Chablis, like her, was finding it tricky to adapt to the luminous and modern space, built with glass and honey-hued wood and stone. However, a part of her liked the austerity, the sleek surfaces, the light. She and the cat would have to make this territory their own, and that would take time. Patience was needed. She had left behind so much stuff when she moved in. She hadn’t wanted anything emotionally stamped with François. As if he had died. But the worst thing was, he had not died. He was, in fact, doing very well—insolently well. It was their marriage that had passed away. It was their marriage she had laid to rest.

  Clarissa put Chablis into the basket placed in a corner of her room. It was useless, because in the middle of the night, the cat landed gently on her bed and burrowed against her back. When he had started to knead her shoulder with his front paws, as if she were a slab of tasty dough, she was startled. Jordan had explained that all cats did that; it was instinctive. She had gotten used to it. In fact, it comforted her.

  After a quick shower, Clarissa lay down on her bed in the semidarkness. A new mattress. François had not slept on it. He had not been here, either. She hadn’t invited him. Would she? It was still too early. She hadn’t taken it all in. Several times, Jordan had asked what was it that her stepfather was guilty of, to make her mother pack up and leave on the spot. She could have told her. Jordan was forty-four. No longer a kid. She had a teenage daughter. But she hadn’t had the courage. Jordan had insisted. What had he done? Had he screwed around? Was he in love? Clarissa thought of the purple room, the blond curls. She could tell her daughter everything. She knew exactly which words to use. She imagined Jordan’s face. She had let the words rise to her lips, like a bitter bile, and had repressed them.

  Forget François. But it wasn’t easy to scrap a man she’d spent so many years with. When night came, she asked Mrs. Dalloway to project images and videos on the ceiling of her room: concerts by musicians she loved, movies, biopics, artistic creations. She let sounds and lights drift her away, often falling asleep. She couldn’t draw a frontier between her peculiar, sparkling dreams and Mrs. Dalloway’s displays. Sometimes, she let Mrs. Dalloway choose sequences picked according to what she had already seen. She didn’t see the night float by. Everything converged into a single tawdry cotillion she endured, as if she had been drugged. When she woke up, the cat snuggled against her; she found it hard to get out of bed, and her mouth was dry. Early mornings had seemed harsh ever since she’d moved here. Her entire body felt sore. She put it down to the collapse of her marriage, and the move. Would she ever get used to both?

  “Mrs. Dalloway, show me my emails.”

  The messages appeared on the ceiling.

  Dear Clarissa Katsef,

  I know you get dozens of emails like these, but I thought I’d give it a go. My name is Mia White. I’m nineteen. I’m a student at UEA, in Norwich. I’m in my second year. I’m studying French and English literature. I’m also enrolled in a creative writing course.

  (If you’ve read this far, then I pray you might continue?)

  I’m interested in how places influence writers. How their work is shaped by where they live, where they write. This, of course, is at the core of your own work, and in particular, Topography of Intimacy, which I read with great pleasure.

  (This is not a gooey fan letter, don’t worry. I’m not that type of reader.)

  I will be in Paris for the next six months, for my year abroad. I’m sure you’re very busy and you don’t have much time, but I’d like to meet you. I’m also bilingual, like you, and I grew up learning two languages, like you. My mum is French and my dad is English. Like you.

  I don’t know if you make time to meet your readers. Perhaps you don’t.

  Thank you for reading this.

  Sincerely,

  Mia White

  Clarissa took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes. No, she didn’t usually meet readers, apart from book signings and lectures. She used to, ten or fifteen years ago. Not anymore. Mia White. It was interesting, refreshing, getting an email from a nineteen-year-old. Didn’t that mean that a tiny minority still read books? And that they read her books? Wasn’t that short of miraculous?

