“What can it be?” asked Clarissa. “We could ask Dr. Dewinter.”

  “Dr. Dewinter and her team are too busy spying on us to answer that sort of question.”

  Clarissa stared at Jim. He seemed perfectly serious.

  She lowered her voice.

  “Why are they spying on us, do you think? What is C.A.S.A.?”

  He stared back at her.

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to work out since I moved in.”

  Jim moved closer to them. He smelled of cologne.

  He said, “We could go on discussing C.A.S.A., but not here, and not now. And never within the residence. They listen to everything. They tape it all.”

  “But why?” asked Adelka. “What for?”

  Jim put a finger in front of his mouth.

  “We need to be quiet,” he said. “Later.”

  The minutes slipped by. Some people were sitting on the low wall that circled the forecourt in front of the residence. The air felt cool. The alarm had stopped at last, and silence had taken over. Clarissa noticed some of the neighbors were becoming edgy, letting their disapproval show. Others seemed to be asleep, even while they stood. The cat drowsed in Adelka’s arms.

  Dr. Dewinter’s imposing silhouette appeared in front of the residence’s vast entrance. She was wearing a black jacket and black trousers. A sleepy-faced Ben and Clémence Dutilleul stood by her side. The three of them flaunted smiles—fake tight ones that were supposed to be heartening but failed. Clarissa wondered if they slept on-site, but she’d never seen them in the hall, let alone in the neighborhood.

  Dr. Dewinter had quite a set of lungs. Her voice was easily heard.

  “First of all, may I say, dear artists, how deeply sorry we are. I wish to reassure you, there is no fire. We had indeed planned a fire drill, but certainly not at three in the morning!”

  A couple of laughs rang out.

  “Now what?” muttered Jim Perrier.

  “There was a mistake in the programming. Please do accept our most humble apologies.”

  Jim Perrier shot a glance toward Clarissa.

  Ben looked shamefaced. So he was the culprit.

  “However, before we let you get back home to your beds, we need to check you are all here.”

  “As if anyone could have slept through that racket!” Adelka chuckled.

  “Why call the roll?” murmured Clarissa. “Why do they need to know we’re all here?”

  “There must be a reason,” said Jim Perrier. “Everything here happens for a reason.”

  “They’re testing us,” whispered Clarissa. “All this is to test us, to monitor our reactions. They must need it for something, but I don’t know what.”

  “Will we ever know?”

  “You guys have too much imagination,” said Adelka.

  Jim Perrier laughed.

  “That’s my job,” he said.

  “Mine, too,” said Clarissa. “Are you a writer, as well?”

  “I am, but I write for others,” said Jim. “I’ve never published anything under my own name.”

  Dr. Dewinter had started the roll call. They had to be quiet, like in school.

  “Arlen, first floor right. Azoulay, fourth right. Bell, fifth left. Engeler, second right. Fromet, fifth right. Holzmann, seventh right. Katsef, eighth floor. Olsen, seventh left. Miki, fourth left. Perrier, third left. Pomeroy, third right. Rachewski, sixth left. Van Druten, sixth right. Zajak, second left.”

  There was no one missing. But the young girl with the long braid that Clarissa had seen earlier on was nowhere to be seen. She glanced around for her in vain. The strangest thing was that she now knew whom the girl looked like. The spitting image of Mia White.

  She found this perturbing, felt her wariness flare up again. Was she becoming utterly paranoid? She could easily imagine Jordan’s amused but worried expression.

  Jim Perrier drew closer. He whispered in her ear.

  “If you want to talk to me, I’m at Café Iris every morning, in the new part of rue Saint-Dominique, near the dry cleaner’s. I’m there early, after eight. Don’t use the internal messaging system if you have anything personal to say. Remember that everything coming from your mobile or your computer goes through them. Good night!”

  He disappeared, weaving his way through the people heading back to the residence. Dr. Dewinter, followed by Clemence and Ben, was also leaving. Clarissa watched them till they turned the corner of the street. She went back inside with Adelka. The young woman took her back to her door, handed her the cat, and told her to go quickly back to bed. And she hadn’t forgotten their drink!

