“My God, Clarissa!”

  Nathalie had gasped with shock.

  “You’re so thin!”

  “I know. I didn’t do it on purpose, believe me. And the heat didn’t help, either. But don’t worry, I’m fine.”

  She flashed a large smile to reassure her friend. But Nathalie wasn’t fooled by it. Clarissa changed the subject, asking her about her shop. Nathalie answered with her usual fervor, going into the details of the highs and lows of bookselling. Clarissa listened with pleasure. Then she said, “I was wondering if I could ask you a small favor.”

  “Of course! What is it?”

  “Your friend, the one I met here, who works in real estate.”

  “Guillaume? I heard he helped you find your new flat.”

  “That’s him. Could you call him for me?”

  “You want his number?”

  “I already have his number. But I’d rather not call him from my mobile.”

  “Oh?”

  “Could you possibly call him on your own phone? And then put me on?”

  Nathalie looked at her closely. Clarissa knew what she was thinking, right there. That Clarissa looked like a demented old lady, with her red dye going to pot and her intense blue gaze.

  “You need to talk to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “A problem with your flat?”

  “Sort of. I simply need to ask him one quick question. It won’t take very long.”

  Slight hesitation.

  “Okay. All right.”

  Nathalie fished her phone from her pocket. She pressed on a key, waited, and got voice mail.

  “Hi, Guillaume. It’s Nat. Can you get back to me? Important. Thanks.”

  Clarissa said she’d wait around, looking at books. She wouldn’t be far. Nathalie got on with her work. Clarissa’s eyes followed her as she gave advice to clients, located books for them. She never seemed to lose her zeal. Clarissa remembered most of her own books were still with François. She still had many belongings in her old place. One day, she’d have to retrieve them. But not while she was at the residence. François’s letter was at the bottom of her bag, with her notebooks. She still hadn’t read it. She held it between her fingertips. It felt quite thick.

  Just as she was thinking of opening it, Nathalie was back, flourishing her mobile.

  “Here’s Guillaume.”

  Clarissa took the phone.

  “Hello,” she said in what she hoped was a jovial voice. “I’m not sure you remember me? We met here, at Nathalie’s opening.”

  “The red-haired author who writes about houses and suicidal authors, not easily forgotten,” he replied with a slightly sarcastic intonation. “What can I do for you?”

  Nathalie had gone back to her customers. Clarissa was alone.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the C.A.S.A. residence.”

  “I believe you live there, right? So you got in! Well done! That’s no easy feat, and they’re rather picky, I hear.”

  She nearly added “And I’m longing to get out of it,” but abstained.

  “That’s right, I was admitted. Sorry for putting this to you so bluntly, but what is C.A.S.A., exactly? Who is behind it?”

  He seemed surprised.

  “Well, benefactors keen on promoting all forms of artistic creations. They have huge financial resources.”

  “Have you met anyone from C.A.S.A.?”

  “I must have crossed paths with a couple of people, but I don’t remember. I only know Clémence Dutilleul, whom I put you in touch with. She’s in charge of finding artists for the residence. That’s all I know. I worked with my architects to construct the place. I don’t know much more about C.A.S.A.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No! What are you getting at? What’s with these people?”

  “You weren’t aware, for instance, that all the artists living in the residence are filmed?”

  A pause.

  “Filmed all the time?” he asked.

  “Yes. All the time. We signed a contract.”

  “So you agreed to it?”

  “That’s not the issue. I want to find out why we are filmed.”

  “Surveillance requirements, no doubt. Aren’t you happy up there on the eighth floor? Your studio is magnificent! The number of people who’d love to be in your shoes!”

  “Have you met Dr. Dewinter?”

  “No, I haven’t. Who is this person?”

  “An artificial intelligence specialist. She runs the C.A.S.A. protocol.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t see the link?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “You don’t see how an AI expert could find a household of artists most interesting?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I fail to see the link, and don’t see how I can help you in any way.”

