Nathalie’s bookstore-café, on boulevard du Montparnasse, was packed this morning, despite the tragic events of yesterday. Customers gathered around displays, settled into cozy armchairs, or sat down for coffee and cake. Clarissa hadn’t been back since the opening. She was cheered to see so many bookworms on the premises. A young salesperson informed her that Nathalie was upstairs, in her office. She’d go fetch her. Clarissa wandered through the stalls. She realized she hadn’t done much reading since her move. The residence had dispossessed her of her love of books. No writing, no reading. What a punishment.
“My God, Clarissa!”
Nathalie had gasped with shock.
“You’re so thin!”
“I know. I didn’t do it on purpose, believe me. And the heat didn’t help, either. But don’t worry, I’m fine.”
She flashed a large smile to reassure her friend. But Nathalie wasn’t fooled by it. Clarissa changed the subject, asking her about her shop. Nathalie answered with her usual fervor, going into the details of the highs and lows of bookselling. Clarissa listened with pleasure. Then she said, “I was wondering if I could ask you a small favor.”
“Of course! What is it?”
“Your friend, the one I met here, who works in real estate.”
“Guillaume? I heard he helped you find your new flat.”
“That’s him. Could you call him for me?”
“You want his number?”
“I already have his number. But I’d rather not call him from my mobile.”
“Oh?”
“Could you possibly call him on your own phone? And then put me on?”
Nathalie looked at her closely. Clarissa knew what she was thinking, right there. That Clarissa looked like a demented old lady, with her red dye going to pot and her intense blue gaze.
“You need to talk to him?”
“Yes.”
“A problem with your flat?”
“Sort of. I simply need to ask him one quick question. It won’t take very long.”
Slight hesitation.
“Okay. All right.”
Nathalie fished her phone from her pocket. She pressed on a key, waited, and got voice mail.
“Hi, Guillaume. It’s Nat. Can you get back to me? Important. Thanks.”
Clarissa said she’d wait around, looking at books. She wouldn’t be far. Nathalie got on with her work. Clarissa’s eyes followed her as she gave advice to clients, located books for them. She never seemed to lose her zeal. Clarissa remembered most of her own books were still with François. She still had many belongings in her old place. One day, she’d have to retrieve them. But not while she was at the residence. François’s letter was at the bottom of her bag, with her notebooks. She still hadn’t read it. She held it between her fingertips. It felt quite thick.
Just as she was thinking of opening it, Nathalie was back, flourishing her mobile.
“Here’s Guillaume.”
Clarissa took the phone.
“Hello,” she said in what she hoped was a jovial voice. “I’m not sure you remember me? We met here, at Nathalie’s opening.”
“The red-haired author who writes about houses and suicidal authors, not easily forgotten,” he replied with a slightly sarcastic intonation. “What can I do for you?”
Nathalie had gone back to her customers. Clarissa was alone.
“I wanted to talk to you about the C.A.S.A. residence.”
“I believe you live there, right? So you got in! Well done! That’s no easy feat, and they’re rather picky, I hear.”
She nearly added “And I’m longing to get out of it,” but abstained.
“That’s right, I was admitted. Sorry for putting this to you so bluntly, but what is C.A.S.A., exactly? Who is behind it?”
He seemed surprised.
“Well, benefactors keen on promoting all forms of artistic creations. They have huge financial resources.”
“Have you met anyone from C.A.S.A.?”
“I must have crossed paths with a couple of people, but I don’t remember. I only know Clémence Dutilleul, whom I put you in touch with. She’s in charge of finding artists for the residence. That’s all I know. I worked with my architects to construct the place. I don’t know much more about C.A.S.A.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No! What are you getting at? What’s with these people?”
“You weren’t aware, for instance, that all the artists living in the residence are filmed?”
A pause.
“Filmed all the time?” he asked.
“Yes. All the time. We signed a contract.”
“So you agreed to it?”
“That’s not the issue. I want to find out why we are filmed.”
“Surveillance requirements, no doubt. Aren’t you happy up there on the eighth floor? Your studio is magnificent! The number of people who’d love to be in your shoes!”
“Have you met Dr. Dewinter?”
“No, I haven’t. Who is this person?”
“An artificial intelligence specialist. She runs the C.A.S.A. protocol.”
“So?”
“You don’t see the link?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You don’t see how an AI expert could find a household of artists most interesting?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I fail to see the link, and don’t see how I can help you in any way.”
Clarissa was unable to keep him on the phone. He asked to be handed back to Nathalie. She heard his voice boom out to her friend: “What a dotty old lady!”
Clarissa took off, thanking Nathalie, who kept watching her with a mixture of suspicion and concern. She walked along the boulevard, noting how yesterday’s temperatures had left traces in the extenuated features of passersby, in their slow shuffle. Clarissa hadn’t listened to the news, or read the press on her tablet. Fatalities, bedlam, confusion, crisis, pessimism. The same old song. She’d answered each text message she received, including François’s. She had written, All OK, and you? He’d replied, Yes, thanks. Did you get my letter? She’d left it at that.
For the moment, C.A.S.A. was her prime concern. What they wanted, how they got what they wanted, and, above all, how to leave them. She had always known how to weave intimate connections with homes. The place she’d shared with Toby, on rue d’Alésia, left sweet memories in her mind, in spite of the tragedy that had befallen them. It was a bright, cheerful two-room flat. She could still
