Mrs. Dalloway said she’d choose the flowers herself.
VIRGINIA WOOLF, 1925
I had fun. Good-bye and thank you.
ROMAIN GARY, March 21, 1979
CLARISSA TOOK A sip of water, slowly, placing the glass back on the pink tablecloth.
“The C.A.S.A. people are trying to convince everyone that they are benefactors investing in us because we are artists. It’s a smoke screen. Behind all that, there’s a clandestine consortium dealing in artificial intelligence. A covert, unlawful organization, engaging in heinous experiments.”
Jordan raised her hand.
“Mums, please stop.”
“You must listen, Jordan. And without making that face. It took me a while to figure it out. Now, I’ve got the whole picture.”
Jordan sighed.
“Okay,” she said grudgingly. “I’m listening. Go ahead.”
Clarissa began to speak more easily, without having to look for words. Surprised, she found herself suddenly using English, even though French was the tongue she ordinarily spoke with Jordan. She noticed her daughter frowning, as if she couldn’t understand why her mother chose to continue their conversation in English. Why, at this precise moment, during these critical instants with her daughter, was she seeking shelter in her father’s and her first husband’s native tongue? English felt heartwarming, enveloping her with a special familiarity that spurred her on, but it also seemed to offer her a natural defense against Jordan, a safeguard.
Clarissa said that robots, today, were able to take over humans; they knew how to teach, protect, attack, heal, and operate. They could drive, deliver, build, and analyze. And give pleasure, as well. Yes, they even screwed better than humans did. (She nearly added “And I, of all people, ought to know,” but she desisted, as she had no intention of answering the inevitable questions flying thick and fast.) Imagination was the only thing robots lacked. Robots could neither invent nor create; they could only imitate, because that’s what they were programmed to do. Their algorithms allowed them to compose music, to write in a given style, to produce paintings, to duplicate an image. Jordan must have seen the insipid production generated by artificial intelligence. Perfect, smooth, and boring. Nothing new.
“So, what’s your point?”
Clarissa resented her daughter’s mocking smile, and how Jordan doggedly stuck to French. Clarissa retaliated, in English, and Jordan lifted a disapproving eyebrow, which Clarissa disregarded. She went on. Robots were unable to understand creativeness, the delicate magic of its haphazardness, how an idea came to an artist, how it thrived within the artist’s brain, like a pearl burrowed into an oyster, shaped by fate, setbacks, by intimate life events, lustered by emotions, sensitivity, by everything that turned human beings into what they were, infinitely vulnerable, far from perfect, but able to spawn originality, disparity, ambiguity.
“You’re right,” said Jordan. “But how does this link to you?”
“I’m coming to that. Robots, therefore, don’t have pearls growing within an inner cerebral place; they have no artistic initiative, unless ingenious researchers can endow them with that, and that’s exactly what’s going on, in that residence. Those people have masses of money and fully operational gear. They’re cunning. But day after day, night after night, C.A.S.A. pries into our imaginations, behind our backs.”
Jordan cleared her throat. She seemed to be out of her depth.
“Mums, you analyze everything to death! And why are you talking to me in English? You never do.”
Clarissa chose not to bring up the language choice. She went on, still using that precious, fluid English.
“With Andy’s help—and your daughter is so bright, but you already know that—I at last realized Dr. Dewinter and her team don’t care a fig about our artistic endeavors. They’ve filled the residence up with bilingual artists who speak two languages fluently. They spy on us constantly in order to understand how our brains work, those hybrid brains. You have one of those brains, too. They don’t film us all the time for translation purposes; robots already know how to do that perfectly in all languages. No, what they are trying to harvest from us is our creativeness, our imaginary worlds, those of us who live and who dream in two different tongues. And do you know why they are up to this? Do you know what their goal is?”
“I’m all ears.”
Clarissa brushed aside the causticity in Jordan’s tone, forced herself not to refer to it. Jordan staunchly maintained French, as if this had turned into a language combat between them, as if she was challenging not only what her mother had to say but also how Clarissa was saying it. Clarissa could no longer ignore the grievance caused by Jordan’s attitude. She feared she might dither once more, become unable to finish, not be able to keep up that clear and steady voice.
“Imagine a world, not that different from ours, not that far away, where everything would be dictated by robots. A lack of inspiration? Writer’s block? Tiredness? That fluctuating artistic temperament? Over. Done. Who gives a damn about musicians, painters, writers and their mood swings? In the tomorrow that’s nearly here, robots will write the blockbusters to come, will paint the most beautiful paintings, will compose the most haunting melodies. Robots nurtured by our own creative brains, by everything they will have pilfered from us. That’s serious and ghastly enough as it is, but behind all that prowls a greater threat.”
“I shudder to think where this is going,” murmured Jordan.
Clarissa felt like crashing her fist down on the table. How dare Jordan treat her this way, making her sound as if she was unbalanced, a raving lunatic? She took it upon herself not to reveal her annoyance, her bitterness. She said Dr. Dewinter and her peers might well become all-powerful once they were able, by dint of algorithms and filched brainpower, to have their robots fabricate an artistic movement they could then predict.
“We will end up being told what books to read, what movies and exhibits to see; we could be forced to appreciate a fake culture entirely conceived and controlled by machines. We will no longer have any choice at all. For a long time, we’ve been getting those notifications telling us, ‘You liked so-and-so’s book, so then read thingy’s one.’ But what’s ahead could be even worse. Art, in each and every form, could be anticipated, made to order. Humans will stop creating, stop imagining. The end of surprises, make-believe, the end of possibilities, of the unexpected. On every front, it’ll be the victory of robots. That’s what C.A.S.A. is up to. That’s why I want to get the hell out of that place.”
