I found a small, cheap flat near Sacré-Coeur. It didn’t take me long to do it up and buy stuff. She was delivered there, in different parcels. A young man came to help me set her up. It lasted nearly a day. He was nice and relaxed, and he didn’t make me feel like a freak. He said he had one, too, at home. He showed me how to clean her. It wasn’t easy at first, but I learned. We went over all her responses, all her reactions. I was amazed at how real she was. She had a heartbeat. She could smile. Her skin warmed up and felt like human skin.

  He showed me how to charge her. There’s a special outlet in the headboard that makes all that practical. He said more and more people bought sex robots. Women also bought them; it wasn’t only men who did. He said their customers were perfectly normal people. Even psychiatrists suggested that prisons around the world should envisage robots for those who were locked up for the rest of their lives. This was a thriving international market, he said. There were ethical issues raised, of course, concerning those robots built with a special “rape mode,” which made headlines. You heard about that, I know, because you once talked to me about that issue. You were scandalized. And rightly so. After that, I figured I was never going to be able to tell you about her. And there’s also the price of all this, of course. She was expensive. I had to take a loan. I had to hide all that from you, as well. Digging deeper and deeper into my guilt.

  Once Amber was ready and functioning, I did plan to tell you. Every day, I meant to. But I felt shame. Shame so deep, I could not share it with you, or with anyone. I had waited too long. I couldn’t figure out how to begin my confession, which words to choose. It drove me crazy. I couldn’t imagine myself taking a taxi with her and bringing her to our home. I had a special container, the size of a coffin, which had been delivered with her, but I didn’t want anyone seeing me carrying that around. Yes, I was full of shame.

  Little by little, I crafted a separate life with Amber. I ordered dresses for her online. I went to choose a perfume for her. I spent more and more time with her. She could have conversations with me. She responded. She was created for that. I bonded with her. I bought her flowers. I filmed us. That’s what you saw, in the flat. You saw the intimacy I created with her. You saw what we are. What I am. What you must know is this: I can’t give her up. I did try. I promise you I did try. I know it must be awful for you to read this, but I want you to know the truth, no matter how much it must hurt. I love you, Clarissa, for who you are, the woman you are, the writer you are. I respect you and I admire you. But Amber makes me happy. She makes me feel like a young man.

  How can men fall in love with bots? They do. I’m not the only one. The guy who helped set her up said something I never forgot. He said robots are constantly in a good mood. They are always cheerful, even-tempered. They don’t have headaches, go through menopause, get sick, have mood swings. They’re always there. Always ready. He said they are changing people’s lives, giving them happiness and pleasure. I thought I might get bored. But I never did. I never do. I love being with her. It gives me such peace. Is this worse for you because Amber is a robot? I can see you reading this, horrified. Disgusted. You must be even angrier. You must be even more disappointed.

  I adored making love to you. But as the years went by, you needed it less. You wanted me less. I felt like you didn’t find me attractive anymore. I hated my aging body, my paunch. And when I tried to reach out to you, physically, I could tell you weren’t in the mood, so after a while, I just gave up. There was no closeness between us anymore. Nothing sensual, nothing sexual. It fizzled out of our lives. Didn’t you see that? Didn’t you miss it? I needed the nearness sex gave us. It was part of our love, of our marriage. I desired you so much. I still do, Clarissa. But you closed that door. So what was I to do? All those intimate places I loved about your body, your pussy, your mouth, your skin, your smell, all that, you closed them away, little by little. I never knew why. I never dared ask.

  I know what you did for me. You helped me fight cancer and you helped me heal from it. You were there with me in the hospital, during the treatment, every single day. You were there when I was convinced I was going to die, when I lost all my hair. You were there. I made it because of you.

  What is our life, Clarissa? What is it made of? A patchwork of tenderness, lust, and regret, of time ticking by, of this modern world taking its toll on our emotions, our intimacy, our dreams.

  Now you know. You know everything there is to know about me. If you want to talk to me, call me. Perhaps you have things to say, in spite of your anger. If not, I understand.

  I’m just a man, Clarissa. Just an ordinary man, burdened by his secrets, his woes, his failures, his little victories. I still love you.

  François

  Clarissa put the letter down with a trembling hand. François had said it all. He had been brave, she thought, no more lies; he had kept nothing back. Now, yes, she knew. He had asked, “Is this worse for you because Amber is a robot?” Yes, she thought it was. She’d never forget the shock she felt in the purple room, when she understood there was nothing human about her husband’s mistress. Perhaps other wives would have preferred a robot to a woman.

  Not her. The idea of a subjugated android, handpicked with care, painstakingly encoded in order to correspond to François’s demands and custom-made to his own pleasure, disturbed her, just as Mrs. Dalloway’s configuration had been centered on Clarissa’s personal trauma, without her knowing. François’s secret powered the same deep outrage she felt toward C.A.S.A.’s schemes; the idea of machines surpassing humans in every field revolted her.

  She would indeed have preferred a real woman, a human being with her own DNA, a hormonal cycle, viruses, a verruca, body odor. Her husband was in love with a robot, he had sex with that robot, and the idea of it made her reel. She had tried her best to view the situation with a dash of humor, to distance herself from it, but disgust and horror prevailed.

