On the bed, a lamé evening dress. On the floor, matching high-heeled pumps. Did he take her to balls, to parties? François hated that type of thing. He was no socialite. I felt lost.
Next to me, on the right of the bed, a wardrobe. I opened it. A dozen dresses in the same style were hanging there: sequins, lace, satin. No other clothes apart from lingerie. Not even a pair of jeans, or a T-shirt.
I hunted around for her purse. I wanted to discover her name, her address, her age. There was no bag. Nothing at all. Not even a coat. I began to wonder.
She hadn’t budged. I went around the bed, lifted the veiling. She kept her eyes closed.
With terror, I realized she wasn’t breathing. Her chest was motionless. I couldn’t hear the sound of respiration.
Was she dead? What was I to do? My fingerprints were all over the place, on the doorknobs, the photo albums, the tablet. I was going to be found guilty; I had come here and I had killed my husband’s mistress. I was going to be taken away in handcuffs.
I leaned forward, coming close to her face. Very close. I could see the detail of her long black lashes.
It was at that moment her eyes slowly opened. They stared back at me. I leaped back, horrified.
“My darling. There you are. I missed you so.”
It took me a while to understand.
She went on talking in her gentle, soulless voice.
“My darling. François. I was waiting for you. I’m so happy to see you.”
Incredulous, I stretched out my hand and touched her arm. It felt exactly like skin. It was warm. I grazed her hair, and it felt the same. Like real hair.
“Oh, that’s so good, honey; don’t stop.”
I said in a loud, trembling tone, “What’s your name?”
“My name is Amber.”
“Who are you, Amber?”
“The one who gives you the most pleasure. Because I know exactly what you want. Exactly.”
My mobile throbbed. Another text from François, worried about my being late. I didn’t respond.
In the nightstand’s drawer, instructions for use and a warranty certificate. Choice of eye color, hair, and body shape. Removable or built-in orifices. Voice preference. Assembly process. Configuration. Tests. Powering up. Battery. Hair maintenance. “Carefully rinse all intimate parts after use with special brush and irrigator. Leave to dry thoroughly.”
This was a nightmare. That hideous pinkish purple color, glistening and lubricious, made me feel as if I had been ensnared within a voracious vagina about to swallow me up. This is where my husband came, in every sense of the word. This was where he caressed a fleshless, bloodless body that had nothing human about it; this was where he penetrated the semblance of a woman; this was where he had hewn, away from me, an intimate place, eminently selfish, for himself only, where he surrendered to his vilest fantasies.
I lay down beside the creature. The coverlet reeked of the detestable perfume, mingled with the unmistakable smell of come. I took a selfie of both of us. She looked like she was cuddling up to me.
I left the apartment in haste, not bothering to lock up behind me. I ran along rue Dancourt in the night, bumping into passersby. After a bit, I stopped, out of breath, and sat on a bench.
I felt grief, disappointment, disgust, but, above all, anger. A tremendous anger that swept away all the rest.
I sent the selfie to François, without a word. I imagined him sitting in Caroline and Véronique’s pretty living room, filled with flowers. They had been waiting for over an hour, nibbling tidbits and sipping good wine, wondering what the hell I was doing.
And the photo showing up on his phone with the power of an exploding bomb.
9MELTDOWN
Mrs. Dalloway said she’d choose the flowers herself.
VIRGINIA WOOLF, 1925
I had fun. Good-bye and thank you.
ROMAIN GARY, March 21, 1979
CLARISSA TOOK A sip of water, slowly, placing the glass back on the pink tablecloth.
“The C.A.S.A. people are trying to convince everyone that they are benefactors investing in us because we are artists. It’s a smoke screen. Behind all that, there’s a clandestine consortium dealing in artificial intelligence. A covert, unlawful organization, engaging in heinous experiments.”
Jordan raised her hand.
“Mums, please stop.”
“You must listen, Jordan. And without making that face. It took me a while to figure it out. Now, I’ve got the whole picture.”
Jordan sighed.
“Okay,” she said grudgingly. “I’m listening. Go ahead.”
Clarissa began to speak more easily, without having to look for words. Surprised, she found herself suddenly using English, even though French was the tongue she ordinarily spoke with Jordan. She noticed her daughter frowning, as if she couldn’t understand why her mother chose to continue their conversation in English. Why, at this precise moment, during these critical instants with her daughter, was she seeking shelter in her father’s and her first husband’s native tongue? English felt heartwarming, enveloping her with a special familiarity that spurred her on, but it also seemed to offer her a natural defense against Jordan, a safeguard.
Clarissa said that robots, today, were able to take over humans; they knew how to teach, protect, attack, heal, and operate. They could drive, deliver, build, and analyze. And give pleasure, as well. Yes, they even screwed better than humans did. (She nearly added “And I, of all people, ought to know,” but she desisted, as she had no intention of answering the inevitable questions flying thick and fast.) Imagination was the only thing robots lacked. Robots could neither invent nor create; they could only imitate, because that’s what they were programmed to do. Their algorithms allowed them to compose music, to write in a given style, to produce paintings, to duplicate an image. Jordan must have seen the insipid production generated by artificial intelligence. Perfect, smooth, and boring. Nothing new.
“So, what’s your point?”
Clarissa resented her daughter’s mocking smile, and how Jordan doggedly stuck to French. Clarissa retaliated, in English, and Jordan lifted a disapproving eyebrow, which
