Like foreign territory barring her entry, her apartment in the residence spread out in front of her, and she perceived hostility in every nook, every chink. Perhaps she was not wanted here because she refused to cooperate. She gave nothing away; she did not submit. Were the other artists easier to manage and to influence? Were they content merely living and working here, having no inkling concerning the truth? Was she the only one seeing that truth? Jim Perrier had come close. Had he been dismissed because of his misgivings? Or because of his addictions, which didn’t conform to the C.A.S.A. protocol? And what about her? Did she risk being expelled, as well? Her insubordination had not gone unnoticed. Dr. Dewinter herself had turned up to call her to order. Perhaps that was the way out. Disobedience. Well, she was ready. She was more than ready.
Back in the bathroom, she avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She made sure each of her gestures seemed calm and ordinary. She acted the same way in the kitchen. An internal message from Adelka showed up on the screens. She was wondering how Clarissa’d put up with the awful heat. She herself had gone off to a friend’s place, near Lille. Clarissa dictated a concise reply: Yes, thanks, all fine, but it was dreadful! See you soon! Her mobile buzzed as she was cleaning things up in the kitchen.
It was her brother, Arthur. She hadn’t spoken to him directly since the choppy outcome of Aunt Serena’s will. She’d sent an email thanking him for the brooch, without alluding to its real worth. Even if she didn’t feel like hearing the sound of his voice, she took the call. Arthur sounded out of breath. It was about their father. A rapid fright shot through her. Their dad had had a bad fall; he’d broken two ribs and his nose. He was in the hospital. Could she come? He was also going to alert Jordan.
Of course she’d go. But how was their dad? What happened? Arthur said he hadn’t yet spoken to the doctors. Their father fell out of his bed. Luckily, the nursing assistant who was on duty was able to help. He was at the brand-new London Fields hospital, near Broadway Market.
Clarissa remembered the ticket she’d recently booked for her upcoming London trip. She was able to modify it for a new one; the train was departing in two hours. She stuffed a change of clothes and toiletries into a travel bag. She had no idea how long she might have to stay. The cat! What was she going to do with it? Adelka seemed to be the only solution. With Chablis tucked under her arm, she went down to the fourth floor. Wearing a jumpsuit, with a paintbrush in hand, Adelka opened up.
“My dad’s in the hospital, in London. I’ve got to leave.”
“Oh, your poor dad! You want me to keep this precious bundle? I’ll take care of the food and the litter, don’t you worry!”
Clarissa thanked her warmly. She had to make her way in time to the sprawling Gare du Nord, a place she disliked all the more because of its never-ending overhaul. Her British passport enabled her to skip endless queues at control checks, but there was still customs to go through, on either end. It had been getting worse and worse, ever since Brexit’s unsettling consequences, steeped in complication. One had still to wait for hours in order to set foot on the island where she was born. How strange it was to originate from these two neighboring countries, traditional foes, which, over time, had not succeeded in becoming closer, but, on the contrary, had drawn even further apart. Like most people she knew, Clarissa found Eurostar’s new name, StarExpress, ridiculous.
She tried to get hold of Jordan but only got through to voice mail. She wondered if her daughter had managed to make herself available, and if she was en route to London. During the entire trip, her father stayed on her mind. Arthur sent her the hospital room number. At St. Pancras, during the second interminable wait at customs, she did her best to remain patient. No use getting edgy. She had to save all her energy up for her father. She took the Tube to Hackney. She was usually elated to be back in her native city, but today, the joy had gone. It felt sad admitting it, but all those years spent in Paris had turned her into a Frenchwoman. London was no longer her home. Her French side had taken over. Was this irreversible? she wondered. Perhaps it was fleeting, due to fragility and fatigue.
Leaving the Tube station at Bethnal Green, she walked briskly to the nearby hospital. Her legs were painful, her joints stiff. She couldn’t help daydreaming about the summer holidays Jordan was planning with the brooch money. Puglia, in southern Italy, was the chosen destination. Jordan had discovered a masseria, a fortified farmhouse, lost within a field of thousand-year-old olive trees, miraculously preserved from the disease that had eradicated most of them. The deep blue sea was only a few kilometers away.
The shiny modern façade drew itself up in front of her. Clarissa paused for a few seconds before entering. The state her father might be in worried her. He was so old, so vulnerable.
Arthur was waiting for her outside the room, with his daughters. He seemed glum.
“Brace yourself,” he said, hugging her. Clarissa greeted her sniffling nieces.
She stepped into the room alone, not feeling very reassured. Her father’s face was bruised, entirely black-and-blue. A huge bump deformed his forehead; a bandage covered his nose, and an intravenous drip was fitted in his arm. He was unrecognizable.
She couldn’t refrain from