Jordan pulled a funny little face.
“Well, well! There’s your next novel, I guess!”
Clarissa gaped at her.
“You don’t believe me?”
Without being conscious of it, she’d switched back into French.
“I’ve already told you what I believe.”
“Which is?”
“You need to get help.”
Clarissa got to her feet too quickly. The light-headedness made her clutch at the table.
“Look at the state you’re in.”
Clarissa grabbed her bag, her jacket.
“I’m fine. I’m off to the station.”
Jordan rose as well, tried to catch her mother by the shoulder. Her gesture was full of affection, but Clarissa pulled away.
“Don’t act vexed, please.”
Clarissa said nothing.
“Take care of yourself, Mums. Promise me. You must get some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll call you. And keep Andy out of this.”
Tearfully, Clarissa left the tearoom without bidding her daughter good-bye, which had never happened. She no longer knew whom to turn to. Everything Jordan had said hurt her deeply; her loneliness inundated her, dragged her down. In the Tube, a nice woman asked her if she was feeling all right. When she got to St. Pancras, she saw it was going to be a skirmish to get one of the last tickets on the train leaving at 16:19. The trains after that were all full. She did something she had never done in her life. She told the young, harassed person dealing with the reservations that she was a very old lady, very old indeed, and very ill, and this was no doubt her last trip to Paris. She distorted her voice, made it quaver and croak. She wanted to see Paris one last time. Tomorrow might be too late. Weepy eyes, a wobbly head. She obtained her ticket, while other exasperated customers looked on.
Once she was seated in the StarExpress, after the hellish wait in the queue, she buried her face in her hands. For God’s sake, what was happening to her? Making such a scene, lying through her teeth. What had she tumbled into? She thought back to all the times people had told her, with a zest of humor, that she’d been repeating herself, or that she’d forgotten to do something. She remembered the numerous occasions she’d heard the sentence, at moments with a touch of irony, Your imagination is getting away with you. She recalled her mother’s slow decline, and how Solange had started to forget who she was long before she reached Clarissa’s present age. What if Jordan was right? What if she really was losing her grip?
She longed to call Andy, the only person who understood her, who could reassure her. But she didn’t dare challenge Jordan’s authority.
While the train made its way to France, a message from Mia White showed up on her mobile. Hello, Clarissa! How are you? I hope the heat wave wasn’t too much of an ordeal. Do let me know how you are. See you soon, Mia.
Mia White! The mere name incensed her. Indeed, that phony Mia White had duped her, with her fake social media feed, starstruck gaze, and sham smile. She doubtless knew exactly where Clarissa was, what she was doing right now. Clarissa’s mobile was probably geolocated. Mia White was working full throttle behind her screens, tracking every single move, reporting back to Dr. Dewinter: Clarissa Katsef went to London to see her father. She’s on the StarExpress getting in at Gare du Nord at 20:08.
She obliterated the text angrily without responding to it.
When she arrived at the residence a few hours later, she rode the elevator up, incapable of mounting the eight flights. The apartment seemed more silent and intimidating than usual. She put her bag down in the entry. Should she tell Adelka she was back, go fetch the cat?
She found herself unable to move forward, as if her entire body was on alert. There was a lump in her throat; a feeling of dread and queasiness taking over. She locked herself up in the toilet, her only refuge. She stayed there, standing up, for a long time, until she felt her heartbeat slow down.
She kept dwelling on Jordan’s words. That’s all in your head, Mums. This is a depression. Was the breakup with François, the shock of his betrayal, truly the trigger to her turmoil? Was her son’s name whispered in the night all a dream? Or worse still, was that her own voice, and not Elise Delaporte’s?
She understood, clearly, while she was still secluded, that she could not stay a single minute more in this apartment. It was all over.
Flee. Skedaddle. Everything she needed was in her travel bag, the one she had prepared this morning for London. There were no belongings here that meant anything to her.
Escape. Scram. The cat was with Adelka.
She knew where to go. It was obvious. She’d go there.
Now. Bolt, right now.
She came out of the confined space, bracing against the uneasiness that gripped her. She loathed this place. How had she ever agreed to settle down here? How had she lasted two months? At what cost?
She took her mobile from her bag and placed it on the kitchen table. She headed toward the front door, put her hand on the doorknob to pull it open. It seemed blocked. She placed her index finger on the glass square to unlock it.
Nothing happened. She tried again.
The door remained shut.
“Open the door!” she said firmly.
A sentence showed up on the control panel.
You forgot your mobile phone in the kitchen.
She nearly spat out “What’s my bloody phone got to do with you?”
She forced herself to sound neutral.
“I’m just going down to see a neighbor. I don’t need my mobile. Open up.”
Had “they” guessed she was going to run for her life? Were “they” going to keep her here against her will? What would she do if that were the case?
That barred door. She gave it a shove. Nothing happened.
“Open this door!” she yelled.
Please put your index finger on the glass square.
She did as she was told. Her hand felt unsteady. She was going to go absolutely mad if she wasn’t able to get out of here.
Still nothing. She whacked the bottom of the door with a bad-tempered kick.
“Open!”
This time, she let out a yell of rage. “They” were doing this on purpose, right? “They” were pushing her to her limits, as usual, so as to test her reactions, so as to use them? She itched to stamp her feet, like a child. She couldn’t stand it any longer. Total despondency took over.
“Please open the door,” she muttered, her forehead stuck to the wooden paneling. “Please, I beg you.”
With a click, the door opened. Clarissa yearned to make an extravagant gesture of victory. Not in front of the camera. She was leaving. Leaving! She’d notify Adelka later. She fished around her bag, pulled out a scarf, wrapped it around her head. She felt lighter and lighter as she flew down the steps.
