Flowers of Darkness

to their phones, to their devices. Bookstores shut down, one after the other. Her biggest success, Topography of Intimacy, had been hacked so many times, it hardly brought in any royalties. It could be found online and downloaded in a single click, in any language. At first, Clarissa had put up a fuss, tried to warn her publisher, but she soon realized publishers were not doing much against piracy. They had other anxieties. They had to face that other, even more worrying problem she watched thrive month after month like a sly tumor: the loss of interest in reading. Yes, it seemed no one yearned for books anymore. No one bought them. This had been going on for quite a while. The phenomenal space social media gobbled up in everyone’s life was no doubt a reason for this disaffection. The frenetic succession of attacks strung one after the other like bloody pearls on a steadfast necklace of violence was another. Mobile phone snug in her palm, she, too, had found herself hypnotized by atrocious images scalding her with the abomination of sheer detail. She understood that to those addicted to such displays of barbarity, those constantly seeking more sensationalism like a junkie hankering for a fix, novels could appear savorless. It took time to read a book. As it took time to write one. And it appeared no one had the time to read or write anymore.

“Would you like to answer Mia White?” asked Mrs. Dalloway.

“No. Later. Show me the other emails.”

She put her glasses back on. Her father’s email showed up now on the ceiling. She knew he dictated them. His arthritis prevented him from using a keyboard. He didn’t do too badly. His punctuation was poor, but he made himself clear. She corresponded with him by email. He didn’t hear well enough anymore to speak to her by phone or video. Probably something wrong with his hearing chip. She hadn’t told him yet about François.

My darling C … [he still used her real name, which she hated],

I’m ok and you. Your brother’s been looking after me but the damn boy’s got better things to do. I’m so bored you know. Most of my friends are dead and those who are still here are so fucking boring you can’t imagine. I know you haven’t spoken to your brother since that shitty inheritance business. My sister was a selfish pain in the ass. Really how could she possibly leave all her money to Arthur’s daughters and nothing to Jordan. I still can’t get over it. I know you don’t want to discuss this and that it hurts you but it hurts me too. Arthur has been a letdown to you his only sister but to me his father as well. He could have done something about the will. Give an amount to Jordan. What the fuck. He did nothing. I know Jordan doesn’t speak to her cousins. What sluts. They don’t have an ounce of your daughter’s class and brains. Serena’s inheritance totally screwed up this family. Thank God your mum is no longer here to see this mess. Darling please give me some news. I’m your old dad and even if I can’t make heads or tails of the intellectual stuff you write I’m so proud of you. You know you haven’t written to me in two weeks. Why and what the hell is going on. I asked Andy how you were. She always answers me not like her granny. She told me you had moved. What is going on. Where are you living now. I loved your flat near the Luxembourg gardens so why did you leave. Did François decide this. Or you. I’m sad I don’t get it. Come on tell me. Everything. Every email from you is like a little gift. It lights up my day. I miss you sweetheart. Come and see your old dad one of these days. I’m too old to come to Paris. I’m counting on you. Your old dad who loves you.

She couldn’t help smiling. Her father wrote the way he spoke. She could almost see him in his ground-floor lair, surrounded by his hunting trophies, his golf clubs, and his collection. He collected ancient representations of hands, made of clay, porcelain, marble, plaster, wood, or wax. She had often brought some back for him, harvested during her book tours. So Adriana had let the cat out of the bag. Perhaps a good thing. She’d have to think carefully about what to tell her father. He wasn’t particularly fond of François, which hadn’t been the case with her first husband, Toby, Jordan’s father.

“Do you wish to answer your father’s email?” asked Mrs. Dalloway.

“Not now,” she said. And then she added, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Clarissa.”

There was even a hint of a smile in Mrs. Dalloway’s voice. Like any virtual assistant, Mrs. Dalloway knew everything. She could answer any question, come up with the right answer each time. But Clarissa knew Mrs. Dalloway had also been programmed with specific data concerning herself. What, precisely? She hadn’t been able to find out. When she had met Clémence Dutilleul, she had undergone a surprising interview. The C.A.S.A. headquarters were also situated within the new neighborhoods that had sprung from the cinders of the attack. A tall glass-and-steel building with a rooftop garden. Clémence’s office gave on to that top floor. It was a vast and airy room with a view. The pale walls were paneled with mirrors. From here, Clarissa could see how the new white zone contrasted with the old Haussmannian gray-slated arteries, but it was a welcome, hopeful sight, she felt.

Clémence was a small, thin woman in her early forties. She wore a black suit, which had a 1940s aspect to it, giving her a severe elegance Clarissa rather liked. She had no idea what to expect. There was no information about the interviews on the website, and she hadn’t found anything online. The C.A.S.A. artists’ residence remained shrouded in mystery. A short man