8HEAT WAVE
Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are …
VIRGINIA WOOLF, Mrs. Dalloway, 1925
Instead of screaming, I write books.
ROMAIN GARY, Promise at Dawn, 1960
IN THE PAST ten years, Paris had endured a string of heat waves, but the one drawing closer, heralded by uncertainties, concerns, speculations, and confusion of all kinds, was set to be record-breaking. It was pronounced devastating, although it was predicted to last forty-eight hours at the most. The president had gone so far as to impose a nonworking day. Her minister for health exhorted Parisians to remain at home. For those in need, air-conditioned spaces were made available; bottled water was to be delivered by drones at specific areas, and all emergency departments were fully mobilized and on the alert. Trains were not operating, because heat might distort railway tracks. Only a few planes were allowed to take off. Public transport services were reduced to the minimum. The latest heat wave, which came close to forty-five degrees Celsius, was already an unpleasant memory, but this one would be much worse. Irked, Clarissa listened to the news. Why such doom-mongering? For the past day, the impending hot spell was described only in the most fear-provoking terms.
The residence was fully equipped with state-of-the-art air-conditioning, and for that, Clarissa was thankful. She had suggested Jordan and her little family come and stay during the hottest hours, but her daughter had declined. Jordan had some portable units that would do. They’d pull through. Why had Clarissa picked out a small shadow in Jordan’s tone? Was she imagining things, or was Jordan resentful about something?
Fed up with the alarmist headlines, Clarissa turned off the newscast. Close the shutters, stay inside, drink enough water. Yes, she knew all that. Like thousands of Parisians, she endured both those commands and torrid temperatures several times a year. This morning, her father sent a message that made her laugh. From all his ninety-eight years of age, he reminded her that senior citizens, like herself, should be most vigilant during a heat wave. The last one had spelled carnage, did she recall? Fortunately, London was going to stay cool. Signed “Super Senior Citizen,” her dad.
A little ping was heard. Mrs. Dalloway had something to say. Her words showed up on the wall for Clarissa to read.
FYI, mail has just been delivered. There’s a letter for you. Handwritten. No return address.
Postal mail had become uncommon. Paper was no longer used for bills, love letters, or even condolences. People had stopped writing over the years; they sent text messages or emails. Clarissa was curious as to who had written her a letter the old-fashioned way. She went down to fetch it. She didn’t see anyone. Had the artists all retreated to their homes in fear of the heat wave? She instantly recognized François’s handwriting on the envelope. She didn’t open it. When she got back upstairs, she slipped the letter into her handbag. Should she read it now? Courage failed her. She’d do it another day.
Her book was coming along slowly. Too slowly. She hid from surveillance to write in both her notebooks, the English one and the French one, but her heart was no longer in it. Leaving here had become her new fixation. Getting out of C.A.S.A. It ate up all the rest. She had signed a contract and a lease. She was going to have to check all that out again. And above all, wherever could she go? That unanswerable question preoccupied her.
The sky turned livid as the day progressed. She had never seen such a color. The sun beat down through the skylight, which she had not been able to black out. She entrenched herself in her bedroom, where the shutters could be closed. In the dimness, she felt safer. Chablis dozed. Clarissa thought about the multitude of air conditioners frantically struggling against irrational temperatures while spewing out hot air. She found the waiting unbearable. She received texts from friends making sure she was sheltered, looking after herself. She answered back reassuringly, heartened by the small tokens of affection.
The hours crawled by with extreme slowness. Everything felt sluggish. Andy called to see how her grandmother was doing. It wasn’t too awful at theirs. But she wasn’t looking forward to nighttime. Clarissa reminded her that she had suggested the family come over, and that Jordan had refused. Incomprehensible, according to Andy.
Clarissa found it impossible to read or write. She felt jittery, worried sick. She wasn’t anxious for her own sake; she felt frightened for the city. Paris had never been through such high temperatures. She wondered if infrastructures were going to make it. She answered a call from Toby, watching over her, even from far away. She switched the TV on again, without the sound, gazed at the ghost-town streets of a deserted capital. Not a single car, not one pedestrian. All shops were closed. Only drones could be seen making their rounds, like huge insects hovering over empty boulevards. She could hear their rumble through the double glazing. She had always loathed that noise.
She unfastened a windowpane at four o’clock in the afternoon, just to see. The blistering air was a smack in the face, similar to opening an oven. Forty-five degrees Celsius in the shade. She was aware the digits were going to rise even higher. She felt protected in her cool home, but the escalating warmth, like the relentless loom of a calamity, shook her up. The news channels kept harking back to the death of the bees and its consequences, and showing the same perpetual images of climate disruption. The lifeless streets of Paris appeared to be the main focus of the media worldwide. Disheartened by the morose broadcasts, Clarissa asked Mrs. Dalloway to show the movie Modern Times.
She must have fallen asleep when Chaplin was being swallowed whole by the factory gearwheels, because when she opened her eyes, night had fallen. Her mouth felt furry; her head ached.
