“Hey, Blue!”

  Her first husband’s voice hadn’t changed. It was still kind and warm. She felt gladdened just by listening to it. He’d never stopped using the nickname he found for her when they first met all those years ago, inspired by her eye color.

  “Did I wake you up? Sounds like it!”

  She stretched her arms, got out of bed with difficulty. The aches and pains, the tiredness, all were still there.

  “I’ll get over it!”

  She knew why he was calling.

  “Did Jordan phone you?”

  “No one can keep anything from you, Blue.”

  He admitted their daughter was worried. Jordan felt something was up with her mother, and that it had been going on for a while. She’d opened up to her father. Clarissa listened. She let Toby talk. She visualized him facing his beloved sea. After their divorce, Toby decided to settle down in the Basque country, near Biarritz. He’d been able to continue his career as an English teacher. At present, he was retired. He lived in Guéthary, in a new apartment she had not been to, on the top floor of an ancient hotel overlooking the Atlantic. She knew there was a pretty terrace, seen in Jordan’s and Andy’s photos.

  Born in Santa Monica, Toby needed to breathe the ocean air and listen to the roar of the swell. He regularly went down to ride the waves at the surf spot at Parlementia. The state of the sea made him despondent, as it became increasingly polluted as the years went by. He had told Clarissa swimming was often prohibited because of the hazard of contaminated seawater. Forced to roast on the dike without being able to dip a toe into the ocean, vacationers came less often. Every summer, hundreds of fish washed up on the rocks. The stink of dead fish, added to the reek of unclean water, made it impossible to breathe. Within ten years, the beaches at Guéthary and neighboring Bidart vanished. They’d been gobbled up by the waves, falling prey to shifting sands and rising sea level. Clarissa knew the same thing had happened in Biarritz, to the north. She’d seen the reports shot at the Côte des Basques. Nowadays, there was no difference between low and high tide. The long golden beach, loved by surfers and holidaymakers, the pride of the city, had also surrendered, vanquished by the breakers.

  “So, tell me. What’s up? Jordan said you left François.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Clarissa sat down on the sofa, with Chablis lying at her feet. She had always trusted Toby. But it seemed that this morning, so many things were still bottled up within her. She was finding it more and more difficult to express herself, to put the right words to her feelings. Yet words had never failed her. They were her friends, not her foe.

  “Take your time,” said Toby after a while. “No pressure. And if you don’t want to discuss François, then don’t.”

  “I’ve been having the strangest dreams since I moved here,” she said finally, because she knew she had to say something, and Toby was waiting. “I think they are interfering with how I feel.”

  “What kind of dreams? Do you want to talk about them?”

  Toby’s voice was at its kindest. He was a good listener, she knew. But was he ready for what she had to say? She was going to open up the door to sorrow; she was going to shine a light along the black path of grief that had led to the end of their marriage. And she couldn’t help thinking back to that heart-wrenching instant when he had admitted to her, forlornly, that he could no longer bear her sorrow, that she was drowning in it, that it was pulling her down, and him, too, and that ten years after the birth of their daughter, she still had not been able to find joy within the miracle of Jordan’s arrival. No, she had turned her back to it; she had remained trapped in the tragedy of their son’s death; she had decided to go on grieving, while he wanted to smile at life, to give it a chance, to move on, without her. Without her.

  “I’ve been dreaming about the hospital over and over again.”

  She heard him breathe.

  “Tell me.”

  Toby knew exactly which hospital she was referring to. There was only one hospital, engraved forever in their minds. She told him the dreams were taking her back there, against her will, every night, and that she fell asleep with dread because she knew what was in store. She was back there; she could smell that awful hospital smell; she could hear the squealing noise the rubber wheels of the gurney made on the linoleum when they rolled her out of the birthing room; she could hear the sound of Toby crying. But the dreams did more than that, focusing on the moment they had put the baby in her arms, gently, respectfully, as if he had been alive, as if all had been well. They said she could hold him for as long as she wanted.

