The final words of my latest novel.
ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980
You see, I can’t even write this properly.
VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941
A TUNE PLAYING ON her phone dragged her slowly from sleep. Bewildered, she thought at first it was her alarm, and that she was late for a meeting, but what meeting? Then she realized it was the melody she’d chosen for Toby. “Hotel California,” the Eagles.
“Hey, Blue!”
Her first husband’s voice hadn’t changed. It was still kind and warm. She felt gladdened just by listening to it. He’d never stopped using the nickname he found for her when they first met all those years ago, inspired by her eye color.
“Did I wake you up? Sounds like it!”
She stretched her arms, got out of bed with difficulty. The aches and pains, the tiredness, all were still there.
“I’ll get over it!”
She knew why he was calling.
“Did Jordan phone you?”
“No one can keep anything from you, Blue.”
He admitted their daughter was worried. Jordan felt something was up with her mother, and that it had been going on for a while. She’d opened up to her father. Clarissa listened. She let Toby talk. She visualized him facing his beloved sea. After their divorce, Toby decided to settle down in the Basque country, near Biarritz. He’d been able to continue his career as an English teacher. At present, he was retired. He lived in Guéthary, in a new apartment she had not been to, on the top floor of an ancient hotel overlooking the Atlantic. She knew there was a pretty terrace, seen in Jordan’s and Andy’s photos.
Born in Santa Monica, Toby needed to breathe the ocean air and listen to the roar of the swell. He regularly went down to ride the waves at the surf spot at Parlementia. The state of the sea made him despondent, as it became increasingly polluted as the years went by. He had told Clarissa swimming was often prohibited because of the hazard of contaminated seawater. Forced to roast on the dike without being able to dip a toe into the ocean, vacationers came less often. Every summer, hundreds of fish washed up on the rocks. The stink of dead fish, added to the reek of unclean water, made it impossible to breathe. Within ten years, the beaches at Guéthary and neighboring Bidart vanished. They’d been gobbled up by the waves, falling prey to shifting sands and rising sea level. Clarissa knew the same thing had happened in Biarritz, to the north. She’d seen the reports shot at the Côte des Basques. Nowadays, there was no difference between low and high tide. The long golden beach, loved by surfers and holidaymakers, the pride of the city, had also surrendered, vanquished by the breakers.
“So, tell me. What’s up? Jordan said you left François.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Clarissa sat down on the sofa, with Chablis lying at her feet. She had always trusted Toby. But it seemed that this morning, so many things were still bottled up within her. She was finding it more and more difficult to express herself, to put the right words to her feelings. Yet words had never failed her. They were her friends, not her foe.
“Take your time,” said Toby after a while. “No pressure. And if you don’t want to discuss François, then don’t.”
“I’ve been having the strangest dreams since I moved here,” she said finally, because she knew she had to say something, and Toby was waiting. “I think they are interfering with how I feel.”
“What kind of dreams? Do you want to talk about them?”
Toby’s voice was at its kindest. He was a good listener, she knew. But was he ready for what she had to say? She was going to open up the door to sorrow; she was going to shine a light along the black path of grief that had led to the end of their marriage. And she couldn’t help thinking back to that heart-wrenching instant when he had admitted to her, forlornly, that he could no longer bear her sorrow, that she was drowning in it, that it was pulling her down, and him, too, and that ten years after the birth of their daughter, she still had not been able to find joy within the miracle of Jordan’s arrival. No, she had turned her back to it; she had remained trapped in the tragedy of their son’s death; she had decided to go on grieving, while he wanted to smile at life, to give it a chance, to move on, without her. Without her.
“I’ve been dreaming about the hospital over and over again.”
She heard him breathe.
“Tell me.”
Toby knew exactly which hospital she was referring to. There was only one hospital, engraved forever in their minds. She told him the dreams were taking her back there, against her will, every night, and that she fell asleep with dread because she knew what was in store. She was back there; she could smell that awful hospital smell; she could hear the squealing noise the rubber wheels of the gurney made on the linoleum when they rolled her out of the birthing room; she could hear the sound of Toby crying. But the dreams did more than that, focusing on the moment they had put the baby in her arms, gently, respectfully, as if he had been alive, as if all had been well. They said she could hold him for as long as she wanted.
With extraordinary vividness, the dream revealed the perfectly formed little face, and it had seemed so peaceful, so charming. She had put her mouth on the crown of the tiny head, and she had felt there was no warmth there, no life at all. The dream allowed her to feel the fuzz of the baby’s head under her lips. In her arms, she clasped their dead son while Toby cried at her side. They never knew what had happened, exactly. When she arrived at the hospital to give birth, she quickly understood something was wrong by the way the medical staff reacted. They were obviously alarmed. Yet her pregnancy had been normal all along. The doctor (she would never forget the man’s serious face, the earnestness of his gaze) had told them the heart was no longer beating. The baby had died. Her womb had become a sepulcher. They were told she was going to have to go through the birth. She had glanced at the small suitcase at Toby’s feet. She had carefully packed the brand-new baby clothes. They knew it was going to be a boy, ever since the second ultrasound. They had chosen his name. They had been using it all along.
She’d had to give birth to a dead child. During the long, grueling hours of the ordeal it had been, Toby had never left her side, her hand in his. She had pushed, pushed with all her might, to expel a small corpse. It was indescribable.
This had happened years and years ago. Clarissa had learned to fight against the void it had left behind. She thought she had been able to make peace with it. But no, ever since she had moved in, the dreams forced her to go back to the blackest moment of her life. The pain was excruciating. And then her voice broke and the tears came.
“My darling Blue,” said Toby. “My sweet, sweet Blue.”
He said he wished he could be there right now, with her, and take her into his arms. He said she had to feel he was there. He was there. Hearing him consoled her. She felt better, wiped her eyes. She told him not to mention this to their daughter. He promised he wouldn’t. She said she didn’t know why this was happening.