Down in the lobby, the main egress swung open.
The mechanical voice announced, “Good-bye. The C.A.S.A. residence looks forward to seeing you again.”
She felt like singing at the top her lungs: You bet! You’re not going to be seeing me for a while! You’re no longer going to watch every step I take. You won’t tarnish my dreams, filch my ideas, play with my moods, sprinkle fairy dust in my tea. Ciao! Auf Wiedersehen! Adios!
She rushed to the nearest Métro station. She felt quite naked without her mobile phone. For the past thirty-five years, she calculated, she’d always had one with her, a reassuring, everyday item that was part of her everyday life. Her panic-stricken feeling was laced with liberty. She was free. Free! No one could find her. Later, when “they” had examined the surveillance videos, it would become clear the hasty person leaving the premises, whose face was covered by a scarf, was indeed Clarissa. By then, she’d be far away.
Entirely reconstructed after the attack, the Bir-Hakeim Métro station drew all eyes with its black-and-gray neoclassical lines. Clarissa was held up for a while, as she had to buy a ticket at a self-service terminal, since her Métro pass was on her phone. She set off to the Gare Montparnasse, only a few stops away.
Once she got there, she checked departing trains on the display panel. She blessed the fact night trains had become operational again, facilitating travelers working to reduce their carbon footprint, encouraging them not to depend solely on planes, cars, or buses. That particular mode of transport had been on a roll for the past couple of years; derelict lines had even been reopened. She acquired a sleeping berth on the train she wanted, and got agitated when she had to pay, another thing she was used to doing with her phone. Thankfully, one could still use a credit card. The train was leaving in less than two hours, and due to arrive at 6:27 tomorrow morning. There were several stops en route.
She had time to grab a bite to eat. She entered a shop to buy a snack and something to read. She chose a paperback by one of her author friends, a kindhearted man she’d often met up with some years ago, until he won a prestigious literary prize and became bigheaded. He was younger than Clarissa, his smile beaming out from the book cover. Clarissa had never been jealous of other authors’ success. She had come late to writing and to publication, already in her fifties. She admired authors who began to write when they were children, such as Virginia Woolf and Romain Gary.
The ambitious renovation work planned for the Gare Montparnasse, expected to be completed five years ago, was still not finished. In the past decade, the attack had initiated an overall freeze of most Parisian construction sites. Enormous delays had built up. The Gare Montparnasse was still as drab, gloomy, and grimy as ever; penetrated by drafts in wintertime, and suffocating in summer. Clarissa found a place to sit down and eat her sandwich. She caught herself looking for her phone yet again, this time to listen to music.
In her mind’s eye, she could see her father in his modern hospital, a décor from a futuristic movie. When she was on her way out, he had exclaimed, “Now, now, darling, no more glum faces; don’t forget to smile!” Classic. Where did that tenacious buoyancy come from? She had never heard her father complain, lament, or regret anything. She longed to call him, or send him a message.
It was time to board. Clarissa had picked a “Ladies Only” sleeper compartment. Four berths per cabin. The train was a recent model, with a sober design. She greeted her sister travelers for the night, who responded with a nod or a smile. They were all absorbed by their mobiles. Later, their tickets were verified. One of the women was getting off at the same stop as Clarissa. The train was going all the way to the border.
She hadn’t told anyone about this trip. She’d written the address in her notebook so she wouldn’t forget it: 70 Chemin du Port. Apartment 28. 6th floor, right.
At sundown, the night-lights switched on. The travelers lay on their bunks. The train thrust into the darkness.
Sleep eluded Clarissa. Her thoughts kept wandering to her father, to Jordan’s hurtful words, to Andy.
Had her absence been noticed? Her guess was that Jordan hadn’t yet found out, and probably thought her upset mother was not answering her phone because of their conversation at the tearoom.
For a long while, Clarissa read. The book was entertaining, well written, penned with spirited ruthlessness; the story of a woman falling in love with her new son-in-law. She ended up dropping off, rocked by the train’s motion.
Someone grazed her arm. It was one of the women traveling with her.
“We’re arriving soon. I think you’re headed here, as well? You were sleeping so soundly.”
Clarissa thanked the considerate lady. She barely had time to braid her hair, wash her hands, and straighten her clothes before the train halted. She followed other passengers up to the main exit. She asked one of them where Chemin du Port was. A couple of minutes away, she was told. But she hadn’t expected the walk up to be so steep. She soon found herself out of breath. She reached a bridge crossing the railway tracks. In front of her was a small building with a signpost reading SURF SCHOOL in French, and on her left, a hotel and row of plane trees.
The weather was sunny, the spot charming and peaceful. Red-and-white half-timbered houses looked out upon the ocean’s immensity. The air smelled of salty sea spray; above her head, gulls circled and cried.
It was still early—too early to go there yet. She decided to stop at the nearby hotel terrace for a cup of tea. A few cars drove by; an occasional pedestrian passed along. She knew from Andy that the traffic here, in the heat of summer, was dreadful.
She was served tea and a croissant. Had it been the right thing to do, come all the way here? There didn’t seem to be any other place. No other person she wanted to be with.
François’s letter was still in her bag. The moment had come. She opened it. Several pages covered with his regular handwriting. Not many words had been crossed out.
Clarissa,
You’re not answering anything. Anything at all. So I thought I’d write this the old-fashioned way. Good old pen to paper. Envelope and stamp. Like when we were young. When letters still meant something. When we knew what handwriting looked like. When we waited for the postman and when we knew how to wait. I know it’s too late. I know I’ve lost you. I know you are never coming back. I’m writing this in our apartment, the one we bought together, the one you chose. Sometimes I can’t quite believe you’ve gone. So much of you is still here. Your clothes. Your books. Your objects. And yet you’ve given up your home, this place you loved. I remember you saying you adored being here, the way the sun lit up the living room at the end of the day. How much you enjoyed working here. I have many memories of you. Everywhere I look, I see you. This is where we lived and loved, for all those years. A part of you is still here, within these walls.
