“What the hell are you up to?” she spat out, glaring at one of the cameras. “And you there, hiding behind your screens, snooping on me, what are you waiting for? For me to go bonkers, is that it? Is that your intention? My going off the deep end? So that’s C.A.S.A. protocol, is it? Well done!”

  Mrs. Dalloway made herself heard, unflappable.

  “I’m sorry, Clarissa, I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me. Please rephrase.”

  “Shut up!” shouted Clarissa, beside herself with wrath. “Just shut the fuck up!”

  “I’m sorry, Clarissa. What, exactly, is the problem?”

  “Be quiet! Can you understand that? Here it is one more time: Stop talking to me!”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand your demand.”

  Silence. Clarissa got a grip on herself.

  “Mrs. Dalloway,” she hissed.

  “Yes, Clarissa?”

  “I don’t want to hear you.”

  “Fine, Clarissa. You can deactivate voice mode. You only have to say it.”

  “Mrs. Dalloway, deactivate voice mode.”

  An icon glowed on the nearby wall, confirming her order had been taken into account.

  “Deactivate all cameras.”

  A sentence showed up. It is impossible to deactivate the cameras.

  “Go to hell! Deactivate everything.”

  It is impossible to deactivate everything.

  Clarissa unleashed a volley of abuse worthy of her father’s—the kind that used to cause her mother such displeasure. It was exhilarating. She felt lighter, less tense. She even grinned. Chablis came purring against her shins. She took him into the living room, her nose buried in the soft fur.

  “What would I do without you, cat?”

  She lay down on the sofa with him. Dawn was about to break, lighting up the rooftops with a pink touch. Tiredness took over, and she dozed on and off. A few hours later, when she got up, still exhausted, with a painful back, it was broad daylight. It was strange and liberating not to hear Mrs. Dalloway greeting her, like she used to every morning. The weather forecast, the main headlines, and her agenda silently appeared on the mural panels in large fonts, so her shortsighted eyes could read without glasses. Andy was coming later on today, to spend the night.

  “Please send an internal message to Adelka Miki.”

  Go ahead.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening. I had a great time with you. I overdid it with the white wine, and getting up this morning was ghastly! But I have no regrets. See you soon! Clarissa.”

  I’ve sent it.

  “Please send an internal message to Jim Perrier.”

  Go ahead.

  “Hi Jim! Hope you’re well. I thought of a producer who might be interested in adapting my first novel for TV. I’d be happy to discuss this with you. All best, Clarissa.”

  Message rejected by server.

  Clarissa read the sentence a couple of times, perplexed.

  “Why is the message rejected? I don’t understand.”

  There is no Jim Perrier in the residence.

  “What? That’s impossible; he lives on the third floor. There must be a mistake. Try again.”

  The name Jim Perrier is not recognized by C.A.S.A. protocol. Message rejected by server.

  Clarissa remained silent. She must not reveal her distress; she must take it in stride. For a couple of minutes, she forced herself to calm down. When she felt less strained, she went into the bathroom to undergo the medical tests. Using a loud, contemptuous tone, she said, “Are you eventually going to notice how tired I am? And perhaps a surprisingly high alcohol level? What do you do with all those results? Oh, I’m not expecting any answers!”

  In the mirror, she glimpsed her crumpled features, her lackluster hair, her dry skin. The C.A.S.A. effect? Did the other artists feel this way, as well? Adelka, on the contrary, appeared to be blossoming.

  Jim Perrier. His name haunted her all day. Had he made a discovery concerning the powder that could have led to his eviction? Was he in danger? He had warned her that mobile devices and computers were under surveillance. How could she reach him? She didn’t dare make any online searches in order to try to locate him. But she also knew he had a drinking problem, which Adelka had noticed, as well as the waiters at Café Iris. She wondered if she could go on trusting him.

  At the end of the day, she decided to wait for Andy outside the residence, near the Tower Memorial. They could speak without being listened to. The young girl was surprised to see her grandmother waiting for her on a bench, and even more so when she saw her haggard face.