All of a sudden, she remembered what Jim Perrier had told her. He had warned her. “They” were listening to every word. All the time. She stiffened. She couldn’t tell Toby she was convinced the dreams were induced by something, somebody. But she longed to. She longed to get it all out, to convey her misgivings, to describe the C.A.S.A. residence, Dr. Dewinter, Mrs. Dalloway. She shut up.
“Why don’t you come and stay for a couple of days?” said Toby. “I have a very nice guest room; ask Andy about it. It will do you good. The sea is clean at the moment, not like in summer. I’ll cook for you, and we can go for long walks. What do you think?”
She felt tempted.
“What about your lady friend?”
“What lady friend?”
“Andy says there’s a new one.”
He chuckled, and it felt good to hear him laugh.
“She doesn’t live with me.”
“Maybe she won’t appreciate the idea of your ex-wife coming to stay.”
“Blue, I haven’t seen you in such a long time. Just get on that train and come.”
She told him she’d think about it. A change of air was no doubt a good idea. She talked about her work, the bilingual notes she took each day. She didn’t tell Toby that in order to write, she hid from the cameras filming her around the clock, often in the toilet, where she felt safe, and where there was no surveillance; she didn’t tell him, either, that she no longer used her computer, but a pen, and two notebooks that never left her side, one in English, the other in French. She described Mia White, with whom she was having tea tomorrow, and her neighbor Adelka, who had invited her for drinks on Friday.
Her voice had perked up again. Toby was rejoiced to hear it. Then he brought up the Aunt Serena brooch story, which a delighted and chortling Jordan had narrated to him. Their daughter was already at work, crafting the perfect holiday for her loved ones. What a sweetheart their Jordan was. Toby sighed. He missed Andy; he didn’t see her enough.
“Andy’s coming over to spend the night next week,” said Clarissa. “We’ll call you, I promise.”
“And how’s your father?”
Clarissa said the latest news was good: Her old dad was doing fine. He was in high spirits. The brooch story was all thanks to him. He had been thrilled to hear about its real value and the prospect of their upcoming vacation.
“I’m glad to hear this. Send my love. And take care of yourself, Blue. Relax. Don’t overdo things. Remember, I’m here if you need me. Go for it.”
When she hung up, Clarissa told herself she was blessed to have such an ally in her life; a man who knew her intimately, closely, a man who had seen her give birth, a man who had been at her side when they had buried their stillborn son, a man who had always been faithful to her. At present, she was able to comprehend why he had left her. He had held out for twelve years. Jordan was growing into a bright and lively little girl, full of laughter. But Clarissa was still under the influence of a black, persistent fog, and Toby felt powerless faced with her suffering. Later, it was François who managed to put a stop to her undying despondency by suggesting hypnosis. This ended up bringing her closer to François, and further away from Toby, which was ironic, given her current situation.
Clarissa went into the kitchen. She made some tea with bottled water, avoiding the tap.
“Hello, Clarissa! Did you sleep well? Today, it will be cloudy and muggy. I’ve adapted the air conditioner accordingly. The shopping drone will be coming by at ten. Do you wish to modify your grocery list?”
Clarissa had decided to no longer answer Mrs. Dalloway. It was her way of expressing her dissatisfaction. She acted as if Mrs. Dalloway wasn’t there. She hadn’t undergone the medical examinations in the bathroom for the past week. A silent revolution. She wondered what was going to happen. She didn’t feel afraid; her curiosity took over.
While she sipped her tea, Clarissa read her mail on her device. She missed her friends. Some of them kept on sending messages, like Joyce, who wondered if Clarissa had gone on a trip. Patricia had bumped into François and had been shocked by his appearance. He had refused to say anything to her. What was going on? Clarissa had not replied. When she was ready, she’d do it.
“Clarissa, you haven’t answered. Is everything all right?”
Clarissa paid no attention to Mrs. Dalloway. She checked her agenda for the day. She was meeting a producer and screenwriter she had already worked with in the past for a new TV show. She then made reservations for a trip to London in order to spend some time with her father. She had a little surprise for him: a dainty porcelain hand she’d found in the flea market at Saint-Ouen for his collection. Why did her father love hands? She had no idea. He had always collected them. His passion had nothing to do with his profession; he had been an attorney. Ever since Clarissa had been a girl, she had seen his hand collection grow. It now took up most of his bedroom.
She put on her cordless headset and listened to Patti Smith through the sound system. How she loved that sensual, throaty voice. When Mrs. Dalloway interrupted “Because the Night” through her earphones to ask her again why she wasn’t responding, Clarissa had to curb her irritation. “They” knew she was all right; “they” could see every move she made. It was infuriating.
She turned off the song, stepped under the shower, did her exercises, got dressed. She was about to go out for her walk, when the doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone. And Mrs. Dalloway hadn’t announced a visitor. She wasn’t sure who it might be. Perhaps Jim Perrier? Maybe he had the results from the lab? But surely he would have warned her he was coming up. She recalled he had expressly told her not to divulge anything important within the residence.
Clarissa stayed still, standing in front of the door. She could hear no noise coming from outside. The bell chimed again. She felt a twinge of alarm. Who was out there? Slowly, she stepped toward the door, taking care to remain silent. On the screen near the wooden panel, Dr. Dewinter’s features suddenly loomed up, making her jump.
“Hello, Mrs. Katsef. I know you’re there and that you can see me.”
Clarissa said nothing, taking in the large flat face, the heavy jaw, the heavily made-up lids. There was something frightening about Dr. Dewinter today. Was it the way she stared into the camera? That flinty look in her eyes?
“I would like to speak to you, Mrs. Katsef. If you don’t mind.”
Clarissa kept still. The door between her and the doctor felt like a very flimsy protection. What if the doctor knew how to get in? Where could she hide?
Dr. Dewinter knocked.
“I’m waiting for you to answer, Mrs. Katsef.”
Her voice had gone nasal, with a disagreeable twang to it. On the screen, her face seemed flatter than ever, wide and moonlike.
