And I feel I shan’t recover this time.
VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941
D. Day.
ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980
ADELKA’S APARTMENT, WHICH was not an attic flat, was smaller than Clarissa’s, but with much higher ceilings. She worked in the main room, which was also where her models posed. Clarissa took in the paintings hanging here and there: nude bodies, both male and female, sketched during inhibited moments, with sensitivity and no voyeurism. She found them pleasing and harmonious, and told the young painter, who thanked her.
Clarissa noticed how Adelka had managed to create her own ambience, choosing sunny colors and cozy, stylish furniture. A candle cast its perfumed scent through the air. She felt welcomed, and thought of her own studio up on the eighth floor. She’d been living there for the past two months, and it still had the impersonal aspect of a hotel room. She, the writer obsessed with houses, had failed to craft her own home, one that could bring her well-being and inventiveness.
Adelka spoke to her virtual assistant in Italian, and it answered back with a male voice sounding like the actor Marcello Mastroianni’s. Her mother was Italian, and her father French. She had grown up with both languages.
“That’s funny,” Clarissa remarked. “I’m bilingual, as well, French and English!”
“Are you torn between the two, as I am?”
“Precisely!”
“How amusing! Is there one you prefer over the other?”
“Nope. I can’t choose. I’m attached to both.”
Adelka’s athletic figure was highlighted by a fetching blue dress.
“What would you like, red wine or white?”
“White, please.”
While she prepared their drinks, Adelka asked if she’d seen their charming neighbor, Jim Perrier.
“No,” said Clarissa carefully.
She had picked out the cameras. She was not going to reveal what Jim had told her. She still had not heard back from him. He must be busy. This had been going on for too long, she thought. But how could she contact him? She’d been back to Café Iris several times, at eight. He’d never turned up. She’d asked the waiters, and they hadn’t seen him, either. But one of them had laughed, saying it wasn’t surprising, as Jim regularly got plastered. Perhaps he’d gone off to a rehab? Clarissa had found it all puzzling.
Adelka handed her a wineglass.
“I rather fancy Jim.… Okay, he’s a trifle young for me, but he’s so hot in his underwear!”
Clarissa laughed with her, and they raised their glasses.
“After that alarm business, I bumped into him one evening, coming home. We went to a bar and chatted. He’s a hard drinker! We had a great time. But he’s dead set against C.A.S.A.”
“Really?” asked Clarissa innocently. “Why?”
“Do you remember our talk, the night the alarm went off, when we were all outside?”
“More or less.”
“You were convinced C.A.S.A. was spying on artists living in the residence, for God knows what reason. I said you both had too much imagination!”
“That’s right! We write stories, he and I. Occupational hazard!”
“Jim is up in arms against Dewinter and her methods. He bombarded me with questions: Was I comfortable here? Did I sleep well? Did I ever hear a strange clicking sound? I told him I never had, that I slept like a log. What about you?”
“Me?”
“Are you getting used to it here? You told me even the cat was acting strange in your flat.”
She had to be cautious. Pick the right words. Avoid triggering suspicion. She said, casually, that in the beginning, she’d found it hard to settle down in this new space. She’d only just left her husband, and felt miserable and overwrought. She slept better now. So did the cat. And as for the clicking sound, she never heard it again. All was well. It had just been a matter of time.
The fibs flowed, effortlessly.
“I’m so relieved!” exclaimed Adelka. “I was worried. I’m thrilled you’ve settled in at last. I love my life here. Living in the residence is like a dream come true. I feel safe here, and I work well. I really appreciate the C.A.S.A. team, their thoughtfulness, their expertise.”
Clarissa forced her lips into a smile.
“As for Dr. Dewinter,” Adelka went on, “what an extraordinary woman! She’s remarkably intelligent, don’t you find?”
“Remarkably.” Clarissa nodded. “Tell me, you don’t mind being filmed all the time?”
“Well, the bedroom camera can be switched to ‘intimate mode.’ Did you know that?”
“Actually, I didn’t.”
“I didn’t, either! Ben told me. ‘Intimate mode’ can be turned on if you want to have sex or something.” She giggled. “So the only thing missing for me in this ideal setting is a boyfriend!”
“Well, what about Jim? Did he remain impervious to your charms?”
“Utterly!”
They laughed together again.
“I even invited him here, would you believe it! I contacted him through the internal server, but he never answered.”
“Was this recently?”
“A couple of days ago. I’m mortified! I must have been coming on too strong.”
Adelka made a face.
“Perhaps he’s on a business trip?” suggested Clarissa.
“Probably. Or he went to see his family? He mentioned his mother lived in Brussels.”
Adelka had not had a serious relationship since she had broken up with her violent husband. She wanted children. More and more women were having them late, and on their own. Her mother had friends who had gotten pregnant at over sixty. It had become common. The modern medical world was astounding. But she didn’t want to wait that long.
“I understand,” said Clarissa as Adelka filled her glass up again. The white wine was making her deliciously tipsy.
“At what age did you become a mother?”
“Quite young. Twenty-seven or so.”
A small silence. Then Clarissa added, “Two years before my daughter, Jordan, came into the world, I had a son. Stillborn. Forty-six years ago.”
Adelka put her hand to her mouth.
“Oh! How terribly sad!”
