Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are …
VIRGINIA WOOLF, Mrs. Dalloway, 1925
Instead of screaming, I write books.
ROMAIN GARY, Promise at Dawn, 1960
IN THE PAST ten years, Paris had endured a string of heat waves, but the one drawing closer, heralded by uncertainties, concerns, speculations, and confusion of all kinds, was set to be record-breaking. It was pronounced devastating, although it was predicted to last forty-eight hours at the most. The president had gone so far as to impose a nonworking day. Her minister for health exhorted Parisians to remain at home. For those in need, air-conditioned spaces were made available; bottled water was to be delivered by drones at specific areas, and all emergency departments were fully mobilized and on the alert. Trains were not operating, because heat might distort railway tracks. Only a few planes were allowed to take off. Public transport services were reduced to the minimum. The latest heat wave, which came close to forty-five degrees Celsius, was already an unpleasant memory, but this one would be much worse. Irked, Clarissa listened to the news. Why such doom-mongering? For the past day, the impending hot spell was described only in the most fear-provoking terms.
The residence was fully equipped with state-of-the-art air-conditioning, and for that, Clarissa was thankful. She had suggested Jordan and her little family come and stay during the hottest hours, but her daughter had declined. Jordan had some portable units that would do. They’d pull through. Why had Clarissa picked out a small shadow in Jordan’s tone? Was she imagining things, or was Jordan resentful about something?
Fed up with the alarmist headlines, Clarissa turned off the newscast. Close the shutters, stay inside, drink enough water. Yes, she knew all that. Like thousands of Parisians, she endured both those commands and torrid temperatures several times a year. This morning, her father sent a message that made her laugh. From all his ninety-eight years of age, he reminded her that senior citizens, like herself, should be most vigilant during a heat wave. The last one had spelled carnage, did she recall? Fortunately, London was going to stay cool. Signed “Super Senior Citizen,” her dad.
A little ping was heard. Mrs. Dalloway had something to say. Her words showed up on the wall for Clarissa to read.
FYI, mail has just been delivered. There’s a letter for you. Handwritten. No return address.
Postal mail had become uncommon. Paper was no longer used for bills, love letters, or even condolences. People had stopped writing over the years; they sent text messages or emails. Clarissa was curious as to who had written her a letter the old-fashioned way. She went down to fetch it. She didn’t see anyone. Had the artists all retreated to their homes in fear of the heat wave? She instantly recognized François’s handwriting on the envelope. She didn’t open it. When she got back upstairs, she slipped the letter into her handbag. Should she read it now? Courage failed her. She’d do it another day.
Her book was coming along slowly. Too slowly. She hid from surveillance to write in both her notebooks, the English one and the French one, but her heart was no longer in it. Leaving here had become her new fixation. Getting out of C.A.S.A. It ate up all the rest. She had signed a contract and a lease. She was going to have to check all that out again. And above all, wherever could she go? That unanswerable question preoccupied her.
The sky turned livid as the day progressed. She had never seen such a color. The sun beat down through the skylight, which she had not been able to black out. She entrenched herself in her bedroom, where the shutters could be closed. In the dimness, she felt safer. Chablis dozed. Clarissa thought about the multitude of air conditioners frantically struggling against irrational temperatures while spewing out hot air. She found the waiting unbearable. She received texts from friends making sure she was sheltered, looking after herself. She answered back reassuringly, heartened by the small tokens of affection.
The hours crawled by with extreme slowness. Everything felt sluggish. Andy called to see how her grandmother was doing. It wasn’t too awful at theirs. But she wasn’t looking forward to nighttime. Clarissa reminded her that she had suggested the family come over, and that Jordan had refused. Incomprehensible, according to Andy.
Clarissa found it impossible to read or write. She felt jittery, worried sick. She wasn’t anxious for her own sake; she felt frightened for the city. Paris had never been through such high temperatures. She wondered if infrastructures were going to make it. She answered a call from Toby, watching over her, even from far away. She switched the TV on again, without the sound, gazed at the ghost-town streets of a deserted capital. Not a single car, not one pedestrian. All shops were closed. Only drones could be seen making their rounds, like huge insects hovering over empty boulevards. She could hear their rumble through the double glazing. She had always loathed that noise.
She unfastened a windowpane at four o’clock in the afternoon, just to see. The blistering air was a smack in the face, similar to opening an oven. Forty-five degrees Celsius in the shade. She was aware the digits were going to rise even higher. She felt protected in her cool home, but the escalating warmth, like the relentless loom of a calamity, shook her up. The news channels kept harking back to the death of the bees and its consequences, and showing the same perpetual images of climate disruption. The lifeless streets of Paris appeared to be the main focus of the media worldwide. Disheartened by the morose broadcasts, Clarissa asked Mrs. Dalloway to show the movie Modern Times.
She must have fallen asleep when Chaplin was being swallowed whole by the factory gearwheels, because when she opened her eyes, night had fallen. Her mouth felt furry; her head ached. When she rose, dizziness forced her down again. The cat lay listless in a corner. She hobbled to the kitchen. She couldn’t find any bottles of mineral water in the refrigerator. Yet she was certain she had stocked up on them. She couldn’t understand why they were nowhere to be seen. The throbbing of her head worsened; she felt like retching. She had to grip the furniture in order not to fall. Never in her entire life had she been so thirsty. Her entire body seemed parched. She began to shudder. There was no other choice than to drink from the tap, that water filtered by the residence, of which she was suspicious. The liquid ran over her hand, tepid, and strangely oily. She waited for it to become cooler, but it never did. She had to force herself to gulp down lukewarm sips, which made her feel even queasier.