Abruptly, as quickly as it had come, the fear drained away from Clarissa. Who the hell did these people think they were? Sticking their noses into her private life in that way. Spying on her all the time. It was intolerable. It was unacceptable. She rushed to fetch her rock-star boots from the cupboard, slipped them on. The extra inches gave her a welcome power.
Clarissa strode back to the entrance, flung the door open. Dr. Dewinter’s broad shoulders seemed more muscular than ever. Her hands were large and menacing with their bloodred nails.
“Ah, there you are, Mrs. Katsef.”
“Hello, Dr. Dewinter.”
They stood facing each other. Clarissa could smell the fresh detergent scent coming from the doctor. She bored into the grayish irises without blinking. This went on for a moment, until the doctor said in a very pleasant voice, “How are you today, Mrs. Katsef?”
“Very well, Doctor. And yourself?”
“Very well.”
“There’s something you wish to say, I believe?”
The doctor beamed, revealing her white teeth.
“May I come in, Mrs. Katsef?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Clarissa, smiling as well but not letting the smile reach her eyes and soften them.
“I see,” said Dr. Dewinter brightly. She fingered the pearl in her fleshy earlobe.
“Is there a problem?” Clarissa asked.
Dr. Dewinter glanced down at the device in her hand. She hummed a little tune while she swiped through it.
“Ah, yes, right here. It appears we have had no health recordings for you in the past week, Mrs. Katsef.”
“Is that so?” said Clarissa.
Dr. Dewinter’s smile became more strained. The steely look was back.
“We were wondering if there was something wrong with your bathroom system and if it needs to be looked at. I can send Ben in now.”
Clarissa couldn’t bear the idea of another intrusion.
“I guess I keep forgetting to do my checkups,” she said, shrugging.
Dr. Dewinter arched an eyebrow.
“And yet your personal assistant reminds you to do so several times a day.”
“She does.”
“And it appears you have not been interacting with your personal assistant, either.”
The smile had disappeared.
“I’ll do the checkups, Dr. Dewinter. I promise.”
Clarissa nearly added “And now get the hell out of here.” She began to close the door.
The doctor took one step forward, nearly striding over the threshold and forcing Chablis, who was lingering there, to dart back with a quivering mew. The husky voice had dropped to a whisper.
“Let me make myself clear, Mrs. Katsef. All artists of the residence must obey protocol.”
Clarissa forced herself not to move back. The doctor hovered disturbingly close. She could make out the faint whiff of perspiration behind the detergent.
“And what happens if an artist doesn’t follow the protocol?”
Dr. Dewinter’s features gathered into a tight, pinched mask, making her look older and foreboding.
“That has never happened,” she said flatly. “And we wouldn’t want it to. Would we? Good-bye, Mrs. Katsef. Have a nice day.”
The doctor turned around and slid into the elevator. She disappeared.
Clarissa heaved a sigh of relief and closed the door. She could already see herself telling all this to Jim Perrier and hearing him hoot with laughter. She would imitate the doctor’s voice to perfection. She’d exaggerate her gestures, hunch up her shoulders to ape the doctor’s burly ones. Jim would crack up.
She went into the bathroom and swiftly underwent the medical tests, to get them over with and to no longer have to tolerate any more surprise visits. Conflicting feelings wrestled within her. Furious, she told herself she’d given in too quickly. Then she’d dig in her heels, convinced she wasn’t giving up the fight only because she’d chosen to obey for today.
“There you go, Mrs. Dalloway. All done. Happy now?”
“I’m most pleased, Clarissa, and thank you for taking the time. For your information, the shopping drone will soon be here.”
“Thanks for looking after that, Mrs. Dalloway. I’m off for my walk.”
“Perfect.”
A drone assigned to the residence delivered everything Clarissa ordered online twice a week. It deposited the provisions on the balcony in a special container. This didn’t stop Clarissa from visiting a nearby grocery store for her fruit and vegetables, which she preferred to choose herself, after fingering and sniffing them, like in the good old days. But what she brought back had no savor, no aroma. She yearned to bite into the pulp of a tomato, an apricot, a melon that tasted like long ago. Everything seemed to have a desperately bland flavor nowadays.
As she was about to leave, Mrs. Dalloway declared an internal message from Jim Perrier had just arrived.
“Dear Clarissa, I read Topography of Intimacy with great pleasure. The part in Virginia Woolf’s bedroom at Monk’s House is remarkable and most original. I read it several times. Did you ever consider adapting your novel into a TV show? I’d be happy to discuss it with you. See you soon, Jim. Do you wish to answer him now, Clarissa?”
“I’ll do it when I come back. Thank you, Mrs. Dalloway.”
“You’re welcome.”
So, Jim Perrier had gotten in touch. This meant he had information for her concerning the powder, and, no doubt, C.A.S.A. According to what they had set up, she was to go to Café Iris at 8:00 A.M.
She therefore had to stay put until tomorrow morning. It seemed to her an endless wait.
At eight o’clock sharp, as it poured with rain, Clarissa was at Café Iris, on time. The terrace was closed due to the bad weather. She took shelter inside. Jim Perrier had not arrived yet. Last night, she’d sent a quick answer, thanking him for his nice message and saying she’d be happy to discuss a TV adaptation with him. He hadn’t responded, but she’d been expecting that.
Other clients ate their breakfasts around her. The place was animated and nosy. She ordered more tea, as hers had gone tepid. Time ticked by. No sign of Jim. Had he been held up? She had no way of contacting him. She waited a little longer. At nine o’clock, she decided to go home. It was odd, his not showing up. She rushed along under the downpour.
There was no new message from him when she got to the residence. He must have run into a problem and had not known how to reach her. No reason for her to worry. She’d bide her time until he got hold of her again.
This afternoon, she was meeting Mia White, in a tearoom near the Bastille. Because of the rain, they’d decided to meet indoors. Clarissa suggested a place she knew well, on rue de la Roquette. She often caught up with her daughter there, as Jordan lived nearby. When she got there, she saw Mia White was already installed at a table.