“I can talk about it now, a little, but for many years, I simply couldn’t.”
“Did you see a therapist?”
“I did,” said Clarissa, “but something else helped me. I didn’t believe in it at first, but it changed my life.”
“What was it?” asked Adelka, intrigued.
“Hypnosis.”
“I don’t know much about hypnosis, and have never tried it. Would you mind telling me some more?”
“Of course.”
Clarissa told her how she’d gone to the first consultation dragging her feet, persuaded it was not going to work out. At that point, it had been twenty years or so since the baby’s death, twenty years of not getting over it. Psychoanalysts, antidepressants, nothing had helped. Her first husband had ended up leaving her, powerless in the face of her enduring unhappiness. Her second husband, François, the one who was persona non grata, as Adelka recalled, had been convinced it could be the solution for her. She had to give it a go. Little by little, he’d managed to sway her. Clarissa said she’d try it out. She could no longer bear her situation. Things had to change, not only for her but for her entourage, especially her daughter. She presumed her daughter still bore the stigma of spending her childhood and adolescence with a melancholy mother burdened by sorrow. Jordan had never brought this up, but Clarissa thought it was the case. And it was probably why Jordan was still concerned about her mother, even today. She knew her daughter loved her, and how lucky she was. And then there was her granddaughter, the sunshine of her life.
“I think I caught a glimpse of you two together. A cute teen all dressed in black?”
“That’s her! At the ripe old age of fourteen, Adriana is, I feel, the one person who understands me and knows me the best.”
She went on with her story. Adelka had to picture her arriving at this Mrs. Delaporte’s place. Clarissa had had no idea of what to expect. She’d found herself facing a brunette of her own age, slim and elegant, with large dark eyes. Elise Delaporte had asked her to take her place in an armchair positioned in the middle of a tastefully decorated living room. She asked her to close her eyes. Clarissa obeyed. In the beginning, the pleasant voice relaxed her, asking her to let go, to get rid of all the tensions in her body. Her neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, thighs, shins, and feet all mellowed; her rigidity melted. Clarissa allowed herself to be carried away—an agreeable sensation. If that was all there was to it … She could already see herself telling François it had been a sort of winding-down exercise. The voice acted upon her like a sedative. She felt her body yield, on the threshold of a peculiar torpor.
Even if Clarissa still heard her perfectly, Elise Delaporte seemed farther and farther away. It was as if Clarissa had departed elsewhere. She remained wholly conscious; she perceived the tang of Elise’s lemony fragrance; she could hear the murmur of the traffic floating up to them, the footsteps of a neighbor overhead, but she felt as if she had stepped into a dark nook that seemed to deepen. At the far end of the niche, which had nothing alarming about it, and which she instinctively identified as a shelter, appeared a pale glow, a quivering stroke summoning her like a beacon, and she felt compelled to follow it. How long did this last? She hardly knew. She was hovering within a reassuring Milky Way created by Elise alone. She was on familiar territory. She had nothing to fear.
Clarissa stopped.
“Oh, please go on!” begged Adelka. “May I offer you more wine?”
“Why not?”
The wine slowed her down, giving her a languid pleasure she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She took up her story. Elise Delaporte had asked her to describe a secret place that did her good, gave her peace. A real or an imaginary place. To answer her, it had been difficult for Clarissa to locate her own vocal cords. She felt she had forgotten how to speak, while being weightless, and when she finally managed to utter a few words, it seemed like her body and her voice were no longer one. The shrill, almost childlike tone sounded like a stranger’s. After a moment’s hesitation, she succeeded in describing a lake, and how its deepness pacified her. During that first session, they had concentrated on the lake’s image.
Could she tell Adelka what had happened next, with all those cameras now filming and taping? The wine quelled her hesitancy. Adelka possessed the same upbeat vitality as Jordan. Why not open up to her? She discreetly pointed to the surveillance cameras, and the young woman understood, moving closer. Clarissa went on in a low whisper, while her head spun around and around. A couple of weeks later, during the second or the third session, something happened, something she had never been able to forget. Elise had asked her to describe what she saw at the bottom of that lake. Clarissa had seen herself diving into the greenish abyss, holding her breath, slowly going down deeper and deeper while the water became blurred and icy. She was freezing, shivering. She was afraid of no longer being able to breathe, not being able to get back up in time, and there, right at the bottom, buried in the mud lining the base of the lake, she had spotted a square object, a kind of box. A hideous fear had grabbed at her; she wanted to rise up to the surface, to open her mouth wide in order to breathe in oxygen, to escape from that box and whatever it contained.
But while the fluctuating white lace twirled on the inside of her eyelids, Elise’s tranquil tone had soothed her. Elise said she must not be afraid of what that box enclosed; she must open it, take stock of it. She had to face it. Clarissa saw herself seizing the box, wrangling to unbolt it in spite of the rusty lock. The top swung open, and inside was a baby. Her son. Her son exactly as she had beheld him after birth, his downy hair, his miniature face, his waxen skin. There, at the bottom of the lake, she clasped her son’s body between her hands. She had nearly screamed, given away to her panic, pain, and anguish; she had nearly drowned in it all, surrendered to the lake’s vortexes, but Elise’s voice had come to guide her, and she had held on with all her might to the strength of that very voice. Clarissa described everything she saw and felt, and Elise was there with her, by her side, under the water, her hair mingling with Clarissa’s own. She was telling her to let the baby go, not to put it back in the box, to hug it one last time, to say good-bye. Clarissa had embraced her son, kissing the little forehead, and she had opened up her hands; her son’s body had been set free, gliding up to the surface, and she had followed it with her eyes until it became a tiny white spot.
