“The individual is a minor recognized by C.A.S.A. protocol. Adriana Garnier. Explain the reason of your presence on these premises.”

  Adriana did not lose countenance. She lifted her chin to be able to stare back at the robot. It had bent over in order to examine her more closely, and Clarissa could make out the details of the startling metallic features, and the two small horns planted on each side of its head, giving it an animal-like aspect.

  “I’m the granddaughter of Clarissa Katsef, the writer on the eighth floor. I was supposed to meet the person who lives here. But Jim never turned up. I fell asleep waiting for him.”

  The silent robot appeared to ingest the information.

  “The door was open,” Andy went on smoothly. “So I just came in.”

  “Your mobile.”

  The iron pincer made its way toward Andy, opening up to form a flat surface.

  “I don’t mind showing it to you, but you won’t find traces of any of our texts. I erased them all.”

  “Why?”

  Andy shrugged.

  “I don’t want my parents breathing down my neck. They don’t know about my relationship with Jim.”

  “Hand over your mobile.”

  Andy obeyed. She placed the phone in the little tray. A throbbing noise was heard.

  “Thank you. You may take it back. Go up to your grandmother’s place and do not come back here.”

  Andy seemed to hesitate; then she said, “Where is Jim Perrier, please?”

  “There is no Jim Perrier here.”

  “But where is he? Why did he disappear? Why is his apartment empty?”

  “Go back upstairs.”

  “I’d like to know what happened to Jim!”

  “Do not argue with me.”

  The robot slid forward and touched Adriana’s arm with its right pincer. The snapping sound of an electric shock was heard.

  “What the fuck?” bawled the young girl. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “Go upstairs. Get out of here.”

  “Okay! I got the message! I’m leaving!”

  The robot shoved Andy toward the entry, claws brandished like weapons. Clarissa heard the door bang shut. She waited, frightened, her chest feeling tight. She’d let a few minutes slip by; then she’d rush upstairs to join Andy.

  Jim Perrier’s vacant flat seemed dark all of a sudden. The only thing she could hear was her slightly ragged breath. Apprehension pulsed through her once more. What had she done, following Andy? She longed to be back home, all snug, with Andy and the cat. A mug of herbal tea and off to bed. If Jim Perrier could see her now, cowering with fear in his empty wardrobe. She could picture his grin.

  A faint hissing sound was heard, and her heart froze. She pricked up her ears. There it was again. She hadn’t gotten it wrong. The Bardi had remained inside. It hadn’t left. It must have understood there was a presence in the apartment. It was coming back for her, like a bloodhound. Horrified, Clarissa crawled to the back of the wardrobe.

  The robot slid along, unhurried, with the slight squeak she had learned to fear, while its face swung methodically from left to right. She knew it was equipped with sensors capable of picking out body heat. From her hiding place, she could make out the reddish glow of its two LEDs piercing the gloom. It was coming closer, slowly but surely, and it was going to find her. She could imagine the steel claws clamping onto her arm. She felt like she was going to pass out.

  A series of loud reiterated knocks on the door made her jump. The robot stopped moving, only a few feet away from her. It swiveled back toward the entrance. Clarissa heard Andy’s shout.

  “I want to know where Jim Perrier is! I want to know where my friend is!”

  “Jim Perrier no longer lives here. Go home. Immediately.”

  “But he told me to meet him here! Something is going on!”

  “If you don’t leave, you’ll have to come with me.”

  “I’m a minor!” wailed Andy. “You can’t just take me with you, and besides, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Leave.”

  “If I go upstairs, will you leave, as well?” asked Andy.

  Clarissa was amazed by her granddaughter’s audacity.

  “Yes, I will depart if you go upstairs,” came the robotic tone.

  “Watch me, Mr. Bardi! I’m going up! Look! See?”

  Andy’s voice became fainter.

  Clarissa waited, her stomach still painful, her breath short. She couldn’t bear it if the Bardi came back. She peered out from behind the crack of the wardrobe door. The robot had stopped talking; it appeared frozen. Then, suddenly, it twisted down with an unexpectedly graceful swoop, coiled itself up, and took on the circle aspect it had when it arrived. Clarissa heard it roll down the steps.

