
I imagined her face. Would she be horrified? Ashamed? Would she roar with laughter?
If I waited too long, I’d never ring. I’d end up fleeing in a panic. I had to do it now.
No thinking, no planning things out. Action.
I reached out and rang the doorbell.
It made a tinkling sound.
I imagined her thinking, Who’s that? Maybe she was in the shower. Maybe she wasn’t wearing any clothes. Maybe she was still in bed, the rumpled sheets still smelling of my husband.
I waited and listened. No noise was coming from that apartment. She had to be there. François had left five minutes ago, and I would have seen a blond lady come out.
I had only seen the young bearded guy.
I rang again, longer this time.
No answer.
I knocked firmly. Then I pounded.
I wanted to shout “I know you’re in there. Stop hiding and open the door.” I wanted to swear, to kick the door in.
No answer.
As I stood there, incensed, confounded, the door on the left opened, and the grouchy old man I had already seen poked his head around and stared at me.
“You’re making a lot of noise,” he said.
“I’m looking for the blond lady who lives here.”
He stared at me even harder.
“There’s no blond lady here.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I’ve been living here for the past thirty years, and if a blond lady had moved in, I would have known.”
“So who lives here, then?”
“Can’t you read? François Antoine. Nice quiet man. You’ve got the wrong place.”
With that, he had slammed the door in my face.