The cat rubbed against her shins. She stooped to pick him up, catching him clumsily, as she wasn’t used to handling him yet. Her daughter had shown her how, but it hadn’t seemed easy. The cat’s name was Chablis. He was a three-year-old Chartreux with a mild nature. He’d belonged to one of Jordan’s friends, a woman who had moved to the States. It had been tough in the beginning. Chablis had stayed in his corner, never responding to her calls, and only deigned to nibble at his nuggets when she wasn’t there. She thought maybe he was sad and missed his mistress. Then one day, he came to sit on her lap in a very dignified manner, as still as a gray sphinx. She had hardly dared pet him.
Chablis, like her, was finding it tricky to adapt to the luminous and modern space, built with glass and honey-hued wood and stone. However, a part of her liked the austerity, the sleek surfaces, the light. She and the cat would have to make this territory their own, and that would take time. Patience was needed. She had left behind so much stuff when she moved in. She hadn’t wanted anything emotionally stamped with François. As if he had died. But the worst thing was, he had not died. He was, in fact, doing very well—insolently well. It was their marriage that had passed away. It was their marriage she had laid to rest.
Clarissa put Chablis into the basket placed in a corner of her room. It was useless, because in the middle of the night, the cat landed gently on her bed and burrowed against her back. When he had started to knead her shoulder with his front paws, as if she were a slab of tasty dough, she was startled. Jordan had explained that all cats did that; it was instinctive. She had gotten used to it. In fact, it comforted her.
After a quick shower, Clarissa lay down on her bed in the semidarkness. A new mattress. François had not slept on it. He had not been here, either. She hadn’t invited him. Would she? It was still too early. She hadn’t taken it all in. Several times, Jordan had asked what was it that her stepfather was guilty of, to make her mother pack up and leave on the spot. She could have told her. Jordan was forty-four. No longer a kid. She had a teenage daughter. But she hadn’t had the courage. Jordan had insisted. What had he done? Had he screwed around? Was he in love? Clarissa thought of the purple room, the blond curls. She could tell her daughter everything. She knew exactly which words to use. She imagined Jordan’s face. She had let the words rise to her lips, like a bitter bile, and had repressed them.
Forget François. But it wasn’t easy to scrap a man she’d spent so many years with. When night came, she asked Mrs. Dalloway to project images and videos on the ceiling of her room: concerts by musicians she loved, movies, biopics, artistic creations. She let sounds and lights drift her away, often falling asleep. She couldn’t draw a frontier between her peculiar, sparkling dreams and Mrs. Dalloway’s displays. Sometimes, she let Mrs. Dalloway choose sequences picked according to what she had already seen. She didn’t see the night float by. Everything converged into a single tawdry cotillion she endured, as if she had been drugged. When she woke up, the cat snuggled against her; she found it hard to get out of bed, and her mouth was dry. Early mornings had seemed harsh ever since she’d moved here. Her entire body felt sore. She put it down to the collapse of her marriage, and the move. Would she ever get used to both?
“Mrs. Dalloway, show me my emails.”
The messages appeared on the ceiling.
Dear Clarissa Katsef,
I know you get dozens of emails like these, but I thought I’d give it a go. My name is Mia White. I’m nineteen. I’m a student at UEA, in Norwich. I’m in my second year. I’m studying French and English literature. I’m also enrolled in a creative writing course.
(If you’ve read this far, then I pray you might continue?)
I’m interested in how places influence writers. How their work is shaped by where they live, where they write. This, of course, is at the core of your own work, and in particular, Topography of Intimacy, which I read with great pleasure.
(This is not a gooey fan letter, don’t worry. I’m not that type of reader.)
I will be in Paris for the next six months, for my year abroad. I’m sure you’re very busy and you don’t have much time, but I’d like to meet you. I’m also bilingual, like you, and I grew up learning two languages, like you. My mum is French and my dad is English. Like you.
I don’t know if you make time to meet your readers. Perhaps you don’t.
Thank you for reading this.
Sincerely,
Mia White
Clarissa took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes. No, she didn’t usually meet readers, apart from book signings and lectures. She used to, ten or fifteen years ago. Not anymore. Mia White. It was interesting, refreshing, getting an email from a nineteen-year-old. Didn’t that mean that a tiny minority still read books? And that they read her books? Wasn’t that short of miraculous?
Hardly anyone read books anymore. She’d noticed that a while ago. People were glued
