Clarissa had glanced at Margaret. Virginia’s death? What did she mean? Margaret looked surprised.

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Know what?” Clarissa’s father had said.

  “How Virginia died,” said Margaret.

  A hazy memory came whirling back, an image Clarissa had seen in a film, a long time ago. But she couldn’t place it. She asked Margaret what had happened. Margaret lowered her voice, as if she didn’t want to be overheard. They were standing on the small terrace in front of the cottage. It had happened on March 28, 1941.

  For a reason that was unknown to her, Clarissa felt an urge to understand what had taken place, while she was still on the grounds. She was taken over by an imperious sensation. She wanted to know. She had to find out. Margaret continued whispering. Virginia hadn’t been well, for a long period; she was a fragile person, with “a medical history.” She was fifty-nine, and had suffered several depressions. She was slowly sinking into gloom, despite the joy she found in writing.

  Clarissa had listened to Margaret’s gentle tone, and her eyes had wandered to a portrait of the writer glimpsed through the living room window—the long, tormented face, the mouth with its bitter lines. She had seen Romain Gary’s features superimpose themselves upon Virginia’s, imbued with the same troubled wistfulness. Margaret said that a few days beforehand, Virginia had come back drenched from a long walk in the rain. Her husband had become worried when he saw her arrive, like a pale, thin sleepwalker. He had instantly obtained a consultation with their doctor in Brighton. Dr. Wilberforce prescribed rest, after finding Virginia feeble and strangely distant.

  On March 28, a Friday, in the secret of her writing lodge, Virginia had written two letters—one for her husband, the other for her beloved sister. She had told her husband she was going to do a bit of housework, then go out for a short walk before lunch. Leonard had gone up to his office. At eleven o’clock, their maid saw Virginia head out toward the fields, wearing her fur coat, carrying her walking stick. She was striding with her usual energy and seemed to know exactly where she was going.

  “Virginia left the house by that door, here,” Margaret said. “Then she went out by the garden, in front of the church, just there.”

  “Show me,” said Clarissa, and it was the property surveyor talking, whose eyes were now measuring the exact steps Virginia had taken, drawn over the earth in an indelible ink mark only Clarissa could see.

  Margaret indicated the way, and Clarissa pursued it, just like she had mentally followed Romain Gary after his lunch on Tuesday, December 2, 1980, when he had walked along rue de Babylone to reach rue du Bac, on his last day alive.

  Mia White stared at her, giving Clarissa her complete attention, her cup halfway to her open lips. Clarissa had to concentrate, focusing on keeping separate the two threads unraveling in her head: the one she mastered and wasn’t frightened of, smooth-running, unchanged, and the other thread, darker and more disturbing, which had surfaced as she trailed Virginia’s ultimate path to her death, with Margaret at her side, and her flummoxed father in suit, and which was resuscitating now, in this peaceful tearoom, opposite this young woman and her enormous eyes.

  Margaret had explained that Virginia went straight to the river, which took her twenty minutes or so from the cottage. As she listened, Clarissa saw the scene from above, high up over the fields, and she felt she could make out every single step Virginia had taken to get to the banks of the Ouse, a long, thin line of black ink etched along the ground, which drew her like a magnet. She had asked to see the river, which that day ebbed low and smooth, not at all like it had been the day Virginia died, all bubbly and wild, bursting its banks, flowing fast and strong, according to Margaret. All around them was a flat and bare landscape, with hardly any trees. Somewhere along this austere riverbank, Virginia had picked up a large stone, shoved it into her pocket; she had left her walking stick on the ground, and she had descended into the water. She had let the waters close up above her and she had drowned.