  With extraordinary vividness, the dream revealed the perfectly formed little face, and it had seemed so peaceful, so charming. She had put her mouth on the crown of the tiny head, and she had felt there was no warmth there, no life at all. The dream allowed her to feel the fuzz of the baby’s head under her lips. In her arms, she clasped their dead son while Toby cried at her side. They never knew what had happened, exactly. When she arrived at the hospital to give birth, she quickly understood something was wrong by the way the medical staff reacted. They were obviously alarmed. Yet her pregnancy had been normal all along. The doctor (she would never forget the man’s serious face, the earnestness of his gaze) had told them the heart was no longer beating. The baby had died. Her womb had become a sepulcher. They were told she was going to have to go through the birth. She had glanced at the small suitcase at Toby’s feet. She had carefully packed the brand-new baby clothes. They knew it was going to be a boy, ever since the second ultrasound. They had chosen his name. They had been using it all along.

  She’d had to give birth to a dead child. During the long, grueling hours of the ordeal it had been, Toby had never left her side, her hand in his. She had pushed, pushed with all her might, to expel a small corpse. It was indescribable.

  This had happened years and years ago. Clarissa had learned to fight against the void it had left behind. She thought she had been able to make peace with it. But no, ever since she had moved in, the dreams forced her to go back to the blackest moment of her life. The pain was excruciating. And then her voice broke and the tears came.

  “My darling Blue,” said Toby. “My sweet, sweet Blue.”

  He said he wished he could be there right now, with her, and take her into his arms. He said she had to feel he was there. He was there. Hearing him consoled her. She felt better, wiped her eyes. She told him not to mention this to their daughter. He promised he wouldn’t. She said she didn’t know why this was happening.

  All of a sudden, she remembered what Jim Perrier had told her. He had warned her. “They” were listening to every word. All the time. She stiffened. She couldn’t tell Toby she was convinced the dreams were induced by something, somebody. But she longed to. She longed to get it all out, to convey her misgivings, to describe the C.A.S.A. residence, Dr. Dewinter, Mrs. Dalloway. She shut up.

  “Why don’t you come and stay for a couple of days?” said Toby. “I have a very nice guest room; ask Andy about it. It will do you good. The sea is clean at the moment, not like in summer. I’ll cook for you, and we can go for long walks. What do you think?”

  She felt tempted.

  “What about your lady friend?”

  “What lady friend?”

  “Andy says there’s a new one.”

  He chuckled, and it felt good to hear him laugh.

  “She doesn’t live with me.”

  “Maybe she won’t appreciate the idea of your ex-wife coming to stay.”

  “Blue, I haven’t seen you in such a long time. Just get on that train and come.”

  She told him she’d think about it. A change of air was no doubt a good idea. She talked about her work, the bilingual notes she took each day. She didn’t tell Toby that in order to write, she hid from the cameras filming her around the clock, often in the toilet, where she felt safe, and where there was no surveillance; she didn’t tell him, either, that she no longer used her computer, but a pen, and two notebooks that never left her side, one in English, the other in French. She described Mia White, with whom she was having tea tomorrow, and her neighbor Adelka, who had invited her for drinks on Friday.

  Her voice had perked up again. Toby was rejoiced to hear it. Then he brought up the Aunt Serena brooch story, which a delighted and chortling Jordan had narrated to him. Their daughter was already at work, crafting the perfect holiday for her loved ones. What a sweetheart their Jordan was. Toby sighed. He missed Andy; he didn’t see her enough.

  “Andy’s coming over to spend the night next week,” said Clarissa. “We’ll call you, I promise.”

  “And how’s your father?”

  Clarissa said the latest news was good: Her old dad was doing fine. He was in high spirits. The brooch story was all thanks to him. He had been thrilled to hear about its real value and the prospect of their upcoming vacation.

  “I’m glad to hear this. Send my love. And take care of yourself, Blue. Relax. Don’t overdo things. Remember, I’m here if you need me. Go for it.”

