“Queries about the C.A.S.A. program, perhaps? I can, of course, say a few words in order to present the project. Our program was created to accompany the creativity of artists accommodated in a residence dedicated to them. We attach extreme importance to the development of art, in all its forms. Artistic creation is our absolute priority. We wish to preserve and support the imaginary input of artists such as yourself within such a disturbing and shifting world. I’m responsible for monitoring your health. I personally developed the protocol that will take you in charge once you move in. Your well-being is crucial to us. Your initial checkup will be done automatically via the bathroom installation. Everything is explained in the booklet you received. As you’ll see, our team is terrific, and much appreciated by our community of artists. I’d like to point out, however, that you enjoy full freedom, Mrs. Katsef. You are absolutely not coerced to interact with other artists of the residence. We know how fragile artists are, as well as their delicate frames of mind, and never would we impinge fake camaraderie upon them like at those holiday resorts where everyone pretends to be friends. We have no control whatsoever, may I add, on your writing. Your future literary creations are yours only and will never belong to C.A.S.A. You’ve certainly wondered why our rental fees are cheap compared to what we have to offer. You must be aware that you were handpicked. We lodge only the most promising, inventive artists. This has nothing to do with celebrity. The intellectual trajectories of artists, their endeavors, their futures, are what we’re interested in. And we are highly interested in you, Mrs. Katsef.”

  Clarissa took the glass of water the doctor handed her and had a few sips.

  “Why?”

  “Your writing process seems spellbinding. But your take on places and houses also appeals to us. Your evolution will be monitored closely, believe me. No need to be alarmed! You don’t have to hand in any homework, or pass any tests. Concerning fees, please be reassured. Your rent includes them. As you know, because you signed the tenancy agreement, your rent is worked out according to the sum of your royalties. The rent each artist pays will depend upon his or her circumstances. There is no standardized rent. C.A.S.A. individualizes it all.”

  “And what if my royalties thin out, which is the case? What will happen?”

  “Don’t worry. You have a two-year lease. That’s enough time for you to plan accordingly. We created this program in order to help artists develop their talents. It’s a long-term undertaking, as well as a special patronage. We invest because we believe in you.”

  Clarissa noticed Dr. Dewinter’s countenance seemed deeply heartfelt, like a devoted mother at the bedside of a fragile child. She kept nodding her head, a flurry of manicured fingers pressed against her collarbone.

  “Thank you,” said Clarissa, trying not to laugh. “I have another question for you. When you say ‘we,’ whom, exactly, do you mean?”

  Dr. Dewinter displayed several images on her device. She showed Clarissa an organizational chart. Clarissa recognized the doctor, Clémence Dutilleul, the man who was with her during the interview, as well as young Quentin.

  “We have about twenty people in our team. Most work here, at the headquarters. You’ll find more information in the file that was sent to you. If you don’t mind, I’d like us to come back to your virtual assistant’s setup. It’s a key moment of your integration here at C.A.S.A. Have you any queries regarding this? We attach a lot of importance to this step. Those never-ending questions might seem a little off-putting. Don’t give them too much thought. We want you to feel at ease, above all. This is essential to us.”

  Dr. Dewinter’s teeth were large and spectacularly white. While she listened, Clarissa wondered if signing up for this apartment had been a wise choice. She hadn’t taken the time to find out more about C.A.S.A., to comb through the contract. She had been like a full-speed train steaming ahead. She had rushed forward without thinking it over. But had she really had the choice? she wondered. She never wanted to ask anything from François again. She no longer wished to depend on him. Her newfound freedom felt exceedingly precious. What would her run-of-the-mill existence be like now if her application hadn’t been selected? She could picture herself sleeping in her dad’s basement flat or on Jordan’s sofa. She observed Dr. Dewinter’s floppy, moist mouth. She pretended to listen, moving her head up and down. What was Dr. Dewinter’s private life like? Was she involved with a man? A woman? Both? She could picture Dr. Dewinter at home, applying makeup in front of a mirror. It no doubt took ages. What did the doctor look like first thing in the morning? Clarissa imagined her in the nude, choosing clothes in front of her wardrobe. A strange beauty emanated from her weighty yet graceful body. The doctor was talking about a prescription Clarissa was going to get by mail. A prescription? What for? She asked the doctor to repeat this. The doctor arched an eyebrow, with a slightly sour face that clearly meant Clarissa should be listening assiduously. A basic one, with vitamins and food supplements. Now back to configuration. Dr. Dewinter’s gums were exposed in a wide smile. Clarissa was going to have to be obliging, right? The doctor held out her hand one more time.