  “It’s no big deal,” mumbled Clarissa. “Another lousy night. I have lots to tell you. Inside, we can’t talk. Sit down and listen to me.”

  She related the powder incident, and Jim Perrier’s vanishing act. She was concerned. Something was going on in that damned residence, and she couldn’t figure out what. She was convinced her sleep was being tampered with. Apart from Andy, Jim was the only person she could bring this up with. And now he was gone. Andy listened attentively. Clarissa was fearfully expecting her granddaughter to tell her she was getting the wrong ideas. But Andy began to talk in a calm and thoughtful manner.

  “Quit putting on that scared expression, Mums. I’ve been on your side since the beginning. And I have stuff to say that corroborates your point of view. I got in touch with the University of East Anglia, attended by our dear Mia White. They never responded to my email, so I phoned them. I passed myself off as a silly friend with a French accent who was trying to get hold of her. I must be kind of talented, because they fell for it. Guess what? Mia White got her diploma last year. She’s no longer a student. Odd, no? It gave me the wildest ideas! What if that girl is here to spy on you? What if she’s been working for C.A.S.A. all along?”

  Clarissa gazed at her granddaughter. She seemed so mature, so confident.

  “So that would explain why I thought I saw her downstairs the night the alarm went off.”

  “You did? My guess is that she sleeps here and watches you nonstop. You’re her full-time job.”

  “What do these people want, Andy?”

  Andy slipped an arm around Clarissa’s shoulder.

  “No hassle, Mums. We’re going to find out.”

  “But how? They see everything I do.”

  “I know. We have to start thinking hard. There must be something all these artists have in common. That’s what they’re after. Dr. Dethingy, you know she’s an AI hotshot. I’ve been looking her up.”

  “Yes, Jim did, as well.”

  “My guess is that she went rogue. Impossible to find out what she’s been up to. In your day, people went on the dark web to hunt for that sort of stuff, but now, that’s so mainstream and what you find there has nothing juicy about it. Digging deep into the blacker web might bring answers about the doctor’s activities, but that’s tricky. I’d need help. I could ask around. I have a friend whose brother is one of those new detectives, or a spy, if you prefer. His thing is politics. He knows how to drag up all the stuff people don’t ever want anyone to find. He earns millions.”

  “How do you know all this, Andy?”

  “Everyone knows, Mums. I didn’t start it.”

  “I’m all at sea, over here.”

  “I know, and that’s normal. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything foolish. We have two simple missions here. One, what happened to your pal Jim? Two, what is behind C.A.S.A.? Meanwhile, when we get to your place, we act normal. As usual, okay? And if we need to talk, we write on bits of paper.”

  “You’re brilliant, Andy.”

  “Not at all, Mums, just trying to help out. Do you a have a list of all the artists who live in the residence?”

  “Yes, at home. Why?”

  “I’d like to take a look at it. Perhaps it’s all in that list.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re all artists, so you have that in common. But apart from your professions, there must be something else about you that C.A.S.A. finds interesting.”

  Clarissa glanced around her. The sun, shining bright and strong, was hurting her eyes. Lately, the weather had been persistently hot and sunny, even if summer was not yet here. It had rained only a couple of times, and when it had, it had poured down with fierce devastation.

  “Mummy says a new heat wave is lined up for next week.”

  “Not another one!”

  Jordan was given all climatic data in advance, due to her job.

  “Yep, and she says this one will be a scorcher. It’s going to set a new record, going up to forty-eight degrees Celsius.”

  Clarissa sighed.

  “Let’s go home, Mums. You look tired. Let me take care of you.”

  “You’re such a sweetie. Hey, missy, you’re going to love this. I managed to get Mrs. Dalloway to shut up. I only had to turn voice mode off. Now everything she says is written on the wall. That’s it. And it’s bliss.”

  They were on their way, arms linked. Clarissa walked at a slow pace, with difficulty. She’d felt old ever since this morning. A wreck. Once they got home, she went to fetch the neighbor list. Andy looked at it for a while. Then she folded it and put it in her pocket. She helped her grandmother prepare her favorite dinner. They called Toby. The conversation was spontaneous and amusing. Just before they sat down to eat, Andy made a face.