  Clarissa couldn’t sleep. She sat on the sofa, with Chablis burrowing against her, and watched the sun rise. She looked at the building on the other side of the street, full of those lives she had come to know intimately. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Jim Perrier had said concerning C.A.S.A.

  Last night, she had left an empty mug of tea on the kitchen table. When she examined it, she thought she saw a minute trace of white powder lining its bottom. She turned her back to the camera, then wrapped the mug up in a paper bag, which she put away in the cupboard.

  * * *

  The new part of rue Saint-Dominique, called rue Neuve Saint-Dominique, had sprung forth with grace from the ruins of the attack. Modern edifices daringly reinterpreted Haussmannian outlines. The street was predominantly pedestrian, lined with large sidewalks planted with man-made trees, which were pleasing to the eye. Driverless cars quietly slid by, mingling with bikes and gliders. Clarissa found the new arrangement hard to take in. She kept seeing in her mind the ancient configuration, which superimposed itself onto the new one in spite of herself. Higher up, the Café Iris had a nice sunny terrace, and she quickly spotted Jim Perrier seated there, behind his computer.

  When he saw her approaching, he smiled.

  “I knew you’d come.”

  She sat down in front of him. She could see him better than last night. He had lively, twinkling dark eyes, cropped black hair, and a tattoo on his right arm. He was young, in his mid-thirties. Clarissa ordered some tea.

  Jim Perrier had a look around.

  “You never know,” he said with a grin. “Always checking. So! Mrs. Katsef. Meanwhile, I’ve read a lot about you. Interesting career. How your job as a property surveyor led you to writing after an extraordinary hypnosis experience. Romain Gary. Virginia Woolf. Their homes, their privacy, their demons. The obsession with dwellings. I ordered Topography of Intimacy on the spot!”

  “That’s very kind,” she said, slightly embarrassed.

  “I admire novelists, their imaginary world, the way they write. It’s different for me. I listen to people, more or less famous; then I transcribe their story. I also create TV shows, like you do. I love doing that. I have a ball. Maybe, one day, I’ll write a book. So you see, I did my homework concerning you. You give out a nice aura. Your books are well received.”

  “Thanks. Except people don’t read books anymore.”

  “I know,” he said, making a face. “People take pretty photos of books, post them with the right hashtags, but nobody reads. Or very few. Books have become ornaments.”

  “I hear a slight accent. Where are you from?”

  “You’ve got a good ear. I grew up in Brussels. But back to C.A.S.A. Why did you sign up?”

  “My marriage broke up. I had to find a new place. And you?”

  “I had heard about it. I found it intriguing. I wasn’t at all expecting to be taken on.”

  “Me, neither.”

  Jim Perrier glanced around once more. He began to speak in a low voice. Clarissa had to lean forward in order to hear him. He had been skeptical from the start. The cameras, for instance. The medical checkups. And the incredibly low rents. It was all too clear. Every artist living there was a C.AS.A. guinea pig. But it was impossible to glean any information about C.A.S.A. Had she noticed that, too? He’d done some interesting research on Dr. Dewinter. She was brilliant, with a string of qualifications, one of the greatest artificial intelligence specialists, running far ahead of the pack. Very respected in her field. But her recent projects were no longer mentioned. Dr. Dewinter had retreated into the shadows. Nobody knew what she was working on. Nothing was coming to the surface.

  Clarissa let him go on, without interrupting him.

  One day, he’d gone back to C.A.S.A. headquarters, where they had passed their interviews. Near here. He wanted to know more, to understand. He hadn’t been getting any response to his emails, so he turned up. Once he got there, he couldn’t obtain an answer or an appointment. The place was like an impenetrable fortress, guarded by Bardi, the most sophisticated robot security guards of the moment. There was a lot of money behind all this. But for what aim?

  “I believe they’re trying to coax us out of our comfort zone,” said Clarissa.