Tears had spurted, fountainlike, trickling along her cheeks, her neck, moistening her chest. The sorrow was slipping away, gradually, teardrop after teardrop, sob after sob, and she felt it departing at last. When Elise had asked her to open her eyes, slowly, after counting to five, Clarissa felt a physical exhaustion she had rarely known, but beyond that tiredness, she found she had to learn how to welcome a novel peace lodged profoundly within her. She knew—she could tell—the pain had gone. She could now get on with her life. The wound was still there, and it would always be, but Clarissa now knew how to live with it, and how to tame it. She had seen Elise Delaporte only a couple of times after that. She hadn’t needed any more sessions.
Adelka’s dark eyes had gone liquid. She took Clarissa’s hand, squeezed it. Speaking in a low tone, she thanked her for sharing such a touching memory. Clarissa said the path to writing had opened up for her shortly after. Freed from her grief, she’d felt the need to explore what she’d experienced in Romain Gary’s and Virginia Woolf’s wake, writers devoted to places, through their writing, their creativeness, but also because they’d chosen to die at home, at the heart of their intimate territories. She’d decided to start with her own emotions, her personal path, but this was set to become a novel, not her story. Adelka said she was engrossed by Topography of Intimacy. It wasn’t at all the type of book she usually read, but she was enjoying it. It was startling, strange, and unexpected. Clarissa approved of her forthrightness. This young woman had nothing of a hypocrite about her. She appreciated that.
The rest of the evening went smoothly. They talked without worrying about the cameras. Adelka opened another bottle of wine, proffered cheese, bread, and olives. She discussed her work, how she recruited her models, where she chose to show her paintings. Clarissa had too much to drink. She wasn’t used to it. Trying not to lurch, she left late, at midnight, telling Adelka she didn’t need to be seen up to the eighth floor. What an idiot, getting sloshed at her age! It was almost funny. Almost. While she waited for the elevator, lacking the courage to go up by foot, she recalled Jim Perrier lived just below, on the third floor. Holding on to the banister as best as she could, she went down. Initials J.P. on the doorbell. She rang. It was probably too late, she knew. Too bad. No response. She waited. Where the hell was he? She tried once more. No answer. This was becoming both alarming and incomprehensible.
The residence cloaked her with oppressing silence. She stood within the cushy stairwell, the walls coated in sophisticated hues, and she viewed it all with abhorrence. She was fed up with being spied on. She had fled François and his repugnant secret, to find shelter here. She thought she had succeeded.
But the C.A.S.A. residence was no haven.
She could not sleep. She was hoping the wine might help her drop off, but the opposite happened. Her eyes remained wide open. She tried herbal tea, a shower, watching her neighbors; nothing worked. Lying on her bed, Chablis at her side, she asked Mrs. Dalloway to show her soothing videos of oceans and lakes. She sank into a semisomnolent state, one she knew only too well since she’d moved in and that she loathed, with the frustrating impression that she could no longer distinguish reality from her dreams. Was she asleep? Awake? She couldn’t tell. The wine had confused the issue. That word was coming back again and again, the same word, like an unrelenting wave bashing into her ears.
That word filling up the entire space, seeping into her skull; she must figure out what it was. In the dimness, while the lake’s surface crinkled the ceiling, she forced herself to regain consciousness. Listen. Concentrate. Listen. Night after night, she heard that voice, that word. One final effort. Now.
That voice. How was it possible? Yet it seemed to be that voice, light as the breeze, as the rustle of leaves, or the murmur of the turning tide. Elise’s voice? Clarissa struggled to remain calm, staring into the dark. No panicking. She had to keep it all in, to reveal nothing. Now, she could only make out silence, but had it really been Elise speaking to her, in the deepest hour, every night? And that word over and over, striking right at her heart?
Her son’s name. Her baby. The name Toby and she had chosen with such care, such love. The name written on the simple tombstone at Montparnasse Cemetery, where their son was laid to rest, and where she never went, because the pain, as soon as she drew near, became unbearable.
Had she dreamed it? Had she craved hearing that name so badly, she’d let it bloom within her own ear? No, of course not! She hadn’t dreamed a thing!
Fury swept over her, a nameless violence scorching the pit of her stomach. She leaped out of bed, howling with rage, brandishing her fist. How dared “they”? How could “they” do this? Manipulate her this way? Was that why she’d had to endure that tedious setting-up process? So that her past would come back to haunt her? What for? Now she could see why her nights were brief, bedecked with tears, preventing her from getting ahead, from writing her book.
“What the hell are you up to?” she spat out, glaring at one of the cameras. “And you there, hiding behind your screens, snooping on me, what are you waiting for? For me to go bonkers, is that it? Is that your intention? My going off the deep end? So that’s C.A.S.A. protocol, is it? Well done!”
Mrs. Dalloway made herself heard, unflappable.
“I’m sorry, Clarissa, I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me. Please rephrase.”