  Hardly anyone read books anymore. She’d noticed that a while ago. People were glued to their phones, to their devices. Bookstores shut down, one after the other. Her biggest success, Topography of Intimacy, had been hacked so many times, it hardly brought in any royalties. It could be found online and downloaded in a single click, in any language. At first, Clarissa had put up a fuss, tried to warn her publisher, but she soon realized publishers were not doing much against piracy. They had other anxieties. They had to face that other, even more worrying problem she watched thrive month after month like a sly tumor: the loss of interest in reading. Yes, it seemed no one yearned for books anymore. No one bought them. This had been going on for quite a while. The phenomenal space social media gobbled up in everyone’s life was no doubt a reason for this disaffection. The frenetic succession of attacks strung one after the other like bloody pearls on a steadfast necklace of violence was another. Mobile phone snug in her palm, she, too, had found herself hypnotized by atrocious images scalding her with the abomination of sheer detail. She understood that to those addicted to such displays of barbarity, those constantly seeking more sensationalism like a junkie hankering for a fix, novels could appear savorless. It took time to read a book. As it took time to write one. And it appeared no one had the time to read or write anymore.

  “Would you like to answer Mia White?” asked Mrs. Dalloway.

  “No. Later. Show me the other emails.”

  She put her glasses back on. Her father’s email showed up now on the ceiling. She knew he dictated them. His arthritis prevented him from using a keyboard. He didn’t do too badly. His punctuation was poor, but he made himself clear. She corresponded with him by email. He didn’t hear well enough anymore to speak to her by phone or video. Probably something wrong with his hearing chip. She hadn’t told him yet about François.

  My darling C … [he still used her real name, which she hated],

  I’m ok and you. Your brother’s been looking after me but the damn boy’s got better things to do. I’m so bored you know. Most of my friends are dead and those who are still here are so fucking boring you can’t imagine. I know you haven’t spoken to your brother since that shitty inheritance business. My sister was a selfish pain in the ass. Really how could she possibly leave all her money to Arthur’s daughters and nothing to Jordan. I still can’t get over it. I know you don’t want to discuss this and that it hurts you but it hurts me too. Arthur has been a letdown to you his only sister but to me his father as well. He could have done something about the will. Give an amount to Jordan. What the fuck. He did nothing. I know Jordan doesn’t speak to her cousins. What sluts. They don’t have an ounce of your daughter’s class and brains. Serena’s inheritance totally screwed up this family. Thank God your mum is no longer here to see this mess. Darling please give me some news. I’m your old dad and even if I can’t make heads or tails of the intellectual stuff you write I’m so proud of you. You know you haven’t written to me in two weeks. Why and what the hell is going on. I asked Andy how you were. She always answers me not like her granny. She told me you had moved. What is going on. Where are you living now. I loved your flat near the Luxembourg gardens so why did you leave. Did François decide this. Or you. I’m sad I don’t get it. Come on tell me. Everything. Every email from you is like a little gift. It lights up my day. I miss you sweetheart. Come and see your old dad one of these days. I’m too old to come to Paris. I’m counting on you. Your old dad who loves you.

  She couldn’t help smiling. Her father wrote the way he spoke. She could almost see him in his ground-floor lair, surrounded by his hunting trophies, his golf clubs, and his collection. He collected ancient representations of hands, made of clay, porcelain, marble, plaster, wood, or wax. She had often brought some back for him, harvested during her book tours. So Adriana had let the cat out of the bag. Perhaps a good thing. She’d have to think carefully about what to tell her father. He wasn’t particularly fond of François, which hadn’t been the case with her first husband, Toby, Jordan’s father.

  “Do you wish to answer your father’s email?” asked Mrs. Dalloway.

  “Not now,” she said. And then she added, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Clarissa.”

  There was even a hint of a smile in Mrs. Dalloway’s voice. Like any virtual assistant, Mrs. Dalloway knew everything. She could answer any question, come up with the right answer each time. But Clarissa knew Mrs. Dalloway had also been programmed with specific data concerning herself. What, precisely? She hadn’t been able to find out. When she had met Clémence Dutilleul, she had undergone a surprising interview. The C.A.S.A. headquarters were also situated within the new neighborhoods that had sprung from the cinders of the attack. A tall glass-and-steel building with a rooftop garden. Clémence’s office gave on to that top floor. It was a vast and airy room with a view. The pale walls were paneled with mirrors. From here, Clarissa could see how the new white zone contrasted with the old Haussmannian gray-slated arteries, but it was a welcome, hopeful sight, she felt.