  “I’m sure this will go well. I wish you a wonderful move into your new home. See you soon, Mrs. Katsef.”

  The door closed and Clarissa was alone again, facing the screen. The blue eyes swiftly made their appearance.

  “Here I am, Clarissa. Can we go on?”

  “We may.”

  “Good. We stopped at lies. Do you ever lie, Clarissa?”

  The break with Dr. Dewinter had renewed Clarissa’s vigor. She felt curious; she very much wanted to know where the setting up was going to lead. She remembered that François had given her her first personal assistant for Christmas, years ago. It was a small gray cone that looked like a microphone. It answered all sorts of questions: what today’s weather was going to be, or tomorrow’s, a country’s capital, how to make gluten-free chocolate cake, calculate a sum, order something online. But the little cone hadn’t needed to get to know her or François any better. It had merely answered their questions. Clarissa suspected her present session with Mrs. Dalloway was imbedded in a far more complex tactic.

  “Do I lie? Yes, Mrs. Dalloway, I lie every day. Writers are professional liars. They spend their life spinning stories. If we couldn’t lie, we wouldn’t be able to write.”

  “Thank you, Clarissa. Can you tell about how you chose your pseudonym?”

  “I’ve already answered many interviews regarding my pen name. Everything is online. Just look, Mrs. Dalloway.”

  “Certainly. Here’s what I found.”

  Pages and pages of articles filled the screen. Clarissa caught a glimpse of her own features, the face she’d had twenty years ago. A headline shot out: CLARISSA KATSEF’S VIBRANT TRIBUTE TO VIRGINIA WOOLF AND ROMAIN GARY.

  “Indeed, I don’t need to know why you chose that particular pen name, Clarissa, since it’s all online, as you’ve pointed out, but I’d rather hear about why you don’t like your real name.”

  “I loathe it. I’ve always loathed it. I don’t even pronounce it. Only my dad, my brother, and my nieces still call me that. You’ll find it easily, as it’s in all my identity documents. You probably know it already. It’s tough growing up with a name you hate. Why do I hate it? Where should I start? My parents had looked for a name you could easily pronounce in English and in French. My father rooted for Agatha. My mother, Cécile. Nobody came to an agreement. So they ended up picking the one they gave me. It has hideous diminutives, in both languages. You know, Mrs. Dalloway, if I hear that name in the street, I don’t even turn around. It’s not mine. Don’t ever use it.”

  “Duly noted. Let’s get back to the questions. Can you tell me on which occasion you felt the deepest sadness?”

  Clarissa realized the irritation she felt at the beginning had fizzled out. She’d lost her wariness, as well. Something inside had let go.

  “The death of my son.”

  She found it extraordinary that she could actually utter those words so straightforwardly. They had remained locked up for so long.

  “Would you care to say a little more?”

  “I can say this. When people ask me how many children I have, I always reply, ‘Two.’ I say, ‘Two children.’ I’ve been pregnant twice; I carried babies twice; I gave birth twice. It would be even sadder to say I’ve only had one child. It would be erasing my son’s existence.”

  “Could you tell me his name?”

  She wondered why Mrs. Dalloway would need to know that, but the words came tumbling out before she could stop them. She said his name out loud.

  “Thank you, Clarissa. How did you fight the sadness?”

  “The sadness never left me, Mrs. Dalloway. I learned to live with it. Writing helped.”

  “Would you say this tragedy shaped the person you are today?”

  Clarissa let out a short, curt laugh.

  “In your humble opinion?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand your query, Clarissa. Can you reformulate it?”

  “Yes, there were repercussions. And yes, I still do suffer. Hypnosis helped me a lot.”

  “Can you confirm your hypnotherapist’s name?”