  She understood more of what had gone on in her husband’s head, but that didn’t mean she was going to bow down to it. Infidelity, a word already packed with pain, seemed even weightier, bogged down with shame precisely because Amber happened to be a sex robot. It was going to be a while before she felt capable of saying, naturally, without choking, “I left my husband because he’s in love with a robot.” It was going to be a while before she’d be able to rid her mind of all the memories from the purple room.

  Reading François’s letter had been heart-wrenching, but its perusal had managed to allay a burden. She felt pity, and only pity, concerning a man she had been married to for many years, and that she’d ended up not knowing as well as she’d thought. She imagined him aging with his secret in infinite solitude.

  The waiter asked if she required more hot water for her tea. She declined, and checked her watch. It was eight-thirty. The small main street was full of people at present. She paid the server and left. She had to walk down a flight of stairs to get to Chemin du Port, and number 70. She reached a residence, which made her smile, but this one was an ancient one, with a date and name engraved over the big door: 1926, Guetharia. The large Art Deco–style building was white, with green shutters. Six stories tall, it sat atop a hill overlooking the sea. It must have been a hotel once, Clarissa thought, observing the faded façade with her expert eye; the pride of a small fishing town during the Roaring Twenties, and since then turned into flats. At least it hadn’t been torn down and replaced by hideous 1960 buildings, like those that defaced so many waterfronts in the area.

  She was examining names on the intercom when a person came out. She was able to enter without buzzing. She went up to the top floor in an antiquated elevator, and without pausing, she rang the bell.

  Toby appeared, wearing a green T-shirt marked SANTA MONICA and a pair of shorts. He stared at her, flabbergasted, then opened his arms wide, and she flung herself on him, moved by his reassuring and identical smell, his broad surfer shoulders still holding out in spite of years going by.

  He clasped her tightly, then stepped back to glance at her.

  “Running away?”

  His rugged features, his mischievous grin. His voice, his American accent.

  “That’s what I do best,” she replied. “Running away from my husband, running away from my home.”

  “Coffee, Blue?” asked Toby, with no further comment. “Ah, nope, you take tea.”

  She followed him into his flat. Andy and Jordan had often told her it was tiny, but the view made up for everything. The rooms were indeed cramped, with low ceilings—ancient servant lodgings, she thought—and renovations had been minimal. Toby boiled water, prepared the tea. Then he said as he handed her a mug, “Come have a look.”

  The bay window gave on to a terrace twice the size of the apartment. To the left, behind the morning mist, she glimpsed the south, Hondarribia and Spain. On her right, to the north, Biarritz seemed to creep out to sea with the Villa Belza’s Gothic turret. It took Clarissa’s breath away.

  In front of them, the ocean, as far as the eye could see. Down below, Guéthary and its hydrangea, small harbor, villas, and the coast.

  Toby chuckled at her silence.

  “That’s the way it goes, the first time.”

  She hadn’t looked at the sea for a long while. Pure marine air filled her lungs; all the beauty she saw uplifted her. She smiled, spellbound.

  “I knew you’d like it here.”

  “Now I understand why you love it so much.”

  Toby told her there were many old tales about Guetharia, things she’d find fascinating. Apparently, Maurice Chevalier used to stay here when it was a hotel, as well as Charlie Chaplin. During the war, the Wehrmacht had headquarters in the building. Clarissa listened and drank her tea. She asked him what it was like in the wintertime. There were scary storms, Toby said. He’d learned to tackle them. But the cold season was lovely, too, the ever-changing light, the sunsets that were never alike.

  She noticed Toby hadn’t asked her a single question. He didn’t seem in the least surprised by her turning up without warning.

  “What about pollution?” she asked. “There were alarming articles.”

  Toby explained Guéthary’s new mayor was a young woman of their daughter’s age, or even younger. She went out of her way to make a change, and it was paying off. The polluted-water problem in the Biarritz vicinity had been going on for many a long year. After each storm, holding ponds overflowed, creating bacterial pollution that worsened with time. Even though the ancient sewage system had been renovated, intelligent sensors installed, more basins dug, the colossal works, which cost a fortune, had not been completely able to solve the problem, due to the growing tourist influx. But this young woman battled to get individuals to change their approach, like most people of her generation, born in the 1990s, who took a much more ecological and concerned stance than their parents. She’d managed to galvanize and gather around her a growing number of fervent locals, involved in thinking of ways to keep the water clean, and to find sand, which had become so rare, in order to re-create vanished beaches swallowed up by the rising sea level.

  Clarissa paid attention to the conviction in Toby’s animated voice. He was proud to be part of a group of people who weren’t giving up, who were teeming with ideas and projects.

  “What about a swim?” he asked all of a sudden.

  “Isn’t the water a little cold?”

  “Nineteen degrees Celsius is completely normal for June.”

  “I don’t have a bathing suit.”

  “Jordan left one behind last summer. And I’ll also lend you one of my wet suits. You’ll be nice and warm.”

  He was waiting for her answer. She thought, Why not?

