Clarissa suddenly felt very hot. Her cheeks flared up; the skin above her lip turned moist.

  “You’re her granny, for God’s sake! This isn’t one of your TV shows!”

  This reaction was so unlike Jordan. Was it envy, resentment? Clarissa didn’t know how to face it. She foresaw she was not going to handle what came next well, and that whatever she had to say would not be appreciated.

  “I understand you’re angry and concerned. I never wanted to put Andy in danger.”

  “But you did! What the hell were you doing in your neighbor’s place anyway? What’s all this business about the C.A.S.A. residence? I couldn’t make any sense out of Andy’s stories.”

  “We didn’t break in. The door was open. Jim, my neighbor, has disappeared. We don’t know where he is.”

  Jordan seemed impatient.

  “What’s this got to do with Andy? Why drag her into all this?”

  Like a hot red veil, the burning sensation was now covering Clarissa’s entire body. She was finding it hard to speak. The words were coming out of her mouth too slowly.

  “Andy is aware of what is going on in the residence. She’s helping me out.”

  “And what is going on, exactly, Mums?”

  Clarissa ignored the sarcasm in her daughter’s tone, and did her best to describe what she had endured since her move. She struggled to remain precise and logical. She noticed the way her daughter was looking at her. The piercing gaze made her flounder, and sound confused. She backtracked, tried to add details, to give more explanations, to show how C.A.S.A. was resurrecting her past, her traumas. The words she picked, didn’t they sound exaggerated? Her movements, disorderly? Every sentence she uttered seemed insane. She got muddled up, had to dab beads of sweat off her forehead, asked for some water for her parched throat.

  Jordan did not interrupt her. She let her become mired, and when Clarissa finally went quiet, her face crimson, Jordan took her hand. She said she’d been worried for a while now. Ever since Clarissa had left François so precipitously and without any explanation. The breakup had started all this; of that, she was certain. She could tell her mother was slowly sinking into some sort of instability, a constant fatigue that was knocking the stuffing out of her. This could no longer do. It was high time to take action.

  “But that’s what I’m doing!” roared Clarissa, startling her daughter, as well as the couple sitting at the next table. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing, with Andy’s help, because she’s the only one who understands me. All the stuff happening to me is because of the residence and their protocol. I’m fighting back! Andy and I are fighting them and we are trying to figure out what they are doing! And guess what? I know what they want! I’ve guessed it!”

  Jordan sighed. She looked dismayed.

  “You and your tall tales! The powder, clicking noise, sleep disturbances, vanishing neighbor and whatnot, that’s in your head, Mums. Only in your head. You like to embellish, to pretend, to bamboozle, because that’s your job! None of this is real life. What is real, however, is that you’re going through a low. No need to shy away from that word. This is a depression. Like the one you had a long time ago. It’s back. I can see it.”

  Clarissa recoiled.

  “What are you saying, Jordan?”

  “I spent too much time as a child, as a teenager, faced with that haggard, empty, sad expression. The way you look today. You must seek help. The heat wave has made it all worse. You probably had heatstroke, hallucinations, whatever. You’re getting on, Mums. Look at you. Your mouth is dry; you’ve lost weight; you can’t even breathe properly. Let me help you. I’m here.”

  Clarissa said nothing, stunned. The gap between her daughter and herself seemed irreversible, as if a furious torrent divided them, without a single bridge in sight. She had never gone through this situation before. Jordan had always been her rock. Jordan had always supported her.

  “You’re going to go home, Mums,” her daughter was saying, levelheaded and calm, with her lovely orator’s voice, “and you’re going to rest. I’m getting hold of a good psychiatrist, someone I trust, and she will help you. Don’t worry. After a couple of appointments, and the proper treatment, I’m sure you’ll feel better.”

  Jordan’s lips stretched into a small smile. She patted her mother’s hand.

  “You’ll be fine. If you follow my advice, you’ll be just fine.”