“Shut up!” shouted Clarissa, beside herself with wrath. “Just shut the fuck up!”
“I’m sorry, Clarissa. What, exactly, is the problem?”
“Be quiet! Can you understand that? Here it is one more time: Stop talking to me!”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand your demand.”
Silence. Clarissa got a grip on herself.
“Mrs. Dalloway,” she hissed.
“Yes, Clarissa?”
“I don’t want to hear you.”
“Fine, Clarissa. You can deactivate voice mode. You only have to say it.”
“Mrs. Dalloway, deactivate voice mode.”
An icon glowed on the nearby wall, confirming her order had been taken into account.
“Deactivate all cameras.”
A sentence showed up. It is impossible to deactivate the cameras.
“Go to hell! Deactivate everything.”
It is impossible to deactivate everything.
Clarissa unleashed a volley of abuse worthy of her father’s—the kind that used to cause her mother such displeasure. It was exhilarating. She felt lighter, less tense. She even grinned. Chablis came purring against her shins. She took him into the living room, her nose buried in the soft fur.
“What would I do without you, cat?”
She lay down on the sofa with him. Dawn was about to break, lighting up the rooftops with a pink touch. Tiredness took over, and she dozed on and off. A few hours later, when she got up, still exhausted, with a painful back, it was broad daylight. It was strange and liberating not to hear Mrs. Dalloway greeting her, like she used to every morning. The weather forecast, the main headlines, and her agenda silently appeared on the mural panels in large fonts, so her shortsighted eyes could read without glasses. Andy was coming later on today, to spend the night.
“Please send an internal message to Adelka Miki.”
Go ahead.
“Thank you for a lovely evening. I had a great time with you. I overdid it with the white wine, and getting up this morning was ghastly! But I have no regrets. See you soon! Clarissa.”
I’ve sent it.
“Please send an internal message to Jim Perrier.”
Go ahead.
“Hi Jim! Hope you’re well. I thought of a producer who might be interested in adapting my first novel for TV. I’d be happy to discuss this with you. All best, Clarissa.”
Message rejected by server.
Clarissa read the sentence a couple of times, perplexed.
“Why is the message rejected? I don’t understand.”
There is no Jim Perrier in the residence.
“What? That’s impossible; he lives on the third floor. There must be a mistake. Try again.”
The name Jim Perrier is not recognized by C.A.S.A. protocol. Message rejected by server.
Clarissa remained silent. She must not reveal her distress; she must take it in stride. For a couple of minutes, she forced herself to calm down. When she felt less strained, she went into the bathroom to undergo the medical tests. Using a loud, contemptuous tone, she said, “Are you eventually going to notice how tired I am? And perhaps a surprisingly high alcohol level? What do you do with all those results? Oh, I’m not expecting any answers!”
In the mirror, she glimpsed her crumpled features, her lackluster hair, her dry skin. The C.A.S.A. effect? Did the other artists feel this way, as well? Adelka, on the contrary, appeared to be blossoming.
Jim Perrier. His name haunted her all day. Had he made a discovery concerning the powder that could have led to his eviction? Was he in danger? He had warned her that mobile devices and computers were under surveillance. How could she reach him? She didn’t dare make any online searches in order to try to locate him. But she also knew he had a drinking problem, which Adelka had noticed, as well as the waiters at Café Iris. She wondered if she could go on trusting him.
At the end of the day, she decided to wait for Andy outside the residence, near the Tower Memorial. They could speak without being listened to. The young girl was surprised to see her grandmother waiting for her on a bench, and even more so when she saw her haggard face.
“It’s no big deal,” mumbled Clarissa. “Another lousy night. I have lots to tell you. Inside, we can’t talk. Sit down and listen to me.”
She related the powder incident, and Jim Perrier’s vanishing act. She was concerned. Something was going on in that damned residence, and she couldn’t figure out what. She was convinced her sleep was being tampered with. Apart from Andy, Jim was the only person she could bring this up with. And now he was gone. Andy listened attentively. Clarissa was fearfully expecting her granddaughter to tell her she was getting the wrong ideas. But Andy began to talk in a calm and thoughtful manner.
“Quit putting on that scared expression, Mums. I’ve been on your side since the beginning. And I have stuff to say that corroborates your point of view. I got in touch with the University of East Anglia, attended by our dear Mia White. They never responded to my email, so I phoned them. I passed myself off as a silly friend with a French accent who was trying to get hold of her. I must be kind of talented, because they fell for it. Guess what? Mia White got her diploma last year. She’s no longer a student. Odd, no? It gave me the wildest ideas! What if that girl is here to spy on you? What if she’s been working for C.A.S.A. all along?”
Clarissa gazed at her granddaughter. She seemed so mature, so confident.
“So that would explain why I thought I saw her downstairs the night the alarm went off.”
“You did? My guess is that she sleeps here and watches you nonstop. You’re her full-time job.”
“What do these people want, Andy?”
Andy slipped an arm around Clarissa’s shoulder.
“No hassle, Mums. We’re going to find out.”
“But how? They see everything I do.”
“I know. We have to start thinking hard. There must be something all these artists have in common. That’s what they’re after. Dr. Dethingy, you know she’s an AI hotshot. I’ve been looking her up.”
“Yes, Jim did, as well.”