The young woman had been in touch recently, suggesting they get together, and Clarissa had agreed to see her again, despite her misgivings. This time, she’d be careful not to disclose anything too personal. She was looking forward to conversing with her young reader. Getting out of the residence, taking a break, trying not to think about her husband, these had all become essential to her. This morning, as she had waited for Jim Perrier in vain, she’d received a pitiful text message from François. He wrote to say he was at the end of his rope. Totally desperate. He wanted to do himself in. He must see her, peacefully. He suggested she come to their apartment, so that she might pack her things, talk about the future. For a brief moment, she felt pity. Had she been too hard on him, perhaps? Did he deserve a second chance? Should she go talk to him? While she had been thinking it over, the little voice she knew well had whispered to her: Hey, hang on, look at you! Talk to him? You’re delusional. You’re going to sit here nicely and say you understand, yes, you understand because you always understood? So marvelously comprehensive. So wonderfully patient. Cut the crap. Clarissa ended up not answering François’s text.
Mia White observed her with the same benign yet penetrating gaze, which became unsettling after a while. She looked young and pretty, with her disarming smile. She was reading A Room of One’s Own, her oversize glasses perched on the tip of her adorable nose. Wasn’t she overdoing it? As if she wanted above all to please Clarissa. Was this just inept eagerness from a zealous devotee? Or something else? Perhaps Clarissa was asking herself too many questions, and so couldn’t even relax enough to enjoy the moment.
The young girl bent over to pick an object out of her bag. It was a frayed copy of Topography of Intimacy.
“I’d really like you to sign this,” she said.
“With pleasure,” replied Clarissa.
As she opened the book, she noticed there were notes in nearly every margin. Entire paragraphs had been underlined.
“I read it thoroughly,” admitted Mia White with a smile. “And I often read it all over again.”
The date written on the flyleaf was the same one as the publication of the book.
“This is my mother’s copy. Your book was published the year I was born.”
“So your mother read it, too?” asked Clarissa as she signed it.
“She did, but I pinched it from her and never gave it back.”
A delightful impish grin.
“I think you mentioned your mother’s from Nantes?”
“That’s right.” Mia White nodded. “I grew up there.”
They switched effortlessly from one language to another, like they had during their previous encounter.
The waitress came to take their orders. There were some delicious cakes to succumb to. The place was not full; it was quiet and comfortable. Outside, the rain splashed merrily. Glistening umbrellas bobbed up and down along the sidewalk.
For a fleeting moment, Clarissa wondered if she should tell Mia White about the night the alarm went off in the residence, and that she thought she had seen her there, wearing a dressing gown, her hair braided down her back. But Mia White spoke up before she did.
“Would you mind telling me about what happened in Virginia Woolf’s house? That’s also one of my favorite parts. Unless you’d rather not, of course. I know you’ve been asked about it repeatedly, and I’m sure it’s tedious for you to have to go over it again.”
Mia White used the same method as last time, those wide, beseeching, respectful eyes. It was impossible to resist them. Clarissa felt she was in no danger. She had often described that crucial scene to journalists, to readers. It wasn’t as if she had anything new to add. She felt in control.
She said she had been spending time with her father in Brighton. This happened about twenty years ago. Her father was doing very well then; he was in his late seventies and still energetic. He enjoyed traveling with his daughter, discovering new places with her. He was the one who suggested visiting Monk’s House, the cottage Virginia and Leonard Woolf had bought in 1919, at Rodmell, in East Sussex. It was only thirty minutes or so from Brighton. He had heard there was a lovely garden. They could visit it on their way back to London.
Clarissa articulated her story calmly, as if she had switched on automatic pilot. The words she had so often used wrought their way around her tale, and she did not think twice about them. Mia White listened assiduously, her tiny fingers cupping her mug. The rain hissed outside. Clarissa described the drive from Brighton, her father’s long, knobby hands on the wheel, the lush greenery of the English countryside. What she didn’t tell Mia White was her state of mind at that point in her life, the sadness she had been carrying around for so many years. With the passing of time, the weight of the sadness felt like a huge boulder she had to drag along behind her. It was like coping with a shameful disease. She had learned to live with lugging it everywhere, hauling it up stairs, pushing it into rooms that were always too small.
Clarissa went on with what she had to say, discarding the boulder of agony. But it was still there, lurking in the back of her mind. She found it perturbing to pursue two trains of thought: a spoken and unclouded one describing Virginia Woolf’s house, and the other, inner and murky, hovering over an obscure zone she did not wish to return to. She had to concentrate in order to stop the shadow from overtaking the light; she threw herself into her story, describing their arrival at the quaint village of Rodmell, which had preserved its original features. Her father had parked near a pub, where they each enjoyed a ploughman’s lunch, a plate of cheddar with ham, pickles, and bread. While she evoked their meal, she clearly and precisely recalled the conversation she’d had with her father. Should she repress it? Or, on the contrary, let it out? She dithered, swallowed her tea. Mia White waited, devotedly.
“That’s funny, I’ve just remembered what my dad and I talked about that day. I had forgotten it, and it came back to me.”
“Would you mind sharing it with me?”
Her father had asked her if she felt more French than English, now that she’d been living in France for a long span of years. She had given it a thought. It was a tricky matter. Deep down, she had no idea. And she still hadn’t. She was aware of her distinctive status, a crossbreed one, powerless to choose one country over the other—a discomfort she had perceived her entire life, the sensation of not belonging to a nation, of being unable to claim an origin. She was twofold. She had two mother tongues, two worlds, two homelands. With Brexit, it had become even more intricate. But that afternoon at Rodmell, on that sunny spring day, neither her father nor she could have predicted the calamitous chain of events following Great Britain’s choice.
“Let’s get back to Virginia Woolf, if you will,” said Clarissa.
“With pleasure.” Mia White nodded.