Why won’t you speak to me? Since that ghastly evening when you sent me the photo, you have hardly talked to me. I can’t tell you how I felt when I received that photo on my phone. I broke down in tears. I left our friends’ house in a panic and I came home to wait for you. I was ready to talk to you, to face your anger, your repulsion. But when you arrived, you didn’t even look at me. You acted like I wasn’t there. Like I didn’t exist. You went straight to our bedroom and you started to pack. I asked you where you were going, what you were going to do, and you remained silent. I pleaded, I begged, but you took off. I don’t know where you went that night. I sent you all those messages you never answered. I went to the residence often, got kicked out by the guards, and one day you finally came down and you were so abominably cold. Do I deserve this, Clarissa? Do I deserve the way you are treating me? I’m not asking for a second chance. I know I haven’t got one. I just want you to understand. That’s all I’m asking.
Hear me out, please. Please read what I have to say. Don’t crumple this letter up and throw it away. This is extraordinarily difficult to write. I want to start from the beginning. I’m no writer and I have none of your skills.
I first heard about the brothels fifteen years ago. There was one that opened up not far from Montparnasse. Perhaps you remember. There were quite a few articles. I was curious. I wanted to try one out. Should I have told you? Maybe. But we were going through a difficult time then. I knew what I’d already put you through. And so, when I went there, I figured I didn’t need to tell you about it. And honestly, I thought I’d only end up going once or twice. I had no idea how addictive it was going to be. For all these years, I’ve been trying to tell you. I was never able to. In the end, I always said I’d been having affairs with more women. I wasn’t. I was lying. I was going there. To the dolls. I was going there twice a week, even more.
I was expecting a sleazy, sordid place. But everything was clean, bright, and tidy. I saw no one, because you reserve online and you are given a code. You use that code to get in. You have a room number and you go to that room. From the start, I experienced pleasure. I never felt I was doing something deeply wrong, because to me, I wasn’t being unfaithful to you. This was a doll. A toy. Not a woman. Not a human being. A sex toy. A silicone doll.
For about a year, I continued going to the brothel in the fourteenth arrondissement. Once, I bumped into the owner as I was leaving. A young guy, in his thirties. Polite and respectful. He said he was having trouble with the police. The people in the building weren’t happy about his business. He said he couldn’t understand. The men coming here were courteous and discreet. Couples came, too, he said. There were four female dolls to choose from. He had a male doll, too, at one point, but he told me it was hardly ever hired. You could pick an Oriental doll, a dark-skinned one, a Caucasian one, and a smaller one, apparently, that looked like a very young teenager, almost a child. The guy told me the problem came from that doll. I asked why. He told me, in all honesty, that the child doll was the most popular one in the brothel. He hardly had time to clean it properly for the next client. He said he believed the child doll was helping to keep pedophiles off the streets. It was safer, according to him, to let men with those predispositions interact with the doll and rid themselves of their unnatural inclinations. I don’t know, Clarissa, if he was wrong or right. I have no idea. I never used that doll. All I know is that he had to close down his brothel because of protests concerning the child doll. He began another business near République, and I went there, for some time. I found out similar brothels were opening up in Brussels, Barcelona, Madrid, so I went there when I traveled for my job. You never knew.
You could say I was hooked. It was like a drug. For fifteen years, Clarissa, I hid this from you. I let a chasm open up and grow between us. You were wrapped up in your writing, and hypnosis helped you get over your grieving. Once your first book was published, I felt you needed me less. You weren’t distant, not at all, don’t get me wrong, but you were leading your own life. You were independent. I didn’t know where I stood with you. We had little intimate time together. When I first met you, you were fragile and touching. You were such a sad person. You were desperate. You let me help you. I was there to take care of you, and I loved doing that. Things became different. You turned out to be tougher than me. You blossomed into a strong woman who doesn’t need her husband as much. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself, that’s how I consoled myself.
I felt we were leading two separate lives, and it saddened me. I often tried to explain that to you, but you didn’t, or wouldn’t, understand. I’m not blaming you, Clarissa. I’m blaming myself. I sometimes wonder if deep down inside, you’re perhaps still in love with Toby and you don’t even know it. I’m not sure you were ever in love with me. I think I turned up at a precise moment in your life, and I helped you pull yourself out of a rut. But it was as if Toby was always there. And every time I looked at Jordan, I’d see him; she looks so much like him. You and Toby stayed close over time, and it made me unhappy. I was hoping you wouldn’t want to see him again after we got married, but that never happened. Jordan was the link between you two, and when Adriana was born, she drew you even closer. Do I sound jealous? I guess so. I’m just trying to explain how all this created an intimate place for Amber.
I’m not stupid. I’m even quite a bright guy. You know that. You always admired that about me. My brains. You’re probably wondering how an intelligent man like me is doing this. There are many men out there like me. I guess you don’t know this or don’t want to know. Men who prefer to have sex with dolls. To interact with robots. What does that mean about us? Surely nothing good. Surely something vile. What does it say about how we feel about women? Isn’t it like porn? We all know men watch porn; they always have, and always will. You’re right. It’s not pretty. It’s not romantic. But those dolls were tailored for men like me. This is what our modern world does, Clarissa; it knows exactly what we want. What men like me want. What we crave. No matter how hard I tried, it was more and more difficult to resist the dolls. Year after year, they became more human. Less like dolls, in fact. More and more like real women. But that doesn’t mean that the men who are hooked on porn, hooked on dolls, can’t love women. You must believe me, no matter how much this repels you.