  Clarissa was unable to keep him on the phone. He asked to be handed back to Nathalie. She heard his voice boom out to her friend: “What a dotty old lady!”

  Clarissa took off, thanking Nathalie, who kept watching her with a mixture of suspicion and concern. She walked along the boulevard, noting how yesterday’s temperatures had left traces in the extenuated features of passersby, in their slow shuffle. Clarissa hadn’t listened to the news, or read the press on her tablet. Fatalities, bedlam, confusion, crisis, pessimism. The same old song. She’d answered each text message she received, including François’s. She had written, All OK, and you? He’d replied, Yes, thanks. Did you get my letter? She’d left it at that.

  For the moment, C.A.S.A. was her prime concern. What they wanted, how they got what they wanted, and, above all, how to leave them. She had always known how to weave intimate connections with homes. The place she’d shared with Toby, on rue d’Alésia, left sweet memories in her mind, in spite of the tragedy that had befallen them. It was a bright, cheerful two-room flat. She could still see Toby sitting on the little balcony, reading in the sunlight. She had also been fond of the larger apartment, acquired with François, on rue Henri-Barbusse, the one she’d decorated with him, full of her beloved books. She had loved writing there.

  Like foreign territory barring her entry, her apartment in the residence spread out in front of her, and she perceived hostility in every nook, every chink. Perhaps she was not wanted here because she refused to cooperate. She gave nothing away; she did not submit. Were the other artists easier to manage and to influence? Were they content merely living and working here, having no inkling concerning the truth? Was she the only one seeing that truth? Jim Perrier had come close. Had he been dismissed because of his misgivings? Or because of his addictions, which didn’t conform to the C.A.S.A. protocol? And what about her? Did she risk being expelled, as well? Her insubordination had not gone unnoticed. Dr. Dewinter herself had turned up to call her to order. Perhaps that was the way out. Disobedience. Well, she was ready. She was more than ready.

  Back in the bathroom, she avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She made sure each of her gestures seemed calm and ordinary. She acted the same way in the kitchen. An internal message from Adelka showed up on the screens. She was wondering how Clarissa’d put up with the awful heat. She herself had gone off to a friend’s place, near Lille. Clarissa dictated a concise reply: Yes, thanks, all fine, but it was dreadful! See you soon! Her mobile buzzed as she was cleaning things up in the kitchen.

  It was her brother, Arthur. She hadn’t spoken to him directly since the choppy outcome of Aunt Serena’s will. She’d sent an email thanking him for the brooch, without alluding to its real worth. Even if she didn’t feel like hearing the sound of his voice, she took the call. Arthur sounded out of breath. It was about their father. A rapid fright shot through her. Their dad had had a bad fall; he’d broken two ribs and his nose. He was in the hospital. Could she come? He was also going to alert Jordan.

  Of course she’d go. But how was their dad? What happened? Arthur said he hadn’t yet spoken to the doctors. Their father fell out of his bed. Luckily, the nursing assistant who was on duty was able to help. He was at the brand-new London Fields hospital, near Broadway Market.

  Clarissa remembered the ticket she’d recently booked for her upcoming London trip. She was able to modify it for a new one; the train was departing in two hours. She stuffed a change of clothes and toiletries into a travel bag. She had no idea how long she might have to stay. The cat! What was she going to do with it? Adelka seemed to be the only solution. With Chablis tucked under her arm, she went down to the fourth floor. Wearing a jumpsuit, with a paintbrush in hand, Adelka opened up.

  “My dad’s in the hospital, in London. I’ve got to leave.”

  “Oh, your poor dad! You want me to keep this precious bundle? I’ll take care of the food and the litter, don’t you worry!”

  Clarissa thanked her warmly. She had to make her way in time to the sprawling Gare du Nord, a place she disliked all the more because of its never-ending overhaul. Her British passport enabled her to skip endless queues at control checks, but there was still customs to go through, on either end. It had been getting worse and worse, ever since Brexit’s unsettling consequences, steeped in complication. One had still to wait for hours in order to set foot on the island where she was born. How strange it was to originate from these two neighboring countries, traditional foes, which, over time, had not succeeded in becoming closer, but, on the contrary, had drawn even further apart. Like most people she knew, Clarissa found Eurostar’s new name, StarExpress, ridiculous.