Clarissa had followed her father along a quiet little street dotted with pretty, traditional houses. The Woolf cottage was much smaller than she had anticipated. There was nothing luxurious there. Her father, like her, knew little about the life of the writer who had lived here. He was not an avid reader. Golf, tennis, and tournaments were more his sort of thing. As he grew older, he spent time looking after the garden behind his London home in Hackney. He enjoyed tending to the plants and flowers Clarissa’s mother, Solange, had planted with such care.
Their guide’s name was Margaret, a slender young woman with protruding teeth and milky skin. She welcomed them as if they were entering her own home, and pronounced the name Virginia with hushed adoration. She told them in a whisper, as if not wanting to disturb the owners, who still lived there, that Virginia wrote in a small lodge, where she liked to be alone, while her husband, Leonard, toiled outside; he planted cherry, apple, prune, and fig trees, and garnered his own fruit and vegetables with the help of his faithful gardener, Percy, as well as his own honey.
Their visit began with the garden. It was magnificent. Her father gasped with joy, overcome; he pointed out gladioli, clematises, roses, zinnias, geum, dahlias, agapanthus. Margaret remained silent, smiling, no doubt heartened by the fervor of this old gentleman’s eagerness. Never would Clarissa forget this enchanted orchard, the sensational exuberance of the colors bursting around them. They walked along the thin redbrick path cutting through dazzling blazes of orange, purple, red, pink. Margaret pointed out a fishpond, installed by the Woolfs, where dragonflies skimmed the water, while bees hummed actively, butterflies spun here and there, birds twittered. The glory of a garden in spring.
“I have a few memories of gardens in Nantes,” said Mia White gently. “But I haven’t seen a real one, like the one you are describing, for a long time.”
“I wonder what Leonard Woolf would say if he came back now and saw what his beloved garden has become,” said Clarissa.
“Is it completely dried out?” asked Mia White, horror-struck.
Clarissa said she hadn’t been back there since. But she had seen upsetting photos. Yes, most of it was a parched mess, like the majority of gardens nowadays. The perpetual heat waves, scorching summers, scarcity of water, brutal storms, end of natural pollination, and slow extinction of insects had taken a deathly toll on beautiful gardens.
“That’s so sad,” said Mia White in the same soft voice.
“But the house is still standing,” said Clarissa. “Houses do last. Thank God.”
“Why do you love houses so much?”
Clarissa said she had thought about that often; she supposed her obsession with houses came from her profession, her penchant for measuring spaces, for needing to define them geographically.
“I imagine there are houses you loved?”
“Yes. Several.”
She described her French grandparents’ country home in Burgundy, near Sens, razed in her childhood in order to give way to a highway. A trauma. And a place in Tuscany, up in the hills overlooking Florence, where she had spent a long summer with her husband. She told Mia White about the simplicity of the rustic white house, called colonica in Italian, and how she had felt at home there. She still remembered the sensation of the cool ancient stone tiles under her naked feet, and the particular shape of the doorknob, which had left an emotional imprint in the hollow of her hand.
But there was also what walls whispered to her. What she had experienced in Romain Gary’s apartment, all those years ago, had been extraordinarily powerful. She had wondered how she would feel when she got to Monk’s House. She had listened to Margaret tell them more about how the Woolfs bought and transformed the long and low weather-boarded cottage with a slate roof. It had been rudimentary in the beginning. No hot water, no bath, no indoor toilets; small, damp rooms, but great promise: a wild, generous garden, with the steeple of the nearby church peeking out over the greenery, and beyond, the view of the smooth, rolling stretch of the South Downs.
Clarissa had not yet read anything by Virginia Woolf. Over the years, she had stuck to Romain Gary, Maupassant, Zola, Baudelaire, Modiano. She had not started to write, either. When they visited the premises, she was still working as a property surveyor. The large black boulder of her suffering lingered persistently. She didn’t tell Mia White that she suspected her father had taken her on this trip because he was aware of how unhappy she was. And it was true to say that the beauty of the garden had given her some peace.
Margaret had opened up the door to the house, and they had followed her in. Clarissa remembered there were few other visitors that day. They were practically alone. In the little entrance hung the particular odor of an old countryside home, one that was loved and looked after, kept spick-and-span, with nothing dusty and neglected about it. The house was alive. It breathed. Margaret had explained that everything had been preserved to look exactly as it had in the Woolfs’ day. A person lived here year-round, even during the winter, when the premises were closed to the public. The living room walls were green, a color Virginia loved, said Margaret. A radiant green called “viridian,” which Vanessa Bell, Virginia’s sister, who was a painter, had gently mocked. The ceilings were low, garnished with rafters. Under their steps, the waxed floorboards creaked. Clarissa felt as if Virginia Woolf might turn up any minute. She’d stride in, carrying the flowers she’d just cut, her shears still in hand. She’d arrange them into a pretty vase. She’d sit in the large chintz armchair near the high fireplace, and she’d pick up a book. Later, she’d look at her correspondence, placed in the open secretary chest.
There were books everywhere, on the shelves, on the small low tables, but also on the steps of the stairs. The true home of a writer and an editor. As of 1929, Margaret said, the couple had gradually started renovating the house, thanks to Virginia’s increasing royalties, from Mrs. Dalloway, To the Lighthouse, and especially Orlando. The kitchen was entirely redone, a dining room was created, and a bathroom with a toilet was installed on the first floor. Margaret said Virginia adored spending time in her bath. She would stay there for hours, and their maid could hear her talking to herself, trying out scenes from her books. Another link to Romain Gary, who had also worked from his bath, and Clarissa acknowledged the unexpected connection between the two writers, which pleased her. She could now put her finger on it; what she relished here, what she hungered for was the private story spinning behind the public figures, linked to the homes they lived in, slept in, and wrote in.