  “Oh, shucks! No more salt, right?” she said.

  While her back was turned to the camera, she winked in Clarissa’s direction.

  “I’ll get some from your neighbors.”

  A beaming smile, a cup grabbed from the shelf, and out she rushed. Clarissa put a lid on the soup and kept the potatoes in the oven. She turned on the news, trying to act normal. An unparalleled heat wave was indeed forecast for next week, about to descend upon Paris and its outskirts. About twenty minutes later, Andy returned with a small smile and the cup filled with salt. She devoured her dinner with her usual appetite and spoke little during the meal. Clarissa waited. She suspected her granddaughter was onto something. She longed to ask questions, but abstained. They put the dishes away while Andy whistled.

  “How about a movie, Mums?”

  “With pleasure. Which one?”

  “Something vintage. You choose!”

  “Ever heard of Barry Lyndon?”

  “Rings a bell. Any good?”

  Clarissa smiled.

  “I saw it for the first time when I was your age.”

  “You liked it?”

  “More than liked it.”

  “Okay. Let’s go for it.”

  “Stanley Kubrick is my favorite filmmaker.”

  “That, I knew! Mummy’s told me often enough!”

  They settled down in the living room, with the cat on Andy’s lap. Clarissa asked Mrs. Dalloway to find the movie Barry Lyndon and play it.

  “How fabulous it is to no longer hear that Dalloway voice. Good job, Mums.”

  Then Andy whispered in Clarissa’s ear, asking her to turn the sound up high.

  Clarissa obeyed. The volume was so loud that Clarissa’s eardrums ached. Andy played with a wisp of her own hair, which she kept placing in front of her lips. She murmured, “Can you hear me, Mums? Look straight ahead. Stick something on your mouth—your mug, for example.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Wow! That guy is so hot!” yelled Andy. “Who is he?”

  “Ryan O’Neal.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “He’s your great-grandpa’s age.”

  “You think he has a great-grandson?”

  Andy was swept away by the magnificent images, by Handel’s haunting sarabande.

  The whispering took up again.

  “I’m going to go to the loo. No cameras in there, right? I’ll call out, saying there’s no more toilet paper. You’ll fetch some and bring it to me. Okay?”

  Clarissa nodded, unnoticeably.

  A couple of minutes later, her granddaughter was heard.

  “Hey, Mums! End of loo paper!”

  “Coming, miss.”

  She got up, cursing at the backache that seemed to be here to stay. She went into her bathroom, fetched the tissue roll from her cupboard. Andy let her in the toilet room and closed the door behind her.

  “I got it. Your neighbors.”

  “What? Tell me!”

  “Don’t talk so loudly. I didn’t see all of them; some weren’t at home. But I did notice they’re not all purely French.”

  “You sound like our awful president when you say that.”

  “Listen. Listen carefully. They’re like you. Bicultural.”

  She took the paper out of her pocket and unfolded it.

  “Arlen, from Montreal. Bell, from Australia. Engeler, not there. Fromet, supergluey, poured her heart out. She has an English mum. Holzmann, from Germany. Azoulay, Morocco. Olsen and Miki, not home.”

  “Adelka Miki’s mother is Italian.”

  “Aha. See? And your buddy Perrier?”

  “Belgian mother. I believe he speaks Flemish.”

  “Pomeroy, charming, from San Francisco. Rachewski, from Saint Petersburg. Van Druten, Amsterdam. Zajak, not home.”

  “What’s your point, missy?”

  It was beginning to get warm in the tiny space.

  “You’re all bilingual. You all speak two languages fluently.”

  Clarissa’s pulse quickened.

  “Andy! Mia White!”

  “Yes, what about her?”

  “Franco-British, like me.”

  Andy waved the paper around theatrically.

  “The mind reels. What if C.A.S.A. was studying the lot of you because you have hybrid brains, as you like to call it? And what if dear bilingual Mia White was the project leader on all this?”

  The cat was anxiously waiting for them. They returned to the screen, not speaking to each other. Clarissa found she could no longer concentrate on the movie. She kept thinking back to the numerous questions Mia White had asked her about bilingualism, trying to remember her own answers.