  Clémence was a small, thin woman in her early forties. She wore a black suit, which had a 1940s aspect to it, giving her a severe elegance Clarissa rather liked. She had no idea what to expect. There was no information about the interviews on the website, and she hadn’t found anything online. The C.A.S.A. artists’ residence remained shrouded in mystery. A short man in his fifties came to join them, and she didn’t catch his name. The interviews took place around a white oval table. A young man came to offer them tea and coffee. Clarissa had decided not to dress up for this. Most of her clothes were still in the flat she shared with François. She wanted to be seen exactly as she was. What was the point of pretending to be someone else? She wore a green shirt, white jeans, and sneakers. Her red hair was braided. She was convinced she would never get in anyhow. She was too old, not famous enough, she didn’t sell enough books, she wasn’t trendy. There were probably hundreds of younger, brighter candidates on their list. She hoped this wouldn’t be too humiliating.

  They had no files in front of them. Not even a device, a pen, or a piece of paper. They asked her if she minded being filmed. Yet she couldn’t see a camera anywhere. She said, no problem. She wondered where the camera was hidden. The man in his fifties had a pleasant face. It was his eyes that bothered her, how they took her in. Two black shiny marbles that never left her.

  Clémence sipped her coffee, and beamed. The silence lasted, and it didn’t bother Clarissa. She wasn’t afraid of silence. If they were expecting her to talk, to fill in the blanks, then they were wrong. She wasn’t going to come across as eager, or even desperate. She had nothing to lose. So she smiled back. There was probably an invisible team, tucked away in the building, or perhaps behind one of those mirrors, watching her every move, dissecting whatever she did.

  “Thank you very much for coming in today,” said Clémence Dutilleul at last.

  The man with the shiny black eyes spoke up.

  “This has nothing to do with a formal interview. The conversation we’ll be having is meant to be a relaxed, cordial one. Not an examination. We want to hear you talk about yourself, about your work. Our artists’ residence is a real estate elaboration that holds great promise. We crafted it so that people like you, artists, can live and work there serenely. We need to get to know you a little better. We’re not interested in what’s already been said or written about you. However, what does interest us is your own approach to your artistic output and the implementation of your body of work. We want to know more about your career history, your development. You can take all the time you wish, or, on the contrary, be succinct. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is the quality of your project and your artistic endeavor. I hope I’ve been clear, now. Over to you.”

  Two grins, slightly inflexible, and two pairs of inquisitive eyes. A fit of giggles nearly swept over her for a quick moment. Where should she begin? She hated talking about herself, and always had. She hadn’t prepared anything, no speech, no presentation. She couldn’t stand authors who took themselves seriously, who delighted in their own rhetoric. She couldn’t figure out what criteria these people’s selection process depended on. However, what does interest us is your own approach to your own artistic output and the implementation of your body of work. What the fuck, as her dad would say. She made up her mind fast. She was going to be to the point. Her application was never going to be chosen anyway. In ten minutes, she’d be out of here.

  “I’ve just left my husband.”

  It just slipped out. She hadn’t meant to bring up her personal life. Too bad. They were still staring at her attentively, nodding. She went on.

  She explained she had never lived alone. She had to feel good within a home, not only in order to live there but to write there, as well. She was looking for an apartment that could be a sort of shelter. A haven that would keep her safe, that would protect her. Fittingly, her work explored houses and homes, what they conveyed. She had come to writing late in life. She was already over fifty by the time her first novel was published. The path to writing had opened up as she had pieced together the link between writers and places. She hadn’t planned on writing a book at all. The novel foisted itself upon her after a personal tragedy and her discovery of hypnosis. It had been published, almost by chance, after a series of encounters, and it had done well. There was something else she wanted to tell them. In her opinion, artists don’t need to explain their work. If people didn’t get the gist of it or became sidelined, that was their problem. Why should an artist be heard? Creation spoke for itself. Occasionally, readers asked her to explain the endings of her books. It made her chuckle, weep at times, or even become downright furious. She wrote to make others think, not to give them answers.