  She tried to get hold of Jordan but only got through to voice mail. She wondered if her daughter had managed to make herself available, and if she was en route to London. During the entire trip, her father stayed on her mind. Arthur sent her the hospital room number. At St. Pancras, during the second interminable wait at customs, she did her best to remain patient. No use getting edgy. She had to save all her energy up for her father. She took the Tube to Hackney. She was usually elated to be back in her native city, but today, the joy had gone. It felt sad admitting it, but all those years spent in Paris had turned her into a Frenchwoman. London was no longer her home. Her French side had taken over. Was this irreversible? she wondered. Perhaps it was fleeting, due to fragility and fatigue.

  Leaving the Tube station at Bethnal Green, she walked briskly to the nearby hospital. Her legs were painful, her joints stiff. She couldn’t help daydreaming about the summer holidays Jordan was planning with the brooch money. Puglia, in southern Italy, was the chosen destination. Jordan had discovered a masseria, a fortified farmhouse, lost within a field of thousand-year-old olive trees, miraculously preserved from the disease that had eradicated most of them. The deep blue sea was only a few kilometers away.

  The shiny modern façade drew itself up in front of her. Clarissa paused for a few seconds before entering. The state her father might be in worried her. He was so old, so vulnerable.

  Arthur was waiting for her outside the room, with his daughters. He seemed glum.

  “Brace yourself,” he said, hugging her. Clarissa greeted her sniffling nieces.

  She stepped into the room alone, not feeling very reassured. Her father’s face was bruised, entirely black-and-blue. A huge bump deformed his forehead; a bandage covered his nose, and an intravenous drip was fitted in his arm. He was unrecognizable.

  She couldn’t refrain from bursting into tears. Her exhaustion overcame her in one powerful wave. She could only stand there, weeping, feeling as helpless as a child. Her dad! Her old beloved dad! She couldn’t bear seeing him this way.

  “My darling! My sweetie!”

  Her father’s unmistakable voice piped up, weak but still full of humor. Dumbfounded, she opened her eyes.

  “Honey, why are you in such a state? It’s only a blasted tumble! Can you imagine, falling from your own bed? Bloody hell! Arthur’s got a face like a month of wet Sundays! And his daughters, just as bad, a couple of twits!”

  Clarissa couldn’t help laughing through her tears. She couldn’t get over it. He was incredible! Sitting next to the bed, she clenched her father’s long, wrinkled hand. She admitted her apprehension, and how his devastated features had shocked her.

  Her father chortled.

  “Well, my hour has not yet come. I’m all bashed up, but I’m still here! And I’m so happy to see you. Come closer so I can look at your pretty face. Oh! You’re looking under the weather! What’s with those little eyes? You’ve lost weight, my dearest. You’ve got me fretted now.”

  A topsy-turvy world! Her injured father, worrying about her.

  “I’m okay, Dad. Don’t worry. How long are you here for?”

  “Speak a little louder, my love; the chip in my ear is kicking up.”

  Clarissa repeated her question.

  “No idea! In this damned hospital, robots look after patients. Robots never make mistakes with their diagnosis, do they? They’re the kings of the world, right? What’s left for us poor humans?”

  “Emotions?” quipped Clarissa.

  “Spot-on. But what about you, my sweet? How’s your book coming along? Are you happy with it?”

  “No. I’m not happy, Dad. I can’t work properly in my apartment.”

  “Now, that’s the last straw!” said her father. “You and houses! Ever since you were small, they’ve had a hold on you. So what’s wrong with the flat?”

  Clarissa prepared herself to reveal the entire C.A.S.A. inside story to him, to go into detail, to see how he would react. She was looking forward to sharing with her father what she was going through.