“My guess is that she went rogue. Impossible to find out what she’s been up to. In your day, people went on the dark web to hunt for that sort of stuff, but now, that’s so mainstream and what you find there has nothing juicy about it. Digging deep into the blacker web might bring answers about the doctor’s activities, but that’s tricky. I’d need help. I could ask around. I have a friend whose brother is one of those new detectives, or a spy, if you prefer. His thing is politics. He knows how to drag up all the stuff people don’t ever want anyone to find. He earns millions.”
“How do you know all this, Andy?”
“Everyone knows, Mums. I didn’t start it.”
“I’m all at sea, over here.”
“I know, and that’s normal. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything foolish. We have two simple missions here. One, what happened to your pal Jim? Two, what is behind C.A.S.A.? Meanwhile, when we get to your place, we act normal. As usual, okay? And if we need to talk, we write on bits of paper.”
“You’re brilliant, Andy.”
“Not at all, Mums, just trying to help out. Do you a have a list of all the artists who live in the residence?”
“Yes, at home. Why?”
“I’d like to take a look at it. Perhaps it’s all in that list.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re all artists, so you have that in common. But apart from your professions, there must be something else about you that C.A.S.A. finds interesting.”
Clarissa glanced around her. The sun, shining bright and strong, was hurting her eyes. Lately, the weather had been persistently hot and sunny, even if summer was not yet here. It had rained only a couple of times, and when it had, it had poured down with fierce devastation.
“Mummy says a new heat wave is lined up for next week.”
“Not another one!”
Jordan was given all climatic data in advance, due to her job.
“Yep, and she says this one will be a scorcher. It’s going to set a new record, going up to forty-eight degrees Celsius.”
Clarissa sighed.
“Let’s go home, Mums. You look tired. Let me take care of you.”
“You’re such a sweetie. Hey, missy, you’re going to love this. I managed to get Mrs. Dalloway to shut up. I only had to turn voice mode off. Now everything she says is written on the wall. That’s it. And it’s bliss.”
They were on their way, arms linked. Clarissa walked at a slow pace, with difficulty. She’d felt old ever since this morning. A wreck. Once they got home, she went to fetch the neighbor list. Andy looked at it for a while. Then she folded it and put it in her pocket. She helped her grandmother prepare her favorite dinner. They called Toby. The conversation was spontaneous and amusing. Just before they sat down to eat, Andy made a face.
“Oh, shucks! No more salt, right?” she said.
While her back was turned to the camera, she winked in Clarissa’s direction.
“I’ll get some from your neighbors.”
A beaming smile, a cup grabbed from the shelf, and out she rushed. Clarissa put a lid on the soup and kept the potatoes in the oven. She turned on the news, trying to act normal. An unparalleled heat wave was indeed forecast for next week, about to descend upon Paris and its outskirts. About twenty minutes later, Andy returned with a small smile and the cup filled with salt. She devoured her dinner with her usual appetite and spoke little during the meal. Clarissa waited. She suspected her granddaughter was onto something. She longed to ask questions, but abstained. They put the dishes away while Andy whistled.
“How about a movie, Mums?”
“With pleasure. Which one?”
“Something vintage. You choose!”
“Ever heard of Barry Lyndon?”
“Rings a bell. Any good?”
Clarissa smiled.
“I saw it for the first time when I was your age.”
“You liked it?”
“More than liked it.”
“Okay. Let’s go for it.”
“Stanley Kubrick is my favorite filmmaker.”
“That, I knew! Mummy’s told me often enough!”
They settled down in the living room, with the cat on Andy’s lap. Clarissa asked Mrs. Dalloway to find the movie Barry Lyndon and play it.
“How fabulous it is to no longer hear that Dalloway voice. Good job, Mums.”
Then Andy whispered in Clarissa’s ear, asking her to turn the sound up high.
Clarissa obeyed. The volume was so loud that Clarissa’s eardrums ached. Andy played with a wisp of her own hair, which she kept placing in front of her lips. She murmured, “Can you hear me, Mums? Look straight ahead. Stick something on your mouth—your mug, for example.”
“Roger that.”
“Wow! That guy is so hot!” yelled Andy. “Who is he?”
“Ryan O’Neal.”
“Is he still around?”
“He’s your great-grandpa’s age.”
“You think he has a great-grandson?”
Andy was swept away by the magnificent images, by Handel’s haunting sarabande.
The whispering took up again.
“I’m going to go to the loo. No cameras in there, right? I’ll call out, saying there’s no more toilet paper. You’ll fetch some and bring it to me. Okay?”
Clarissa nodded, unnoticeably.
A couple of minutes later, her granddaughter was heard.
“Hey, Mums! End of loo paper!”
“Coming, miss.”
She got up, cursing at the backache that seemed to be here to stay. She went into her bathroom, fetched the tissue roll from her cupboard. Andy let her in the toilet room and closed the door behind her.
“I got it. Your neighbors.”
“What? Tell me!”
“Don’t talk so loudly. I didn’t see all of them; some weren’t at home. But I did notice they’re not all purely French.”
“You sound like our awful president when you say that.”
“Listen. Listen carefully. They’re like you. Bicultural.”
She took the paper out of her pocket and unfolded it.