On the wall panel, she read the temperature had flown up to forty-nine degrees Celsius, an unprecedented event. A brand-new record. There had been many casualties. There were, no doubt, going to be even more. Clarissa staggered back to the living room with difficulty. Her body felt stiff and heavy. She glanced outside, to the building facing hers. Hardly any lights on. The city seemed fast sleep. But shrill ambulance sirens and the drones’ incessant circling came to her from afar. She felt sweaty. Her clothes were sticky. Was there a problem with the air-conditioning? She asked Mrs. Dalloway to check.
Two words lit up the panel.
SYSTEM ERROR.
Clarissa opened the front door. It was boiling on the landing, as if a heater had been turned on full blast. She went to fetch her mobile. Get hold of Jordan, Adelka. The calls couldn’t go through, even though the signal was strong. She tried a dozen times, in vain. She remembered the landline in her office and rushed to it. When she stuck the phone to her ear, there was no dial tone, just an automatic voice blaring out the same words over and over: “System error. Please hang up. System error. Please hang up.”
She was alone in her flat, with no air-conditioning, no mineral water. Up on the eighth floor, under a skylight that had warmed up all day long under the broiling sun. Perspiration trickled down the back of her neck, between her breasts. Dusk had barely been able to lower the heat. Her heart beat with slow, painful thumps. She could hear her blood flow through her eardrums with a muffled sucking noise that nauseated her. Her body had been drained of all the vigor she had left. She was a wreck. She couldn’t move. It seemed to her the residence had depleted her of all her sap. She was nothing but an empty shell.
As she lay on the sofa, limp, inert, craving water, she felt she suddenly knew what “they” wanted, what “they” were doing. It was clear. How had she not seen it? She had to write it down, straight away. The floor swayed when she tried to get up. Above her head, the ceiling looked like waves were lapping over it. Hands stretched out in front of her, she ambled ahead warily. The screens on the walls weren’t functioning properly; frames were skipping, appeared to be jumbled together, along with a crackling sound. New words popped up: PROTOCOL C.A.S.A. DOWN. REBOOT. Clarissa couldn’t help smiling, in spite of her weariness. She imagined Dr. Dewinter and her team dripping with sweat, working themselves into a frenzy in front of their inoperative screens and servers. Somehow or other, the heat wave must have triggered the internal system’s meltdown.
Clarissa got hold of her notebooks, tucked away in her handbag. She sat down to write, and had to put her pen down after a few sentences, she felt so weak. She shouldn’t take all this lightly, at her age. She had to dampen her body, drink plenty of fluids. She had to act fast. Under the shower, she’d go. She’d wait it out there.
Impossible to stand up again. Her limbs had gone as flaccid as marshmallow candy. Flat on her stomach, she slid across the flooring, making feeble swimming movements. The remaining distance to the bathroom seemed never-ending. Sometimes she’d halt, spent. She felt like crying but forced herself not to. She certainly wasn’t going to perish right there on her own floor! How pathetic! How ridiculous! She could hear her father’s voice, his cursing, his wit. Bloody hell! Move on, now! Come on, girl! Rustle your bustle! Her elbows stung as she inched along. Each effort she made forced a strangled moan from her. The shower was miles away. She could very well stay right there, flat out, wheezing, drenched with perspiration, and no one would ever know. Cameras were no longer filming. She would peter out, just like that. In a few days, her body would be found by Ben, or by the nice cleaning lady who came once a week. Jordan and Andy would turn up beforehand; she was sure of that. At least she hoped so. It was tempting to let herself drop off. So very easy. The surface under her cheek felt hot and sticky.
As she stared close-up at the grooves engrained within the wooden planks, shadows began to materialize, created by the many indentations; tormented features appeared, sketched here and there as if by magic: malevolent eyes, grimacing mouths, crooked noses. It seemed to her the floorboards were covered with a chain of scowling masks, hideous hobgoblins with emaciated faces like in Munch’s powerful painting, The Scream. She forced her eyes away, but when she glanced at the walls, she noticed with anguish blurry shapes coming to life there as well, as if the corridor were crowded with apparitions hiding behind partitions, reaching out to grab her.
Clarissa shut her eyes. That was better. They had gone. She breathed slowly, using Elise’s method. Should she surrender to this gentle stupor? Should she let herself be carried away? Are you off your rocker, girl? Blast it, that’s enough! Her father’s voice, calling her by that first name she hated.
She raised her head, gritted her teeth with all the forcefulness she could muster. Keep moving. Keep going forward. Inch by inch. The goblins had vanished. She had to reach the shower. A trembling frame caught her eye—a square image appearing on the luminous panel at the end of the passageway. Clarissa made slow progress, puffing and panting. The palms of her hands were sore; she had cramps in her legs. She was able to make out a sort of index card with an ID photo. She drew closer, managed to heave herself to her knees with a final effort. She didn’t have her glasses on, and she stuck her nose to the screen.
SURNAME: PERRIER
FIRST NAME: JIM
AGE: 35
She couldn’t figure out what it was, why she was seeing this. Jim’s card faded away, then popped back up on the unit.
CONSTITUTIONAL SIGNS: ALCOHOLIC. DRUG ADDICT. PARANOID PERSONALITY DISORDER.
The display went black. She squealed with frustration. Then other cards emerged, too fast for her to see them properly. The heat must have affected the servers. Everything C.A.S.A. knew and was hiding had somehow become visible. Were all the artists of the residence witnessing this confidential data right now? Or was this only happening in her place? The frames shuffled by in a quick frenzy. At times, the system switched off, then lit up again. Suddenly, she thought she saw her own index card, only for a split second, her features looking bonier than ever, and a long paragraph, where a chunk of words reached out to slap her: PRONE TO DEPRESSION.