  She realized her voice was loud, ringing out within the huge room, and her hands were waving around. The video team was probably sniggering while they filmed. No doubt they had crossed her name off the list.

  “Please go on,” said the man with the glasses.

  She replied that she didn’t have much more to add. Oh, just one last point. She had been raised by a British father and a French mother; she was perfectly bilingual. She had two writing languages and had never been able to pick one over the other. So she had used both. This was a well-known fact about her. The difference was that today she had started to write in both languages at the same time. This was the first time, ever, that she had chosen to do this.

  “That’s most interesting,” said Clémence slowly. “Could you please tell us more?”

  They ogled her with the same yearning. What glistening, voracious eyes!

  Could she trust them? They had such intense stares. She said that no, she couldn’t tell them more. Aptly, she was planning to write about just that: what it meant to have a hybrid brain that wrote in two languages simultaneously. It was a new project and it was too early for her to talk about it. Her editor wasn’t even aware of her project. It was difficult to describe an idea as it was thriving. But she knew how deeply the subject touched her, how personal it was, and she intended to get to the bottom of it. She had always found bilingualism and its mechanisms riveting. She wanted to take time to explore it, to take ownership of it.

  “A fascinating topic,” said the man.

  Clarissa was expecting to leave. She was due to visit a two-room apartment this afternoon, near La Fourche Métro station. A neighborhood she barely knew.

  “We will be back shortly,” announced Clémence with a wide smile. “Please wait for us here.”

  She was left alone in the large room with its mirrored walls. What had they gone to do? To discuss her candidacy with their team? Did she have a chance? She appeared to have attracted their attention with the bilingual-writing business. Was she still being filmed? For a short moment, she sat motionless. Then she got up, walked across to the terrace. She didn’t care if they were still watching her. The garden was beautiful, but artificial, with fake perfumes floating over the false hedge. Box trees had never recovered from the destructive Asian moth attacks years ago. They had been utterly defoliated and had not been able to regain their past splendor. She fingered lavender, sea oat grasses, bonsai, daylilies. She had to admit the plants felt almost real. She hadn’t seen a genuine garden in such a long time. This one was almost like the real thing. Almost. There was something too perfect about it. Nature, she remembered, was messier. The silence was eerie. No more insects. Not the faintest hum or buzz. No more birds. No chirping, no twittering. From down below, very little noise, either. Parts of the new neighborhood were entirely pedestrian, served by self-driving electric cars. Occasionally, the quaint clip-clop of hooves could be heard. Police patrols had taken to riding horses since the attacks, and she loved the sound. It gave the city an old-fashioned feel she treasured.

  She glanced northward, to Montmartre. François’s secret studio was near there. What was he going to do about it? He probably continued going there. She forced herself not to think about him. She still felt devastated by the trauma she’d endured in that place. She must obtain a flat in the C.A.S.A. artists’ residence. Otherwise, she was not going to make it. She was going to drift away. There was no way she could keep her chin up anymore. All her vulnerabilities became apparent, rising up to overwhelm the barricades she had patiently built up, year after year, since the baby’s death, all that time ago. She felt desperate, weak. Never had she endured such intense loneliness. Whom could she confide in? What she had to say was unspeakable. She felt ashamed, too, and she resented her husband for inflicting that shame upon her. She hated him. She despised him. Her disappointment was colossal. She hadn’t even been able to tell him that. She had nearly spat in his face. All she had been capable of doing was to pack in silence, hands trembling, while he wept. Not finding an apartment worried her. She was haunted by the prospect of a new home, just for her. A new place, with no past, no traces of anything. Her shelter. An intimate space. Her fortress. She thought of all the flats she’d seen. The idea of having to see more of them depressed her.