NOTEBOOK

  After the shock came anger. I was livid. I nearly pressed on the buzzer bearing our name, shaking with rage, awful words coming to my lips. What a bastard.

  My husband had another life. A life I knew nothing about. How long had this been going on? How was it that I had seen nothing, known nothing? Had he been that cautious? Or me that stupid?

  I stepped back from the building, still trembling. I wasn’t going to wait for him to come back out. I had all the proof I needed. It was all there in front of me.

  But curiosity got the better of me. Was this just a place he took women to? Or was there only one woman in particular? A woman he met every week, spoke to every day, slept with?

  A woman my husband loved?

  I wanted more than anything to know who she was.

  Should I have left all this alone? Should I have walked away, never done anything about it, never mentioned it? Should I have done what I did?

  I thought about it carefully on my way home. I was going to find out who she was and how long this had been going on.

  And then I would decide what to do.

  When my husband returned that evening, he was his usual self, amusing and caring. He helped me prepare dinner, chose our wine.

  While we ate, I looked around at our apartment. I thought of everything we’d built together over the years, and I felt like crying. It was hard not letting my emotions show. I burned to scream at him, to throw things at him. But I held back.

  Who was she? What was her name? How old was she? What did she look like? Did he love her? Where did they meet? How did it start?

  At one point in the evening, I asked him if I could use his phone to call Jordan, as I couldn’t find mine. He said of course, and he opened it for me. He acted like he had nothing to hide.

  I had time to check it. There was nothing suspicious on his phone. No photos, no texts. He was being very careful.

  There must be another phone, then, I thought. A phone he hid and used to communicate with her.

  Two phones, two apartments, two women.

  Such a banal situation, I thought. Such a massive cliché.

  How wrong I was.

  4

  TONGUE

  I feel certain I am going mad again.

  VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941

  Perhaps the answer lies in the title of my autobiographical novel, The Night Will Be Calm.

  ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980

  WHEN SHE AWOKE, it was still early. She had a quick shower, noiselessly; Adriana was still asleep, with the cat nestled against her. She decided to buy croissants, Andy’s favorite. It would take only ten minutes or so. As she got dressed, she thought back to the other nocturnal conversation she’d had with her granddaughter, just after the clicking noise incident.

  “Mums, why are you so angry with François?”

  Clarissa had known this was going to come up at one point. Andy was too astute not to guess at what was going on. Clarissa’d had to think carefully about what she was going to say. She realized she had not spoken to anyone about François, about what François had done. She wasn’t ready yet, and there were things a fourteen-year-old could not understand. But she felt she had to give some element of truth to her granddaughter. She couldn’t stay wrapped up in silence forever.

  She had said, “He disappointed me.”

  “Can you explain why?”

  Clarissa had stroked Andy’s hair in the dark. Where could she begin? When had it started? Disappointment wasn’t the right word. It sounded too meek, too nice. What she felt was much more powerful and deep-rooted.

  “He hurt me badly.”

  Andy had reached up to caress her grandmother’s cheek.

  “I hate him for that, Mums. I really hate him. For whatever he did. And I’m not going to ask what it is. I don’t think you’ll tell me anyway.”

  “No, I won’t. I can’t.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever patch it up?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  She thought of how she had felt when she stepped into the small apartment. She could still smell the perfume. It made her want to retch.

  “You’re that angry.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’ve been together for so long!”

  “I know. But at this point in my life, I want to move on without him.”

  “I understand, Mums. I won’t mention him again. I’m here if you ever need to talk. I know you think I’m too much of a kid to understand all the adult stuff. But I know how to listen. You taught me how to do that.” Her granddaughter’s love safeguarded her, toning down her unhappiness. She had managed to drop off, listening to Andy’s soft breathing at her side. This morning, she felt less vulnerable.

  Clarissa never took the elevator. She enjoyed tearing down the stairs as fast as she could. It took longer climbing the eight flights back up, but it was part of a grueling routine she stuck to. She was fond of stating that all those steps were her way of staying fit. As she rushed past the fourth floor, a door opened, and she found herself facing a brunette in her forties who was wearing sports gear and waving at her. She slowed down, saying hello in return. Her new neighbor’s name was Adelka. She was a painter. This was the first time Clarissa had spoken to another artist from the residence. She had occasionally crossed paths with some of them, but it hadn’t gone further than an exchange of nods and smiles.

  Adelka went down the stairs with her. She was off to run alongside the Seine. Clarissa had a closer look, taking in her brown eyes, thick black hair, tanned skin. This young woman had a charming air about her. Her voice was musical, her smile attractive.

  “What do you think of the residence?” she asked her neighbor suddenly.

  They were outside at present. Adelka said she had never lived in a place like this. It was impressive. She had been overjoyed to hear her application had been accepted. Many artists had been turned down.

  “And what about you? Are you enjoying it, as well?”

  Clarissa didn’t hesitate long.

  “I’m not sure, to tell the truth.”