“Arlen, from Montreal. Bell, from Australia. Engeler, not there. Fromet, supergluey, poured her heart out. She has an English mum. Holzmann, from Germany. Azoulay, Morocco. Olsen and Miki, not home.”
“Adelka Miki’s mother is Italian.”
“Aha. See? And your buddy Perrier?”
“Belgian mother. I believe he speaks Flemish.”
“Pomeroy, charming, from San Francisco. Rachewski, from Saint Petersburg. Van Druten, Amsterdam. Zajak, not home.”
“What’s your point, missy?”
It was beginning to get warm in the tiny space.
“You’re all bilingual. You all speak two languages fluently.”
Clarissa’s pulse quickened.
“Andy! Mia White!”
“Yes, what about her?”
“Franco-British, like me.”
Andy waved the paper around theatrically.
“The mind reels. What if C.A.S.A. was studying the lot of you because you have hybrid brains, as you like to call it? And what if dear bilingual Mia White was the project leader on all this?”
The cat was anxiously waiting for them. They returned to the screen, not speaking to each other. Clarissa found she could no longer concentrate on the movie. She kept thinking back to the numerous questions Mia White had asked her about bilingualism, trying to remember her own answers.
Andy was scribbling something on a bit of paper. She handed it over to her.
On the third floor, door on the left was ajar. Jim Perrier’s place. Wasn’t able to see inside. I rang; no one answered.
Clarissa continued to stare at the screen, transfixed. Andy mumbled, “We need to go check this out. Later. When everyone’s off in the land of nod.”
The entire building was still. Not a single noise to be heard. The night-lights were switched on, casting a pallid glimmer into the depths of the stairwell. Clarissa and Andy waited until two in the morning. They watched another movie, or pretended to, more or less dropping off in front of it; then they turned off all the lights, faked going to bed, lying down in the dark, fully clothed. Clarissa activated “intimate mode.” They quietly slipped out of the flat.
Jim Perrier’s door was ajar. It only needed to be pushed in order to open wide. Inside, a patch of darkness. Andy turned on her mobile’s flashlight. Clarissa pondered if this was a good idea. What would they ever do, or say, if they were found here? But Andy was already striding ahead, fearless. What an amazing little person. But then she thought of Jordan. Her daughter would be furious, no doubt.
“Come on!” murmured Andy. “There’s no one here.”
The space had been entirely stripped. Andy moved the flashlight over the walls and floors. Everything was empty, as if no one had ever lived here. Clarissa thought of Jim Perrier, in his underwear, the night the alarm went off. His pleasant cologne. Where was he now?
“Watch out for those cameras,” whispered Clarissa. “‘They’ will detect us soon enough.”
“In my opinion, nothing’s on,” said Andy. “The virtual assistant is off, as well. We have nothing to be afraid of. They’re not going to film a vacant apartment.”
They padded into the kitchen, then the bathroom.
“What if Jim was expelled by C.A.S.A.,” said Andy, “because he knew too much?”
“Or maybe because of his drinking problem?”
“Whatever it was, C.A.S.A. didn’t approve.”
“Maybe he’s the one who took off—”
“Shh!” commanded Andy, interrupting her. “There’s someone there, just outside.”
Clarissa was petrified. Her stomach churned uncomfortably. Who could it be, out there? Ben? Dr. Dewinter? She’d have to think up some sort of excuse to explain what they were doing here. Panic took over.
“Get into that wardrobe over there, Mums. Let me take charge. I know what to do.”
“But…”
“Do what I say. I can handle this. Trust me.”
Clarissa dashed into the hiding place, taking care to leave the door slightly open. From there, she could glimpse the entrance, where Andy had lain down on the floor, as if she were asleep. What on earth was she doing?
The noise Andy had picked up was now making its way to her own ears: an odd hissing sound. Andy was still flat out, motionless. Clarissa held her breath. The presence materialized, crossed the threshold. The form she beheld had nothing human about it; it was a large steel wheel, moving forward with metallic clicks. The circle halted when it came to Andy, and then, under Clarissa’s agitated and incredulous gaze, it lengthened out, modifying itself, changing its shape. She saw a long iron silhouette slowly unfold, taking its time, unfurling upward as it grazed the ceiling. Clarissa had never seen one in true life before, but she knew what it was. And Jim had mentioned it. A Bardi. One of the most elaborate and redoubtable guard robots ever, overpriced and efficient. At the end of each extremity, it bore a set of electrocuting pincers. Two round gleaming LED lights acted as its eyes. The Bardi had something of a Giacometti statue about it, with its long, lean, and elegant lines, and seemed harmless, but Clarissa had read enough about them to know what a Bardi was capable of. How could she get Andy out of this? She thought of Jordan. Ivan.
The Bardi had located Andy’s body on the floor. It came onward with that menacing skid that compressed Clarissa’s heart. The red beam flickered over Andy, who pretended to awaken.
“Get up.”
A mechanical, androgynous voice.
Andy rose, unperturbed. How was she able to remain so calm? Clarissa also knew the robots were equipped with facial recognition. The red spotlights lit up Andy’s face and then locked onto her eyes.
“The individual is a minor recognized by C.A.S.A. protocol. Adriana Garnier. Explain the reason of your presence on these premises.”