  A couple of minutes later, Andy called out.

  “Mums! Get out of there! Hurry!”

  Clarissa leaped out, not knowing where she was going, hands held out, and ended her wild rush, gasping for breath in Andy’s arms. The front door on the right of the landing opened, and an elegant man in his sixties appeared, wearing a blue dressing gown. He glanced at them cautiously.

  “Is everything all right? I heard some noise.”

  He had an American accent, blue eyes. Andy smiled at him reassuringly and answered him in English. They were very sorry; it was so late! She’d seen him earlier on; she’d come to ask for salt. Sean Pomeroy, right? From San Francisco. Clarissa introduced herself in turn, explained they were looking for his neighbor, Jim Perrier. Sean Pomeroy replied that he hadn’t seen him for a while. Perhaps he’d moved. Then he added, with a mischievous smile, “A rather raucous young man.”

  “Oh?” said Clarissa.

  “Let’s say he often came home drunk and got the doors mixed up.”

  They said good night. Going up in the elevator, Clarissa told herself this amiable gentleman must have thought they were mad. She couldn’t get over what they had just done. The risk of it all! The danger! But she couldn’t bring herself to scold Adriana. Her granddaughter looked back at her with quiet triumph in her eyes.

  When they got to the eighth floor, Clarissa asked her to make sure there was no Bardi lurking around. Andy checked.

  “No Bardi, Mums. Just a poor cat mewing behind the door.”

  Clarissa descended into a troubled slumber, with the memory of the Bardi’s red eyes chasing her. She awoke at dawn, and lay there, listening to Andy breathing. She waited until the young girl opened her eyes and smiled at her. What a marvelous thing, Adriana’s smile.

  “I had such weird dreams, Mums.”

  “House specialty, I’d say!”

  Andy yawned and stretched her limbs.

  “You were talking in your sleep, Mums. You kept repeating the same word over and over in a soft little voice.”

  Clarissa stiffened.

  “What word?”

  “A name.”

  “Which name?”

  “Glenn.”

  Clarissa shut her eyes. She felt exhaustion take over and govern her. She wanted to curl up and never get out of bed; in the pit of her stomach, she felt a load where she had carried her dead child. She couldn’t believe she had been saying his name out loud during her sleep.

  “Mums. You don’t have to explain.”

  Andy’s small hand found her own.

  “I know who Glenn is. Mummy told me a long time ago she had an older brother who died at birth. Your son. I’ve never talked about it with you. I was waiting. Take your time. If we don’t talk now, it will be at another moment.”

  Then Andy whispered resolutely, “I don’t know what the hell they want, or what they’re doing, and maybe we will never find out. But I do know one thing. You have to get out of here, Mums. Pronto.”

  NOTEBOOK

  Afterward, I had to write it all down. Describe it. I had to get it out of my system. The only way to do that was to create a distance. To protect myself.

  The door, facing me. The key, in my hand. One final qualm. Turn around, leave, stay in the dark? Open up, discover it all? The choice appeared easy, in the beginning. But it became infernal as I lingered on the doorstep.

  Door opening. No squeak. I slipped in easily. I had waited a long while, nearly an hour. I had rung the bell. Nobody had answered. The door was double-locked.

  A small entrance. An overpowering, brash tone of purple. I was startled. I knew François preferred the elegant discretion of taupe, russet, dark blue, silver.

  Another door. I breathed in whorls of potent and heavy feminine perfume. It was familiar. The one I had sniffed on my husband’s jackets and shirts. Sickeningly sweet, like cotton candy.

  The place felt stuffy, as if it wasn’t ventilated often.

  A single room, not large. Blinds lowered. Not much light. Night had fallen and it was hard to make anything out. Not a lot of furniture, apart from a huge four-poster bed that took center stage. It obscenely dominated all the rest. Purple, everywhere. Walls, fitted carpet, net curtains around the bed.

  François was waiting for me at our friends’ place for dinner. He had already sent several texts, wondering what I was doing, why I was late. I hadn’t answered.

  I had time, after all. But what if she came home? I hadn’t thought about that. All of a sudden, I felt nervous. The perfume was making me uncomfortable.