Her anger outdid her weakness, and she shot to her feet with new vigor, her entire body quaking with resentment. She wasn’t going to give in to this. Never. She was going to flee. She had to prove all this. She had to photograph those index cards, keep it all as evidence. She turned back to get her mobile. Another dizzy spell slowed her down. She was forced to stop and lean against the wall, catching her breath. Her skin felt clammy. There was no air.
When she came back with her phone, the panel had gone dark once more. She hung around. It did not light up again. Had she imagined it all? After fifteen minutes, she went to the shower, weary and uneasy. She couldn’t make out the difference between the hobgoblins on the floorboards and the index cards. What had she truly perceived? Had it all been in her mind? She undressed, taking her time, feeling the shakiness take over her body again. The mirror sent back a ghostly echo. Who was watching her, back there? Who could see her? She held up her middle finger wordlessly, with a bitter smirk. Once she got under the shower, tap open, she huddled there, back against the wall. The water was still lukewarm. She shut her eyes, let the stream flow into her mouth, her ears. The trickle of the running water had a calming effect. She thought back to what she had read about Jim Perrier. Alcohol. Drugs. Paranoia. What should she make of it?
Something moving startled her. It was the cat. He stared at her thoughtfully, sitting across from her.
“Hop on in, old sport. It’ll do you good.”
She had always heard cats hated water, but against all expectation, Chablis let out a small mew and leaped over to land by her side. He let himself get entirely wet, then, with his customary daintiness, installed himself on her thighs and began to purr.
She was still asleep when the doorbell rang. She had no idea of the time; she only remembered having closed the tap, flung herself onto her bed, wrapped in a humid towel. The room temperature seemed agreeably cool. She slipped into a bathrobe and checked the control panel. It was Ben, more good-humored than usual, with an embarrassed expression.
“Everything okay, Mrs. Katsef?”
“Not really. I only just woke up.”
He explained the system had undergone a gigantic breakdown and that the air-conditioning had stopped functioning. But it had all been fixed.
“I see,” she said. “I nearly kicked the bucket.”
He gazed at her, confused.
“Oh, my gosh!”
“I guess I’m tougher than I look. What about the other artists?”
“Most of them left the residence before it got too hot. Have you seen the news?”
“No.”
“Everything collapsed, all over the city. Breakdown, failure, outage. No signal, no surveillance, hacked databases, burglaries. Melted asphalt. And lots of casualties.”
“Indeed … Do you need anything?”
“Yes, Dr. Dewinter would like all artists who went through the heat wave to pass a medical test. I need to check everything’s working properly.”
Then he added, “You look very pale, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
She did not answer, only glared back at him. While he was in the bathroom, she checked her phone. It was just past nine. Numerous calls and texts. She went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Staring at her in the face were four bottles of mineral water. The ones she had looked for in vain last night. She sighed.
She went back to reading her texts. Jordan was fraught, so were Andy, Toby, François, and a couple of other friends. How was she? Could she respond? Was everything okay? She tried to answer them fast, Jordan first. Yes, it had been dreadful, the air-conditioning broke down, everything else broke down, she had never been so thirsty, hot, and faint in her life, but she was okay! Jordan texted back, relieved. She’d call later on today.
As Clarissa was getting back to Andy, her phone rang. It was Laure-Marie, her publisher. She picked up immediately. Laure-Marie wanted to know if she’d survived. Laughingly, Clarissa said that she had, but when she thought of the acute nausea, the vanishing mineral water, the goblins appearing on the floorboards, she wondered if she hadn’t underestimated what she had gone through. Laure-Marie wanted to get back in touch. They hadn’t seen each other for a while. Apparently, Clarissa had moved. What about getting together for a drink? That way, Clarissa could tell her about her new project, because Laure-Marie was waiting to hear about it! Clarissa agreed to call her later on that week.
Her project. Her book. At a standstill. By eroding her energy, devastating her sleep, filming her around-the-clock, C.A.S.A. had crushed her desire to write. All this was part of their plan, which she understood last night. She’d have to get hold of Andy, too, to tell her what she had discovered. Clarissa already knew she was not going to call her publisher. She hadn’t made enough progress. She had to get out of here first. She had to find out how. The lyrics of Toby’s favorite song, “Hotel California,” kept coming back to her: She could check out anytime she wanted, but she could never leave.
Ben was still in the bathroom, fiddling. He must have sensed her impatience, because he came out looking self-conscious. He informed her everything was in order. The test would take a while longer, he said. But she had to go through with it. Dr. Dewinter had insisted all artists should.
“Fine,” said Clarissa grimly. “I just can’t wait.”
He gawked at her again, lost.
“Good-bye, Ben,” she said icily.
He scurried out. Clarissa headed into the bathroom and faced the mirror, looking into the two small red specks.
“Hello, Clarissa,” said a mechanical male voice. “Please place your palm on the inlay.”
Clarissa obeyed. She couldn’t help noticing how gaunt she looked. She had lost weight, which was confirmed when she stepped on the scales.
“Please answer the following questions, Clarissa. Did you faint during the heat wave?”
“No,” she replied.
“Did you feel dizzy and lose your balance?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel thirsty?”
“Yes.”
“Did your urine appear darker?”
“I didn’t pay attention.”
“Did you have any cramps?”
“Yes, in my legs.”
