On the wall panel, she read the temperature had flown up to forty-nine degrees Celsius, an unprecedented event. A brand-new record. There had been many casualties. There were, no doubt, going to be even more. Clarissa staggered back to the living room with difficulty. Her body felt stiff and heavy. She glanced outside, to the building facing hers. Hardly any lights on. The city seemed fast sleep. But shrill ambulance sirens and the drones’ incessant circling came to her from afar. She felt sweaty. Her clothes were sticky. Was there a problem with the air-conditioning? She asked Mrs. Dalloway to check.

  Two words lit up the panel.

  SYSTEM ERROR.

  Clarissa opened the front door. It was boiling on the landing, as if a heater had been turned on full blast. She went to fetch her mobile. Get hold of Jordan, Adelka. The calls couldn’t go through, even though the signal was strong. She tried a dozen times, in vain. She remembered the landline in her office and rushed to it. When she stuck the phone to her ear, there was no dial tone, just an automatic voice blaring out the same words over and over: “System error. Please hang up. System error. Please hang up.”

  She was alone in her flat, with no air-conditioning, no mineral water. Up on the eighth floor, under a skylight that had warmed up all day long under the broiling sun. Perspiration trickled down the back of her neck, between her breasts. Dusk had barely been able to lower the heat. Her heart beat with slow, painful thumps. She could hear her blood flow through her eardrums with a muffled sucking noise that nauseated her. Her body had been drained of all the vigor she had left. She was a wreck. She couldn’t move. It seemed to her the residence had depleted her of all her sap. She was nothing but an empty shell.

  As she lay on the sofa, limp, inert, craving water, she felt she suddenly knew what “they” wanted, what “they” were doing. It was clear. How had she not seen it? She had to write it down, straight away. The floor swayed when she tried to get up. Above her head, the ceiling looked like waves were lapping over it. Hands stretched out in front of her, she ambled ahead warily. The screens on the walls weren’t functioning properly; frames were skipping, appeared to be jumbled together, along with a crackling sound. New words popped up: PROTOCOL C.A.S.A. DOWN. REBOOT. Clarissa couldn’t help smiling, in spite of her weariness. She imagined Dr. Dewinter and her team dripping with sweat, working themselves into a frenzy in front of their inoperative screens and servers. Somehow or other, the heat wave must have triggered the internal system’s meltdown.

  Clarissa got hold of her notebooks, tucked away in her handbag. She sat down to write, and had to put her pen down after a few sentences, she felt so weak. She shouldn’t take all this lightly, at her age. She had to dampen her body, drink plenty of fluids. She had to act fast. Under the shower, she’d go. She’d wait it out there.

  Impossible to stand up again. Her limbs had gone as flaccid as marshmallow candy. Flat on her stomach, she slid across the flooring, making feeble swimming movements. The remaining distance to the bathroom seemed never-ending. Sometimes she’d halt, spent. She felt like crying but forced herself not to. She certainly wasn’t going to perish right there on her own floor! How pathetic! How ridiculous! She could hear her father’s voice, his cursing, his wit. Bloody hell! Move on, now! Come on, girl! Rustle your bustle! Her elbows stung as she inched along. Each effort she made forced a strangled moan from her. The shower was miles away. She could very well stay right there, flat out, wheezing, drenched with perspiration, and no one would ever know. Cameras were no longer filming. She would peter out, just like that. In a few days, her body would be found by Ben, or by the nice cleaning lady who came once a week. Jordan and Andy would turn up beforehand; she was sure of that. At least she hoped so. It was tempting to let herself drop off. So very easy. The surface under her cheek felt hot and sticky.

  As she stared close-up at the grooves engrained within the wooden planks, shadows began to materialize, created by the many indentations; tormented features appeared, sketched here and there as if by magic: malevolent eyes, grimacing mouths, crooked noses. It seemed to her the floorboards were covered with a chain of scowling masks, hideous hobgoblins with emaciated faces like in Munch’s powerful painting, The Scream. She forced her eyes away, but when she glanced at the walls, she noticed with anguish blurry shapes coming to life there as well, as if the corridor were crowded with apparitions hiding behind partitions, reaching out to grab her.