  Clarissa remembered her father had been concerned, looking at her constantly while Margaret spoke. Had it been a good idea, bringing his daughter here, on the trail of another fragile woman? This she did not tell Mia White, or did she? The two threads of her story were now intertwined, coalescing, and she found it confusing to keep them separate. Margaret had pointed to the wooden and iron bridge that spanned the river. This was where Virginia’s body was found, three weeks later, by a group of picnickers. Three weeks, Clarissa had thought. An agonizing wait. She kept thinking of Leonard coming down to lunch, wondering where his wife was, and finding the blue envelope with his name on it on the mantelpiece. Inside was a heartbreakingly beautiful farewell letter. Margaret said that Leonard had rushed down to the river, in a panic. He discovered Virginia’s footsteps on the bank, and her stick where she had left it. He had hoped against hope that she had ended up running away, that she was still alive.

  Margaret led them back to the house. Clarissa remembered that no one spoke as they walked up the path in the fields. When they got to the cottage, her father had taken Margaret aside. He had spoken to her privately, and Clarissa couldn’t hear what he was saying. But whatever he had said worked. Margaret came back to Clarissa and put her hand on Clarissa’s arm, saying she was happy to show her Virginia’s bedroom, which was seldom revealed to visitors. Her father said he’d wait in the garden. Clarissa followed Margaret’s bony back, overwhelmed by her father’s initiative.

  They had gone up the slim outdoor stairs and Margaret had unlocked the door. Clarissa had observed the white-tiled fireplace decorated with a lighthouse and a ship, the large bookshelf, the night table, the pink curtains. She had asked Margaret if she could stay there alone for a few moments. She was expecting the young woman to refuse, but Margaret ended up consenting, saying she’d wait downstairs with Clarissa’s father.

  Clarissa had found herself alone in Virginia Woolf’s bedroom. She sat on the narrow bed covered with a white quilt, where Virginia had slept, where Virginia had dreamed. Then she had lain down. The large open window was on her left, nearby. At night, Virginia had probably looked up at the stars. As she reclined on the writer’s bed, well-being stroked Clarissa with the softness of a spring breeze, contrasting with the melancholy that had overwhelmed her in Romain Gary’s apartment on rue du Bac. She breathed more easily. Part of her sadness had crumbled away. The large boulder she dragged around everywhere had shrunk. Clarissa let peace permeate her. There was no wretchedness here, no woe. Even if Virginia Woolf had, like Romain Gary, chosen to put an end to her life, she had, in her wake, left hopefulness and tranquility as her legacy.

  That day, on Virginia’s bed, Clarissa realized she needed to express the fascination with places that had guided her to her profession. Ever since the faraway incident on rue du Bac, and her strange encounter with Romain Gary, she had once again been confronted with the potency of the inner memory of houses, the tiny particles of vibrations she garnered there, and which heightened her sensitivity. She knew she would write about this; she knew she would write to dispel the darkness within her. She left Monk’s House with a new light in her eyes. Her father had seen it. It had made him happy.

  “So you started to write Topography of Intimacy just after that episode?”

  Mia White’s voice startled her. Clarissa had almost forgotten her presence. Once more, she found it impossible to differentiate her innermost thoughts from what she had said out loud.

  “That’s right. More or less.”

  “In your novel,” Mia White went on, “there is a marvelous conversation with Virginia Woolf’s ghost, or spirit. Did you really feel her presence?”

  “No,” said Clarissa. “I invented all that bit. But I did feel something else.…”

  She should have stopped there. She should have elaborated about the ghost she had invented, done what she usually did with readers and journalists: embellish, enhance. She had forgotten how to do that. It had been a while. And her loneliness made her want to open up. She said that when she got back to London, she had gone to buy Mrs. Dalloway in a bookstore. On the way to Paris in the train, she had settled down to read it. Reading Virginia Woolf was daunting, she soon discovered. There was hardly any dialogue, and the sentences were very long. In the beginning, she had been put off. She had never read anything like this. She couldn’t make heads or tails of it. She felt stupid, illiterate. Perhaps she wasn’t sophisticated or literary enough. She stuck at it, doggedly.