Adriana did not lose countenance. She lifted her chin to be able to stare back at the robot. It had bent over in order to examine her more closely, and Clarissa could make out the details of the startling metallic features, and the two small horns planted on each side of its head, giving it an animal-like aspect.
“I’m the granddaughter of Clarissa Katsef, the writer on the eighth floor. I was supposed to meet the person who lives here. But Jim never turned up. I fell asleep waiting for him.”
The silent robot appeared to ingest the information.
“The door was open,” Andy went on smoothly. “So I just came in.”
“Your mobile.”
The iron pincer made its way toward Andy, opening up to form a flat surface.
“I don’t mind showing it to you, but you won’t find traces of any of our texts. I erased them all.”
“Why?”
Andy shrugged.
“I don’t want my parents breathing down my neck. They don’t know about my relationship with Jim.”
“Hand over your mobile.”
Andy obeyed. She placed the phone in the little tray. A throbbing noise was heard.
“Thank you. You may take it back. Go up to your grandmother’s place and do not come back here.”
Andy seemed to hesitate; then she said, “Where is Jim Perrier, please?”
“There is no Jim Perrier here.”
“But where is he? Why did he disappear? Why is his apartment empty?”
“Go back upstairs.”
“I’d like to know what happened to Jim!”
“Do not argue with me.”
The robot slid forward and touched Adriana’s arm with its right pincer. The snapping sound of an electric shock was heard.
“What the fuck?” bawled the young girl. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Go upstairs. Get out of here.”
“Okay! I got the message! I’m leaving!”
The robot shoved Andy toward the entry, claws brandished like weapons. Clarissa heard the door bang shut. She waited, frightened, her chest feeling tight. She’d let a few minutes slip by; then she’d rush upstairs to join Andy.
Jim Perrier’s vacant flat seemed dark all of a sudden. The only thing she could hear was her slightly ragged breath. Apprehension pulsed through her once more. What had she done, following Andy? She longed to be back home, all snug, with Andy and the cat. A mug of herbal tea and off to bed. If Jim Perrier could see her now, cowering with fear in his empty wardrobe. She could picture his grin.
A faint hissing sound was heard, and her heart froze. She pricked up her ears. There it was again. She hadn’t gotten it wrong. The Bardi had remained inside. It hadn’t left. It must have understood there was a presence in the apartment. It was coming back for her, like a bloodhound. Horrified, Clarissa crawled to the back of the wardrobe.
The robot slid along, unhurried, with the slight squeak she had learned to fear, while its face swung methodically from left to right. She knew it was equipped with sensors capable of picking out body heat. From her hiding place, she could make out the reddish glow of its two LEDs piercing the gloom. It was coming closer, slowly but surely, and it was going to find her. She could imagine the steel claws clamping onto her arm. She felt like she was going to pass out.
A series of loud reiterated knocks on the door made her jump. The robot stopped moving, only a few feet away from her. It swiveled back toward the entrance. Clarissa heard Andy’s shout.
“I want to know where Jim Perrier is! I want to know where my friend is!”
“Jim Perrier no longer lives here. Go home. Immediately.”
“But he told me to meet him here! Something is going on!”
“If you don’t leave, you’ll have to come with me.”
“I’m a minor!” wailed Andy. “You can’t just take me with you, and besides, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Leave.”
“If I go upstairs, will you leave, as well?” asked Andy.
Clarissa was amazed by her granddaughter’s audacity.
“Yes, I will depart if you go upstairs,” came the robotic tone.
“Watch me, Mr. Bardi! I’m going up! Look! See?”
Andy’s voice became fainter.
Clarissa waited, her stomach still painful, her breath short. She couldn’t bear it if the Bardi came back. She peered out from behind the crack of the wardrobe door. The robot had stopped talking; it appeared frozen. Then, suddenly, it twisted down with an unexpectedly graceful swoop, coiled itself up, and took on the circle aspect it had when it arrived. Clarissa heard it roll down the steps.
A couple of minutes later, Andy called out.
“Mums! Get out of there! Hurry!”
Clarissa leaped out, not knowing where she was going, hands held out, and ended her wild rush, gasping for breath in Andy’s arms. The front door on the right of the landing opened, and an elegant man in his sixties appeared, wearing a blue dressing gown. He glanced at them cautiously.
“Is everything all right? I heard some noise.”
He had an American accent, blue eyes. Andy smiled at him reassuringly and answered him in English. They were very sorry; it was so late! She’d seen him earlier on; she’d come to ask for salt. Sean Pomeroy, right? From San Francisco. Clarissa introduced herself in turn, explained they were looking for his neighbor, Jim Perrier. Sean Pomeroy replied that he hadn’t seen him for a while. Perhaps he’d moved. Then he added, with a mischievous smile, “A rather raucous young man.”
“Oh?” said Clarissa.
“Let’s say he often came home drunk and got the doors mixed up.”
They said good night. Going up in the elevator, Clarissa told herself this amiable gentleman must have thought they were mad. She couldn’t get over what they had just done. The risk of it all! The danger! But she couldn’t bring herself to scold Adriana. Her granddaughter looked back at her with quiet triumph in her eyes.
When they got to the eighth floor, Clarissa asked her to make sure there was no Bardi lurking around. Andy checked.
“No Bardi, Mums. Just a poor cat mewing behind the door.”