  They were walking toward the river, on the old boundaries of the Champ-de-Mars. Contemporary structures, white and resplendent, now took up the space. The artificial trees were pleasantly effective. A couple of electric cars zoomed silently by. It was a calm, enjoyable spot.

  “What do you mean?” Adelka asked. “I know you’re up on the top floor. It must be quite something.”

  “Yes, the view is stunning. It’s another matter. I feel like someone is watching me all the time.”

  The coffee-colored eyes narrowed in on her.

  “I get it. But to me, that level of surveillance makes me feel safe. I wasn’t safe before. I had a violent husband. He gave me a tough time. He smashed up my art material, when it wasn’t my face. I know he’ll never be able to set foot in the residence. The bastard is blacklisted!”

  She burst out laughing. Clarissa couldn’t help joining in.

  “I have a persona non grata husband, as well.”

  “Join the club! And what did yours do to get banished from the residence and from your life?”

  “He wasn’t the brutal type, like your ex.… But…”

  “You don’t have to tell me, you know.”

  It felt wonderful to talk at last, to open up the dams. This woman knew nothing about her, about her life. Clarissa found it easier to unburden herself to this smiling stranger who was her daughter’s age than with her long-standing friends, the ones she hadn’t wished to see since the breakup.

  “I found out in the most shocking way that he was cheating on me.”

  Adelka made a face.

  “Ouch. Not fun. And what did you do?”

  “I left him. On the spot.”

  “And you ended up here, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve been married for a long time?”

  Adelka walked swiftly; she had the muscular legs of a sportswoman. Clarissa adjusted her stride, attempting to follow her without panting too much.

  “Long enough for me to understand I didn’t want to stick around for a single minute more.”

  “You look like a woman who knows what she wants.”

  “So do you.”

  They both grinned.

  Clarissa asked her about her art, what themes she was involved in. Adelka replied she was interested in bodies. Not young and lovely ones, but hidden ones, different ones, bodies that had nothing to do with beauty criteria.

  “And what about you? You’re a writer, I believe?”

  “That’s right. I’m taking notes right now. I’m exploring language. Written language and how it comes to authors. How we choose our words. How we pick some words and not others…”

  “How ambitious! I feel bad that I haven’t read your books. I’ll make up for it.”

  “Not a problem at all. And I’m not familiar with your art.”

  “How about coming down for a drink one of these days?”

  “With pleasure.”

  Clarissa said good-bye, watching Adelka run at a vigorous pace toward the Seine. She went to the bread shop to get Andy’s croissants. A couple of customers there were enthusiastically discussing last night’s hologram display. She hurried home, then patiently waited in the lobby for her retina to be scanned. The gate slid open with a chime, and a mechanical voice stated, “Welcome back to the residence, Clarissa Katsef.”

  In the hall, she crossed paths with Ben, the residence’s handyman, who made sure each installation ran smoothly. He had already dropped by her place to check on her network power. He was a young man in his thirties with a mop of curly red hair. Engrossed in his device, he asked her if everything was functioning properly at home. She said yes, thanked him, and embarked upon climbing the stairs. He seemed surprised she wasn’t using the lift. Once she got to her floor, she realized it was getting more and more difficult to take each step. She felt drained and breathless, and had to wait a few minutes to catch her breath. When she felt better, she pressed her index finger to the glass plate on the door. It swung open with a click.

  “Hey, Mums! You were away for ages!”

  “I went to get you croissants, and I met my charming fourth-floor neighbor.”

  Andy appeared to be flustered.

  “I need to talk to you!”’

  Clarissa put the croissants in the oven.

  “Mrs. Dalloway, heat the oven to one hundred and fifty degrees, please.”

  “Right away, Clarissa.”

  “Something happened!”

  Startled, Clarissa turned to look at Andy, who was hopping up and down.

  “What’s up, missy?”

  Andy lowered her voice.

  “Mrs. Dalloway talked to me!”

  “What do you mean, she talked to you?”

  “I was playing with the cat, and I heard her voice!”

  Clarissa froze.

  “Her voice? And she said what?”

  “She asked me how I was, something like that.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not, Mums, and don’t make that face. I nearly had a fit when I heard her. I was kind of scared. So I just stood there and I shut up and waited for you. But she went on chatting to me.”

  Clarissa remained silent, thinking. What did this mean? She didn’t like it. There was something amiss. She felt she was being double-crossed.

  Then she said in a clear, forbidding voice, “Mrs. Dalloway, did you talk to Adriana while I was out?”

  A slight pause.

  “Hello, Clarissa! I obey only you. Remember? I was programmed to do just that.”

  Andy opened wide eyes and gaped.

  “Are you sure, Mrs. Dalloway?”

  “Perfectly sure, Clarissa.”

  “Perhaps you don’t recall, Mrs. Dalloway?”

  “Everything I say to you is recorded, Clarissa.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dalloway.”

  “You’re welcome, Clarissa. Happy to help.”

  “What the…” began Andy.

  Clarissa silenced her with an uplifted finger. Her mind was racing. Did this mean she had to be careful now? Should she watch out? No talking? “They” would hear her, right? She picked up her phone, about to send a text message to Adriana. She stopped. Not a good idea. Wouldn’t “they” be able to read her texts, as well? Probably.

