“How sweet of you to remember that! Yes, I’m writing. But I’d never dare show you anything.”

  “What language do you write in?”

  “For the moment, in English. It’s not easy making a choice, when you’re bilingual. And yourself?”

  “Ah, well, I’ve decided to no longer make that choice, you see.”

  Mia White’s eyes grew even larger.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve decided to write my new novel in two languages at the same time.”

  The inner voice again. What the hell are you doing? Why blab about your writing projects with a stranger?

  “How are you doing this? It sounds amazing!” exclaimed Mia White.

  They had turned back and were now standing in front of the rue du Bac Métro station. Clarissa could have added nothing more, said good-bye, and departed. She didn’t feel like being alone, returning to her silent flat, her fearful cat. This smiling young girl did her good.

  “What about a break at that café?” she suggested. Mia White agreed, with pleasure. She ordered a Coke, and Clarissa, some tea.

  “What do you speak with your family?” asked Mia White. “Me, it’s English with my dad, French with my mum, a mix of both with my sister.”

  “My first husband is an American, so I spoke to him in English. And to make sure our daughter became bilingual, I always addressed myself to her in French. My second husband is French, but I sometimes speak to him in English, Lord knows why!”

  They laughed in unison and Clarissa ignored the annoying inner voice: What the hell are you doing, pouring your life out? Rambling on about your husbands, how ridiculous! She was letting go at last. She hadn’t chatted with a friend for such a long time.

  “I get the oddest questions,” said Mia White, and Clarissa noticed for the first time what a pleasant voice she had. “I’m asked what language I dream in. That stumps me. I think about it, and I just don’t know. Isn’t that strange? What about you?”

  Clarissa couldn’t bring herself to tell Mia White about her recent dreams. Ever since she had started living in the residence, they seemed more and more vivid. In the past, she’d had difficulty remembering them. Now she didn’t have to write the dreams down. Now, when she awoke, they lingered, shadowing her all day long. She kept on hearing the voice as well, the reassuring murmur that whispered to her while she slept. She couldn’t recall what it was saying. All she knew was that it meant well. And, come to think of it, she had no idea which language it was using.

  “I wish I knew, but I’m like you, I don’t have a clue,” she said, not wishing to discuss her dreams any further. She wondered if Mia White perceived her hesitancy. “Do dreams have a language, in your opinion?”

  “Well, they must. But perhaps, to people like us, our unconscious doesn’t decipher language. I’m also asked what I swear in. I had never really noticed that before. But when I paid attention, I realized it was French. God knows why! And you? Do you prefer cursing in French, as well?”

  Clarissa smiled again, but with a touch of bitterness this time. She thought of the expletives that had rushed to her lips while she had been packing her bags, François standing next to her, begging and pleading for her to stay. She hadn’t pronounced a single one of them; she had remained wordless, but they stormed around inside her head, loud, blunt, and obscene. English? French? Probably French, because that was François’s mother tongue.

  She said nothing of all this to Mia White, who seemed to take in every one of her movements and reactions with her intense, unwavering gaze. To escape it, Clarissa looked down at the sunbeam caressing their hands. Mia White’s were tiny and golden.

  “A mix-up, isn’t it?” Mia White said lightly. “And what about your book, then? I’m so curious to know more.”

  The young woman was waiting for her to speak. For a few seconds, Clarissa stayed quiet, watching the shaft of light playing with her spoon. Then she sprang forth. She said she had never translated her own writing. She had written some books directly in French, others in English. There was invariably a pang of regret from having to choose one over the other. She then worked with translators, a task she often found difficult. Recently, she’d decided to experiment: writing simultaneously in both languages, two documents opened up on her computer, one in English, one in French. It was bewildering at the start, and then all of a sudden, there had been a revelation, acting upon her like a boost, heightening her energy. She had shifted from a quiet country path to a motorway. She wrote her text, no longer paying attention to the language she was writing in. She wrote. That was it. Language no longer mattered. Or rather, both languages now had their significance, because each of them bestowed on her the sentences or words she was seeking, which she then had to transpose with care, perfecting them with the patient and meticulous fine-tuning used on an antiquated receiver, so that the frequency she obtained was the same in English and in French. She perceived herself as a voracious foraging bee harvesting pollen for two separate hives, another pleasing image.

  “How amazing!” exclaimed Mia White, dazzled.

  Heartened, Clarissa went on. The manuscript was coming along like a two-headed monster, thriving homogenously. She didn’t favor one language over the other, and wanted above all for the text to end up identical in both. At times, as she labored over a description, she switched directly to the other language, which instantly gave her a new boost. It was like playing out Jekyll and Hyde in an unprecedented scientific experimentation. Who was Hyde? Who was Dr. Jekyll? English or French? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t certain she’d go on writing in this way. All she knew was that she certainly didn’t regret giving it a go.

  “I’m sure you’re aware Samuel Beckett wrote in English and French, as well,” said Mia White. “And so did Julien Green.”

  “Yes, that’s right. And did you know Romain Gary also translated himself?”