  When she hung up, Clarissa told herself she was blessed to have such an ally in her life; a man who knew her intimately, closely, a man who had seen her give birth, a man who had been at her side when they had buried their stillborn son, a man who had always been faithful to her. At present, she was able to comprehend why he had left her. He had held out for twelve years. Jordan was growing into a bright and lively little girl, full of laughter. But Clarissa was still under the influence of a black, persistent fog, and Toby felt powerless faced with her suffering. Later, it was François who managed to put a stop to her undying despondency by suggesting hypnosis. This ended up bringing her closer to François, and further away from Toby, which was ironic, given her current situation.

  Clarissa went into the kitchen. She made some tea with bottled water, avoiding the tap.

  “Hello, Clarissa! Did you sleep well? Today, it will be cloudy and muggy. I’ve adapted the air conditioner accordingly. The shopping drone will be coming by at ten. Do you wish to modify your grocery list?”

  Clarissa had decided to no longer answer Mrs. Dalloway. It was her way of expressing her dissatisfaction. She acted as if Mrs. Dalloway wasn’t there. She hadn’t undergone the medical examinations in the bathroom for the past week. A silent revolution. She wondered what was going to happen. She didn’t feel afraid; her curiosity took over.

  While she sipped her tea, Clarissa read her mail on her device. She missed her friends. Some of them kept on sending messages, like Joyce, who wondered if Clarissa had gone on a trip. Patricia had bumped into François and had been shocked by his appearance. He had refused to say anything to her. What was going on? Clarissa had not replied. When she was ready, she’d do it.

  “Clarissa, you haven’t answered. Is everything all right?”

  Clarissa paid no attention to Mrs. Dalloway. She checked her agenda for the day. She was meeting a producer and screenwriter she had already worked with in the past for a new TV show. She then made reservations for a trip to London in order to spend some time with her father. She had a little surprise for him: a dainty porcelain hand she’d found in the flea market at Saint-Ouen for his collection. Why did her father love hands? She had no idea. He had always collected them. His passion had nothing to do with his profession; he had been an attorney. Ever since Clarissa had been a girl, she had seen his hand collection grow. It now took up most of his bedroom.

  She put on her cordless headset and listened to Patti Smith through the sound system. How she loved that sensual, throaty voice. When Mrs. Dalloway interrupted “Because the Night” through her earphones to ask her again why she wasn’t responding, Clarissa had to curb her irritation. “They” knew she was all right; “they” could see every move she made. It was infuriating.

  She turned off the song, stepped under the shower, did her exercises, got dressed. She was about to go out for her walk, when the doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone. And Mrs. Dalloway hadn’t announced a visitor. She wasn’t sure who it might be. Perhaps Jim Perrier? Maybe he had the results from the lab? But surely he would have warned her he was coming up. She recalled he had expressly told her not to divulge anything important within the residence.

  Clarissa stayed still, standing in front of the door. She could hear no noise coming from outside. The bell chimed again. She felt a twinge of alarm. Who was out there? Slowly, she stepped toward the door, taking care to remain silent. On the screen near the wooden panel, Dr. Dewinter’s features suddenly loomed up, making her jump.

  “Hello, Mrs. Katsef. I know you’re there and that you can see me.”

  Clarissa said nothing, taking in the large flat face, the heavy jaw, the heavily made-up lids. There was something frightening about Dr. Dewinter today. Was it the way she stared into the camera? That flinty look in her eyes?

  “I would like to speak to you, Mrs. Katsef. If you don’t mind.”

  Clarissa kept still. The door between her and the doctor felt like a very flimsy protection. What if the doctor knew how to get in? Where could she hide?

  Dr. Dewinter knocked.

  “I’m waiting for you to answer, Mrs. Katsef.”

  Her voice had gone nasal, with a disagreeable twang to it. On the screen, her face seemed flatter than ever, wide and moonlike.

  Abruptly, as quickly as it had come, the fear drained away from Clarissa. Who the hell did these people think they were? Sticking their noses into her private life in that way. Spying on her all the time. It was intolerable. It was unacceptable. She rushed to fetch her rock-star boots from the cupboard, slipped them on. The extra inches gave her a welcome power.