  Clarissa wondered if she wasn’t overdoing things. Since François, she’d been spotting evil everywhere. Andy was watching her, puzzled. Perhaps she thought her grandmother had gone crazy. Clarissa grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. She scribbled a few sentences, wrote them very small, in case “they” could zoom in to see what she had written.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Andy.

  Clarissa handed her the paper wordlessly.

  Don’t talk. Don’t use your phone. Write down exactly what Mrs. D. said and where you were standing when it happened.

  Andy understood instantly. She nodded in silence, took the paper, wrote something carefully, and gave it back.

  I was in the living room. She said several things: “Hello, Adriana, did you sleep well?” I said, “Are you talking to me?” and she said, laughing, “Is there another Andy here? I don’t think so.” Then she said, “Do you like Mums’s new home?” and “You enjoyed last night’s show, didn’t you?” And then because I was silent, she said, “You’re not saying anything, Andy. Have you lost your tongue?”

  Clarissa read it without a word. She tore up the paper and tossed the shreds into the bin. She said blithely, “How about getting dressed, Andy? We could go for a walk and take the croissants with us.”

  Once they were out of the residence, Andy shot questions at her.

  “Why are you looking so worried, Mums? Why is this Mrs. Dalloway thing getting to you?”

  Clarissa didn’t want to alarm her granddaughter. She briefly explained that during the setup process, she had been told several times that her virtual assistant would respond only to her voice. She suspected they were telling fibs and felt wary. There was something amiss. And being watched persistently was becoming uncomfortable.

  “Can’t you turn the Dalloway whatsit off? Put it on pause?” asked Andy.

  “I don’t think so. That won’t stop the cameras from filming.”

  “What if you stuck something onto the cameras?”

  “Good point. I hadn’t thought of doing that.”

  They had come to the beginning of the rue de Sèvres.

  “I forgot to tell you one last thing, Mums.”

  “Fire away, missy.”

  “Mrs. Dalloway spoke to me in English at first, and then in French. Isn’t that weird?”

  “No, not really; she was programmed to speak to me in those two languages.”

  Andy swiveled around to look at her grandmother.

  “You know what bugged me? It was like she knew me. She knew who I was, knew I was bilingual, knew everything about me.”

  Later, after Jordan had come to pick up her daughter, Clarissa wandered around the flat with a roll of masking tape. She needed to count the number of surveillance cameras, small black globes in each room. There were ten of them. The only place without them was the small room with the toilet. She decided to get going on the one situated near her bed. She took off her shoes, clambered up on a chair, and stuck a piece of tape onto the black sphere. A sense of freedom surged though her. She never would have thought that being filmed constantly could bother her to such an extent. Why hadn’t she reacted when she signed the lease? Perhaps it was time to check.

  Installed in the living room, Chablis at her feet, she used her device to pore over the document she’d received when she moved in, as well as the rules of procedure. Artists are required not to cause any noise: no music or parties after 23 hours. Inebriety will be reprimanded and will lead to discharge after three notices. Clarissa could not help but smile. Surely that was a bit over the top! She hadn’t noticed when she had seen the document for the first time that the names of the other artists were all listed. There were two apartments per floor, apart from the eighth, hers, where she was alone. On the list of names, she made out two sculptors, four painters, five musicians, one poetess, and two writers (herself included). C.A.S.A. offered a messaging service, allowing members of the residence to communicate with one another through a specific channel. She decided to test it.

  “Mrs. Dalloway, send an internal message to Adelka, fourth floor, left.”

  “Of course, Clarissa, go ahead.”

  “Dear Adelka, I was very happy to meet you this morning. I hope to see you again soon. Your eighth-floor neighbor, Clarissa Katsef.”

  “I sent it, Clarissa.”

  “I’m not sure where this messaging service is shown, Mrs. Dalloway.”

  “You can read your messages on the communication panel situated in the entrance. However, I can read them to you, as well.”

  “Fine. Please do that when they arrive.”

  “I’ve taken note of that, Clarissa.”

  Clarissa dived back into the contract. It was clearly stipulated that each flat was furnished with a set of cameras “to meet security requirements.” She had signed that document. Counterpedaling would undoubtedly prove to be problematic. While she was giving it a thought, Mrs. Dalloway spoke up.

  “Clarissa, you’ve received an answer from your fourth-floor neighbor, Adelka Miki. Should I read it to you?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Here’s the message. ‘Hello, Clarissa! I was very pleased to meet you, as well. I’ve just received Topography of Intimacy, which I will now start. You see I’ve wasted no time! What about a drink, end of day, whenever? See you soon. A.’ Do you wish to answer?”

  “Just say ‘Thanks,’ and ‘See you soon.’”

  “It’s done.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dalloway.”

  “You’re welcome, Clarissa.”

  “By the way, please remind me to answer that letter from the bank. For my meeting.”

  “But you already did answer the bank, Clarissa. Your meeting is next week.”