  NOTEBOOK

  I remained rooted to the spot, incapable of making a single move. What was I to do? She was going to turn around and see me. The only way out was to leave now, right away, before she woke up.

  The intense, mawkish perfume made my head spin. I felt myself sway, afraid I might tumble. The wood boards squeaked as I stepped back. I was sure she was going to awaken, but she went on sleeping peacefully. I looked at her plump shoulders, her fleshy buttocks enhanced by a short black lace negligée.

  I couldn’t understand. My husband was a mature, sophisticated gentleman. He was refined, elegant. True, he had often cheated on me with a series of faceless, nameless women. Had they all been part of the young, blond, petite, chubby category? In that case, what was he still doing with me? Either that or, I had to admit it, my husband was a stranger. A man I had been intimate with, a man I thought I knew, but who had perfectly preserved the shady side of his character.

  On the bed, a lamé evening dress. On the floor, matching high-heeled pumps. Did he take her to balls, to parties? François hated that type of thing. He was no socialite. I felt lost.

  Next to me, on the right of the bed, a wardrobe. I opened it. A dozen dresses in the same style were hanging there: sequins, lace, satin. No other clothes apart from lingerie. Not even a pair of jeans, or a T-shirt.

  I hunted around for her purse. I wanted to discover her name, her address, her age. There was no bag. Nothing at all. Not even a coat. I began to wonder.

  She hadn’t budged. I went around the bed, lifted the veiling. She kept her eyes closed.

  With terror, I realized she wasn’t breathing. Her chest was motionless. I couldn’t hear the sound of respiration.

  Was she dead? What was I to do? My fingerprints were all over the place, on the doorknobs, the photo albums, the tablet. I was going to be found guilty; I had come here and I had killed my husband’s mistress. I was going to be taken away in handcuffs.

  I leaned forward, coming close to her face. Very close. I could see the detail of her long black lashes.

  It was at that moment her eyes slowly opened. They stared back at me. I leaped back, horrified.

  “My darling. There you are. I missed you so.”

  It took me a while to understand.

  She went on talking in her gentle, soulless voice.

  “My darling. François. I was waiting for you. I’m so happy to see you.”

  Incredulous, I stretched out my hand and touched her arm. It felt exactly like skin. It was warm. I grazed her hair, and it felt the same. Like real hair.

  “Oh, that’s so good, honey; don’t stop.”

  I said in a loud, trembling tone, “What’s your name?”

  “My name is Amber.”

  “Who are you, Amber?”

  “The one who gives you the most pleasure. Because I know exactly what you want. Exactly.”

  My mobile throbbed. Another text from François, worried about my being late. I didn’t respond.

  In the nightstand’s drawer, instructions for use and a warranty certificate. Choice of eye color, hair, and body shape. Removable or built-in orifices. Voice preference. Assembly process. Configuration. Tests. Powering up. Battery. Hair maintenance. “Carefully rinse all intimate parts after use with special brush and irrigator. Leave to dry thoroughly.”

  This was a nightmare. That hideous pinkish purple color, glistening and lubricious, made me feel as if I had been ensnared within a voracious vagina about to swallow me up. This is where my husband came, in every sense of the word. This was where he caressed a fleshless, bloodless body that had nothing human about it; this was where he penetrated the semblance of a woman; this was where he had hewn, away from me, an intimate place, eminently selfish, for himself only, where he surrendered to his vilest fantasies.

  I lay down beside the creature. The coverlet reeked of the detestable perfume, mingled with the unmistakable smell of come. I took a selfie of both of us. She looked like she was cuddling up to me.

  I left the apartment in haste, not bothering to lock up behind me. I ran along rue Dancourt in the night, bumping into passersby. After a bit, I stopped, out of breath, and sat on a bench.

  I felt grief, disappointment, disgust, but, above all, anger. A tremendous anger that swept away all the rest.

  I sent the selfie to François, without a word. I imagined him sitting in Caroline and Véronique’s pretty living room, filled with flowers. They had been waiting for over an hour, nibbling tidbits and sipping good wine, wondering what the hell I was doing.