  “Without a doubt. But why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She told him then what she’d never told anyone. The tap water that dehydrated her mouth, hair, and skin. The aching tiredness she’d endured since she moved in. The voice she kept hearing at night, which seemed to influence her dreams. The clicking noise that made her jump, coming from nowhere. The way the cat acted. The nosy virtual assistant who knew too much about her past and who spoke to her granddaughter in her absence. And then, although she had decided not to, she told him about the powder and watched his eyes widen.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “It’s difficult for me to tell you I’m sure. It happened so fast. Sometimes I wonder if I really saw it. But I have this.”

  Surreptitiously, she took the paper-wrapped mug out of her bag.

  “You should take it to a lab,” he said.

  “You’re right, but I don’t know of any.”

  “I’ll deal with it,” he said. “Will you leave it with me?”

  “Okay. Don’t lose it!”

  “No worries. But I won’t take it back to the residence. We’ll meet here, when I get the results.”

  “How will you get hold of me?”

  He pondered.

  “I’ll send you a message on the internal system. Something about your book, which I will have read. As soon as you get it, come here the next morning.”

  She nodded.

  “I absolutely want to discover what we are living in. And you are the only one to be on the same wavelength.”

  “Have you talked to any other neighbors?”

  “Yes, one night, I rang the door on the right, next to mine, Sean Pomeroy, sculptor. He thought I was crazy. I’ll admit it was late. And that pianist, Louise Fromet, on the fifth floor, she sent me packing. As for your artist friend on the fourth, she thinks we have way too much imagination!”

  They both laughed.

  “Perhaps you and I are overreacting, imaging things,” Clarissa said.

  “Perhaps! But let’s get to the bottom of it!”

  When she got home, Clarissa felt buoyed by a new energy. This young man shared her thoughts. How comforting and reassuring. And the fact that he was reading one of her books warmed her heart.

  Mrs. Dalloway’s voice startled her.

  “Clarissa, your daughter is downstairs. May I let her come up?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Dalloway.”

  Jordan rarely visited at this hour. She usually came in the evenings. She must have something important to say.

  As always, whenever Clarissa laid eyes on her daughter, she was swept away by proud joy. Jordan was so pretty, so elegant.

  “Mums! I came as soon as I found out!”

  Jordan was breathless and overexcited.

  Clarissa felt puzzled. Whatever did she mean? Jordan couldn’t keep still. She fished around in her bag, and handed a small box to her mother. Clarissa opened it. Inside was a lumpy gold and diamond brooch.

  “Is that Aunt Serena’s?”

  Jordan danced around the room, while Chablis stared at her, mesmerized. Clarissa couldn’t help laughing. She looked exactly like Andy.

  “Darling, I don’t get it! Tell me what’s going on!”

  Jordan came to a halt.

  “The expert asked to see me. His voice was shaking. You know what? That brooch belonged to some British aristocrat. Lady Thingummybob. He said I could easily sell it to a museum or a private collection. It’s worth a fortune! I have to go put it back in the bank right now. A fortune! I daren’t even tell you how much!”

  “And it was asleep in Aunt Serena’s safe?”

  “Yes! For years! She must have bought it cheaply somewhere, and not bothered to have it examined. Mimsy and Pimsy didn’t, either. They handed it on without even imagining it could be worth so much. Mums, do you realize what this means? It means I can pay Andy’s school for another year without feeling the pinch. It means I can take you, Andy, and Ivan on holiday. We’ll have a marvelous trip at stingy old Aunt Serena’s expense. We’ll raise our glasses in her honor!”

  Clarissa went on laughing as Jordan hugged her tenderly.

  “It’s so good to hear you laugh, Mums.”

  “I’m okay, honey. Don’t worry about me.”

  Jordan stepped back in order to observe her more closely. The familiar green eyes meticulously took her in. Clarissa felt as if Jordan were putting her through a scanner and not missing a beat of her inner struggles.

  “You said you made some nice new friends? Tell me more!”

  They settled on the sofa. Chablis seemed delighted to see Jordan again.

