Fury swept over her, a nameless violence scorching the pit of her stomach. She leaped out of bed, howling with rage, brandishing her fist. How dared “they”? How could “they” do this? Manipulate her this way? Was that why she’d had to endure that tedious setting-up process? So that her past would come back to haunt her? What for? Now she could see why her nights were brief, bedecked with tears, preventing her from getting ahead, from writing her book.
“What the hell are you up to?” she spat out, glaring at one of the cameras. “And you there, hiding behind your screens, snooping on me, what are you waiting for? For me to go bonkers, is that it? Is that your intention? My going off the deep end? So that’s C.A.S.A. protocol, is it? Well done!”
Mrs. Dalloway made herself heard, unflappable.
“I’m sorry, Clarissa, I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me. Please rephrase.”
“Shut up!” shouted Clarissa, beside herself with wrath. “Just shut the fuck up!”
“I’m sorry, Clarissa. What, exactly, is the problem?”
“Be quiet! Can you understand that? Here it is one more time: Stop talking to me!”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand your demand.”
Silence. Clarissa got a grip on herself.
“Mrs. Dalloway,” she hissed.
“Yes, Clarissa?”
“I don’t want to hear you.”
“Fine, Clarissa. You can deactivate voice mode. You only have to say it.”
“Mrs. Dalloway, deactivate voice mode.”
An icon glowed on the nearby wall, confirming her order had been taken into account.
“Deactivate all cameras.”
A sentence showed up. It is impossible to deactivate the cameras.
“Go to hell! Deactivate everything.”
It is impossible to deactivate everything.
Clarissa unleashed a volley of abuse worthy of her father’s—the kind that used to cause her mother such displeasure. It was exhilarating. She felt lighter, less tense. She even grinned. Chablis came purring against her shins. She took him into the living room, her nose buried in the soft fur.
“What would I do without you, cat?”
She lay down on the sofa with him. Dawn was about to break, lighting up the rooftops with a pink touch. Tiredness took over, and she dozed on and off. A few hours later, when she got up, still exhausted, with a painful back, it was broad daylight. It was strange and liberating not to hear Mrs. Dalloway greeting her, like she used to every morning. The weather forecast, the main headlines, and her agenda silently appeared on the mural panels in large fonts, so her shortsighted eyes could read without glasses. Andy was coming later on today, to spend the night.
“Please send an internal message to Adelka Miki.”
Go ahead.
“Thank you for a lovely evening. I had a great time with you. I overdid it with the white wine, and getting up this morning was ghastly! But I have no regrets. See you soon! Clarissa.”
I’ve sent it.
“Please send an internal message to Jim Perrier.”
Go ahead.
“Hi Jim! Hope you’re well. I thought of a producer who might be interested in adapting my first novel for TV. I’d be happy to discuss this with you. All best, Clarissa.”
Message rejected by server.
Clarissa read the sentence a couple of times, perplexed.
“Why is the message rejected? I don’t understand.”
There is no Jim Perrier in the residence.
“What? That’s impossible; he lives on the third floor. There must be a mistake. Try again.”
The name Jim Perrier is not recognized by C.A.S.A. protocol. Message rejected by server.
Clarissa remained silent. She must not reveal her distress; she must take it in stride. For a couple of minutes, she forced herself to calm down. When she felt less strained, she went into the bathroom to undergo the medical tests. Using a loud, contemptuous tone, she said, “Are you eventually going to notice how tired I am? And perhaps a surprisingly high alcohol level? What do you do with all those results? Oh, I’m not expecting any answers!”
In the mirror, she glimpsed her crumpled features, her lackluster hair, her dry skin. The C.A.S.A. effect? Did the other artists feel this way, as well? Adelka, on the contrary, appeared to be blossoming.
Jim Perrier. His name haunted her all day. Had he made a discovery concerning the powder that could have led to his eviction? Was he in danger? He had warned her that mobile devices and computers were under surveillance. How could she reach him? She didn’t dare make any online searches in order to try to locate him. But she also knew he had a drinking problem, which Adelka had noticed, as well as the waiters at Café Iris. She wondered if she could go on trusting him.
At the end of the day, she decided to wait for Andy outside the residence, near the Tower Memorial. They could speak without being listened to. The young girl was surprised to see her grandmother waiting for her on a bench, and even more so when she saw her haggard face.
“It’s no big deal,” mumbled Clarissa. “Another lousy night. I have lots to tell you. Inside, we can’t talk. Sit down and listen to me.”
She related the powder incident, and Jim Perrier’s vanishing act. She was concerned. Something was going on in that damned residence, and she couldn’t figure out what. She was convinced her sleep was being tampered with. Apart from Andy, Jim was the only person she could bring this up with. And now he was gone. Andy listened attentively. Clarissa was fearfully expecting her granddaughter to tell her she was getting the wrong ideas. But Andy began to talk in a calm and thoughtful manner.
“Quit putting on that scared expression, Mums. I’ve been on your side since the beginning. And I have stuff to say that corroborates your point of view. I got in touch with the University of East Anglia, attended by our dear Mia White. They never responded to my email, so I phoned them. I passed myself off as a silly friend with a French accent who