  Clarissa shut her eyes. That was better. They had gone. She breathed slowly, using Elise’s method. Should she surrender to this gentle stupor? Should she let herself be carried away? Are you off your rocker, girl? Blast it, that’s enough! Her father’s voice, calling her by that first name she hated.

  She raised her head, gritted her teeth with all the forcefulness she could muster. Keep moving. Keep going forward. Inch by inch. The goblins had vanished. She had to reach the shower. A trembling frame caught her eye—a square image appearing on the luminous panel at the end of the passageway. Clarissa made slow progress, puffing and panting. The palms of her hands were sore; she had cramps in her legs. She was able to make out a sort of index card with an ID photo. She drew closer, managed to heave herself to her knees with a final effort. She didn’t have her glasses on, and she stuck her nose to the screen.

  SURNAME: PERRIER

  FIRST NAME: JIM

  AGE: 35

  She couldn’t figure out what it was, why she was seeing this. Jim’s card faded away, then popped back up on the unit.

  CONSTITUTIONAL SIGNS: ALCOHOLIC. DRUG ADDICT. PARANOID PERSONALITY DISORDER.

  The display went black. She squealed with frustration. Then other cards emerged, too fast for her to see them properly. The heat must have affected the servers. Everything C.A.S.A. knew and was hiding had somehow become visible. Were all the artists of the residence witnessing this confidential data right now? Or was this only happening in her place? The frames shuffled by in a quick frenzy. At times, the system switched off, then lit up again. Suddenly, she thought she saw her own index card, only for a split second, her features looking bonier than ever, and a long paragraph, where a chunk of words reached out to slap her: PRONE TO DEPRESSION.

  Her anger outdid her weakness, and she shot to her feet with new vigor, her entire body quaking with resentment. She wasn’t going to give in to this. Never. She was going to flee. She had to prove all this. She had to photograph those index cards, keep it all as evidence. She turned back to get her mobile. Another dizzy spell slowed her down. She was forced to stop and lean against the wall, catching her breath. Her skin felt clammy. There was no air.

  When she came back with her phone, the panel had gone dark once more. She hung around. It did not light up again. Had she imagined it all? After fifteen minutes, she went to the shower, weary and uneasy. She couldn’t make out the difference between the hobgoblins on the floorboards and the index cards. What had she truly perceived? Had it all been in her mind? She undressed, taking her time, feeling the shakiness take over her body again. The mirror sent back a ghostly echo. Who was watching her, back there? Who could see her? She held up her middle finger wordlessly, with a bitter smirk. Once she got under the shower, tap open, she huddled there, back against the wall. The water was still lukewarm. She shut her eyes, let the stream flow into her mouth, her ears. The trickle of the running water had a calming effect. She thought back to what she had read about Jim Perrier. Alcohol. Drugs. Paranoia. What should she make of it?

  Something moving startled her. It was the cat. He stared at her thoughtfully, sitting across from her.

  “Hop on in, old sport. It’ll do you good.”

  She had always heard cats hated water, but against all expectation, Chablis let out a small mew and leaped over to land by her side. He let himself get entirely wet, then, with his customary daintiness, installed himself on her thighs and began to purr.

  She was still asleep when the doorbell rang. She had no idea of the time; she only remembered having closed the tap, flung herself onto her bed, wrapped in a humid towel. The room temperature seemed agreeably cool. She slipped into a bathrobe and checked the control panel. It was Ben, more good-humored than usual, with an embarrassed expression.

  “Everything okay, Mrs. Katsef?”

  “Not really. I only just woke up.”

  He explained the system had undergone a gigantic breakdown and that the air-conditioning had stopped functioning. But it had all been fixed.