  Mia White looked surprised. No, she had no idea. Clarissa explained that Gary wrote White Dog in English first, like Lady L, and other novels, and then adapted them to French, which was unexpected, considering he was brought up learning Polish and Russian, and that neither French nor English had been his mother tongue.

  “His real name was Kacew?” asked Mia White.

  “Yes.”

  “Pronounced like your pen name?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Clarissa for Virginia Woolf and Katsef for Romain Gary.”

  “Yes. I started writing because of those two writers.”

  “Yes, I read that. I hope you’ll tell me about Woolf next time we meet.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Oh, come on, said the inner voice. Because you’re going to see her again? Seriously? You’re going to go on prattling? You don’t know anything about her. You have no idea who she is. You think she’s sweet and charming, but perhaps she’s none of that. Wake up.

  “This is my mobile number,” said Mia White, with her enchanting smile. “I’ll let you get back to me.”

  Later, on the phone, Clarissa told her daughter she had made two new friends. A young reader, barely older than Andy, and her fourth-floor neighbor, with whom she was going to have a drink at the end of the week. Jordan congratulated her, and told her about the brooch belonging to Aunt Serena, sent by Mimsy and Pimsy, which had just arrived.

  “It is pretty?”

  “Hideous.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “No idea. Sell it? Andy doesn’t want it. I’ll have it appraised, but I’m sure it’s not worth much.”

  “I’ll thank Grandpa and Arthur on my end.”

  Clarissa hung up after lovingly saying good-bye to her daughter.

  She hadn’t told Jordan she felt more and more tired, that she still slept badly, that her dreams were beginning to disturb her.

  She hadn’t told Jordan about the infinitesimal dark zone behind Mia White’s luminous smile.

  As she made her way to her room along the corridor, she heard a metallic clicking sound. Startled, she stood still. Was this the sound that had frightened Andy?

  Then she noticed Chablis.

  The cat was frozen to the spot, its fur bristling. Arching its back, it was staring up toward the ceiling, petrified.

  NOTEBOOK

  I spent some time hanging around in front of the building on rue Dancourt. There was a small café just in front of the passageway railing, from where I could see all the way into the courtyard to the main door.

  I knew she was a long-haired blonde. That was all. I had to see her. To see her with my own eyes.

  How long had this double life been going on for? I had no idea. I remembered how often my husband had recently been away for business trips. Did she go with him? Did his coworkers know? Who knew anything about this?

  I had never checked to see if he really left Paris. I trusted him.

  The little café on rue Dancourt was a quiet place. The manager was nice and not too chatty. I always had my notebook with me. I pretended to work, but to tell the truth, I was incapable of writing anything. My eyes never left the railing.

  A lot of people passed by there. Day after day, I became familiar with the residents. The elderly lady and her dog. The trim gentleman with his briefcase. A tall and handsome bearded young man. A mother and her teenaged daughter, not speaking to each other. A grouchy old man. A woman of my age with her grandchildren.

  I’d see my husband go by with his shopping basket. He’d come back all chirpy-looking, with tarts from the bakery and flowers. I’d watch him, incredulous.

  I longed to tear out of the café, run after him along the passageway, insult him and fling his pastries and bouquets into the gutter.

  He was always alone. No woman by his side. I waited for a blonde to appear. There was one, but she had short hair and a boyish look. In her thirties. Not his type. But what was his type? I wondered. She seemed tired and fed up. One evening, she was holding a small girl by the hand. I nearly had a fit. My husband had a hidden child! He had never dared tell me. The blonde was his mistress. I remained rooted to the spot. I hadn’t known what to do.

  A few days later, the blonde went by with a fat, hairy man. He was holding her by the waist, kissing her neck. I sighed with relief. Nothing to do with my husband.

  Still no sign of a long-haired blonde. Was she already in the flat? Did she live there? They were never together outside. Was there another entrance? I checked. There wasn’t.

  I wasn’t getting it. All sorts of qualms came over me. Maybe there was no blonde. Just a place where my husband went to be alone. But what about the tartlets, the flowers?

  Was this a bachelor pad where he met a string of women? I couldn’t quite believe that. He was, after all, getting on.

  What was he hiding from me, then? A fling with a man? I felt dizzy.

  Writers really have too much imagination.

  I had to calm down, to stop spinning stories in my head.

  There was only one thing to do. Confront them.

  No, better still. Tackle her, without my husband. Deal with her alone.

  Face-to-face.

  5

  POWDER

  I don’t think two people could have been happier.

  VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941

  I have at last said all I have to say.

  ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980

  CLARISSA WAS HAVING her breakfast, and reading the morning paper on her device. For a while now, she’d steadfastly avoided lingering on bad news, attempting to concentrate on what might instruct her, stir or touch her, or even make her laugh. It wasn’t easy. The news feed prospered on disasters and cataclysms. She also had to check each time that she wasn’t dealing with fake news. She had often been hoodwinked.

  Mrs. Dalloway was heard.

  “Good morning, Clarissa. We have a situation. A person has tried to come in several times. His name is not on the entry list.”

  François. It could only be him.

  “Is he downstairs, Mrs. Dalloway?”