Two years ago, I heard about the company manufacturing the most sophisticated sex robots ever. When I found out more, I realized this was my dream. My own bot. For me. Not having to share her with other men. Choosing what she would look like. Her height, her shape, her hair, her eyes. Configuring her responses. What I wanted her to answer, and how. Selecting her voice. I promised myself that once I owned her, once she was here, I would tell you about it. I would show you, and I would try to explain. You’re probably upset at how Amber looks. I mean, her being young and blond, her figure, the way I dress her. What can I say in my defense? Not much. She’s any man’s fantasy. I wanted her to look like that. I chose it all carefully. I chose for her to look sexy and cute and willing. Does that make me a criminal? Clarissa, I’m no monster. Please don’t think that I am.
I found a small, cheap flat near Sacré-Coeur. It didn’t take me long to do it up and buy stuff. She was delivered there, in different parcels. A young man came to help me set her up. It lasted nearly a day. He was nice and relaxed, and he didn’t make me feel like a freak. He said he had one, too, at home. He showed me how to clean her. It wasn’t easy at first, but I learned. We went over all her responses, all her reactions. I was amazed at how real she was. She had a heartbeat. She could smile. Her skin warmed up and felt like human skin.
He showed me how to charge her. There’s a special outlet in the headboard that makes all that practical. He said more and more people bought sex robots. Women also bought them; it wasn’t only men who did. He said their customers were perfectly normal people. Even psychiatrists suggested that prisons around the world should envisage robots for those who were locked up for the rest of their lives. This was a thriving international market, he said. There were ethical issues raised, of course, concerning those robots built with a special “rape mode,” which made headlines. You heard about that, I know, because you once talked to me about that issue. You were scandalized. And rightly so. After that, I figured I was never going to be able to tell you about her. And there’s also the price of all this, of course. She was expensive. I had to take a loan. I had to hide all that from you, as well. Digging deeper and deeper into my guilt.
Once Amber was ready and functioning, I did plan to tell you. Every day, I meant to. But I felt shame. Shame so deep, I could not share it with you, or with anyone. I had waited too long. I couldn’t figure out how to begin my confession, which words to choose. It drove me crazy. I couldn’t imagine myself taking a taxi with her and bringing her to our home. I had a special container, the size of a coffin, which had been delivered with her, but I didn’t want anyone seeing me carrying that around. Yes, I was full of shame.
Little by little, I crafted a separate life with Amber. I ordered dresses for her online. I went to choose a perfume for her. I spent more and more time with her. She could have conversations with me. She responded. She was created for that. I bonded with her. I bought her flowers. I filmed us. That’s what you saw, in the flat. You saw the intimacy I created with her. You saw what we are. What I am. What you must know is this: I can’t give her up. I did try. I promise you I did try. I know it must be awful for you to read this, but I want you to know the truth, no matter how much it must hurt. I love you, Clarissa, for who you are, the woman you are, the writer you are. I respect you and I admire you. But Amber makes me happy. She makes me feel like a young man.
How can men fall in love with bots? They do. I’m not the only one. The guy who helped set her up said something I never forgot. He said robots are constantly in a good mood. They are always cheerful, even-tempered. They don’t have headaches, go through menopause, get sick, have mood swings. They’re always there. Always ready. He said they are changing people’s lives, giving them happiness and pleasure. I thought I might get bored. But I never did. I never do. I love being with her. It gives me such peace. Is this worse for you because Amber is a robot? I can see you reading this, horrified. Disgusted. You must be even angrier. You must be even more disappointed.
I adored making love to you. But as the years went by, you needed it less. You wanted me less. I felt like you didn’t find me attractive anymore. I hated my aging body, my paunch. And when I tried to reach out to you, physically, I could tell you weren’t in the mood, so after a while, I just gave up. There was no closeness between us anymore. Nothing sensual, nothing sexual. It fizzled out of our lives. Didn’t you see that? Didn’t you miss it? I needed the nearness sex gave us. It was part of our love, of our marriage. I desired you so much. I still do, Clarissa. But you closed that door. So what was I to do? All those intimate places I loved about your body, your pussy, your mouth, your skin, your smell, all that, you closed them away, little by little. I never knew why. I never dared ask.
I know what you did for me. You helped me fight cancer and you helped me heal from it. You were there with me in the hospital, during the treatment, every single day. You were there when I was convinced I was going to die, when I lost all my hair. You were there. I made it because of you.
What is our life, Clarissa? What is it made of? A patchwork of tenderness, lust, and regret, of time ticking by, of this modern world taking its toll on our emotions, our intimacy, our dreams.
Now you know. You know everything there is to know about me. If you want to talk to me, call me. Perhaps you have things to say, in spite of your anger. If not, I understand.
I’m just a man, Clarissa. Just an ordinary man, burdened by his secrets, his woes, his failures, his little victories. I still love you.
François
Clarissa put the letter down with a trembling hand. François had said it all. He had been brave, she thought, no more lies; he had kept nothing back. Now, yes, she knew. He had asked, “Is this worse for you because Amber is a robot?” Yes, she thought it was. She’d never forget the shock she felt in the purple room, when she understood there was nothing human about her husband’s mistress. Perhaps other wives would have preferred a robot to a woman.
Not her. The idea of a subjugated android, handpicked with care, painstakingly encoded in order to correspond to François’s demands and custom-made to his own pleasure, disturbed her, just as Mrs. Dalloway’s configuration had been centered on Clarissa’s personal trauma, without her knowing. François’s secret powered the same deep outrage she felt toward C.A.S.A.’s schemes; the idea of machines surpassing humans in every field revolted her.