  Near the window, on a pedestal table, there was a framed photograph. I drew closer. It was her. Her, with him. They were hugging, on that dreadful gigantic bed.

  She had curly blond hair. She was young, younger than Jordan. Thirty years old, give or take. A smooth, angelic face. The pink skin of a piglet. A beatific smile. Emotionless eyes. A plump body. She was wearing a negligée; he was bare-chested.

  My eyes were beginning to get used to the penumbra. On the chest of drawers, photo albums. Be careful. Watch out. Do you really want to look at those? Do you really want to see them? You already know everything there is to know. You know your husband is cheating on you with this young woman. You know they meet here, a couple of times a week. You should get the hell out of here. Now. Why torture yourself? Why look at those blasted albums?

  It was impossible to turn back. I looked at them all.

  Romantic snacks, cocktails, champagne, birthday cakes, always here, in this vile purple chamber. My husband, soppy-eyed and smitten. Her affected smirk, her golden curls. He wore dark jackets and a tie; she, low-cut tunics. In one of the photos, she was sitting on his knees, wearing an evening dress. He was avidly suckling her breast.

  Under the albums, I found a tablet, a smaller model. Don’t look. Resist. Put it down. Get out. Clear off.

  Too late. Twenty videos or so. It was so easy to press on the icons.

  My heart had started to beat with a slow, devouring anger. Videos of them on the bed. Close-ups. Kisses. Tongues and genitals. Her vulva was entirely hairless. Her on top of him. Him on her. Him inside her. Him in her mouth, in between her bosoms, in between her buttocks. I watched it all. The slow, then frenzied to-and-fro. My hands trembled. It was appalling.

  A mad urge to smash everything up. Wreak havoc. Decimate the place. Reduce it all to smithereens. But it didn’t last. I was a sitting duck for grief and despondency. In that sordid room, I stood there, helpless and drained.

  I went to check out the rest of the flat, switching on the lights. A tiny kitchen. Nothing in the refrigerator apart from champagne. Two glasses by the sink. Farther on, the bathroom. No lipstick, mascara, powder. Surprising, considering how made up she was in the videos. No beauty products. Just her perfume, on the shelf above the basin. They even shared a toothbrush. A stick of deodorant, for men. One large purple towel. In the shower, an item that looked like a long bottle brush for cleaning flasks, and a pear-shaped object made of black rubber.

  Back in the bedroom, I drew closer to the four-poster, as if to behold it one last time, before I left for good. The mauve net curtains were drawn. On the single night table, a vintage Polaroid camera, and some lubricant gel.

  I drew the voile curtain. I nearly screamed.

  There was a figure, on the mattress. A woman, lying there on her side, her back to me, her long blond locks spread over the pillow.

  8

  HEAT WAVE

  Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are …

  VIRGINIA WOOLF, Mrs. Dalloway, 1925

  Instead of screaming, I write books.

  ROMAIN GARY, Promise at Dawn, 1960

  IN THE PAST ten years, Paris had endured a string of heat waves, but the one drawing closer, heralded by uncertainties, concerns, speculations, and confusion of all kinds, was set to be record-breaking. It was pronounced devastating, although it was predicted to last forty-eight hours at the most. The president had gone so far as to impose a nonworking day. Her minister for health exhorted Parisians to remain at home. For those in need, air-conditioned spaces were made available; bottled water was to be delivered by drones at specific areas, and all emergency departments were fully mobilized and on the alert. Trains were not operating, because heat might distort railway tracks. Only a few planes were allowed to take off. Public transport services were reduced to the minimum. The latest heat wave, which came close to forty-five degrees Celsius, was already an unpleasant memory, but this one would be much worse. Irked, Clarissa listened to the news. Why such doom-mongering? For the past day, the impending hot spell was described only in the most fear-provoking terms.

  The residence was fully equipped with state-of-the-art air-conditioning, and for that, Clarissa was thankful. She had suggested Jordan and her little family come and stay during the hottest hours, but her daughter had declined. Jordan had some portable units that would do. They’d pull through. Why had Clarissa picked out a small shadow in Jordan’s tone? Was she imagining things, or was Jordan resentful about something?