Margaret told them that later the house was added on to. A room was built in the attic, and it became Leonard’s office; then a square brick extension formed a first-floor bedroom giving directly on to the garden by a flight of stairs, Virginia’s room, where she slept. Clarissa had asked to see that room, and Margaret had answered, courteously, that it was rarely open to visitors. Clarissa had been disappointed. She had insisted. With a firmer tone, Margaret had said it was impossible, and to change the subject, she led them to the writing lodge at the end of the orchard, where Virginia worked. With her finger, Clarissa had gently touched the chair, the inkpot, the reading glasses. She knew full well these objects had not belonged to Virginia, but the literary staging was a pleasant one. Virginia had written Mrs. Dalloway within these walls, and while a bee droned against the windowpane, it seemed to Clarissa that the writer’s shadow, an angular sentinel, loomed behind each garden rose.
This writer, whose books she had never read, whom she knew little about, inhabited this place with a singular intensity. Unlike Romain Gary’s flat, where Clarissa had perceived vestiges of the past, something else was at stake for her here and now, a fork in the road, a turning point, but what, exactly? She couldn’t tell. Her father had asked her if she was feeling all right. She looked odd, he said. How could she explain there was a density here pulling at her, reeling her in, like a fish caught on a hook?
Had she uttered those sentences out loud to Mia White? She hadn’t meant to. It had been part of the darker, inner stream she hadn’t planned on mentioning. She carried on swiftly, going back to what Margaret was telling them about the house, that it was a private place of intense creation and work. Friends did come to stay occasionally, but for the Woolfs, this was their intimate shelter, their little haven. The villagers had gotten used to seeing Mrs. Woolf walk quickly along the Downs with her dog, in all sorts of weather, muttering to herself. Here was where Virginia felt closest to her own life, Margaret had pointed out. In her letters, in her diary, Virginia had described the treasured hours at Monk’s House, no talking, diving deep into reading, into writing, into pure, translucent slumber, into the green of the Downs and the trees, with no one around to disrupt it all, no noise, only the sovereignty of silence.
And then Margaret had said cheerily, “Monk’s House is such a happy house; don’t you feel it?”
Her father and Clarissa had both said that yes, they felt it.
“That’s how we want to think about it. A happy house. All of us who work here, we don’t often mention Virginia’s death. We like to think more about her life.”
Clarissa had glanced at Margaret. Virginia’s death? What did she mean? Margaret looked surprised.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?” Clarissa’s father had said.
“How Virginia died,” said Margaret.
A hazy memory came whirling back, an image Clarissa had seen in a film, a long time ago. But she couldn’t place it. She asked Margaret what had happened. Margaret lowered her voice, as if she didn’t want to be overheard. They were standing on the small terrace in front of the cottage. It had happened on March 28, 1941.
For a reason that was unknown to her, Clarissa felt an urge to understand what had taken place, while she was still on the grounds. She was taken over by an imperious sensation. She wanted to know. She had to find out. Margaret continued whispering. Virginia hadn’t been well, for a long period; she was a fragile person, with “a medical history.” She was fifty-nine, and had suffered several depressions. She was slowly sinking into gloom, despite the joy she found in writing.
Clarissa had listened to Margaret’s gentle tone, and her eyes had wandered to a portrait of the writer glimpsed through the living room window—the long, tormented face, the mouth with its bitter lines. She had seen Romain Gary’s features superimpose themselves upon Virginia’s, imbued with the same troubled wistfulness. Margaret said that a few days beforehand, Virginia had come back drenched from a long walk in the rain. Her husband had become worried when he saw her arrive, like a pale, thin sleepwalker. He had instantly obtained a consultation with their doctor in Brighton. Dr. Wilberforce prescribed rest, after finding Virginia feeble and strangely distant.
On March 28, a Friday, in the secret of her writing lodge, Virginia had written two letters—one for her husband, the other for her beloved sister. She had told her husband she was going to do a bit of housework, then go out for a short walk before lunch. Leonard had gone up to his office. At eleven o’clock, their maid saw Virginia head out toward the fields, wearing her fur coat, carrying her walking stick. She was striding with her usual energy and seemed to know exactly where she was going.
“Virginia left the house by that door, here,” Margaret said. “Then she went out by the garden, in front of the church, just there.”
“Show me,” said Clarissa, and it was the property surveyor talking, whose eyes were now measuring the exact steps Virginia had taken, drawn over the earth in an indelible ink mark only Clarissa could see.
Margaret indicated the way, and Clarissa pursued it, just like she had mentally followed Romain Gary after his lunch on Tuesday, December 2, 1980, when he had walked along rue de Babylone to reach rue du Bac, on his last day alive.
Mia White stared at her, giving Clarissa her complete attention, her cup halfway to her open lips. Clarissa had to concentrate, focusing on keeping separate the two threads unraveling in her head: the one she mastered and wasn’t frightened of, smooth-running, unchanged, and the other thread, darker and more disturbing, which had surfaced as she trailed Virginia’s ultimate path to her death, with Margaret at her side, and her flummoxed father in suit, and which was resuscitating now, in this peaceful tearoom, opposite this young woman and her enormous eyes.
Margaret had explained that Virginia went straight to the river, which took her twenty minutes or so from the cottage. As she listened, Clarissa saw the scene from above, high up over the fields, and she felt she could make out every single step Virginia had taken to get to the banks of the Ouse, a long, thin line of black ink etched along the ground, which drew her like a magnet. She had asked to see the river, which that day ebbed low and smooth, not at all like it had been the day Virginia died, all bubbly and wild, bursting its banks, flowing fast and strong, according to Margaret. All around them was a flat and bare landscape, with hardly any trees. Somewhere along this austere riverbank, Virginia had picked up a large stone, shoved it into her pocket; she had left her walking stick on the ground, and she had descended into the water. She had let the waters close up above her and she had drowned.
Clarissa remembered her father had been concerned, looking at her constantly while Margaret spoke. Had it been a good idea, bringing his daughter here, on the trail of another fragile woman? This she did not tell Mia White, or did she? The two threads of her story were now intertwined, coalescing, and she found it confusing to keep them separate. Margaret had pointed to the wooden and iron bridge that spanned the river. This was where Virginia’s body was found, three weeks later, by a group of picnickers. Three weeks, Clarissa had thought. An agonizing wait. She kept thinking of Leonard coming down to lunch, wondering where his wife was, and finding the blue envelope with his name on it on the mantelpiece. Inside was a heartbreakingly beautiful farewell letter. Margaret said that Leonard had rushed down to the river, in a panic. He discovered Virginia’s footsteps on the bank, and her stick where she had left it. He had hoped against hope that she had ended up running away, that she was still alive.