She would indeed have preferred a real woman, a human being with her own DNA, a hormonal cycle, viruses, a verruca, body odor. Her husband was in love with a robot, he had sex with that robot, and the idea of it made her reel. She had tried her best to view the situation with a dash of humor, to distance herself from it, but disgust and horror prevailed.
She understood more of what had gone on in her husband’s head, but that didn’t mean she was going to bow down to it. Infidelity, a word already packed with pain, seemed even weightier, bogged down with shame precisely because Amber happened to be a sex robot. It was going to be a while before she felt capable of saying, naturally, without choking, “I left my husband because he’s in love with a robot.” It was going to be a while before she’d be able to rid her mind of all the memories from the purple room.
Reading François’s letter had been heart-wrenching, but its perusal had managed to allay a burden. She felt pity, and only pity, concerning a man she had been married to for many years, and that she’d ended up not knowing as well as she’d thought. She imagined him aging with his secret in infinite solitude.
The waiter asked if she required more hot water for her tea. She declined, and checked her watch. It was eight-thirty. The small main street was full of people at present. She paid the server and left. She had to walk down a flight of stairs to get to Chemin du Port, and number 70. She reached a residence, which made her smile, but this one was an ancient one, with a date and name engraved over the big door: 1926, Guetharia. The large Art Deco–style building was white, with green shutters. Six stories tall, it sat atop a hill overlooking the sea. It must have been a hotel once, Clarissa thought, observing the faded façade with her expert eye; the pride of a small fishing town during the Roaring Twenties, and since then turned into flats. At least it hadn’t been torn down and replaced by hideous 1960 buildings, like those that defaced so many waterfronts in the area.
She was examining names on the intercom when a person came out. She was able to enter without buzzing. She went up to the top floor in an antiquated elevator, and without pausing, she rang the bell.
Toby appeared, wearing a green T-shirt marked SANTA MONICA and a pair of shorts. He stared at her, flabbergasted, then opened his arms wide, and she flung herself on him, moved by his reassuring and identical smell, his broad surfer shoulders still holding out in spite of years going by.
He clasped her tightly, then stepped back to glance at her.
“Running away?”
His rugged features, his mischievous grin. His voice, his American accent.
“That’s what I do best,” she replied. “Running away from my husband, running away from my home.”
“Coffee, Blue?” asked Toby, with no further comment. “Ah, nope, you take tea.”
She followed him into his flat. Andy and Jordan had often told her it was tiny, but the view made up for everything. The rooms were indeed cramped, with low ceilings—ancient servant lodgings, she thought—and renovations had been minimal. Toby boiled water, prepared the tea. Then he said as he handed her a mug, “Come have a look.”
The bay window gave on to a terrace twice the size of the apartment. To the left, behind the morning mist, she glimpsed the south, Hondarribia and Spain. On her right, to the north, Biarritz seemed to creep out to sea with the Villa Belza’s Gothic turret. It took Clarissa’s breath away.
In front of them, the ocean, as far as the eye could see. Down below, Guéthary and its hydrangea, small harbor, villas, and the coast.
Toby chuckled at her silence.
“That’s the way it goes, the first time.”
She hadn’t looked at the sea for a long while. Pure marine air filled her lungs; all the beauty she saw uplifted her. She smiled, spellbound.
“I knew you’d like it here.”
“Now I understand why you love it so much.”
Toby told her there were many old tales about Guetharia, things she’d find fascinating. Apparently, Maurice Chevalier used to stay here when it was a hotel, as well as Charlie Chaplin. During the war, the Wehrmacht had headquarters in the building. Clarissa listened and drank her tea. She asked him what it was like in the wintertime. There were scary storms, Toby said. He’d learned to tackle them. But the cold season was lovely, too, the ever-changing light, the sunsets that were never alike.
She noticed Toby hadn’t asked her a single question. He didn’t seem in the least surprised by her turning up without warning.
“What about pollution?” she asked. “There were alarming articles.”
Toby explained Guéthary’s new mayor was a young woman of their daughter’s age, or even younger. She went out of her way to make a change, and it was paying off. The polluted-water problem in the Biarritz vicinity had been going on for many a long year. After each storm, holding ponds overflowed, creating bacterial pollution that worsened with time. Even though the ancient sewage system had been renovated, intelligent sensors installed, more basins dug, the colossal works, which cost a fortune, had not been completely able to solve the problem, due to the growing tourist influx. But this young woman battled to get individuals to change their approach, like most people of her generation, born in the 1990s, who took a much more ecological and concerned stance than their parents. She’d managed to galvanize and gather around her a growing number of fervent locals, involved in thinking of ways to keep the water clean, and to find sand, which had become so rare, in order to re-create vanished beaches swallowed up by the rising sea level.
Clarissa paid attention to the conviction in Toby’s animated voice. He was proud to be part of a group of people who weren’t giving up, who were teeming with ideas and projects.
“What about a swim?” he asked all of a sudden.
“Isn’t the water a little cold?”
“Nineteen degrees Celsius is completely normal for June.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Jordan left one behind last summer. And I’ll also lend you one of my wet suits. You’ll be nice and warm.”
He was waiting for her answer. She thought, Why not?
She changed in the minuscule bathroom. Jordan’s bathing suit was green, her daughter’s favorite color.