  “She’s no longer with us, I’m afraid. Her name was Elise Delaporte.”

  “Would you like to hear her voice, Clarissa? That’s the kind of thing you can ask me to do for you.”

  “Hear Elise’s voice? Oh, my God…”

  “Please ask me, Clarissa.”

  “Mrs. Dalloway, I’d like to listen to Elise Delaporte.”

  First came silence. Then from its depths sprang the unforgettable silky, clear tones. Clarissa quivered, moved to tears. Elise! It didn’t matter what she was going on about; this was Elise, her Elise. She was talking to a journalist, answering questions about her profession, how she chose hypnosis, or rather, how it had chosen her. How she helped others. Clarissa closed her eyes and felt as if she were now in Elise’s small, hushed apartment; she could feel the firmness of the chair propping up her back while she surrendered to Elise’s voice, and in front of her eyelids the strange fluctuating white line began to appear, tracing its way ahead like a boundless, enticing path. In her palm, she almost felt the blue china cup filled with warm water that Elise had handed her after each session.

  Elise was silent now. So was Mrs. Dalloway. Clarissa opened damp eyelids. The blue eyes vanished from the screen. A few sentences now showed up.

  Congratulations, Clarissa Katsef. Your personal virtual assistant was successfully set up. C.A.S.A. wishes you a very pleasant day.

  NOTEBOOK

  In the beginning, I did what all suspicious wives did. I went through his pockets. Nothing. I looked in his case. Nothing. His mobile was locked; so was his computer. No way I could get inside.

  I started following him, my hair hidden under a baseball cap, a large jacket concealing my figure.

  His office was near the Palais-Royal. I went to wait at the café just in front. I saw him come out with his colleagues, go have lunch nearby.

  I felt silly. All this took time. I had other things to do than spy on my husband. But when I found another hair on his sweater, just as long, just as blond, I knew I couldn’t sit around doing nothing. It was an unbearable situation. At our ages, to have to face this again. The lies. The concealment.

  He had always told me, the other times. It was he who came to see me, ashamed, red-faced, begging for my forgiveness. Nameless women. Unimportant women. One-night stands.

  With my first husband, Toby, I had not had that problem. I had not been through that pain. I did what many women do: I forgave, closed my eyes. I had a couple of discreet affairs. Nothing serious. They did me good.

  I don’t know why, but I instantly felt that this time, things were different. This affair wasn’t like the others. I didn’t yet know to what extent.

  I took it upon myself to say nothing to anyone. I had to find out. I had to be patient. I ended up noticing it was often at the end of the day that I couldn’t get hold of him. His schedule became shady. So I continued to wait in front of his office, hidden under my cap.

  There was that afternoon when he came out of his office carrying a small travel bag, in a hurry. He seemed happy. I’d never seen that bag. He rushed to the Métro. It was tough following him. Where was he going? Who was he going to meet?

  My husband took a route that had nothing to do with our home. I followed, puzzled and anxious. He took the exit at Anvers station. I tried to think of someone we knew who lived around there, but no one came to mind. I looked at the name of the street: rue Dancourt. He entered a small passage and I was able to slip in before the gate closed behind him.

  He went into a building on the left, and at that point, I did not dare follow him any longer. I kept back, observing the façade. It was an old edifice, fissured and dilapidated. I drew nearer to read the names on the intercom.

  I had a dreadful shock.

  His name was there. Our name. The name I’d been using, in my everyday life, for the past twenty years.

  François ANTOINE

  6th floor, left.

  3

  TOWER

  So, why?

  ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980

  I begin to hear voices and I can’t concentrate.

  VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941

  DEEP, DARK NIGHT. She got out of bed without looking at the time. Before sleeping, she asked Mrs. Dalloway to activate night mode, which switched off the automatic lights. Night mode also meant Mrs. Dalloway could not disturb her by announcing an incoming email; she could only manifest herself in case of a fire or a break-in. Clarissa had dreamed of the lake again, of its cool depths, deprived of Virginia Woolf’s drowned face. Tongues of water caressing her skin in a sensual motion had awakened her; around her hummed the echo of a gentle voice, but she couldn’t make out to whom it belonged. And yet it had sounded familiar. A voice she loved. A voice that wanted no harm.