Clarissa descended into a troubled slumber, with the memory of the Bardi’s red eyes chasing her. She awoke at dawn, and lay there, listening to Andy breathing. She waited until the young girl opened her eyes and smiled at her. What a marvelous thing, Adriana’s smile.
“I had such weird dreams, Mums.”
“House specialty, I’d say!”
Andy yawned and stretched her limbs.
“You were talking in your sleep, Mums. You kept repeating the same word over and over in a soft little voice.”
Clarissa stiffened.
“What word?”
“A name.”
“Which name?”
“Glenn.”
Clarissa shut her eyes. She felt exhaustion take over and govern her. She wanted to curl up and never get out of bed; in the pit of her stomach, she felt a load where she had carried her dead child. She couldn’t believe she had been saying his name out loud during her sleep.
“Mums. You don’t have to explain.”
Andy’s small hand found her own.
“I know who Glenn is. Mummy told me a long time ago she had an older brother who died at birth. Your son. I’ve never talked about it with you. I was waiting. Take your time. If we don’t talk now, it will be at another moment.”
Then Andy whispered resolutely, “I don’t know what the hell they want, or what they’re doing, and maybe we will never find out. But I do know one thing. You have to get out of here, Mums. Pronto.”
Afterward, I had to write it all down. Describe it. I had to get it out of my system. The only way to do that was to create a distance. To protect myself.
The door, facing me. The key, in my hand. One final qualm. Turn around, leave, stay in the dark? Open up, discover it all? The choice appeared easy, in the beginning. But it became infernal as I lingered on the doorstep.
Door opening. No squeak. I slipped in easily. I had waited a long while, nearly an hour. I had rung the bell. Nobody had answered. The door was double-locked.
A small entrance. An overpowering, brash tone of purple. I was startled. I knew François preferred the elegant discretion of taupe, russet, dark blue, silver.
Another door. I breathed in whorls of potent and heavy feminine perfume. It was familiar. The one I had sniffed on my husband’s jackets and shirts. Sickeningly sweet, like cotton candy.
The place felt stuffy, as if it wasn’t ventilated often.
A single room, not large. Blinds lowered. Not much light. Night had fallen and it was hard to make anything out. Not a lot of furniture, apart from a huge four-poster bed that took center stage. It obscenely dominated all the rest. Purple, everywhere. Walls, fitted carpet, net curtains around the bed.
François was waiting for me at our friends’ place for dinner. He had already sent several texts, wondering what I was doing, why I was late. I hadn’t answered.
I had time, after all. But what if she came home? I hadn’t thought about that. All of a sudden, I felt nervous. The perfume was making me uncomfortable.
Near the window, on a pedestal table, there was a framed photograph. I drew closer. It was her. Her, with him. They were hugging, on that dreadful gigantic bed.
She had curly blond hair. She was young, younger than Jordan. Thirty years old, give or take. A smooth, angelic face. The pink skin of a piglet. A beatific smile. Emotionless eyes. A plump body. She was wearing a negligée; he was bare-chested.
My eyes were beginning to get used to the penumbra. On the chest of drawers, photo albums. Be careful. Watch out. Do you really want to look at those? Do you really want to see them? You already know everything there is to know. You know your husband is cheating on you with this young woman. You know they meet here, a couple of times a week. You should get the hell out of here. Now. Why torture yourself? Why look at those blasted albums?
It was impossible to turn back. I looked at them all.
Romantic snacks, cocktails, champagne, birthday cakes, always here, in this vile purple chamber. My husband, soppy-eyed and smitten. Her affected smirk, her golden curls. He wore dark jackets and a tie; she, low-cut tunics. In one of the photos, she was sitting on his knees, wearing an evening dress. He was avidly suckling her breast.
Under the albums, I found a tablet, a smaller model. Don’t look. Resist. Put it down. Get out. Clear off.
Too late. Twenty videos or so. It was so easy to press on the icons.
My heart had started to beat with a slow, devouring anger. Videos of them on the bed. Close-ups. Kisses. Tongues and genitals. Her vulva was entirely hairless. Her on top of him. Him on her. Him inside her. Him in her mouth, in between her bosoms, in between her buttocks. I watched it all. The slow, then frenzied to-and-fro. My hands trembled. It was appalling.
A mad urge to smash everything up. Wreak havoc. Decimate the place. Reduce it all to smithereens. But it didn’t last. I was a sitting duck for grief and despondency. In that sordid room, I stood there, helpless and drained.
I went to check out the rest of the flat, switching on the lights. A tiny kitchen. Nothing in the refrigerator apart from champagne. Two glasses by the sink. Farther on, the bathroom. No lipstick, mascara, powder. Surprising, considering how made up she was in the videos. No beauty products. Just her perfume, on the shelf above the basin. They even shared a toothbrush. A stick of deodorant, for men. One large purple towel. In the shower, an item that looked like a long bottle brush for cleaning flasks, and a pear-shaped object made of black rubber.
Back in the bedroom, I drew closer to the four-poster, as if to behold it one last time, before I left for good. The mauve net curtains were drawn. On the single night table, a vintage Polaroid camera, and some lubricant gel.
I drew the voile curtain. I nearly screamed.
There was a figure, on the mattress. A woman, lying there on her side, her back to me, her long blond locks spread over the pillow.