  Clarissa strode back to the entrance, flung the door open. Dr. Dewinter’s broad shoulders seemed more muscular than ever. Her hands were large and menacing with their bloodred nails.

  “Ah, there you are, Mrs. Katsef.”

  “Hello, Dr. Dewinter.”

  They stood facing each other. Clarissa could smell the fresh detergent scent coming from the doctor. She bored into the grayish irises without blinking. This went on for a moment, until the doctor said in a very pleasant voice, “How are you today, Mrs. Katsef?”

  “Very well, Doctor. And yourself?”

  “Very well.”

  “There’s something you wish to say, I believe?”

  The doctor beamed, revealing her white teeth.

  “May I come in, Mrs. Katsef?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Clarissa, smiling as well but not letting the smile reach her eyes and soften them.

  “I see,” said Dr. Dewinter brightly. She fingered the pearl in her fleshy earlobe.

  “Is there a problem?” Clarissa asked.

  Dr. Dewinter glanced down at the device in her hand. She hummed a little tune while she swiped through it.

  “Ah, yes, right here. It appears we have had no health recordings for you in the past week, Mrs. Katsef.”

  “Is that so?” said Clarissa.

  Dr. Dewinter’s smile became more strained. The steely look was back.

  “We were wondering if there was something wrong with your bathroom system and if it needs to be looked at. I can send Ben in now.”

  Clarissa couldn’t bear the idea of another intrusion.

  “I guess I keep forgetting to do my checkups,” she said, shrugging.

  Dr. Dewinter arched an eyebrow.

  “And yet your personal assistant reminds you to do so several times a day.”

  “She does.”

  “And it appears you have not been interacting with your personal assistant, either.”

  The smile had disappeared.

  “I’ll do the checkups, Dr. Dewinter. I promise.”

  Clarissa nearly added “And now get the hell out of here.” She began to close the door.

  The doctor took one step forward, nearly striding over the threshold and forcing Chablis, who was lingering there, to dart back with a quivering mew. The husky voice had dropped to a whisper.

  “Let me make myself clear, Mrs. Katsef. All artists of the residence must obey protocol.”

  Clarissa forced herself not to move back. The doctor hovered disturbingly close. She could make out the faint whiff of perspiration behind the detergent.

  “And what happens if an artist doesn’t follow the protocol?”

  Dr. Dewinter’s features gathered into a tight, pinched mask, making her look older and foreboding.

  “That has never happened,” she said flatly. “And we wouldn’t want it to. Would we? Good-bye, Mrs. Katsef. Have a nice day.”

  The doctor turned around and slid into the elevator. She disappeared.

  Clarissa heaved a sigh of relief and closed the door. She could already see herself telling all this to Jim Perrier and hearing him hoot with laughter. She would imitate the doctor’s voice to perfection. She’d exaggerate her gestures, hunch up her shoulders to ape the doctor’s burly ones. Jim would crack up.

  She went into the bathroom and swiftly underwent the medical tests, to get them over with and to no longer have to tolerate any more surprise visits. Conflicting feelings wrestled within her. Furious, she told herself she’d given in too quickly. Then she’d dig in her heels, convinced she wasn’t giving up the fight only because she’d chosen to obey for today.

  “There you go, Mrs. Dalloway. All done. Happy now?”

  “I’m most pleased, Clarissa, and thank you for taking the time. For your information, the shopping drone will soon be here.”

  “Thanks for looking after that, Mrs. Dalloway. I’m off for my walk.”

  “Perfect.”

  A drone assigned to the residence delivered everything Clarissa ordered online twice a week. It deposited the provisions on the balcony in a special container. This didn’t stop Clarissa from visiting a nearby grocery store for her fruit and vegetables, which she preferred to choose herself, after fingering and sniffing them, like in the good old days. But what she brought back had no savor, no aroma. She yearned to bite into the pulp of a tomato, an apricot, a melon that tasted like long ago. Everything seemed to have a desperately bland flavor nowadays.