  After a few weeks, Clarissa was used to walking along the dark corridor leading to the kitchen. She took fruit juice from the refrigerator, poured it out. Holding her glass, she went to the large window. It was late, but there were still lights shining out through the night. After drinking the juice, she took her field glasses and stepped back, not wanting to be seen. That lamp, on the sixth floor, straight ahead, was always lit. She could make out a desk, letters, a chair. That person was just like her: She or he did not sleep. But night after night, Clarissa never saw anyone sitting there. She ended up thinking the lights were turned on to simulate a presence and discourage burglars. There must be someone, however, because the leaflets on the table were frequently shifted. One night, there was even a steaming mug set on the desk’s wooden surface. She kept thinking about the voice she heard in her dream as she examined the room with her field glasses. She was convinced she had actually heard it; it was as if the voice had spoken to her in the middle of the night. She still felt the peacefulness it left in its wake.

  As she adjusted her binoculars, she noticed with fright that a motionless silhouette had risen by the desk. She just had time to glimpse a pallid, bespectacled, uplifted face that appeared to be staring back at her. With a whimper, she stepped back, put the field glasses down, but even to her naked eye, the face seemed to follow her, lenses gleaming like two small headlamps riveted to her. Her heart thumped wildly. She moved backward again, let the darkness enfold her. The cat meowed; she had nearly stepped on him.

  For a long moment, she remained motionless in the obscurity. Then she got a grip on herself. What was she doing? What was she frightened of? This was ridiculous! She was at home; she could watch whom she pleased. Being scared was not her style. She glided back in front of the window with a determined step, glanced down to the sixth floor. The lights were off. No one could be seen. She grabbed the binoculars, focused the lenses. In the dimness, she could see the outline of the desk. Paperwork, a pen. There was a tiny red dot glowing in the blackness like a strange beacon. Whatever was it? She watched it thrive, then abate. How odd. She suddenly understood, with another thump of her heart. It was a cigarette. The person facing her was smoking with the lights off. He—or she—was probably watching her, immersed by her binoculars. This time, she felt stupid. Her cheeks burned. Blushing! At her age! She couldn’t help laughing. It felt wonderful. She hadn’t laughed out loud in ages. Not since she had left her husband. The merry feeling warmed her up. She laughed so much, tears came to her eyes and she had to dab at them. With the cat on her heels, she went back to her room.

  It was impossible to sleep. This was happening more and more often. A shower? Why not … The bathroom was small but well designed. Above the shower, a large skylight revealed a starry night. The water gently flowed along Clarissa’s tired body. Dr. Dewinter had explained that the bathroom was equipped with specific captors capable of monitoring her health, and that she didn’t have to do anything particular, apart from using a slim set of scales every morning, placing her palm daily on a square inlay situated near the washbasin, and glancing morning and night into a part of the mirror marked with a luminous speck. Her weight, her blood pressure, and her overall well-being were, consequently, recorded. She imagined the data was stocked somewhere, diligently inspected by Dr. Dewinter and her team. Had she been right to entrust them with intimate matters like her heath and to allow them such a hold? She hadn’t had the choice, she recalled. She had signed the C.A.S.A. contract blindly. A mistake? She had no idea. All she knew is that she felt free at last. Recently, she had looked up the meaning of C.A.S.A. in the file sent to her when she moved in. Center for Adaptive Synergy for Artists. Which meant everything and nothing.

  She soaped herself unhurriedly, eyes glued to the dark blue patch of sky above her head. Now what? Get the divorce procedure moving. Think of positive things. There were many of them! Jordan. Andy. Her treasures. Writing her novel, in two languages simultaneously. Working again with the keen young screenwriters she wrote her TV series with. Listening to the music she loved, especially Chopin. Watching her favorite movies, finding new ones to see. Spending time with her dad. How lucky she was to have such a witty and sparkling father at nearly a hundred. Her friends also had aging parents, but hers was by far the one in the finest shape. Rereading Woolf, Gary, and all those other writers she still had to discover. Making the most of the sun pouring into her studio. Not letting herself get down. Banishing François from her mind.