  “Yes. And he won’t leave unless he speaks to you. He went away previously, after speaking to security. But not this morning. What do you wish to do?”

  “Can you confirm his identity?”

  “Of course.”

  François’s shattered face loomed up on the nearby control screen.

  “I’ll give it a thought, Mrs. Dalloway.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Clarissa got up, her mug in her hand. She tried to think rationally. She tried to remain calm. There was nothing she wanted to say to François, except for him to leave her alone. The pain concerning the purple studio was still there, as strong as ever. And now he was downstairs. What was he thinking? That she was going to go back to him? That she would forgive him, like she always had? That she would be the wonderful, generous, understanding wife she had been till now? Oh no. No, no. That Clarissa was gone. Gone forever.

  She saw herself in the mirror and almost gasped at the expression on her face. The woman staring back at her was a warrior. It felt as if she were wearing armor, that nothing this man could ever do would hurt her or disappoint her again.

  Go on down there, said the little voice. Give him a piece of your mind. Make him understand, for once and for all.

  She drew herself up to her full height. Then she reached into her cupboard and pulled out a pair of badass black boots she’d bought last week on the spur of the moment, the kind she used to wear when she was younger, and that only a rock star or an actress would ever dare flaunt at her age. They added a couple of inches to her frame, exactly what she wanted.

  She had purchased new clothes, as she had moved here with nothing. She was particularly fond of an elegant black jacket, unearthed in a vintage boutique, which contrasted with her red hair. She slipped it on and applied light makeup. She had no intention of coming across as pallid or worn-out. In the bathroom, Mrs. Dalloway asked her to go through the medical procedure: weighing herself, placing her hand on the plaque, looking into the mirror where the dots were.

  “Another time. I’m in a hurry.”

  “Fine, but Dr. Dewinter insists on your going through the evaluations regularly. I will remind you.”

  Clarissa made a face. Then she mumbled, laughing up her sleeve, “Blah blah blah.”

  She left, banging the door behind her, hurrying headlong down the stairs, as usual.

  François was waiting for her a little farther away on the cobbled forecourt in front of the residence, like a lost, collarless dog. He had the bushy, unkempt beard of a nineteenth-century tanked-up Slavic writer; his face was puffed up, his eyes reddened. His back was curved, his chin glued to his chest. Was he overdoing it, so that she might pity him and relent? It wasn’t working. He was pathetic, she thought.

  “It’s impossible to get into that fortress of yours,” he said with a feeble smile.

  “What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

  His face fell. Then he began to speak hurriedly. What he wanted? Was she serious? He had been here three times already in the past weeks, only to be sent away by those guards, who treated him like a homeless person. He only wanted to talk. He only wanted to make her understand, nothing more than that. He had done something awful, something heinous. He could not forgive himself. But he couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t let her walk out of his life. He needed her. He had always needed her. How could she turn over this page so fast? After all they’d gone through, after all these years? Couldn’t she just hear him out, let him explain? Surely she might let him explain?

  Clarissa glanced at his disheveled shirt, his stained jeans. The sour stink of him wormed its way to her nose. This was unlike him. François was usually impeccably groomed. He looked like he hadn’t slept or washed in weeks.

  He went on in a calmer, plaintive, squeaky voice she found unbearable. They had to talk about the future, didn’t they? They had to make plans. If she really wished to leave, then they had to organize this. She had all her stuff at the flat. There were papers to sign, all sorts of things to do, if she truly wanted to go. Had she thought it over? Was this what she wanted?

  She spoke at last. Her voice was clear and firm.

  “Yes, this is what I want.”

  She held herself tall, towering over him in her heels. How could she ever have loved this man who was so small in every single way? Every aspect of him was insignificant. The more she observed him, the more she wondered how it had been possible. How had she fallen in love with François Antoine? She remembered he had appeared at a traumatic moment in her life. She had not gotten over the death of her baby, despite Jordan’s birth. Her job as a surveyor was beginning to bore her. It was a complex, tricky period. She had met François Antoine at a mutual friend’s place. She had gone to the dinner alone; Toby had moved out long ago. What had she seen in François? There was something comforting and caring about him. It was François who had been the first to ever suggest hypnosis to her; he had sensed her fragility, the sorrow she had still not been able to overcome concerning the child. She didn’t have to explain. He suggested she give it a try, just once. And later, much later, that first hypnosis session with Elise Delaporte had changed everything for her.

  “You’re so tough, Clarissa. So unkind. That’s not your style. You’ve forgotten everything I’ve ever done for you.”

  He went on in his lamenting tone. Did she have a short memory, or what? Did she not remember the state she was in when he met her? Her first husband had already cleared off, after all.

  “That’s enough, François,” she hissed.

  But he went on with more intensity. Yes, Toby had gotten the hell out because Clarissa was wallowing in her own grief, because she couldn’t even smile anymore, let alone to her own daughter. Did she have any idea what he had endured? Did she even guess at the efforts he’d made to help her picture things in a more positive light, at all the trouble he had gone through to help her heal? Look at how she was treating him now, slamming the door on their marriage.

  “Stop it, François. It’s over. It’s finished.”