  “I see,” she said. “I nearly kicked the bucket.”

  He gazed at her, confused.

  “Oh, my gosh!”

  “I guess I’m tougher than I look. What about the other artists?”

  “Most of them left the residence before it got too hot. Have you seen the news?”

  “No.”

  “Everything collapsed, all over the city. Breakdown, failure, outage. No signal, no surveillance, hacked databases, burglaries. Melted asphalt. And lots of casualties.”

  “Indeed … Do you need anything?”

  “Yes, Dr. Dewinter would like all artists who went through the heat wave to pass a medical test. I need to check everything’s working properly.”

  Then he added, “You look very pale, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  She did not answer, only glared back at him. While he was in the bathroom, she checked her phone. It was just past nine. Numerous calls and texts. She went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Staring at her in the face were four bottles of mineral water. The ones she had looked for in vain last night. She sighed.

  She went back to reading her texts. Jordan was fraught, so were Andy, Toby, François, and a couple of other friends. How was she? Could she respond? Was everything okay? She tried to answer them fast, Jordan first. Yes, it had been dreadful, the air-conditioning broke down, everything else broke down, she had never been so thirsty, hot, and faint in her life, but she was okay! Jordan texted back, relieved. She’d call later on today.

  As Clarissa was getting back to Andy, her phone rang. It was Laure-Marie, her publisher. She picked up immediately. Laure-Marie wanted to know if she’d survived. Laughingly, Clarissa said that she had, but when she thought of the acute nausea, the vanishing mineral water, the goblins appearing on the floorboards, she wondered if she hadn’t underestimated what she had gone through. Laure-Marie wanted to get back in touch. They hadn’t seen each other for a while. Apparently, Clarissa had moved. What about getting together for a drink? That way, Clarissa could tell her about her new project, because Laure-Marie was waiting to hear about it! Clarissa agreed to call her later on that week.

  Her project. Her book. At a standstill. By eroding her energy, devastating her sleep, filming her around-the-clock, C.A.S.A. had crushed her desire to write. All this was part of their plan, which she understood last night. She’d have to get hold of Andy, too, to tell her what she had discovered. Clarissa already knew she was not going to call her publisher. She hadn’t made enough progress. She had to get out of here first. She had to find out how. The lyrics of Toby’s favorite song, “Hotel California,” kept coming back to her: She could check out anytime she wanted, but she could never leave.

  Ben was still in the bathroom, fiddling. He must have sensed her impatience, because he came out looking self-conscious. He informed her everything was in order. The test would take a while longer, he said. But she had to go through with it. Dr. Dewinter had insisted all artists should.

  “Fine,” said Clarissa grimly. “I just can’t wait.”

  He gawked at her again, lost.

  “Good-bye, Ben,” she said icily.

  He scurried out. Clarissa headed into the bathroom and faced the mirror, looking into the two small red specks.

  “Hello, Clarissa,” said a mechanical male voice. “Please place your palm on the inlay.”

  Clarissa obeyed. She couldn’t help noticing how gaunt she looked. She had lost weight, which was confirmed when she stepped on the scales.

  “Please answer the following questions, Clarissa. Did you faint during the heat wave?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “Did you feel dizzy and lose your balance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you feel thirsty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your urine appear darker?”

  “I didn’t pay attention.”

  “Did you have any cramps?”

  “Yes, in my legs.”

  “Did you have any hallucinations?”

  “No.”

  “Please put your hand back on the inlay.”

  She noticed the voice had switched from French to English. She put her hand back.

  The voice repeated, “Did you have any hallucinations during the heat wave?”

  There was no way she was going to admit she’d seen imps in the patterns of the wooden floor.

  “No.”

  “Did you feel weak?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your head ache?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you nauseous?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are eyeglasses on your left. Please put them on. Face the mirror and place your palm on the inlay.”