“Did you have any hallucinations?”
“No.”
“Please put your hand back on the inlay.”
She noticed the voice had switched from French to English. She put her hand back.
The voice repeated, “Did you have any hallucinations during the heat wave?”
There was no way she was going to admit she’d seen imps in the patterns of the wooden floor.
“No.”
“Did you feel weak?”
“Yes.”
“Did your head ache?”
“Yes.”
“Were you nauseous?”
“Yes.”
“There are eyeglasses on your left. Please put them on. Face the mirror and place your palm on the inlay.”
Ben had left glasses near the sink. She positioned them on her nose. They blurred her vision slightly. A dull whine started in her left ear.
“Please keep your eyes open, Clarissa.”
The whine became more powerful, like a mighty hum, digging deep into her head. She felt the noise spiraling into her brain like a drill.
“What is this?” she muttered.
“Please refrain from talking. Do not remove your hand. Please look at the marks in the mirror.”
How long was she going to remain docile? Was she really going to stand there, let them get on with this? What were they doing? Trying to read what she was thinking? Pilfering her brain?
The voice had gone back to French. She hardly noticed. She tried to stand straight, but the intensifying hum made her shudder and feel giddy.
“Please remain still.”
She felt convinced she knew what was going on. She had read about those scientists probing the brain’s electrical activity, trying to read into inner thoughts.
“Look into the mirror, please. Describe what you see.”
She saw her own face, as long and thin as Virginia Woolf’s. With eyes as blue as Romain Gary’s.
“I see myself.”
“What else do you see, please?”
She noticed an image had been projected within the glass. It looked like a revolving sphere.
“I see a circle.”
“Describe it, please.”
“In French or in English?”
A pause.
“They” hadn’t expected that, she thought, gloating.
“Don’t choose a language consciously. Just describe what you see, please.”
She described the glittery circle, using French and English at the same time, flawlessly switching from one to the other. Speaking very fast, still using both languages, she invented elements she did not see at all—a tree, a lake, a house. She went into detail. It was almost fun.
“Please describe what you see.”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“There is no house, lake, or tree in the mirror.”
“Really? Well, I see them. You don’t?”
The humming noise was strong now, nearly unbearable. What the hell was in those glasses? Electrodes? Captors? What were “they” up to, exactly? Delving into her neurons, certainly. Resistance began to take shape within her, and she gave full force to that defiance. She watched her inner retaliation thrive; it was like a blue glow hurling itself against the humming noise, casting a screen all around, engulfing Clarissa, making the mirror and the space around her disappear. The hum could no longer get through the blue, no matter how hard it tried. Don’t give them what they want. Don’t let them see what’s inside your head. Keep all those thoughts to yourself. They can’t take thoughts from you if you don’t let them. Clarissa forced her eyes to remain open, visualizing the blue glow becoming stronger, thicker, and deeper, fighting the powerful grinding whine with every cell in her body, every pulsation of her heart. It was like a merciless battle against the demented storm raging inside her mind.
“Please relax,” said the voice.
The blue radiance became her language, neither French nor English; it became her own language, expressing complete pugnacity, and that words were no longer needed in order to clarify she was not going to let “them” into her mind. How long did the combat last? She had no idea. The whining finally decreased. She was asked to take the glasses off. She felt drained.
“Thank you, Clarissa. Medical examination completed.”
She tottered into the toilet, bolted the door; it was the only spot in the flat that remained an intimate space. She grinned at the irony of it. She slid down, back to the wall, tried to rest. To her consternation, she sensed the intense weakness she’d felt last night creep its way back into her organism. She must gain her strength back. She had to make plans. She had to act fast.
Clarissa rubbed her hands over her face, trying to give herself some energy. She breathed slowly in and out. She didn’t care if no one believed her. Maybe only Andy would. It didn’t matter. She knew what to do next.
Nathalie’s bookstore-café, on boulevard du Montparnasse, was packed this morning, despite the tragic events of yesterday. Customers gathered around displays, settled into cozy armchairs, or sat down for coffee and cake. Clarissa hadn’t been back since the opening. She was cheered to see so many bookworms on the premises. A young salesperson informed her that Nathalie was upstairs, in her office. She’d go fetch her. Clarissa wandered through the stalls. She realized she hadn’t done much reading since her move. The residence had dispossessed her of her love of books. No writing, no reading. What a punishment.
“My God, Clarissa!”
Nathalie had gasped with shock.
“You’re so thin!”
“I know. I didn’t do it on purpose, believe me. And the heat didn’t help, either. But don’t worry, I’m fine.”
She flashed a large smile to reassure her friend. But Nathalie wasn’t fooled by it. Clarissa changed the subject, asking her about her shop. Nathalie answered with her usual fervor, going into the details of the highs and lows of bookselling. Clarissa listened with pleasure. Then she said, “I was wondering if I could ask you a small favor.”
“Of course! What is it?”
“Your friend, the one I met here, who works in real estate.”
“Guillaume? I heard he helped you find your new flat.”
“That’s him. Could you call him for me?”
“You want his number?”
“I already have his number. But I’d rather not call him from my mobile.”
“Oh?”
“Could you possibly call him on your own phone? And then put me on?”
Nathalie looked at her closely. Clarissa knew what she was thinking, right there. That Clarissa looked like a demented old lady, with her red dye going to pot and her intense blue gaze.
“You need to talk to him?”
“Yes.”
“A problem with your flat?”
“Sort of. I simply need to ask him one quick question. It won’t take very long.”
Slight hesitation.
“Okay. All right.”
