“You’re right,” said Jordan. “But how does this link to you?”
“I’m coming to that. Robots, therefore, don’t have pearls growing within an inner cerebral place; they have no artistic initiative, unless ingenious researchers can endow them with that, and that’s exactly what’s going on, in that residence. Those people have masses of money and fully operational gear. They’re cunning. But day after day, night after night, C.A.S.A. pries into our imaginations, behind our backs.”
Jordan cleared her throat. She seemed to be out of her depth.
“Mums, you analyze everything to death! And why are you talking to me in English? You never do.”
Clarissa chose not to bring up the language choice. She went on, still using that precious, fluid English.
“With Andy’s help—and your daughter is so bright, but you already know that—I at last realized Dr. Dewinter and her team don’t care a fig about our artistic endeavors. They’ve filled the residence up with bilingual artists who speak two languages fluently. They spy on us constantly in order to understand how our brains work, those hybrid brains. You have one of those brains, too. They don’t film us all the time for translation purposes; robots already know how to do that perfectly in all languages. No, what they are trying to harvest from us is our creativeness, our imaginary worlds, those of us who live and who dream in two different tongues. And do you know why they are up to this? Do you know what their goal is?”
“I’m all ears.”
Clarissa brushed aside the causticity in Jordan’s tone, forced herself not to refer to it. Jordan staunchly maintained French, as if this had turned into a language combat between them, as if she was challenging not only what her mother had to say but also how Clarissa was saying it. Clarissa could no longer ignore the grievance caused by Jordan’s attitude. She feared she might dither once more, become unable to finish, not be able to keep up that clear and steady voice.
“Imagine a world, not that different from ours, not that far away, where everything would be dictated by robots. A lack of inspiration? Writer’s block? Tiredness? That fluctuating artistic temperament? Over. Done. Who gives a damn about musicians, painters, writers and their mood swings? In the tomorrow that’s nearly here, robots will write the blockbusters to come, will paint the most beautiful paintings, will compose the most haunting melodies. Robots nurtured by our own creative brains, by everything they will have pilfered from us. That’s serious and ghastly enough as it is, but behind all that prowls a greater threat.”
“I shudder to think where this is going,” murmured Jordan.
Clarissa felt like crashing her fist down on the table. How dare Jordan treat her this way, making her sound as if she was unbalanced, a raving lunatic? She took it upon herself not to reveal her annoyance, her bitterness. She said Dr. Dewinter and her peers might well become all-powerful once they were able, by dint of algorithms and filched brainpower, to have their robots fabricate an artistic movement they could then predict.
“We will end up being told what books to read, what movies and exhibits to see; we could be forced to appreciate a fake culture entirely conceived and controlled by machines. We will no longer have any choice at all. For a long time, we’ve been getting those notifications telling us, ‘You liked so-and-so’s book, so then read thingy’s one.’ But what’s ahead could be even worse. Art, in each and every form, could be anticipated, made to order. Humans will stop creating, stop imagining. The end of surprises, make-believe, the end of possibilities, of the unexpected. On every front, it’ll be the victory of robots. That’s what C.A.S.A. is up to. That’s why I want to get the hell out of that place.”
Jordan pulled a funny little face.
“Well, well! There’s your next novel, I guess!”
Clarissa gaped at her.
“You don’t believe me?”
Without being conscious of it, she’d switched back into French.
“I’ve already told you what I believe.”
“Which is?”
“You need to get help.”
Clarissa got to her feet too quickly. The light-headedness made her clutch at the table.
“Look at the state you’re in.”
Clarissa grabbed her bag, her jacket.
“I’m fine. I’m off to the station.”
Jordan rose as well, tried to catch her mother by the shoulder. Her gesture was full of affection, but Clarissa pulled away.
“Don’t act vexed, please.”
Clarissa said nothing.
“Take care of yourself, Mums. Promise me. You must get some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll call you. And keep Andy out of this.”
Tearfully, Clarissa left the tearoom without bidding her daughter good-bye, which had never happened. She no longer knew whom to turn to. Everything Jordan had said hurt her deeply; her loneliness inundated her, dragged her down. In the Tube, a nice woman asked her if she was feeling all right. When she got to St. Pancras, she saw it was going to be a skirmish to get one of the last tickets on the train leaving at 16:19. The trains after that were all full. She did something she had never done in her life. She told the young, harassed person dealing with the reservations that she was a very old lady, very old indeed, and very ill, and this was no doubt her last trip to Paris. She distorted her voice, made it quaver and croak. She wanted to see Paris one last time. Tomorrow might be too late. Weepy eyes, a wobbly head. She obtained her ticket, while other exasperated customers looked on.
Once she was seated in the StarExpress, after the hellish wait in