Margaret led them back to the house. Clarissa remembered that no one spoke as they walked up the path in the fields. When they got to the cottage, her father had taken Margaret aside. He had spoken to her privately, and Clarissa couldn’t hear what he was saying. But whatever he had said worked. Margaret came back to Clarissa and put her hand on Clarissa’s arm, saying she was happy to show her Virginia’s bedroom, which was seldom revealed to visitors. Her father said he’d wait in the garden. Clarissa followed Margaret’s bony back, overwhelmed by her father’s initiative.
They had gone up the slim outdoor stairs and Margaret had unlocked the door. Clarissa had observed the white-tiled fireplace decorated with a lighthouse and a ship, the large bookshelf, the night table, the pink curtains. She had asked Margaret if she could stay there alone for a few moments. She was expecting the young woman to refuse, but Margaret ended up consenting, saying she’d wait downstairs with Clarissa’s father.
Clarissa had found herself alone in Virginia Woolf’s bedroom. She sat on the narrow bed covered with a white quilt, where Virginia had slept, where Virginia had dreamed. Then she had lain down. The large open window was on her left, nearby. At night, Virginia had probably looked up at the stars. As she reclined on the writer’s bed, well-being stroked Clarissa with the softness of a spring breeze, contrasting with the melancholy that had overwhelmed her in Romain Gary’s apartment on rue du Bac. She breathed more easily. Part of her sadness had crumbled away. The large boulder she dragged around everywhere had shrunk. Clarissa let peace permeate her. There was no wretchedness here, no woe. Even if Virginia Woolf had, like Romain Gary, chosen to put an end to her life, she had, in her wake, left hopefulness and tranquility as her legacy.
That day, on Virginia’s bed, Clarissa realized she needed to express the fascination with places that had guided her to her profession. Ever since the faraway incident on rue du Bac, and her strange encounter with Romain Gary, she had once again been confronted with the potency of the inner memory of houses, the tiny particles of vibrations she garnered there, and which heightened her sensitivity. She knew she would write about this; she knew she would write to dispel the darkness within her. She left Monk’s House with a new light in her eyes. Her father had seen it. It had made him happy.
“So you started to write Topography of Intimacy just after that episode?”
Mia White’s voice startled her. Clarissa had almost forgotten her presence. Once more, she found it impossible to differentiate her innermost thoughts from what she had said out loud.
“That’s right. More or less.”
“In your novel,” Mia White went on, “there is a marvelous conversation with Virginia Woolf’s ghost, or spirit. Did you really feel her presence?”
“No,” said Clarissa. “I invented all that bit. But I did feel something else.…”
She should have stopped there. She should have elaborated about the ghost she had invented, done what she usually did with readers and journalists: embellish, enhance. She had forgotten how to do that. It had been a while. And her loneliness made her want to open up. She said that when she got back to London, she had gone to buy Mrs. Dalloway in a bookstore. On the way to Paris in the train, she had settled down to read it. Reading Virginia Woolf was daunting, she soon discovered. There was hardly any dialogue, and the sentences were very long. In the beginning, she had been put off. She had never read anything like this. She couldn’t make heads or tails of it. She felt stupid, illiterate. Perhaps she wasn’t sophisticated or literary enough. She stuck at it, doggedly.
Little by little, the winding sentences began to make sense, in the most beautiful manner, as if she had been reading an uninterrupted poem, the words opening windows in front of her eyes, letting the air, the sounds, and the scents in. Virginia Woolf didn’t write to seduce her readers, to hook them in from the start with glib techniques, no, not at all. Virginia Woolf cast a spell on her readers, leisurely, gently, so that they did not know at first how they had been lured, so that they followed, enchanted and docile. But she made them think; she made them wonder. She surprised them at times; she destabilized them. And that was what Clarissa admired the most: the beauty and the depth of her prose, and how Virginia Woolf let her readers into her characters’ minds, how Mrs. Dalloway’s entire life was revealed in one single day, by dint of a ceaseless coming and going between past and present. The entire feat of the book was there. And while she talked to Mia White, Clarissa was also thinking about her own day, François’s texts, Jim Perrier and what he was about to divulge, her own writing, waiting for her in the two notebooks that never left her side, her lack of sleep, her peculiar dreams.
“You’re not sleeping well, is that it?” asked Mia White in her girlish voice.
Clarissa went quiet, alarmed. What was going on? She must truly be tired. Yet, she was persuaded she had said nothing to Mia White about her sleepless nights. Nothing at all. She lowered her head, stared at the cake crumbs on the tablecloth. She had to get out of here.
“Are you feeling okay?”
Mia White placed an attentive palm on her hand.
“I’m fine,” said Clarissa, moving her own hand back.
“You seem tired. Shall I take you home?”
“That won’t be necessary, thanks.”
Clarissa signaled to the waitress, her mind still fogged up. She simply could not recall what she had said, or not, to Mia White. Stupid idiot, said the little voice. That’ll teach you. That’s what happens when you let your guard down.
Two humid arms suddenly wrapped themselves around her neck.
“Mums! I figured it was you! What are you doing in our area?”
Andy was there, standing behind her, her hair drenched by the rain. She had seen her grandmother through the shop window on her way home from school. Clarissa introduced Mia White to her as one of her young readers; Andy greeted her and sat down at their table. She wouldn’t mind a bite of cake, as well, that one on display, the chocolate one; it looked so good. Clarissa ordered a slice for her. She watched the two young girls, who were only a couple of years apart. Mia White seemed more composed, more detached. Andy wasn’t paying attention to her posture; she appeared to be taking it easy. Clarissa expected them to establish some sort of connection, but they seemed to stay on different wavelengths. She wondered why. Mia White’s stiffness was politely aloof, while Andy devoured her cake with chewing noises, exaggerating bad manners she didn’t have. Clarissa noticed her granddaughter’s eyes never left Mia White’s face, sizing her up, almost defying her, as if she did not wish the young woman to encroach upon her territory.