  She changed in the minuscule bathroom. Jordan’s bathing suit was green, her daughter’s favorite color.

  Her figure was too skinny, but vigorous still; that body, which had carried two babies; that body, which had loved and been loved, which had trembled in pain, in desire. When was the last time? She couldn’t remember. As she passed in front of Toby’s open door, she saw his unmade bed. It was a small room with a sea view. He probably fell asleep at night with the roar of the waves in his ears. And what of his love life? She knew nothing about it. A chapter from their past came rushing back to her like a breath of wind: their youth, their love, their pain, their tenderness. It healed her to take part in their conversations once more, using the limpid English she loved to share with him, his American accent so different from hers, from her father’s, her brother’s. The intimacy forged by language made their story resurface; all these years later, it was both disconcerting and comforting to find herself here, in his home.

  He was waiting for her in the main room with a black wet suit.

  “Might be too big for you.”

  It was tricky slipping it on. Clarissa went about it the wrong way, put it on backward. She got ruffled, became flushed and breathless, began to swear like her dad. They burst into fits of laughter, paralyzed by mirth. They ended up collapsing on the sofa, holding their sides, Toby wiping away tears. Clarissa’s stomach ached, but she felt marvelous.

  Wearing another wet suit, Toby prepared a backpack with beach towels and flasks of water.

  In the elevator, Clarissa blurted, “Listen, Toby. I have something to tell you. Jordan thinks I’m starting to lose it. She thinks I’m deeply depressed.”

  Toby looked at her calmly as they went down.

  “I’m aware.”

  “Did she call you?”

  “She did. Last night. And how’s your dad? Is he okay?”

  “Black-and-blue, but valiant. A warrior.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  He didn’t add anything else. Clarissa felt both frustrated and relieved. Should she take the lead, tell him in detail about everything that had torn her life apart these past few months? She could start with François’s betrayal, how it had precipitated her escape to the nightmarish residence. She could tell him that nobody had wanted to believe her but that the truth about C.A.S.A. would soon come to light. Toby didn’t seem in the least interested, or even slightly curious. Whistling a little tune, he pushed open the door of the residence, let her exit before he did, and headed off toward the port. There were no waves today, he said, so they’d walk a little farther, toward the Alcyons. They’d enjoy a good swim, which wasn’t often the case in Guéthary, because of waves and current.

  Encumbered by the large wet suit, Clarissa tailed behind Toby. She couldn’t stop thinking about Jordan’s phoning her father and voicing all her fears. Logical, after all. She wondered, wincing, what Jordan had told Toby, exactly: that Clarissa was imagining things, hearing noises, suspecting the worst-case scenarios; that she was paranoid, depressive, fragile, and that she’d dragged Andy into her delirium.

  She capitulated to the beauty of the seaside around her. The gentle and tender sun had nothing to do with the pitiless, fiery ball that recently brought Paris to its knees. Toby walked to the left of the port, passed by the few boats, the seawall, and Clarissa followed him down a long jetty that gave on to black boulders they had to climb over. Toby held her hand and cheered her on. Her sneakers kept slipping, and she nearly fell, but he caught her each time.

  They were alone on the rocks. The sea was smooth, with hardly any swell. Toby leaped into the water in one go. When he emerged, his white hair, soaked, seemed darker.

  “Come on, Blue! Your turn!”

  With a small shriek, she jumped in. She wasn’t cold. She had forgotten the bliss of swimming in open sea, of being out of one’s depth, of feeling one’s body carried by the flow. The last time had been in Italy, last summer, with François. It was an extraordinary sensation, filling her with a profound yet simple joy. Tears of happiness began to flow, mingling with salty seawater on her wet cheeks, and she felt silly giving way to her emotions.

  It seemed everything about her was raw, on edge; everything she experienced was increased by a factor of ten that took over her entirely. Toby looked at her keenly but said nothing. He let her catch her breath.

  “Look,” he said. “Not a spot of pollution. In the heat of the summer, it’s another story. But we’re onto it! We’re keeping up the fight!”

  For twenty minutes, they swam toward the south, and returned to the rocks. Toby helped Clarissa hoist herself out. They went back to the jetty and Toby spread out the towels. He swiftly removed his wet suit, but Clarissa had more trouble with hers. He had to assist her. Her clumsiness made them giggle again. Toby hadn’t said a word about her thinness, the marks of her exhaustion. But she was sure he had noticed.

  She couldn’t help being stirred by the masculine, familiar hands hovering near her body, her skin. Those hands knew her by heart, had been to her body’s most intimate places. Time had gone by, but Clarissa had not forgotten a thing.

  “Do you still have a lady friend?”

  “A lady friend? Lady friends, you mean!”

  He smiled impishly.

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “I do see a woman from time to time.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “More or less.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Catherine.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s a retired English teacher, like me.”

  “That’s nice. I’m happy for you.”

  A long spell of silence drew itself out between them as they lay in the sun.

  “Do you also think I’m a down-in-the-dumps basket case?”

  “The very idea!” he scoffed, with another mischievous grin.

  He got up and beheld the horizon like an ancient mariner.

  She remained on her back, eyes shut, listening to the breeze and the lapping of the water.