Her figure was too skinny, but vigorous still; that body, which had carried two babies; that body, which had loved and been loved, which had trembled in pain, in desire. When was the last time? She couldn’t remember. As she passed in front of Toby’s open door, she saw his unmade bed. It was a small room with a sea view. He probably fell asleep at night with the roar of the waves in his ears. And what of his love life? She knew nothing about it. A chapter from their past came rushing back to her like a breath of wind: their youth, their love, their pain, their tenderness. It healed her to take part in their conversations once more, using the limpid English she loved to share with him, his American accent so different from hers, from her father’s, her brother’s. The intimacy forged by language made their story resurface; all these years later, it was both disconcerting and comforting to find herself here, in his home.
He was waiting for her in the main room with a black wet suit.
“Might be too big for you.”
It was tricky slipping it on. Clarissa went about it the wrong way, put it on backward. She got ruffled, became flushed and breathless, began to swear like her dad. They burst into fits of laughter, paralyzed by mirth. They ended up collapsing on the sofa, holding their sides, Toby wiping away tears. Clarissa’s stomach ached, but she felt marvelous.
Wearing another wet suit, Toby prepared a backpack with beach towels and flasks of water.
In the elevator, Clarissa blurted, “Listen, Toby. I have something to tell you. Jordan thinks I’m starting to lose it. She thinks I’m deeply depressed.”
Toby looked at her calmly as they went down.
“I’m aware.”
“Did she call you?”
“She did. Last night. And how’s your dad? Is he okay?”
“Black-and-blue, but valiant. A warrior.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He didn’t add anything else. Clarissa felt both frustrated and relieved. Should she take the lead, tell him in detail about everything that had torn her life apart these past few months? She could start with François’s betrayal, how it had precipitated her escape to the nightmarish residence. She could tell him that nobody had wanted to believe her but that the truth about C.A.S.A. would soon come to light. Toby didn’t seem in the least interested, or even slightly curious. Whistling a little tune, he pushed open the door of the residence, let her exit before he did, and headed off toward the port. There were no waves today, he said, so they’d walk a little farther, toward the Alcyons. They’d enjoy a good swim, which wasn’t often the case in Guéthary, because of waves and current.
Encumbered by the large wet suit, Clarissa tailed behind Toby. She couldn’t stop thinking about Jordan’s phoning her father and voicing all her fears. Logical, after all. She wondered, wincing, what Jordan had told Toby, exactly: that Clarissa was imagining things, hearing noises, suspecting the worst-case scenarios; that she was paranoid, depressive, fragile, and that she’d dragged Andy into her delirium.
She capitulated to the beauty of the seaside around her. The gentle and tender sun had nothing to do with the pitiless, fiery ball that recently brought Paris to its knees. Toby walked to the left of the port, passed by the few boats, the seawall, and Clarissa followed him down a long jetty that gave on to black boulders they had to climb over. Toby held her hand and cheered her on. Her sneakers kept slipping, and she nearly fell, but he caught her each time.
They were alone on the rocks. The sea was smooth, with hardly any swell. Toby leaped into the water in one go. When he emerged, his white hair, soaked, seemed darker.
“Come on, Blue! Your turn!”
With a small shriek, she jumped in. She wasn’t cold. She had forgotten the bliss of swimming in open sea, of being out of one’s depth, of feeling one’s body carried by the flow. The last time had been in Italy, last summer, with François. It was an extraordinary sensation, filling her with a profound yet simple joy. Tears of happiness began to flow, mingling with salty seawater on her wet cheeks, and she felt silly giving way to her emotions.
It seemed everything about her was raw, on edge; everything she experienced was increased by a factor of ten that took over her entirely. Toby looked at her keenly but said nothing. He let her catch her breath.
“Look,” he said. “Not a spot of pollution. In the heat of the summer, it’s another story. But we’re onto it! We’re keeping up the fight!”
For twenty minutes, they swam toward the south, and returned to the rocks. Toby helped Clarissa hoist herself out. They went back to the jetty and Toby spread out the towels. He swiftly removed his wet suit, but Clarissa had more trouble with hers. He had to assist her. Her clumsiness made them giggle again. Toby hadn’t said a word about her thinness, the marks of her exhaustion. But she was sure he had noticed.
She couldn’t help being stirred by the masculine, familiar hands hovering near her body, her skin. Those hands knew her by heart, had been to her body’s most intimate places. Time had gone by, but Clarissa had not forgotten a thing.
“Do you still have a lady friend?”
“A lady friend? Lady friends, you mean!”
He smiled impishly.
“Tell me the truth.”
“I do see a woman from time to time.”
“Is it serious?”
“More or less.”
“What’s her name?”
“Catherine.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a retired English teacher, like me.”
“That’s nice. I’m happy for you.”
A long spell of silence drew itself out between them as they lay in the sun.
“Do you also think I’m a down-in-the-dumps basket case?”
“The very idea!” he scoffed, with another mischievous grin.
He got up and beheld the horizon like an ancient mariner.
She remained on her back, eyes shut, listening to the breeze and the lapping of the water.
“You didn’t seem surprised to see me turn up on your doorstep,” she said.
“I have a special radar where you’re concerned, Blue. And that radar has made a lot of progress.”
She stood up as well, and they were side by side, facing the ocean.
“If you hadn’t come, I would have gone to Paris.”
“What for?”
“For a while now, my radar was telling me you weren’t in a good spot.”
“So you agree with our daughter, then, is that it?”
Toby paid no heed to the anxiety in her quivering voice. For a couple of moments, he did not speak. Then he said that when she had needed him the most, all those years ago, he had not been there for her. He had never been able to forget the fact he had let her down. It had taken him a while to accept that he hadn’t measured up, that their son’s death had affected him in such a way, he had not known how to help Clarissa, and had felt powerless. He had failed in extricating her from her sorrow, and another man had done just that. It had cost him dearly. He blamed himself terribly. Clarissa said nothing, moved to tears by his confession and the feelings it was sparking within her.