  Ben had left glasses near the sink. She positioned them on her nose. They blurred her vision slightly. A dull whine started in her left ear.

  “Please keep your eyes open, Clarissa.”

  The whine became more powerful, like a mighty hum, digging deep into her head. She felt the noise spiraling into her brain like a drill.

  “What is this?” she muttered.

  “Please refrain from talking. Do not remove your hand. Please look at the marks in the mirror.”

  How long was she going to remain docile? Was she really going to stand there, let them get on with this? What were they doing? Trying to read what she was thinking? Pilfering her brain?

  The voice had gone back to French. She hardly noticed. She tried to stand straight, but the intensifying hum made her shudder and feel giddy.

  “Please remain still.”

  She felt convinced she knew what was going on. She had read about those scientists probing the brain’s electrical activity, trying to read into inner thoughts.

  “Look into the mirror, please. Describe what you see.”

  She saw her own face, as long and thin as Virginia Woolf’s. With eyes as blue as Romain Gary’s.

  “I see myself.”

  “What else do you see, please?”

  She noticed an image had been projected within the glass. It looked like a revolving sphere.

  “I see a circle.”

  “Describe it, please.”

  “In French or in English?”

  A pause.

  “They” hadn’t expected that, she thought, gloating.

  “Don’t choose a language consciously. Just describe what you see, please.”

  She described the glittery circle, using French and English at the same time, flawlessly switching from one to the other. Speaking very fast, still using both languages, she invented elements she did not see at all—a tree, a lake, a house. She went into detail. It was almost fun.

  “Please describe what you see.”

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “There is no house, lake, or tree in the mirror.”

  “Really? Well, I see them. You don’t?”

  The humming noise was strong now, nearly unbearable. What the hell was in those glasses? Electrodes? Captors? What were “they” up to, exactly? Delving into her neurons, certainly. Resistance began to take shape within her, and she gave full force to that defiance. She watched her inner retaliation thrive; it was like a blue glow hurling itself against the humming noise, casting a screen all around, engulfing Clarissa, making the mirror and the space around her disappear. The hum could no longer get through the blue, no matter how hard it tried. Don’t give them what they want. Don’t let them see what’s inside your head. Keep all those thoughts to yourself. They can’t take thoughts from you if you don’t let them. Clarissa forced her eyes to remain open, visualizing the blue glow becoming stronger, thicker, and deeper, fighting the powerful grinding whine with every cell in her body, every pulsation of her heart. It was like a merciless battle against the demented storm raging inside her mind.

  “Please relax,” said the voice.

  The blue radiance became her language, neither French nor English; it became her own language, expressing complete pugnacity, and that words were no longer needed in order to clarify she was not going to let “them” into her mind. How long did the combat last? She had no idea. The whining finally decreased. She was asked to take the glasses off. She felt drained.

  “Thank you, Clarissa. Medical examination completed.”

  She tottered into the toilet, bolted the door; it was the only spot in the flat that remained an intimate space. She grinned at the irony of it. She slid down, back to the wall, tried to rest. To her consternation, she sensed the intense weakness she’d felt last night creep its way back into her organism. She must gain her strength back. She had to make plans. She had to act fast.

  Clarissa rubbed her hands over her face, trying to give herself some energy. She breathed slowly in and out. She didn’t care if no one believed her. Maybe only Andy would. It didn’t matter. She knew what to do next.

  * * *

  Nathalie’s bookstore-café, on boulevard du Montparnasse, was packed this morning, despite the tragic events of yesterday. Customers gathered around displays, settled into cozy armchairs, or sat down for coffee and cake. Clarissa hadn’t been back since the opening. She was cheered to see so many bookworms on the premises. A young salesperson informed her that Nathalie was upstairs, in her office. She’d go fetch her. Clarissa wandered through the stalls. She realized she hadn’t done much reading since her move. The residence had dispossessed her of her love of books. No writing, no reading. What a punishment.