  “Yes, a cute reader, very young. I’m supposed to meet her again, but I haven’t spoken to her recently. And a charming artist, your age, a painter, who lives on the fourth floor.”

  She kept back last night’s events and her conversation with Jim Perrier. She switched subjects: And Andy? When was she coming back? They had such a great time.

  They both decided not to tell Mimsy and Pimsy about the true value of the brooch. Jordan planned to contact her grandfather, whom she fully trusted, and give him the whole story.

  On the threshold, Jordan hesitated fleetingly.

  “Just tell me one thing, Mums. That woman François is besotted with, she’s how old?”

  Clarissa took a deep breath.

  “She’s very young.”

  Jordan groaned.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Her name is Amber.”

  Jordan rolled her eyes.

  “And what’s so special about Amber?”

  Clarissa’s answer rang out.

  “Amber never says no.”

  NOTEBOOK

  It was easy to get into the building. I only had to hang around in front, pretend to be talking on my phone. I had waited for my husband to leave. He had walked out with a dreamy expression on his face, and pink cheeks. I felt like slapping him. I watched him walk away toward the Métro.

  I wondered if I still loved him. I wondered if I had ever loved him the way I loved Toby.

  But what was left of all that now? A sort of companionship? Two people growing old? Is that all that kept us together? The fear of being alone?

  The bearded young man I had seen before stepped out of the building and politely held the door open for me. I murmured a thank-you and walked in.

  I discovered a poorly kept building, which surprised me, as my husband was usually fussy about that type of thing. The entrance smelled of cabbage soup and dampness. The elevator was minuscule and did not seem safe. I ignored it, walking up the six flights.

  There were three doors per landing, and with each landing I passed, I could hear people getting on with their lives. Music, laughter, the sound of plates and cutlery, the whine of a vacuum cleaner. Quarrelling, a child crying, the blare of a TV set.

  It was an old-fashioned, run-down Parisian building, with worn-out floorboards, scored walls, paint that was fading and splotched.

  And it was here that my husband had chosen to live behind my back.

  On the doorbell by the middle door, there was his name, François ANTOINE. It was here. No turning back now.

  I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders. What was I going to say to this woman? Hello, I’m Mrs. Antoine. I’m François’s wife.

  I imagined her face. Would she be horrified? Ashamed? Would she roar with laughter?

  If I waited too long, I’d never ring. I’d end up fleeing in a panic. I had to do it now.

  No thinking, no planning things out. Action.

  I reached out and rang the doorbell.

  It made a tinkling sound.

  I imagined her thinking, Who’s that? Maybe she was in the shower. Maybe she wasn’t wearing any clothes. Maybe she was still in bed, the rumpled sheets still smelling of my husband.

  I waited and listened. No noise was coming from that apartment. She had to be there. François had left five minutes ago, and I would have seen a blond lady come out.

  I had only seen the young bearded guy.

  I rang again, longer this time.

  No answer.

  I knocked firmly. Then I pounded.

  I wanted to shout “I know you’re in there. Stop hiding and open the door.” I wanted to swear, to kick the door in.

  No answer.

  As I stood there, incensed, confounded, the door on the left opened, and the grouchy old man I had already seen poked his head around and stared at me.

  “You’re making a lot of noise,” he said.

  “I’m looking for the blond lady who lives here.”

  He stared at me even harder.

  “There’s no blond lady here.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “I’ve been living here for the past thirty years, and if a blond lady had moved in, I would have known.”

  “So who lives here, then?”

  “Can’t you read? François Antoine. Nice quiet man. You’ve got the wrong place.”

  With that, he had slammed the door in my face.

  6

  INK

  The final words of my latest novel.

  ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980

  You see, I can’t even write this properly.

  VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941

  A TUNE PLAYING ON her phone dragged her slowly from sleep. Bewildered, she thought at first it was her alarm, and that she was late for a meeting, but what meeting? Then she realized it was the melody she’d chosen for Toby. “Hotel California,” the Eagles.