  Fed up with the alarmist headlines, Clarissa turned off the newscast. Close the shutters, stay inside, drink enough water. Yes, she knew all that. Like thousands of Parisians, she endured both those commands and torrid temperatures several times a year. This morning, her father sent a message that made her laugh. From all his ninety-eight years of age, he reminded her that senior citizens, like herself, should be most vigilant during a heat wave. The last one had spelled carnage, did she recall? Fortunately, London was going to stay cool. Signed “Super Senior Citizen,” her dad.

  A little ping was heard. Mrs. Dalloway had something to say. Her words showed up on the wall for Clarissa to read.

  FYI, mail has just been delivered. There’s a letter for you. Handwritten. No return address.

  Postal mail had become uncommon. Paper was no longer used for bills, love letters, or even condolences. People had stopped writing over the years; they sent text messages or emails. Clarissa was curious as to who had written her a letter the old-fashioned way. She went down to fetch it. She didn’t see anyone. Had the artists all retreated to their homes in fear of the heat wave? She instantly recognized François’s handwriting on the envelope. She didn’t open it. When she got back upstairs, she slipped the letter into her handbag. Should she read it now? Courage failed her. She’d do it another day.

  Her book was coming along slowly. Too slowly. She hid from surveillance to write in both her notebooks, the English one and the French one, but her heart was no longer in it. Leaving here had become her new fixation. Getting out of C.A.S.A. It ate up all the rest. She had signed a contract and a lease. She was going to have to check all that out again. And above all, wherever could she go? That unanswerable question preoccupied her.

  The sky turned livid as the day progressed. She had never seen such a color. The sun beat down through the skylight, which she had not been able to black out. She entrenched herself in her bedroom, where the shutters could be closed. In the dimness, she felt safer. Chablis dozed. Clarissa thought about the multitude of air conditioners frantically struggling against irrational temperatures while spewing out hot air. She found the waiting unbearable. She received texts from friends making sure she was sheltered, looking after herself. She answered back reassuringly, heartened by the small tokens of affection.

  The hours crawled by with extreme slowness. Everything felt sluggish. Andy called to see how her grandmother was doing. It wasn’t too awful at theirs. But she wasn’t looking forward to nighttime. Clarissa reminded her that she had suggested the family come over, and that Jordan had refused. Incomprehensible, according to Andy.

  Clarissa found it impossible to read or write. She felt jittery, worried sick. She wasn’t anxious for her own sake; she felt frightened for the city. Paris had never been through such high temperatures. She wondered if infrastructures were going to make it. She answered a call from Toby, watching over her, even from far away. She switched the TV on again, without the sound, gazed at the ghost-town streets of a deserted capital. Not a single car, not one pedestrian. All shops were closed. Only drones could be seen making their rounds, like huge insects hovering over empty boulevards. She could hear their rumble through the double glazing. She had always loathed that noise.

  She unfastened a windowpane at four o’clock in the afternoon, just to see. The blistering air was a smack in the face, similar to opening an oven. Forty-five degrees Celsius in the shade. She was aware the digits were going to rise even higher. She felt protected in her cool home, but the escalating warmth, like the relentless loom of a calamity, shook her up. The news channels kept harking back to the death of the bees and its consequences, and showing the same perpetual images of climate disruption. The lifeless streets of Paris appeared to be the main focus of the media worldwide. Disheartened by the morose broadcasts, Clarissa asked Mrs. Dalloway to show the movie Modern Times.

  She must have fallen asleep when Chaplin was being swallowed whole by the factory gearwheels, because when she opened her eyes, night had fallen. Her mouth felt furry; her head ached. When she rose, dizziness forced her down again. The cat lay listless in a corner. She hobbled to the kitchen. She couldn’t find any bottles of mineral water in the refrigerator. Yet she was certain she had stocked up on them. She couldn’t understand why they were nowhere to be seen. The throbbing of her head worsened; she felt like retching. She had to grip the furniture in order not to fall. Never in her entire life had she been so thirsty. Her entire body seemed parched. She began to shudder. There was no other choice than to drink from the tap, that water filtered by the residence, of which she was suspicious. The liquid ran over her hand, tepid, and strangely oily. She waited for it to become cooler, but it never did. She had to force herself to gulp down lukewarm sips, which made her feel even queasier.