  Andy was scribbling something on a bit of paper. She handed it over to her.

  On the third floor, door on the left was ajar. Jim Perrier’s place. Wasn’t able to see inside. I rang; no one answered.

  Clarissa continued to stare at the screen, transfixed. Andy mumbled, “We need to go check this out. Later. When everyone’s off in the land of nod.”

  * * *

  The entire building was still. Not a single noise to be heard. The night-lights were switched on, casting a pallid glimmer into the depths of the stairwell. Clarissa and Andy waited until two in the morning. They watched another movie, or pretended to, more or less dropping off in front of it; then they turned off all the lights, faked going to bed, lying down in the dark, fully clothed. Clarissa activated “intimate mode.” They quietly slipped out of the flat.

  Jim Perrier’s door was ajar. It only needed to be pushed in order to open wide. Inside, a patch of darkness. Andy turned on her mobile’s flashlight. Clarissa pondered if this was a good idea. What would they ever do, or say, if they were found here? But Andy was already striding ahead, fearless. What an amazing little person. But then she thought of Jordan. Her daughter would be furious, no doubt.

  “Come on!” murmured Andy. “There’s no one here.”

  The space had been entirely stripped. Andy moved the flashlight over the walls and floors. Everything was empty, as if no one had ever lived here. Clarissa thought of Jim Perrier, in his underwear, the night the alarm went off. His pleasant cologne. Where was he now?

  “Watch out for those cameras,” whispered Clarissa. “‘They’ will detect us soon enough.”

  “In my opinion, nothing’s on,” said Andy. “The virtual assistant is off, as well. We have nothing to be afraid of. They’re not going to film a vacant apartment.”

  They padded into the kitchen, then the bathroom.

  “What if Jim was expelled by C.A.S.A.,” said Andy, “because he knew too much?”

  “Or maybe because of his drinking problem?”

  “Whatever it was, C.A.S.A. didn’t approve.”

  “Maybe he’s the one who took off—”

  “Shh!” commanded Andy, interrupting her. “There’s someone there, just outside.”

  Clarissa was petrified. Her stomach churned uncomfortably. Who could it be, out there? Ben? Dr. Dewinter? She’d have to think up some sort of excuse to explain what they were doing here. Panic took over.

  “Get into that wardrobe over there, Mums. Let me take charge. I know what to do.”

  “But…”

  “Do what I say. I can handle this. Trust me.”

  Clarissa dashed into the hiding place, taking care to leave the door slightly open. From there, she could glimpse the entrance, where Andy had lain down on the floor, as if she were asleep. What on earth was she doing?

  The noise Andy had picked up was now making its way to her own ears: an odd hissing sound. Andy was still flat out, motionless. Clarissa held her breath. The presence materialized, crossed the threshold. The form she beheld had nothing human about it; it was a large steel wheel, moving forward with metallic clicks. The circle halted when it came to Andy, and then, under Clarissa’s agitated and incredulous gaze, it lengthened out, modifying itself, changing its shape. She saw a long iron silhouette slowly unfold, taking its time, unfurling upward as it grazed the ceiling. Clarissa had never seen one in true life before, but she knew what it was. And Jim had mentioned it. A Bardi. One of the most elaborate and redoubtable guard robots ever, overpriced and efficient. At the end of each extremity, it bore a set of electrocuting pincers. Two round gleaming LED lights acted as its eyes. The Bardi had something of a Giacometti statue about it, with its long, lean, and elegant lines, and seemed harmless, but Clarissa had read enough about them to know what a Bardi was capable of. How could she get Andy out of this? She thought of Jordan. Ivan.

  The Bardi had located Andy’s body on the floor. It came onward with that menacing skid that compressed Clarissa’s heart. The red beam flickered over Andy, who pretended to awaken.

  “Get up.”

  A mechanical, androgynous voice.

  Andy rose, unperturbed. How was she able to remain so calm? Clarissa also knew the robots were equipped with facial recognition. The red spotlights lit up Andy’s face and then locked onto her eyes.