Nathalie fished her phone from her pocket. She pressed on a key, waited, and got voice mail.
“Hi, Guillaume. It’s Nat. Can you get back to me? Important. Thanks.”
Clarissa said she’d wait around, looking at books. She wouldn’t be far. Nathalie got on with her work. Clarissa’s eyes followed her as she gave advice to clients, located books for them. She never seemed to lose her zeal. Clarissa remembered most of her own books were still with François. She still had many belongings in her old place. One day, she’d have to retrieve them. But not while she was at the residence. François’s letter was at the bottom of her bag, with her notebooks. She still hadn’t read it. She held it between her fingertips. It felt quite thick.
Just as she was thinking of opening it, Nathalie was back, flourishing her mobile.
“Here’s Guillaume.”
Clarissa took the phone.
“Hello,” she said in what she hoped was a jovial voice. “I’m not sure you remember me? We met here, at Nathalie’s opening.”
“The red-haired author who writes about houses and suicidal authors, not easily forgotten,” he replied with a slightly sarcastic intonation. “What can I do for you?”
Nathalie had gone back to her customers. Clarissa was alone.
“I wanted to talk to you about the C.A.S.A. residence.”
“I believe you live there, right? So you got in! Well done! That’s no easy feat, and they’re rather picky, I hear.”
She nearly added “And I’m longing to get out of it,” but abstained.
“That’s right, I was admitted. Sorry for putting this to you so bluntly, but what is C.A.S.A., exactly? Who is behind it?”
He seemed surprised.
“Well, benefactors keen on promoting all forms of artistic creations. They have huge financial resources.”
“Have you met anyone from C.A.S.A.?”
“I must have crossed paths with a couple of people, but I don’t remember. I only know Clémence Dutilleul, whom I put you in touch with. She’s in charge of finding artists for the residence. That’s all I know. I worked with my architects to construct the place. I don’t know much more about C.A.S.A.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No! What are you getting at? What’s with these people?”
“You weren’t aware, for instance, that all the artists living in the residence are filmed?”
A pause.
“Filmed all the time?” he asked.
“Yes. All the time. We signed a contract.”
“So you agreed to it?”
“That’s not the issue. I want to find out why we are filmed.”
“Surveillance requirements, no doubt. Aren’t you happy up there on the eighth floor? Your studio is magnificent! The number of people who’d love to be in your shoes!”
“Have you met Dr. Dewinter?”
“No, I haven’t. Who is this person?”
“An artificial intelligence specialist. She runs the C.A.S.A. protocol.”
“So?”
“You don’t see the link?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You don’t see how an AI expert could find a household of artists most interesting?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I fail to see the link, and don’t see how I can help you in any way.”
Clarissa was unable to keep him on the phone. He asked to be handed back to Nathalie. She heard his voice boom out to her friend: “What a dotty old lady!”
Clarissa took off, thanking Nathalie, who kept watching her with a mixture of suspicion and concern. She walked along the boulevard, noting how yesterday’s temperatures had left traces in the extenuated features of passersby, in their slow shuffle. Clarissa hadn’t listened to the news, or read the press on her tablet. Fatalities, bedlam, confusion, crisis, pessimism. The same old song. She’d answered each text message she received, including François’s. She had written, All OK, and you? He’d replied, Yes, thanks. Did you get my letter? She’d left it at that.
For the moment, C.A.S.A. was her prime concern. What they wanted, how they got what they wanted, and, above all, how to leave them. She had always known how to weave intimate connections with homes. The place she’d shared with Toby, on rue d’Alésia, left sweet memories in her mind, in spite of the tragedy that had befallen them. It was a bright, cheerful two-room flat. She could still see Toby sitting on the little balcony, reading in the sunlight. She had also been fond of the larger apartment, acquired with François, on rue Henri-Barbusse, the one she’d decorated with him, full of her beloved books. She had loved writing there.
Like foreign territory barring her entry, her apartment in the residence spread out in front of her, and she perceived hostility in every nook, every chink. Perhaps she was not wanted here because she refused to cooperate. She gave nothing away; she did not submit. Were the other artists easier to manage and to influence? Were they content merely living and working here, having no inkling concerning the truth? Was she the only one seeing that truth? Jim Perrier had come close. Had he been dismissed because of his misgivings? Or because of his addictions, which didn’t conform to the C.A.S.A. protocol? And what about her? Did she risk being expelled, as well? Her insubordination had not gone unnoticed. Dr. Dewinter herself had turned up to call her to order. Perhaps that was the way out. Disobedience. Well, she was ready. She was more than ready.
Back in the bathroom, she avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She made sure each of her gestures seemed calm and ordinary. She acted the same way in the kitchen. An internal message from Adelka showed up on the screens. She was wondering how Clarissa’d put up with the awful heat. She herself had gone off to a friend’s place, near Lille. Clarissa dictated a concise reply: Yes, thanks, all fine, but it was dreadful! See you soon! Her mobile buzzed as she was cleaning things up in the kitchen.
It was her brother, Arthur. She hadn’t spoken to him directly since the choppy outcome of Aunt Serena’s will. She’d sent an email thanking him for the brooch, without alluding to its real worth. Even if she didn’t feel like hearing the sound of his voice, she took the call. Arthur sounded out of breath. It was about their father. A rapid fright shot through her. Their dad had had a bad fall; he’d broken two ribs and his nose. He was in the hospital. Could she come? He was also going to alert Jordan.
Of course she’d go. But how was their dad? What happened? Arthur said he hadn’t yet spoken to the doctors. Their father fell out of his bed. Luckily, the nursing assistant who was on duty was able to help. He was at the brand-new London Fields hospital, near Broadway Market.