  And the photo showing up on his phone with the power of an exploding bomb.

  9

  MELTDOWN

  Mrs. Dalloway said she’d choose the flowers herself.

  VIRGINIA WOOLF, 1925

  I had fun. Good-bye and thank you.

  ROMAIN GARY, March 21, 1979

  CLARISSA TOOK A sip of water, slowly, placing the glass back on the pink tablecloth.

  “The C.A.S.A. people are trying to convince everyone that they are benefactors investing in us because we are artists. It’s a smoke screen. Behind all that, there’s a clandestine consortium dealing in artificial intelligence. A covert, unlawful organization, engaging in heinous experiments.”

  Jordan raised her hand.

  “Mums, please stop.”

  “You must listen, Jordan. And without making that face. It took me a while to figure it out. Now, I’ve got the whole picture.”

  Jordan sighed.

  “Okay,” she said grudgingly. “I’m listening. Go ahead.”

  Clarissa began to speak more easily, without having to look for words. Surprised, she found herself suddenly using English, even though French was the tongue she ordinarily spoke with Jordan. She noticed her daughter frowning, as if she couldn’t understand why her mother chose to continue their conversation in English. Why, at this precise moment, during these critical instants with her daughter, was she seeking shelter in her father’s and her first husband’s native tongue? English felt heartwarming, enveloping her with a special familiarity that spurred her on, but it also seemed to offer her a natural defense against Jordan, a safeguard.

  Clarissa said that robots, today, were able to take over humans; they knew how to teach, protect, attack, heal, and operate. They could drive, deliver, build, and analyze. And give pleasure, as well. Yes, they even screwed better than humans did. (She nearly added “And I, of all people, ought to know,” but she desisted, as she had no intention of answering the inevitable questions flying thick and fast.) Imagination was the only thing robots lacked. Robots could neither invent nor create; they could only imitate, because that’s what they were programmed to do. Their algorithms allowed them to compose music, to write in a given style, to produce paintings, to duplicate an image. Jordan must have seen the insipid production generated by artificial intelligence. Perfect, smooth, and boring. Nothing new.

  “So, what’s your point?”

  Clarissa resented her daughter’s mocking smile, and how Jordan doggedly stuck to French. Clarissa retaliated, in English, and Jordan lifted a disapproving eyebrow, which Clarissa disregarded. She went on. Robots were unable to understand creativeness, the delicate magic of its haphazardness, how an idea came to an artist, how it thrived within the artist’s brain, like a pearl burrowed into an oyster, shaped by fate, setbacks, by intimate life events, lustered by emotions, sensitivity, by everything that turned human beings into what they were, infinitely vulnerable, far from perfect, but able to spawn originality, disparity, ambiguity.

  “You’re right,” said Jordan. “But how does this link to you?”

  “I’m coming to that. Robots, therefore, don’t have pearls growing within an inner cerebral place; they have no artistic initiative, unless ingenious researchers can endow them with that, and that’s exactly what’s going on, in that residence. Those people have masses of money and fully operational gear. They’re cunning. But day after day, night after night, C.A.S.A. pries into our imaginations, behind our backs.”

  Jordan cleared her throat. She seemed to be out of her depth.

  “Mums, you analyze everything to death! And why are you talking to me in English? You never do.”

  Clarissa chose not to bring up the language choice. She went on, still using that precious, fluid English.

  “With Andy’s help—and your daughter is so bright, but you already know that—I at last realized Dr. Dewinter and her team don’t care a fig about our artistic endeavors. They’ve filled the residence up with bilingual artists who speak two languages fluently. They spy on us constantly in order to understand how our brains work, those hybrid brains. You have one of those brains, too. They don’t film us all the time for translation purposes; robots already know how to do that perfectly in all languages. No, what they are trying to harvest from us is our creativeness, our imaginary worlds, those of us who live and who dream in two different tongues. And do you know why they are up to this? Do you know what their goal is?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Clarissa brushed aside the causticity in Jordan’s tone, forced herself not to refer to it. Jordan staunchly maintained French, as if this had turned into a language combat between them, as if she was challenging not only what her mother had to say but also how Clarissa was saying it. Clarissa could no longer ignore the grievance caused by Jordan’s attitude. She feared she might dither once more, become unable to finish, not be able to keep up that clear and steady voice.