  Little by little, the winding sentences began to make sense, in the most beautiful manner, as if she had been reading an uninterrupted poem, the words opening windows in front of her eyes, letting the air, the sounds, and the scents in. Virginia Woolf didn’t write to seduce her readers, to hook them in from the start with glib techniques, no, not at all. Virginia Woolf cast a spell on her readers, leisurely, gently, so that they did not know at first how they had been lured, so that they followed, enchanted and docile. But she made them think; she made them wonder. She surprised them at times; she destabilized them. And that was what Clarissa admired the most: the beauty and the depth of her prose, and how Virginia Woolf let her readers into her characters’ minds, how Mrs. Dalloway’s entire life was revealed in one single day, by dint of a ceaseless coming and going between past and present. The entire feat of the book was there. And while she talked to Mia White, Clarissa was also thinking about her own day, François’s texts, Jim Perrier and what he was about to divulge, her own writing, waiting for her in the two notebooks that never left her side, her lack of sleep, her peculiar dreams.

  “You’re not sleeping well, is that it?” asked Mia White in her girlish voice.

  Clarissa went quiet, alarmed. What was going on? She must truly be tired. Yet, she was persuaded she had said nothing to Mia White about her sleepless nights. Nothing at all. She lowered her head, stared at the cake crumbs on the tablecloth. She had to get out of here.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  Mia White placed an attentive palm on her hand.

  “I’m fine,” said Clarissa, moving her own hand back.

  “You seem tired. Shall I take you home?”

  “That won’t be necessary, thanks.”

  Clarissa signaled to the waitress, her mind still fogged up. She simply could not recall what she had said, or not, to Mia White. Stupid idiot, said the little voice. That’ll teach you. That’s what happens when you let your guard down.

  Two humid arms suddenly wrapped themselves around her neck.

  “Mums! I figured it was you! What are you doing in our area?”

  Andy was there, standing behind her, her hair drenched by the rain. She had seen her grandmother through the shop window on her way home from school. Clarissa introduced Mia White to her as one of her young readers; Andy greeted her and sat down at their table. She wouldn’t mind a bite of cake, as well, that one on display, the chocolate one; it looked so good. Clarissa ordered a slice for her. She watched the two young girls, who were only a couple of years apart. Mia White seemed more composed, more detached. Andy wasn’t paying attention to her posture; she appeared to be taking it easy. Clarissa expected them to establish some sort of connection, but they seemed to stay on different wavelengths. She wondered why. Mia White’s stiffness was politely aloof, while Andy devoured her cake with chewing noises, exaggerating bad manners she didn’t have. Clarissa noticed her granddaughter’s eyes never left Mia White’s face, sizing her up, almost defying her, as if she did not wish the young woman to encroach upon her territory.

  “I’m going to leave you with your granddaughter,” said Mia White finally. “Thank you for the conversation. It was most interesting.”

  Her tone seemed less sincere than during their first meeting, and her gestures looked contrived. She took her wallet from her purse.

  “No, I’ll take care of it,” said Clarissa. “It’s my pleasure.”

  With a timid wave, Mia White left, thanking her.

  “Who’s she?” asked Andy, with her mouth full.

  “A young fan.”

  “You see her often?”

  “This is the second time I have.”

  “You like her?”

  “To tell the truth, I’m not sure.”

  “She’s pretty, but there’s something weird.”

  “Yes,” said Clarissa. “Something weird, as you say.”

  “What did you say her name was?”

  “Mia White.”

  Andy’s thumbs flew over her mobile.

  “Strange,” she said after a while.

  “What?” asked Clarissa.

  “All the stuff she puts out there. It’s so obvious.”

  “What do you mean, missy?”

  “Well, no young person—I mean of her age, or mine—puts public stuff out there. Even people of my parent’s generation stopped doing it years ago. Only really old folks pour their heart out online. We do everything privately, through KingDam or Alamida. She’s using such outdated channels. It’s like she wants you to see who she is right away.”

  “And what do you think that means?”

  “No idea. Be careful, Mums.”

  Andy wiped a cluster of crumbs from the corner of her mouth.

  “Mummy is concerned about you. I heard her on the phone with Granddad the other day.”

  In another life, at another moment, Clarissa would have tickled Andy’s chin and brushed away Jordan’s worries with a smile.