“I’m going to leave you with your granddaughter,” said Mia White finally. “Thank you for the conversation. It was most interesting.”
Her tone seemed less sincere than during their first meeting, and her gestures looked contrived. She took her wallet from her purse.
“No, I’ll take care of it,” said Clarissa. “It’s my pleasure.”
With a timid wave, Mia White left, thanking her.
“Who’s she?” asked Andy, with her mouth full.
“A young fan.”
“You see her often?”
“This is the second time I have.”
“You like her?”
“To tell the truth, I’m not sure.”
“She’s pretty, but there’s something weird.”
“Yes,” said Clarissa. “Something weird, as you say.”
“What did you say her name was?”
“Mia White.”
Andy’s thumbs flew over her mobile.
“Strange,” she said after a while.
“What?” asked Clarissa.
“All the stuff she puts out there. It’s so obvious.”
“What do you mean, missy?”
“Well, no young person—I mean of her age, or mine—puts public stuff out there. Even people of my parent’s generation stopped doing it years ago. Only really old folks pour their heart out online. We do everything privately, through KingDam or Alamida. She’s using such outdated channels. It’s like she wants you to see who she is right away.”
“And what do you think that means?”
“No idea. Be careful, Mums.”
Andy wiped a cluster of crumbs from the corner of her mouth.
“Mummy is concerned about you. I heard her on the phone with Granddad the other day.”
In another life, at another moment, Clarissa would have tickled Andy’s chin and brushed away Jordan’s worries with a smile.
“I’ve already said this, Mums, but you know you can talk to me. I’m here for you.”
How she loved that fine and intelligent little face.
“I know, Andy. Being able to trust you is very precious.”
The rain had stopped at last. The umbrella cavalcade faded away.
“Remember what you said about my apartment?”
“Yes. That I felt someone was watching me all the time.”
“Well, that’s exactly what’s going on. The artists who live in the residence are all spied upon.”
“Have you talked to Mom about this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Your mom thinks I exaggerate. She worries about me. She thinks I forget stuff. She sees me as a disturbed old lady.”
“That’s because she loves you. And you do forget stuff, sometimes. You repeat things, too. It doesn’t bother me.”
Clarissa was just getting started.
“Why I am being watched? And the other artists? Why have I been staying awake ever since I moved in? Why are my sleep and dreams being tampered with? And Dr. Dewinter, what does she want?”
“Relax, Mums. I’ll help you. Dr. Dethingy doesn’t scare me. What do we start with? I can’t wait.”
“I’ll tell you more when you come next week. I’m waiting for some important news. Don’t say anything to your mother.”
“Cross my heart.”
Clarissa grabbed her granddaughter’s hand. She smiled at her.
“I’m so lucky to have you around.”
“You got it all wrong. I’m the lucky one, having a granny like you.”
The apartment obsessed me. I kept thinking about what my husband did within those walls. All the craziest scenarios ran through my head. I even imagined the young bearded guy was his lover.
The only way for me to understand what was going on there was to get inside.
I had to find the key. My husband no doubt kept it on him. But at night? While he was asleep? It was the only way. And then what? If I took it, he’d find out.
A key. A simple key.
It made me smile. Even if I happened to be ensnared by my own pain, I was able to capture the irony of the situation. The symbolism of this deplorable story.
I, the property examiner turned writer, fascinated by places, dwellings and their enigmas, was at the mercy of a key about to unlock a secret. Did I really want to know that secret? I could still turn back. I had that choice. I could protect myself.
I hesitated. But not for long.
My husband was at last fast asleep. I had waited. I had counted each minute. It had seemed endless. Without a noise, I got out of the bed. He had left his clothes rolled up in the bathroom. Slowly, I went through each item. Nothing in his trousers or shirt pockets.
Silently, I went to the entrance. His jacket, on a chair. Nothing in it, apart from his wallet, which I inspected.
His set of keys was on the small table. I checked. There were only the keys to our flat. Nothing else.
I began to feel desperate in the darkness of my home. Did he conceal the key here? There must be a hiding place. Where? I racked my brains, tried to stay calm. If I wanted to hide an object from my husband, where would I come up with? A place he’d never think of looking.
My husband was still fast asleep. I could hear a peaceful snore. He had no idea his secret was soon to be revealed.
I went soundlessly back to the bathroom. His shoes, on the tiled floor. Elegant loafers purchased in Rome.
I bent down and inserted my fingers into the left one. Empty. But I knew. I knew I’d find it.
The key was in the right-hand loafer, right at the top. A thin, flat key that took up no room. A very common sort. Easy to copy.
I heard the floorboards creak.
I just had time to slip the key back into the shoe and stand up.
My husband was standing on the threshold.
“You’re awake?” he asked in a drowsy voice.
I replied, lightly, that I was looking for medicine for my headache. I rummaged around in a drawer, found aspirin. My husband had gone to the toilet. I heard him urinate and flush. He went back to bed.
I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about how I would go about getting the key duplicated. In the end, it had been easier than I thought. Every year, since his cancer, my husband had to undergo medical examinations. He was put through numerous tests, as well as an MRI scan in a specialized clinic. I always accompanied him.
During his checkup, which lasted two hours, while the doctor’s staff took him in charge, and as I supervised his belongings, stored in a locker, I was able to filch the key, which I found this time in his trousers. While he was having the scan, I left the clinic and had the key copied at a nearby locksmith I had previously located.
It had taken me only twenty minutes or so.
Next week, we had a dinner date planned with some close friends.
This time, the person who was going to be late was me. Because, while my husband waited at Caroline and Véronique’s, I was going to be at rue Dancourt.