Clarissa remembered the ticket she’d recently booked for her upcoming London trip. She was able to modify it for a new one; the train was departing in two hours. She stuffed a change of clothes and toiletries into a travel bag. She had no idea how long she might have to stay. The cat! What was she going to do with it? Adelka seemed to be the only solution. With Chablis tucked under her arm, she went down to the fourth floor. Wearing a jumpsuit, with a paintbrush in hand, Adelka opened up.
“My dad’s in the hospital, in London. I’ve got to leave.”
“Oh, your poor dad! You want me to keep this precious bundle? I’ll take care of the food and the litter, don’t you worry!”
Clarissa thanked her warmly. She had to make her way in time to the sprawling Gare du Nord, a place she disliked all the more because of its never-ending overhaul. Her British passport enabled her to skip endless queues at control checks, but there was still customs to go through, on either end. It had been getting worse and worse, ever since Brexit’s unsettling consequences, steeped in complication. One had still to wait for hours in order to set foot on the island where she was born. How strange it was to originate from these two neighboring countries, traditional foes, which, over time, had not succeeded in becoming closer, but, on the contrary, had drawn even further apart. Like most people she knew, Clarissa found Eurostar’s new name, StarExpress, ridiculous.
She tried to get hold of Jordan but only got through to voice mail. She wondered if her daughter had managed to make herself available, and if she was en route to London. During the entire trip, her father stayed on her mind. Arthur sent her the hospital room number. At St. Pancras, during the second interminable wait at customs, she did her best to remain patient. No use getting edgy. She had to save all her energy up for her father. She took the Tube to Hackney. She was usually elated to be back in her native city, but today, the joy had gone. It felt sad admitting it, but all those years spent in Paris had turned her into a Frenchwoman. London was no longer her home. Her French side had taken over. Was this irreversible? she wondered. Perhaps it was fleeting, due to fragility and fatigue.
Leaving the Tube station at Bethnal Green, she walked briskly to the nearby hospital. Her legs were painful, her joints stiff. She couldn’t help daydreaming about the summer holidays Jordan was planning with the brooch money. Puglia, in southern Italy, was the chosen destination. Jordan had discovered a masseria, a fortified farmhouse, lost within a field of thousand-year-old olive trees, miraculously preserved from the disease that had eradicated most of them. The deep blue sea was only a few kilometers away.
The shiny modern façade drew itself up in front of her. Clarissa paused for a few seconds before entering. The state her father might be in worried her. He was so old, so vulnerable.
Arthur was waiting for her outside the room, with his daughters. He seemed glum.
“Brace yourself,” he said, hugging her. Clarissa greeted her sniffling nieces.
She stepped into the room alone, not feeling very reassured. Her father’s face was bruised, entirely black-and-blue. A huge bump deformed his forehead; a bandage covered his nose, and an intravenous drip was fitted in his arm. He was unrecognizable.
She couldn’t refrain from bursting into tears. Her exhaustion overcame her in one powerful wave. She could only stand there, weeping, feeling as helpless as a child. Her dad! Her old beloved dad! She couldn’t bear seeing him this way.
“My darling! My sweetie!”
Her father’s unmistakable voice piped up, weak but still full of humor. Dumbfounded, she opened her eyes.
“Honey, why are you in such a state? It’s only a blasted tumble! Can you imagine, falling from your own bed? Bloody hell! Arthur’s got a face like a month of wet Sundays! And his daughters, just as bad, a couple of twits!”
Clarissa couldn’t help laughing through her tears. She couldn’t get over it. He was incredible! Sitting next to the bed, she clenched her father’s long, wrinkled hand. She admitted her apprehension, and how his devastated features had shocked her.
Her father chortled.
“Well, my hour has not yet come. I’m all bashed up, but I’m still here! And I’m so happy to see you. Come closer so I can look at your pretty face. Oh! You’re looking under the weather! What’s with those little eyes? You’ve lost weight, my dearest. You’ve got me fretted now.”
A topsy-turvy world! Her injured father, worrying about her.
“I’m okay, Dad. Don’t worry. How long are you here for?”
“Speak a little louder, my love; the chip in my ear is kicking up.”
Clarissa repeated her question.
“No idea! In this damned hospital, robots look after patients. Robots never make mistakes with their diagnosis, do they? They’re the kings of the world, right? What’s left for us poor humans?”
“Emotions?” quipped Clarissa.
“Spot-on. But what about you, my sweet? How’s your book coming along? Are you happy with it?”
“No. I’m not happy, Dad. I can’t work properly in my apartment.”
“Now, that’s the last straw!” said her father. “You and houses! Ever since you were small, they’ve had a hold on you. So what’s wrong with the flat?”
Clarissa prepared herself to reveal the entire C.A.S.A. inside story to him, to go into detail, to see how he would react. She was looking forward to sharing with her father what she was going through.
The door slid open and she saw Jordan standing on the threshold. Her daughter moaned when she discovered her grandfather’s discolored face. Then Arthur rushed in as well, with his daughters. Her father was surrounded by his loving family. In spite of his contusions, he glowed with happiness. He was thrilled to have them all there; it was Christmas in June! Only Andy was missing. A nurse barged in to tell them they were making too much noise. And a maximum of two people could remain at the bedside.