  The door slid open and she saw Jordan standing on the threshold. Her daughter moaned when she discovered her grandfather’s discolored face. Then Arthur rushed in as well, with his daughters. Her father was surrounded by his loving family. In spite of his contusions, he glowed with happiness. He was thrilled to have them all there; it was Christmas in June! Only Andy was missing. A nurse barged in to tell them they were making too much noise. And a maximum of two people could remain at the bedside.

  Clarissa ended up with her daughter and her father. They all decided to favor those who had come from afar. And those who’d endured those endless lines to get into this bloody country, grumbled Jordan, while her father roared with laughter. Clarissa noticed (how could she not notice?) that Jordan had installed an infinitesimal distance between them. Jordan glanced at her, smiled, but the detachment was well and truly there, growing by the minute, and she felt upset. She’d very rarely perceived a cold shoulder coming from her daughter. She could not understand what was going on. In her mind, she went back to all the conversations she’d recently had with her. She couldn’t pick out anything in particular. What about Andy? Her instinct told her that must be it. Perhaps Jordan was cross with Clarissa because of Andy. She could hardly believe it. Was Jordan irritated because of the closeness she and Andy shared? Clarissa was aware Andy was most probably difficult with her mother, like any teenager. She knew she shared an exceptional relationship with her granddaughter.

  The nurse interrupted them to say it was time to tend to the patient. They were asked to leave the room. Clarissa said good-bye to her father lovingly. Arthur and his daughters were waiting outside. Arthur had received the medical dossier. Their father was going to be spending the week at the hospital, but the report was reassuring. The old chap wasn’t doing too badly, said Arthur, impressed. He asked Clarissa and Jordan if they both wanted to stay at his place for the night. Jane would be very happy to see them. Jordan thanked him; she had a coworker to catch up with, near Islington. She’d no doubt stop over at her place. Clarissa said she didn’t know yet what she was doing. Arthur asked her to let him know what her plans were; he’d be delighted to put her up. It seemed her brother was trying to make amends. Wasn’t he overdoing it?

  “What about a cup of tea?”

  Yes, that was Jordan talking to her, Clarissa. A tremor of delight ran through her. She smiled and nodded. They strolled down Broadway Market, their nostrils full of the spicy aromas of street food from all over the world, looking for a place to sit down. Since Clarissa’s youth, Hackney had changed. Hidden behind stylish boutiques, trendy eateries, and fashionably dressed pedestrians, its working-class legacy was hard to see. When she was a teenager, saying you lived in Hackney was like admitting a genetic defect. She used to meet her friends in Camden or Portobello, even if she had to spend hours on the Tube.

  “Look, there!” said Jordan.

  A deliciously outmoded tearoom beckoned them. There were a few customers sitting on chairs covered with pastel cushions. On Fridays and Saturdays, the area was packed with Londoners and sightseers, and it was hard to amble along, Clarissa knew. They ordered tea and scones. Clarissa observed her daughter’s beautiful, sensitive face. In her eyes, that tiny cold draft, still. She decided to wait. If Jordan had something to say, she’d do it. It shouldn’t be up to her to bring up the subject. But Jordan remained silent, absentmindedly nibbling at her scone, as if she was expecting her mother to speak up first.

  As time ticked by, Clarissa felt the silence becoming heavy. So she broke it, hoping her voice sounded natural.

  “How’s Andy?”

  Jordan looked at her straight in the eyes.

  “As it happens, I want to talk to you about Andy.”

  “Yes?”

  Jordan was not smiling. Her fingers played with the crumbs.

  “Andy admitted to me what happened last time she went to stay with you.”

  Clarissa swallowed.

  “Meaning what?”

  “The incident that occurred in your neighbor’s flat.”

  “We didn’t do anything wrong, you know. You’re looking at me as if I’ve committed a crime!”

  “Adriana is fourteen years old! The idea of it! Breaking into an apartment at two in the morning! Do you realize? And that Bardi nearly taking her away? What on earth were you thinking?”