  “Imagine a world, not that different from ours, not that far away, where everything would be dictated by robots. A lack of inspiration? Writer’s block? Tiredness? That fluctuating artistic temperament? Over. Done. Who gives a damn about musicians, painters, writers and their mood swings? In the tomorrow that’s nearly here, robots will write the blockbusters to come, will paint the most beautiful paintings, will compose the most haunting melodies. Robots nurtured by our own creative brains, by everything they will have pilfered from us. That’s serious and ghastly enough as it is, but behind all that prowls a greater threat.”

  “I shudder to think where this is going,” murmured Jordan.

  Clarissa felt like crashing her fist down on the table. How dare Jordan treat her this way, making her sound as if she was unbalanced, a raving lunatic? She took it upon herself not to reveal her annoyance, her bitterness. She said Dr. Dewinter and her peers might well become all-powerful once they were able, by dint of algorithms and filched brainpower, to have their robots fabricate an artistic movement they could then predict.

  “We will end up being told what books to read, what movies and exhibits to see; we could be forced to appreciate a fake culture entirely conceived and controlled by machines. We will no longer have any choice at all. For a long time, we’ve been getting those notifications telling us, ‘You liked so-and-so’s book, so then read thingy’s one.’ But what’s ahead could be even worse. Art, in each and every form, could be anticipated, made to order. Humans will stop creating, stop imagining. The end of surprises, make-believe, the end of possibilities, of the unexpected. On every front, it’ll be the victory of robots. That’s what C.A.S.A. is up to. That’s why I want to get the hell out of that place.”

  Jordan pulled a funny little face.

  “Well, well! There’s your next novel, I guess!”

  Clarissa gaped at her.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  Without being conscious of it, she’d switched back into French.

  “I’ve already told you what I believe.”

  “Which is?”

  “You need to get help.”

  Clarissa got to her feet too quickly. The light-headedness made her clutch at the table.

  “Look at the state you’re in.”

  Clarissa grabbed her bag, her jacket.

  “I’m fine. I’m off to the station.”

  Jordan rose as well, tried to catch her mother by the shoulder. Her gesture was full of affection, but Clarissa pulled away.

  “Don’t act vexed, please.”

  Clarissa said nothing.

  “Take care of yourself, Mums. Promise me. You must get some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll call you. And keep Andy out of this.”

  Tearfully, Clarissa left the tearoom without bidding her daughter good-bye, which had never happened. She no longer knew whom to turn to. Everything Jordan had said hurt her deeply; her loneliness inundated her, dragged her down. In the Tube, a nice woman asked her if she was feeling all right. When she got to St. Pancras, she saw it was going to be a skirmish to get one of the last tickets on the train leaving at 16:19. The trains after that were all full. She did something she had never done in her life. She told the young, harassed person dealing with the reservations that she was a very old lady, very old indeed, and very ill, and this was no doubt her last trip to Paris. She distorted her voice, made it quaver and croak. She wanted to see Paris one last time. Tomorrow might be too late. Weepy eyes, a wobbly head. She obtained her ticket, while other exasperated customers looked on.

  Once she was seated in the StarExpress, after the hellish wait in the queue, she buried her face in her hands. For God’s sake, what was happening to her? Making such a scene, lying through her teeth. What had she tumbled into? She thought back to all the times people had told her, with a zest of humor, that she’d been repeating herself, or that she’d forgotten to do something. She remembered the numerous occasions she’d heard the sentence, at moments with a touch of irony, Your imagination is getting away with you. She recalled her mother’s slow decline, and how Solange had started to forget who she was long before she reached Clarissa’s present age. What if Jordan was right? What if she really was losing her grip?