Clarissa ended up with her daughter and her father. They all decided to favor those who had come from afar. And those who’d endured those endless lines to get into this bloody country, grumbled Jordan, while her father roared with laughter. Clarissa noticed (how could she not notice?) that Jordan had installed an infinitesimal distance between them. Jordan glanced at her, smiled, but the detachment was well and truly there, growing by the minute, and she felt upset. She’d very rarely perceived a cold shoulder coming from her daughter. She could not understand what was going on. In her mind, she went back to all the conversations she’d recently had with her. She couldn’t pick out anything in particular. What about Andy? Her instinct told her that must be it. Perhaps Jordan was cross with Clarissa because of Andy. She could hardly believe it. Was Jordan irritated because of the closeness she and Andy shared? Clarissa was aware Andy was most probably difficult with her mother, like any teenager. She knew she shared an exceptional relationship with her granddaughter.
The nurse interrupted them to say it was time to tend to the patient. They were asked to leave the room. Clarissa said good-bye to her father lovingly. Arthur and his daughters were waiting outside. Arthur had received the medical dossier. Their father was going to be spending the week at the hospital, but the report was reassuring. The old chap wasn’t doing too badly, said Arthur, impressed. He asked Clarissa and Jordan if they both wanted to stay at his place for the night. Jane would be very happy to see them. Jordan thanked him; she had a coworker to catch up with, near Islington. She’d no doubt stop over at her place. Clarissa said she didn’t know yet what she was doing. Arthur asked her to let him know what her plans were; he’d be delighted to put her up. It seemed her brother was trying to make amends. Wasn’t he overdoing it?
“What about a cup of tea?”
Yes, that was Jordan talking to her, Clarissa. A tremor of delight ran through her. She smiled and nodded. They strolled down Broadway Market, their nostrils full of the spicy aromas of street food from all over the world, looking for a place to sit down. Since Clarissa’s youth, Hackney had changed. Hidden behind stylish boutiques, trendy eateries, and fashionably dressed pedestrians, its working-class legacy was hard to see. When she was a teenager, saying you lived in Hackney was like admitting a genetic defect. She used to meet her friends in Camden or Portobello, even if she had to spend hours on the Tube.
“Look, there!” said Jordan.
A deliciously outmoded tearoom beckoned them. There were a few customers sitting on chairs covered with pastel cushions. On Fridays and Saturdays, the area was packed with Londoners and sightseers, and it was hard to amble along, Clarissa knew. They ordered tea and scones. Clarissa observed her daughter’s beautiful, sensitive face. In her eyes, that tiny cold draft, still. She decided to wait. If Jordan had something to say, she’d do it. It shouldn’t be up to her to bring up the subject. But Jordan remained silent, absentmindedly nibbling at her scone, as if she was expecting her mother to speak up first.
As time ticked by, Clarissa felt the silence becoming heavy. So she broke it, hoping her voice sounded natural.
“How’s Andy?”
Jordan looked at her straight in the eyes.
“As it happens, I want to talk to you about Andy.”
“Yes?”
Jordan was not smiling. Her fingers played with the crumbs.
“Andy admitted to me what happened last time she went to stay with you.”
Clarissa swallowed.
“Meaning what?”
“The incident that occurred in your neighbor’s flat.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, you know. You’re looking at me as if I’ve committed a crime!”
“Adriana is fourteen years old! The idea of it! Breaking into an apartment at two in the morning! Do you realize? And that Bardi nearly taking her away? What on earth were you thinking?”
Clarissa suddenly felt very hot. Her cheeks flared up; the skin above her lip turned moist.
“You’re her granny, for God’s sake! This isn’t one of your TV shows!”
This reaction was so unlike Jordan. Was it envy, resentment? Clarissa didn’t know how to face it. She foresaw she was not going to handle what came next well, and that whatever she had to say would not be appreciated.
“I understand you’re angry and concerned. I never wanted to put Andy in danger.”
“But you did! What the hell were you doing in your neighbor’s place anyway? What’s all this business about the C.A.S.A. residence? I couldn’t make any sense out of Andy’s stories.”
“We didn’t break in. The door was open. Jim, my neighbor, has disappeared. We don’t know where he is.”
Jordan seemed impatient.
“What’s this got to do with Andy? Why drag her into all this?”
Like a hot red veil, the burning sensation was now covering Clarissa’s entire body. She was finding it hard to speak. The words were coming out of her mouth too slowly.
“Andy is aware of what is going on in the residence. She’s helping me out.”
“And what is going on, exactly, Mums?”
Clarissa ignored the sarcasm in her daughter’s tone, and did her best to describe what she had endured since her move. She struggled to remain precise and logical. She noticed the way her daughter was looking at her. The piercing gaze made her flounder, and sound confused. She backtracked, tried to add details, to give more explanations, to show how C.A.S.A. was resurrecting her past, her traumas. The words she picked, didn’t they sound exaggerated? Her movements, disorderly? Every sentence she uttered seemed insane. She got muddled up, had to dab beads of sweat off her forehead, asked for some water for her parched throat.
Jordan did not interrupt her. She let her become mired, and when Clarissa finally went quiet, her face crimson, Jordan took her hand. She said she’d been worried for a while now. Ever since Clarissa had left François so precipitously and without any explanation. The breakup had started all this; of that, she was certain. She could tell her mother was slowly sinking into some sort of instability, a constant fatigue that was knocking the stuffing out of her. This could no longer do. It was high time to take action.
“But that’s what I’m doing!” roared Clarissa, startling her daughter, as well as the couple sitting at the next table. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing, with Andy’s help, because she’s the only one who understands me. All the stuff happening to me is because of the residence and their protocol. I’m fighting back! Andy and I are fighting them and we are trying to figure out what they are doing! And guess what? I know what they want! I’ve guessed it!”