  “I’ve already said this, Mums, but you know you can talk to me. I’m here for you.”

  How she loved that fine and intelligent little face.

  “I know, Andy. Being able to trust you is very precious.”

  The rain had stopped at last. The umbrella cavalcade faded away.

  “Remember what you said about my apartment?”

  “Yes. That I felt someone was watching me all the time.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what’s going on. The artists who live in the residence are all spied upon.”

  “Have you talked to Mom about this?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your mom thinks I exaggerate. She worries about me. She thinks I forget stuff. She sees me as a disturbed old lady.”

  “That’s because she loves you. And you do forget stuff, sometimes. You repeat things, too. It doesn’t bother me.”

  Clarissa was just getting started.

  “Why I am being watched? And the other artists? Why have I been staying awake ever since I moved in? Why are my sleep and dreams being tampered with? And Dr. Dewinter, what does she want?”

  “Relax, Mums. I’ll help you. Dr. Dethingy doesn’t scare me. What do we start with? I can’t wait.”

  “I’ll tell you more when you come next week. I’m waiting for some important news. Don’t say anything to your mother.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Clarissa grabbed her granddaughter’s hand. She smiled at her.

  “I’m so lucky to have you around.”

  “You got it all wrong. I’m the lucky one, having a granny like you.”

  NOTEBOOK

  The apartment obsessed me. I kept thinking about what my husband did within those walls. All the craziest scenarios ran through my head. I even imagined the young bearded guy was his lover.

  The only way for me to understand what was going on there was to get inside.

  I had to find the key. My husband no doubt kept it on him. But at night? While he was asleep? It was the only way. And then what? If I took it, he’d find out.

  A key. A simple key.

  It made me smile. Even if I happened to be ensnared by my own pain, I was able to capture the irony of the situation. The symbolism of this deplorable story.

  I, the property examiner turned writer, fascinated by places, dwellings and their enigmas, was at the mercy of a key about to unlock a secret. Did I really want to know that secret? I could still turn back. I had that choice. I could protect myself.

  I hesitated. But not for long.

  My husband was at last fast asleep. I had waited. I had counted each minute. It had seemed endless. Without a noise, I got out of the bed. He had left his clothes rolled up in the bathroom. Slowly, I went through each item. Nothing in his trousers or shirt pockets.

  Silently, I went to the entrance. His jacket, on a chair. Nothing in it, apart from his wallet, which I inspected.

  His set of keys was on the small table. I checked. There were only the keys to our flat. Nothing else.

  I began to feel desperate in the darkness of my home. Did he conceal the key here? There must be a hiding place. Where? I racked my brains, tried to stay calm. If I wanted to hide an object from my husband, where would I come up with? A place he’d never think of looking.

  My husband was still fast asleep. I could hear a peaceful snore. He had no idea his secret was soon to be revealed.

  I went soundlessly back to the bathroom. His shoes, on the tiled floor. Elegant loafers purchased in Rome.

  I bent down and inserted my fingers into the left one. Empty. But I knew. I knew I’d find it.

  The key was in the right-hand loafer, right at the top. A thin, flat key that took up no room. A very common sort. Easy to copy.

  I heard the floorboards creak.

  I just had time to slip the key back into the shoe and stand up.

  My husband was standing on the threshold.

  “You’re awake?” he asked in a drowsy voice.

  I replied, lightly, that I was looking for medicine for my headache. I rummaged around in a drawer, found aspirin. My husband had gone to the toilet. I heard him urinate and flush. He went back to bed.

  I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about how I would go about getting the key duplicated. In the end, it had been easier than I thought. Every year, since his cancer, my husband had to undergo medical examinations. He was put through numerous tests, as well as an MRI scan in a specialized clinic. I always accompanied him.

  During his checkup, which lasted two hours, while the doctor’s staff took him in charge, and as I supervised his belongings, stored in a locker, I was able to filch the key, which I found this time in his trousers. While he was having the scan, I left the clinic and had the key copied at a nearby locksmith I had previously located.