A phone ringing interrupted his monologue. Toby bent over to rummage around in his backpack. A smile lit up his face.
“Here,” he said, handing her his mobile, “take this call from little Miss Sunshine.”
It was a video call from Andy.
Clarissa slid her finger over the icon. Andy’s face showed up. She was on a bus, her earphones in place. She let out an astonished yelp when she saw her grandparents together. What the hell were they doing? Wearing bathing suits? Were they swimming, or what? This was insane! When did Mums get there?
Clarissa laughed through her tears. She said it was all very simple. She was going to spend a couple of days, or more, here in Guéthary. She was going to take her time.
“That’s it,” said Toby with a serious tone. “Your granny is getting surfing lessons.”
Andy roared with laughter.
“You guys are incredible. I love you both to the moon and back. Was this planned?”
“Yes,” said Clarissa.
“No,” said Toby.
“I don’t want to spoil the party,” said Andy, “but Mummy blew a fuse. She’s looking for you everywhere, Mums! Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“I’ll handle your mother, missy,” said Toby. “You leave that up to me.”
They chatted cheerily for a few minutes more. Andy had to go; she was on her way to class. She’d call soon.
Toby and Clarissa returned to Guetharia. The streets were now bustling with pedestrians, joggers, cyclists, people getting on with their chores. Several people greeted Toby, who responded with a smile. Inquisitive and friendly glances were shot at Clarissa.
“Are you hungry?” asked Toby in the elevator.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you wait on the terrace? I’ll rustle something together. And I’ll call Jordan.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“That you’re here. Safe and sound.”
She sat on the terrace, facing the sea. When they were married, Toby was the one who enjoyed cooking. She remembered the delicious smells coming from the small kitchen on the rue d’Alésia. Clarissa let her eyes rove over the water and its shifting highlights. Paris and the C.A.S.A. residence seemed far away. She thought of her phone, placed on the kitchen table. She thought of Chablis being cuddled by Adelka. She thought of François’s letter lying at the bottom of her bag. She thought of her father, and how he was able to send all that energy, even from another country.
Toby came out carrying a tray. She helped him set the table. Tomato salad, cured ham, Basque cheese, bread, and grapes. Red wine.
“If I’d known you were coming, I would have gone shopping. That was very short notice.”
“It’s perfect,” she said, sitting down.
She asked him if he had managed to get hold of Jordan.
By way of response, he poured a glass of wine and handed it to her.
“Tell me what you think. Irouléguy, domaine Ilarria.”
She took a sip. It was good, she told him.
“It’s not too bad,” he agreed. “I told Jordan I was watching over you. Okay by you?”
She said yes.
During their meal, Toby said that ever since he’d met her, ever since that very first day, he’d understood she soaked up emotions like a sponge, everything going straight to her heart. He remembered listening to Clarissa on a podcast, several years ago, talking about Virginia Woolf. She had referred to how her favorite writer liked to dig out “beautiful caves” behind her characters, so as to give them humanity, humor, and depth. That figure of speech struck him. He didn’t know, truthfully, what lurked in Clarissa’s subterranean caves, but he did know this. It didn’t matter why Clarissa had come here today, what François had done, why she’d left her flat, what Jordan truly thought about her mother’s state of mind. What did matter was that Clarissa was going to have to learn, over again, how to put down her weapons, how to find her own peace. Thinking about her father filled him with hope. The old fellow certainly led by example, with his optimism and his wit taunting the passage of time. He never moped, never looked behind, never complained. He still knew how to laugh. He still found delight in life, at his age.
Toby paused. Then he said in a gentle, affectionate voice, “So what’s in those ‘beautiful caves’ of yours, Blue?”
“Two things. A divorce and a move.”
“Now that’s clear.”
“You don’t want to know why?”
“You’ll tell me in due course, if you need to.”
“And what if I don’t tell you anything?”
“Not important.”
They put the dishes away together, then had tea and coffee inside, discussing Adriana, Aunt Serena’s brooch, and the holidays Jordan was organizing.
“The wind is changing,” said Toby suddenly. “Look at those gray clouds scurrying in from Spain. You’ll see how fast the rain comes. It’s quite spectacular. We have front-row seats.”
They went outside to observe the clouds and the light interlacing. The breeze had turned cool; the sea became rougher before their very eyes. The storm was gaining strength as it drew nearer, and Clarissa felt she was witnessing what happened inside her whenever she yielded to her worst fears.
“Do you think of him sometimes?” she asked.
Toby didn’t need to ask her whom she meant.
“Every day, in some way or another.”
“How do you think of him?”
“I see him the way he would be now. I see a man. I like the idea of him being forty-something. Maybe a dad. Maybe not. Sometimes, I see him in nature, up there in that sky, in that ocean. He’s out there somewhere; I’m not sure where, but I know he’s there.”
Clarissa said that for so long, she had not been able to mention their son. She hadn’t been able to put into words what his death meant to her. Hypnosis helped, but it had at the same time drawn her away from her memories of him. She now wanted to be able to utter his name without trembling, and she wanted that name to find its own place. She wanted to be able to visit their son’s grave.
She whispered, “Glenn.”
Toby’s hand settled on her shoulder.
Clarissa watched the ocean churn and swell, listened to the wind picking up. The downpour was coming in from offshore, heralded by huge black shadows encroaching upon the water’s silvery surface, like long threatening claws sliding their way, like those flowers of darkness growing inside her head.
Even if the storm came, she knew she was no longer afraid, like that day, years ago, on Virginia Woolf’s bed at Monk’s House, when she had felt the soothing touch of timid hope. She had reached safe harbor.