Jordan sighed. She looked dismayed.
“You and your tall tales! The powder, clicking noise, sleep disturbances, vanishing neighbor and whatnot, that’s in your head, Mums. Only in your head. You like to embellish, to pretend, to bamboozle, because that’s your job! None of this is real life. What is real, however, is that you’re going through a low. No need to shy away from that word. This is a depression. Like the one you had a long time ago. It’s back. I can see it.”
Clarissa recoiled.
“What are you saying, Jordan?”
“I spent too much time as a child, as a teenager, faced with that haggard, empty, sad expression. The way you look today. You must seek help. The heat wave has made it all worse. You probably had heatstroke, hallucinations, whatever. You’re getting on, Mums. Look at you. Your mouth is dry; you’ve lost weight; you can’t even breathe properly. Let me help you. I’m here.”
Clarissa said nothing, stunned. The gap between her daughter and herself seemed irreversible, as if a furious torrent divided them, without a single bridge in sight. She had never gone through this situation before. Jordan had always been her rock. Jordan had always supported her.
“You’re going to go home, Mums,” her daughter was saying, levelheaded and calm, with her lovely orator’s voice, “and you’re going to rest. I’m getting hold of a good psychiatrist, someone I trust, and she will help you. Don’t worry. After a couple of appointments, and the proper treatment, I’m sure you’ll feel better.”
Jordan’s lips stretched into a small smile. She patted her mother’s hand.
“You’ll be fine. If you follow my advice, you’ll be just fine.”
I remained rooted to the spot, incapable of making a single move. What was I to do? She was going to turn around and see me. The only way out was to leave now, right away, before she woke up.
The intense, mawkish perfume made my head spin. I felt myself sway, afraid I might tumble. The wood boards squeaked as I stepped back. I was sure she was going to awaken, but she went on sleeping peacefully. I looked at her plump shoulders, her fleshy buttocks enhanced by a short black lace negligée.
I couldn’t understand. My husband was a mature, sophisticated gentleman. He was refined, elegant. True, he had often cheated on me with a series of faceless, nameless women. Had they all been part of the young, blond, petite, chubby category? In that case, what was he still doing with me? Either that or, I had to admit it, my husband was a stranger. A man I had been intimate with, a man I thought I knew, but who had perfectly preserved the shady side of his character.
On the bed, a lamé evening dress. On the floor, matching high-heeled pumps. Did he take her to balls, to parties? François hated that type of thing. He was no socialite. I felt lost.
Next to me, on the right of the bed, a wardrobe. I opened it. A dozen dresses in the same style were hanging there: sequins, lace, satin. No other clothes apart from lingerie. Not even a pair of jeans, or a T-shirt.
I hunted around for her purse. I wanted to discover her name, her address, her age. There was no bag. Nothing at all. Not even a coat. I began to wonder.
She hadn’t budged. I went around the bed, lifted the veiling. She kept her eyes closed.
With terror, I realized she wasn’t breathing. Her chest was motionless. I couldn’t hear the sound of respiration.
Was she dead? What was I to do? My fingerprints were all over the place, on the doorknobs, the photo albums, the tablet. I was going to be found guilty; I had come here and I had killed my husband’s mistress. I was going to be taken away in handcuffs.
I leaned forward, coming close to her face. Very close. I could see the detail of her long black lashes.
It was at that moment her eyes slowly opened. They stared back at me. I leaped back, horrified.
“My darling. There you are. I missed you so.”
It took me a while to understand.
She went on talking in her gentle, soulless voice.
“My darling. François. I was waiting for you. I’m so happy to see you.”
Incredulous, I stretched out my hand and touched her arm. It felt exactly like skin. It was warm. I grazed her hair, and it felt the same. Like real hair.
“Oh, that’s so good, honey; don’t stop.”
I said in a loud, trembling tone, “What’s your name?”
“My name is Amber.”
“Who are you, Amber?”
“The one who gives you the most pleasure. Because I know exactly what you want. Exactly.”
My mobile throbbed. Another text from François, worried about my being late. I didn’t respond.
In the nightstand’s drawer, instructions for use and a warranty certificate. Choice of eye color, hair, and body shape. Removable or built-in orifices. Voice preference. Assembly process. Configuration. Tests. Powering up. Battery. Hair maintenance. “Carefully rinse all intimate parts after use with special brush and irrigator. Leave to dry thoroughly.”
This was a nightmare. That hideous pinkish purple color, glistening and lubricious, made me feel as if I had been ensnared within a voracious vagina about to swallow me up. This is where my husband came, in every sense of the word. This was where he caressed a fleshless, bloodless body that had nothing human about it; this was where he penetrated the semblance of a woman; this was where he had hewn, away from me, an intimate place, eminently selfish, for himself only, where he surrendered to his vilest fantasies.
I lay down beside the creature. The coverlet reeked of the detestable perfume, mingled with the unmistakable smell of come. I took a selfie of both of us. She looked like she was cuddling up to me.
I left the apartment in haste, not bothering to lock up behind me. I ran along rue Dancourt in the night, bumping into passersby. After a bit, I stopped, out of breath, and sat on a bench.
I felt grief, disappointment, disgust, but, above all, anger. A tremendous anger that swept away all the rest.
I sent the selfie to François, without a word. I imagined him sitting in Caroline and Véronique’s pretty living room, filled with flowers. They had been waiting for over an hour, nibbling tidbits and sipping good wine, wondering what the hell I was doing.
And the photo showing up on his phone with the power of an exploding bomb.