Clarissa gazed at her granddaughter. She seemed so mature, so confident.
“So that would explain why I thought I saw her downstairs the night the alarm went off.”
“You did? My guess is that she sleeps here and watches you nonstop. You’re her full-time job.”
“What do these people want, Andy?”
Andy slipped an arm around Clarissa’s shoulder.
“No hassle, Mums. We’re going to find out.”
“But how? They see everything I do.”
“I know. We have to start thinking hard. There must be something all these artists have in common. That’s what they’re after. Dr. Dethingy, you know she’s an AI hotshot. I’ve been looking her up.”
“Yes, Jim did, as well.”
“My guess is that she went rogue. Impossible to find out what she’s been up to. In your day, people went on the dark web to hunt for that sort of stuff, but now, that’s so mainstream and what you find there has nothing juicy about it. Digging deep into the blacker web might bring answers about the doctor’s activities, but that’s tricky. I’d need help. I could ask around. I have a friend whose brother is one of those new detectives, or a spy, if you prefer. His thing is politics. He knows how to drag up all the stuff people don’t ever want anyone to find. He earns millions.”
“How do you know all this, Andy?”
“Everyone knows, Mums. I didn’t start it.”
“I’m all at sea, over here.”
“I know, and that’s normal. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything foolish. We have two simple missions here. One, what happened to your pal Jim? Two, what is behind C.A.S.A.? Meanwhile, when we get to your place, we act normal. As usual, okay? And if we need to talk, we write on bits of paper.”
“You’re brilliant, Andy.”
“Not at all, Mums, just trying to help out. Do you a have a list of all the artists who live in the residence?”
“Yes, at home. Why?”
“I’d like to take a look at it. Perhaps it’s all in that list.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re all artists, so you have that in common. But apart from your professions, there must be something else about you that C.A.S.A. finds interesting.”
Clarissa glanced around her. The sun, shining bright and strong, was hurting her eyes. Lately, the weather had been persistently hot and sunny, even if summer was not yet here. It had rained only a couple of times, and when it had, it had poured down with fierce devastation.
“Mummy says a new heat wave is lined up for next week.”
“Not another one!”
Jordan was given all climatic data in advance, due to her job.
“Yep, and she says this one will be a scorcher. It’s going to set a new record, going up to forty-eight degrees Celsius.”
Clarissa sighed.
“Let’s go home, Mums. You look tired. Let me take care of you.”
“You’re such a sweetie. Hey, missy, you’re going to love this. I managed to get Mrs. Dalloway to shut up. I only had to turn voice mode off. Now everything she says is written on the wall. That’s it. And it’s bliss.”
They were on their way, arms linked. Clarissa walked at a slow pace, with difficulty. She’d felt old ever since this morning. A wreck. Once they got home, she went to fetch the neighbor list. Andy looked at it for a while. Then she folded it and put it in her pocket. She helped her grandmother prepare her favorite dinner. They called Toby. The conversation was spontaneous and amusing. Just before they sat down to eat, Andy made a face.
“Oh, shucks! No more salt, right?” she said.
While her back was turned to the camera, she winked in Clarissa’s direction.
“I’ll get some from your neighbors.”
A beaming smile, a cup grabbed from the shelf, and out she rushed. Clarissa put a lid on the soup and kept the potatoes in the oven. She turned on the news, trying to act normal. An unparalleled heat wave was indeed forecast for next week, about to descend upon Paris and its outskirts. About twenty minutes later, Andy returned with a small smile and the cup filled with salt. She devoured her dinner with her usual appetite and spoke little during the meal. Clarissa waited. She suspected her granddaughter was onto something. She longed to ask questions, but abstained. They put the dishes away while Andy whistled.
“How about a movie, Mums?”
“With pleasure. Which one?”
“Something vintage. You choose!”
“Ever heard of Barry Lyndon?”
“Rings a bell. Any good?”
Clarissa smiled.
“I saw it for the first time when I was your age.”
“You liked it?”
“More than liked it.”
“Okay. Let’s go for it.”
“Stanley Kubrick is my favorite filmmaker.”
“That, I knew! Mummy’s told me often enough!”
They settled down in the living room, with the cat on Andy’s lap. Clarissa asked Mrs. Dalloway to find the movie Barry Lyndon and play it.
“How fabulous it is to no longer hear that Dalloway voice. Good job, Mums.”
Then Andy whispered in Clarissa’s ear, asking her to turn the sound up high.
Clarissa obeyed. The volume was so loud that Clarissa’s eardrums ached. Andy played with a wisp of her own hair, which she kept placing in front of her lips. She murmured, “Can you hear me, Mums? Look straight ahead. Stick something on your mouth—your mug, for example.”
“Roger that.”
“Wow! That guy is so hot!” yelled Andy. “Who is he?”
“Ryan O’Neal.”
“Is he still around?”
“He’s your great-grandpa’s age.”
“You think he has a great-grandson?”
Andy was swept away by the magnificent images, by Handel’s haunting sarabande.
The whispering took up again.
“I’m going to go to the loo. No cameras in there, right? I’ll call out, saying there’s no more toilet paper. You’ll fetch some and bring it to me. Okay?”
Clarissa nodded, unnoticeably.
A couple of minutes later, her granddaughter was heard.
“Hey, Mums! End of
